Category Archives: Random Thoughts/Happenings

This is Why

Random Thoughts/Happenings, , ,

So here’s the deal. You’ve been stranded on a desert island for the past 4 years. You’re unhappy and extremely thirsty. In fact, it hasn’t rained in a while, and the thirst is getting to a point where it just might kill you. You are desperate.

But then you hear news of a rescue ship. It’s on its way, but could take a while to reach you. You’re told that when they do reach you, they have an endless supply of blue Gatorade for you. You’re ecstatic. You fucking love blue Gatorade. It’s unique. It’s satifying. You haven’t had it in forever. It’s exactly what you need to feel better. You start dreaming about it night after night. How good it’ll taste, how the moment you sip it, it’ll change your life for the better.

The rescue ship arrives. You are so, so thirsty. “Here you go!” says one of the rescue workers, and hands you a cup of water. The water is lukewarm. You know you should drink it, because you’re in a really bad spot, but you have to ask– “Where’s the blue Gatorade? I got so excited for blue Gatorade. I was told there would be blue Gatorade.”

The rescue workers apologize and explain that the blue Gatorade expired, and they had to throw it out. It was no longer drinkable.

You are devastated. You got so excited for blue Gatorade. You can’t imagine another option, because you were so determined to feel that cold, sugary sweetness go down your throat. Lukewarm water is such a disappointment in comparison.

Then you spot a bottle of unidentified liquid on the floor of the boat, and a glimmer of hope comes back. “What’s THAT?” you ask, hoping it could be Gatorade.

“We don’t know for sure,” a rescuer explains, “but we are pretty certain it’s poison. Or an explosive. Either way, we are 99.9% sure that whatever it is, it’ll kill you.”

You sit back and weigh your options. You could drink the lukewarm water– it’s not exactly what you wanted, or truly satisfying in this moment, but it will sustain you and keep you alive.

Or, you could choose the unidentified liquid, which is almost guaranteed to put you in grave danger.

Or you could choose neither option, and die a slow, painful thirst-induced death. And no one will feel sorry for you, because, well, you kind of did this to yourself.

And that, Bernie Sanders supporters, is why you should vote for Hillary.

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Phlowing Right Along: Progress of a Newbie

Random Thoughts/Happenings, , , ,

Since returning from my Mansfield/Hartford Phish weekend, many people have been asking–  “So, you’ve been to 4 shows. You even traveled for a weekend of back-to-back phishing. Are you into Phish now?”

Into Phish is definitely too strong a descriptor at this moment in time. Into Phish implies you really know the music, you know a ton about the band, you know the tour history. I know none of these things.

I just learned Fishman’s first name (it’s Jon!). I know a factoid or two about Trey (he’s been sober since 2006!). I know roughly 6 words of a few songs (super helpful, though, as most songs are just those 6 words on repeat). I know what some songs are about– for example, “Runaway Jim” is about a dog named Jim. (How do I know this? Because the lyrics are, “I have a dog, his name was Jim.” Turns out my Ivy League comprehension skills aren’t entirely necessary for decoding Phish, and to be honest, I prefer it that way. I think enough during the day).  I just downloaded my first playlist, “Phish for Noobs,” sent to me yesterday by a friend and phan (sidenote about phans– they fucking LOVE when a skeptical newbie starts to like Phish, and their enthusiasm is so infectious it makes you want to like it even more. There’s no snobbery or judgement about Phish knowledge, they’re just a bunch of laid-back-yet-excitable people who would like nothing more in the world than to spread the love so that you can feel what they feel).

But am I into Phish? Probably not yet. Maybe I’m on my way. I’m definitely not NOT into Phish, which I believe is what the phans call “Phase 1.” (Yeah no. They don’t call it anything. I’m just trying to give myself a modicum of credit, because the teacher in me believes in acknowledging even the most minor of progress).

I’ll tell you this much, though– during the “Lizards” guitar solo at Hartford, I waved the shit out of my white flag and surrendered to that flow. I closed my eyes, leaned into Eric, and am pretty sure I left my body for a moment or two. The music, the fans, the lights, the energy, the amazing, loving group of people surrounding me– for that brief moment, everything was right with the world. Literally all the feels, begging to be felt. I’ve never experienced that at a concert. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve experienced that at any point in my life, as my brain tends to be driven by an underlying anxiety that, even in my calmest moments, always has at least one pinky on the wheel. But in that moment, it was the easiest thing in the world to understand why this life, and everything we get to experience during it, is the most unbelievably precious gift we as human beings have.

And if that’s the feeling phans keep chasing, then I might not be into Phish yet, but I 100% get it. 

Oh, look at that. Maybe that’s phase 2!

Pretty sure I’ve earned a gold star. Or, at the very least, a red donut.

Isn’t it Ironic (the lost verse)

Being Awkward/Dumb Stuff I Do, Random Thoughts/Happenings, , , , , , , , , , , ,

This weekend Eric and I went to a beautiful wedding at the American Museum of Visionary Arts in Baltimore, as one of my oldest and dearest friends was getting married there. We had just been to Baltimore the weekend before for Eric’s friend’s wedding, so I felt pretty confident in my packing-for-a-Baltimore-wedding skills and didn’t go through my usual anal-retentive, checklist-obsessive packing routine.

Big mistake.

An hour before the wedding, I realized that I did not pack a bra.

Not a huge problem, as my dress (and my boob size) didn’t necessarily require one, but I had never worn the dress without one. So needless to say, I was a little panicked and self-conscious, and I made Eric swear 50 times up and down that you couldn’t tell my boobs had no support.  I also turned down his gracious offer to cup them in his hands the entire night. I don’t know, I just felt like that might draw even more attention.

Then we arrive at the wedding, my boob anxiety rising, and what is the FIRST thing we encounter? This.

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A HUGE. FUCKING. BALL OF BRAS. 18,000 bras to be exact.

“Look, it’s 18,000 more bras than you’re wearing!” Eric yelled. Loudly.

And in that moment I couldn’t help but feel I was living out that Alanis Morissette song. You know, the one that goes “It’s like 18,000 bras in a ball, when all you need is one to wear…”

Or something.

But come on. That is ironic. Don’t you think?

 

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Celebrating Independence with Dependence

Random Thoughts/Happenings, Relationships, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Eric surprised me with a 4th of July themed breakfast in bed (dairy-free acai bowl with grain-free granola, chia seeds, almonds and strawberries. #paleolife), while I slept for 13 hours straight and woke up feeling too lazy and unmotivated to pour myself a coffee. Thank you for this freedom, forefathers!

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Me: “But…where’s the blue?”

Eric: “Blueberries were six bucks. You don’t get any. Eat your breakfast.”

Happy 4th, everyone!

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Why I Don’t Go To Clubs

Friends, Random Thoughts/Happenings, , , , , , , ,

Last night I went to a club.

No, not a country club.

A club where the music is loud, the crowds are abundant and sweaty (me always being the sweatiest) and everyone is super drunk.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t even understand what clubs are, much less go to them. I don’t even like leaving my Upper East Side neighborhood, and on the rare occasion I do make it downtown, it’s to pursue a buzzed-about meal of bacon, or because I fell asleep on the subway and got lost.

But last night I made the exception for a friend’s dad’s birthday party. Yes, you read that correctly. My friend’s dad, David, the coolest 60-year-old on earth, decided to celebrate his birthday by clubbing in New York City. And it just so happens that the only way you’re going to get me to go to a club is if you tell me that a 60-year-old man and all his 60-year-old friends will be at a reserved table with bottle service.

I’m not being sarcastic. That is my ideal club situation.

So I went with bells on, and we had a blast! David is cooler at age 60 than I ever was or ever will be at any point in my life. And his wife doesn’t look a day over 35. (They also happen to be the loveliest people ever, but I feel that is secondary to how fucking great they look). #lifegoals

So we all partied until 3am, when David decided it was time to call it a night, and the rest of us didn’t really see a point in being there without him.

At 4am I went to bed thinking to myself, “Huh, look at me! I totally CAN do this club thing!” and I gave myself a soft little pat on the back as I drifted into a self-satisfied slumber.

At 5am I projectile vomited. EVERYWHERE.

In the bed. Across my nightstand. Onto the wall. All over my iPhone, alarm clock, and various electrical cords. Then again, at 6am, in the toilet.

David woke up this morning feeling great.

 

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(This was the best selfie we managed to take last night. #notgood)

 

 

I’m Still Learning How to do This Paleo Thing Correctly

Random Thoughts/Happenings, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Literally as I am licking almond butter off a spoon, I read this paleo lifestyle tip online: “Be reasonable about the way you eat your paleo foods. The point is to get back to our roots. There is nothing natural about licking a glob of almond butter off a spoon.”

Oh.

Ok, point taken.

So I shoved my fist in the jar and licked it off that instead.

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