Unemploy-ed.

One afternoon while on a long run, I got to thinking.  This was during the long months of unemployment following college, so naturally, my thoughts wandered into the familiar realm of bewildered self-discovery.  I found myself quietly constructing a “What I Should Have Done with the First 23 Years of my Life” list.  It went a little something like this: study English…real English, the classics.  Write. Had a little more, or a little less, fun—serious work pays off just as much as being a free spirit does.  Majored in psychology—I would have written the best books on “self.”  Volunteered—read to the elderly, or the young.  Became a chef, or a food critic, or a wine connoisseur.  Read the lyrics of “Better People” by Xavier Rudd for a more poetic rendition of all this.

…but I guess there’s still time.  And it isn’t until just now that I have even the slightest clue of what I wanted all along.  Life is funny like that.  The majority of us don’t figure out who we really are (or at least want to be) until we’re too old to make it happen.  Or too pessimistic to try.  The world teaches us that most dreams are impossible. Perhaps, the reason for living is to prove the world wrong.  It often seems we live right-side up in a world of upside-downs.

Whenever these kinds of thoughts start swirling around in my head, I call my grammar school best friend who now lives in Sydney, Australia with her boyfriend, a full-time lifeguard and star of a hit reality TV series.  She always was a bit of a free spirit, often dragging me into the muddy stream to “save the minnows” or conducting séances in her basement to speak to the Indian ghosts she believed her house was built over.

“Life is taking you too seriously,” she told me.  At first, I thought she had been sipping a few too many Fosters, but just before I could correct her, she explained herself.  “Over there in America, you all have a formula to follow.  If you don’t graduate from college, get a desk job, land a husband, and start a family, society tells you you’re doing something wrong.  But, if you ask me, that equation is missing a hell of a lot.”

“I guess so,” I managed.
“Sure, all of those things are great…and if there is anyone that is meant to be a mom, it’s you.  But where is the fun?  What ever happened to exploring, traveling, doing something crazy—something worth writing a book about?”

And so I'm taking her advice.  We need to take life seriously--go after our dreams, follow our heart--without letting life take us too seriously.  Make sense?

Chicken-ed Out.

I want to be sitting at this counter with a giant platter of fresh cheese and crackers in front of me, a balloon glass of delicious red wine, and some soothing French music on in the background while I chat with Diane Keaton about her love affair with Jack Nicholson.  (Yes, another Diane Keaton reference.  Ever see Something's Gotta Give?  Classy, turtleneck-loving, writer/mother Diane Keaton flits around this kitchen in the movie.)

Sadly, my New York kitchen is about the size of the double-wide doorway on the left (if that), but one day I'll have a kitchen this grand.  Another tidbit you should know about me is that I absolutely LOVE to cook...and eat.  One of my favorite recipes to make is called 'Cranberry Chicken' because it only involves 4 ingredients, tastes delicious, and is the perfect dish for a dinner party.  You stick it in the oven an hour before you wish to serve dinner, and then you're free to mingle with your guests (aka eat cheese and crackers while gossiping about your love affairs...see above).  No slaving over a hot stove all evening.

Cranberry Chicken:

1 bottle French dressing

1 packet Knorr's French Onion Soup dry mix

1 can whole cranberry sauce

4 chicken breasts

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Wash and dry the chicken breasts.  Mix first three ingredients together in a shallow glass baking dish.  Add chicken and coat with mixture.  Cover dish with aluminum foil and bake for 50 minutes.  Uncover and bake for 10 minutes more.  Remove from oven, let cool for 5 minutes.  Serve with rice and vegetable in season.

Cranberry Chicken is truly delicious, but it seems I make chicken over and over, just in different ways.  I could use a few easy, non-chicken recipes.  Any suggestions?  Leave me a comment with your favorite and I'll make an experiment out of it. 

And Diane Keaton, if you're reading this...I'll have you (and Jack) over for dinner anytime.

Rain-ed Out.

God, I love when it rains in New York.  Always uptight New Yorkers let out heartfelt sighs as they duck out of the rain and slide into barstools to meet friends for a neighborhood drink.  A constant stream of sunshine and brake lights reflects off the wet streets as yellow cabs go rushing by.  And NY women break out the boots.  Oh, the boots! The beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boots!

We climb the stairs to our cozy walk-up apartment to indulge in a steaming cup of green mint tea and a good book as we listen to the steady rhythm of the rain on the window.  The world is quieter, more peaceful, and best of all, we have an excuse to stay inside and get away from it all.

God, I love when it rains in New York.

Recycl-ed.

Past relationships are a funny thing.  After they are over, we do one of two things.  Either we personify our past lovers as everything we hate in the world: “How could I have ever loved such an egotistical, unrefined moron?”  Or, we romantically glorify them, inducting them into our own private relationship shrine/hall of fame, requiring that all future romantic interests live up to the impossible standards we project onto our past lovers, so that no matter how wonderful, the new guy always falls short.  Am I right?

Lord knows I am guilty of both.

So, how do we break the cycle? How do we forget about "dude number one" and accept "dude number whatever" for who he is, or who he might be?  Watch the movie 500 Days of Summer (I saw it this weekend and thoroughly enjoyed it) for the answer.  Perhaps all we can hope is that the cycle continues, that after summer there is a fall, that after fall there is a winter.  Perhaps, life without the next step in the cycle is just 500 days of summer.  Perhaps, it's time for fall.

Speed Dat-ed.

So this past Friday a gal pal and I decided to attend a local speed dating event.  We figured it would be a great way to put ourselves out there and meet some new gents.  Good idea, right?


Yeah, worst idea ever.

Most speed dating events are organized so that you have a short 'date' and then at the sound of a bell, you move onto the next dude.  Unfortunately, we took the cheap way out and selected the more economical "single mingle" option, which basically involves packing a bunch of single folks into a bar, handing them a free drink, and asking them to meet one another.  Essentially, this becomes just like any other Friday night, except with name tags and a little more desperation.

Fifteen minutes in, I was cornered by a 50-year-old Peruvian bank teller asking me if I enjoyed foreign films and très leches. Did I mention he also had a lisp?  Sure there were a few decent guys in the crowd, but there was no way to get out from underneath Dario's grasp without being rude, or kneeing him in the balls and running for my life.

I left the event feeling awful.  I had gone for kicks--to mix up my usual Friday night routine, but what I didn't realize was that for most of the singles in the room, this wasn't something they were doing for fun.  This was a last resort.  They weren't just looking for a cute girl's number and a casual drink, they were looking for a life partner who was equally willing to speed up the dating process.  They were looking to cut to the chase--make up for the years lost in their divorce, ignore their social shortcomings, find their soul mate.

After evading Dario's sixteenth request for my contact information and partaking in a short pity party, I started to see the experience in a different light.  In a way, it made me thankful for my situation.  My situation being that, unlike Dario, I didn't need to be there.

I won't be going back to another singles event anytime soon, simply because I'm not ready to give up my high standards.  Now if there's a single and mingle event with a bunch of Ashton Kutcher look-alikes ready to wisk me off to foreign lands and feed me tres leches off their rock hard abs while they reinact scenes from my favorite romance films, then perhaps I'll sign up.  But for now, I'm content being young, single, and free.

Lov-ed, Actually.

It was so bright that afternoon I thought I was seeing everything under a magnifying glass.  All the vibrant colors of spring were intensified to the point where my spirit was bursting with poems.  We lay together as the cool breeze entered through the open windows and whizzed around the fan.  Sweat collected on his upper lip and made him taste like the sea as we kissed.  Softly, he tickled my belly button as I giggled wildly.  Suddenly, the rhythmic sound of a car’s motor made its way up the driveway.

“A delivery for you,” someone called from downstairs.  I looked at him knowingly.  Anxiously, I tumbled down the stairs, colliding with a vase of carnations.

“Carnations?!” he yelled suspiciously.  “I ordered a bouquet of exotic flowers!”

But that was just it – our love wasn’t exotic.  It was ordinary, but beautiful just the same.  The relationship, like the flowers, eventually wilted, but the vase remains, waiting to be filled again.

Chang-ed.

No one will ever change enough to love a different way.