I spent my snowed-in Halloween Saturday night watching Funny Girl and Breakfast at Tiffany’s with my roommate, a friend, a big pot of chicken cacciatore, and a few bottles of red wine. It was perhaps the best Halloween I’ve ever had.
I fell in love with Barbra all over again. Her big shiny hair, her powerhouse voice, her sparkling green eyes…I think that I’m going to wear updo’s and fake nails every day now.
In case you’ve forgotten how fabulous Barbra is, here are two clips to remind you–one melancholy but beautiful, one upbeat and exciting. But both are delightful.
It’s March 13th, and my non-resolution to lose weight/get in shape is catching up to me. I’ve barely been keeping to a gym routine, and this desk job is further flattening out my already pan-cake-shapped behind. One positive thing I’ve noticed: the wider my ass gets, the smaller my waist looks. Ha!
I’m in two weddings this year, which I’m absolutely thrilled about. It also means that I’m going to be in lots of photographs in short cocktail dresses, and I have a few beach-themed bachelorette parties creeping up. In short, it’s time to get my act together–for real.
To keep myself on track, I’m posting the measurements my mom took last time I was home, and I’m going to measure again every few weeks, to see if I’m making any progress. I think it’ s healthier than just tracking the scale (although I’m doing that too).
I spent (or wasted, depending on how you look at it) twenty minutes of my day putting together a “Be Thin” motivational collage using pictures from the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition (Note: If anyone would like my issues of SI, apparently my subscription is through October 2011…I swear I didn’t order it!). I admit that this is a little bit of a regression to my less-confident adolescent days, when I had a sign over my bed that read something to the effect of “You’re Fat: Get Up and Exercise.” I don’t recall the exacting wording. But it was made out of crudely ripped orange construction paper and black sharpie, with a big red “no” symbol going through it. Not the most uplifting thing to wake up to.
This time, though, my expectations are a bit more realistic. I just want to make it through bathing suit season without fighting tears in the dressing room. For once in my life.
Here’s my starting point:
As of February 27th:
Weight: 122 lbs.
Bust 37 1/2″
Under Bust 29″
Waist 29″
Abdomen 37 1/2″
Hip 38 1/2″
Right Thigh 23 1/2″
Right Upper Arm 11″
Left Thigh 23″
Left Upper Arm 10 1/2″
My mom says that is a perfect hourglass figure: 37 x 29 x 37. So the object here is to keep the hourglass–just make it smaller. And try not to lose too much boob in the process.
Here’s the dress I just bought for the wedding in August:
Bridesmaid Dress, Wedding #1
Obviously, I need some serious work on my upper arms/chest. It’s a really pretty, deep “Horizon Blue” from David’s Bridal. I’m not sure if it needs to be hemmed, now that I’ve seen it in my size. (I don’t want my knees to show.) Thoughts? This is what it looks like on the model.
Anyway, if you notice that I haven’t posted updates about diet/exercise or happen to talk to me in real life: please motivate me, and keep me on track!
It’s not too late for a Valentine’s Day post, right??
I love Valentine’s Day, even on the years I don’t have a boyfriend (in fact, I usually prefer those years). I love the colors, the glitter, the chocolate. The inevitable pair of multi-colored heart socks I’ll get in the mail from my mom (thanks, mom!), and the excuse to get together with a bunch of girlfriends and drink cosmos. This year I made homemade valentines again. Nothing makes me happier than sitting on the floor with a bottle of glue, cardstock, a glass of wine, and a black-and-white movie. That’s true love.
And since it’s Valentine’s Day, I can’t help but think about men. This is probably the longest I’ve gone without a significant other in, well, a long time. My last boyfriend had serious social anxiety issues, so really it’s been over three years since I’ve been part of a + one.
I’ve honestly enjoyed being single for a change, especially in the last few months. I’ve been grateful for the lack of drama and the space it’s freed up in my brain (boys are such a distraction…sheesh). I don’t like sharing myself, or my time, which is (I think) one of my biggest downfalls in relationships. I’m never 100% there. Even when I am in a relationship, I’m very much a do-my-own-thing kind of person, and I need my space. I don’t want to have to explain that yes, my only plan for the day is to curl up on the couch and read for ten hours straight, stopping only for tea and toast. Being single means I’m not accountable to anyone.
On the other hand, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get lonely. And, sure, not having to answer to anyone or plan my hours around someone else’s schedule is nice, but there are times when it makes me kind of sad to realize that no one would notice if I didn’t make it home tonight. Or tomorrow. (Luckily, Jen calls if she hasn’t heard from me in a few days, to make sure I’m not lying on my kitchen floor or anything.) And once in a while, I get that overwhelming urge to just be held, to fall asleep curled up against another body–nothing more, nothing less. It’s an innate need for human touch–when we don’t have it for extended periods of time we start to feel like mini islands, off at sea. On those days, I’ve almost hugged random people on the subway when we’re packed in like sardines–just to be touched. (Yes, I am on my way to being certifiably crazy.)
It seems like I’ve turned into a cliche: I’m perpetually the single girl at the wedding, the loner in a party of couples. I’m used to it–used to being alone. But there were times when I was in Europe this summer, watching couples next to me take in the same amazing sights, that I would feel that pinch. I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in my life…by myself. My photo albums, from Italy to Beijing to Germany, are all of just me. Me and landscape. Me in the city. Me with food. Me with an occasional friend. Sometimes, the extent of my isolation surprises (and scares) me. Because I don’t feel lonely most of the time.
Here’s where the twist comes in.
I’ve recently started seeing someone–it’s something I started and never finished, to put it simply. So far, it’s completely unlike how any of my serious relationships have started. We’re careful and considerate of each other. There’s definite attraction, but no nights spent staying up until 5 am to watch the sun rise. There are no tears, no bubbles of resentment, no stifling happiness that makes it hard to breathe. There’s been none of the intensity I know myself capable of–the kind that’s hard to keep up at a steady pace for too long.
But that’s not to say that it isn’t new and exciting, or that I’m not filled with a kaleidoscope of emotions. We’re just more controlled about it. He’s a good person, and he makes me want to be good. He makes me feel like my usual tricks are a bit silly, because he respects me. I guess what I’m trying to say is: I’m approaching love like an adult, for the first time, and I’m trying to make the right choices. He’s a little older, and I’m a little older–and smarter–this time.
But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t take a moment to admit that I’ve been floating on a cloud (just a little…) the past few weeks. Now, when I picture birthdays and beaches and family parties and snapshots in Spain, I picture him there, too. I’m scared by that and everything it implies. But I’m also light-headed and giggly when I think about him; the difference is that, this time, I’ll be better about filtering that out. (A girl can’t lay all her cards on the table in the first round, right?)
And, since I’ve been sooo mature and adult about all this, I think I deserve a moment to indulge you with a song I’ve been humming along to all day. (Skip to 1:13 and you’ll recognize it.) And before you freak out, I’m not claiming to be in love already. It’s just a cute song!
Here’s Mitzi Gaynor, singing Wonderful Guy from South Pacific:
It’s been four months since my last entry. Looking back at my notebook and the number of blog posts I wrote and ultimately decided not to publish, I realize just what an emotional roller coaster it’s been and how different my life was one month, six months, a year…a day ago. Life’s moving quickly despite this seemingly endless winter.
There’s nothing like starting a new job to strip you of your confidence, whether it’s your dream job or a waitressing gig. Everything is new; nothing comes easy. I relied on the kindness of coworkers and the support of family and friends to get me through it. On rare days, I left sighing a relieved, “Ok, I can do this.” More often than not, I left shakier than when I started. I couldn’t sleep because my mind wouldn’t stop racing. I couldn’t eat because my nerves were so bad that my stomach was clenched into a perpetual knot. I googled “panic attacks” and rushed to the bathroom at regular intervals to slow my breathing. In an all-time low, I broke down on the 1 train headed to Times Square. Big, gasping, runny-nosed sobs.
Over time, though, I started to become more comfortable and confident that I would eventually be able to do my job. In that time I managed to somehow build valuable friendships and not screw anything up too badly. And my bosses started to trust me. (I think I hid my anxiety pretty well–one way in which acting has turned into a life skill. I just acted like what I thought an assistant in an office would act like in a play.)
And something else happened–I started to fall in love with Workman. The kind of love you complain about over a drink with a coworker, but only because you care. Because Workman is family. Because every Amazing Cow, Plush Piggy, Page-A-Day Calendar, Brain Quest deck, and What to Expect I see in stores makes me feel proud and protective. Aside from random, short-lived jobs, I have a history of loyalty when it comes to the workplace (which is why I always stayed longer than I should have). Four years at MASSBANK, five at Cheers, etc.
I could be a lifer.
And I love it–love being a part of the book world. I wasn’t sure about starting in sales, but if I had started out as an editorial assistant I would be in a corner somewhere, editing calendars and going through the slush pile. Instead, I email one of the most feared and respected women in publishing on a regular basis (Sessalee H., for those of you in-the-know). I may only be an assistant, but I have the two largest accounts in the company on my shoulders, hence a lot of money and make-or-break sales that I’m a part of. It’s a lot of responsibility–I wasn’t completely crazy to be as overwhelmed as I was. But my bosses appreciate me, and I’ve been praised by people who matter, which keeps me grounded and makes it all worth while. Now, instead of feeling like people are looking at me like the scared new girl, they’re starting to look at me like the hard-working newcomer who’s making a name for herself.
And that’s a role I love to play.
Thank you for your patience. Your love. Your support. For not caring that I sent my thank-you notes months late (or not at all). For understanding when I didn’t answer calls or emails for days or weeks at a time. For talking me through the panic attacks and the Sunday-night freak-outs. Even though work is still my top priority, I finally feel like I can be good at my job and have a life.
I’m back.
Just because it came out really cool, here’s a video my friend Phil made for our Papertoy Monsters book:
What I really mean is: tomorrow I start my first job. Sure, I’ve had a lot of jobs in the past, but this is my first, real, I-went-to-school-for-this-and-now-I’m-on-my-way job. And it’s scary. Scary, but exciting.
Scary because, in true Adrienne fashion, I keep thinking the worst and over-analyzing the millions of things that could go wrong and/or make me seem unqualified for this job. Scary because I’m already a little intimidated by my two immediate bosses. Scary because it’s been so long since I’ve worked in an office setting. Scary because I’ve waited so long to use all this schooling and imagined myself in this role so many times that it might turn out to be very anticlimatic.
Exciting because this is it. This is my do-or-die moment. I made it to New York. I found a job. And…that’s about as far ahead as I had thought this thing through. Ok, so it’s just an entry-level job. But it’s still my first entry-level job, and I had better do a damn good job of it. I need to.
I’ve prepared like it’s my first day back-to-school in junior high. I put a few outfits together (I believe in never choosing until the actual morning of), went through my notes from the interview/application process (I even rewrote them so they would be neater…I’m starting to regress to fifth grade Adrienne, who would tear up an entire piece of homework if I made a mistake–I couldn’t bear the eraser marks), and packed my bag. Here’s what’s inside–just because I love lists:
Static-cling spray
Hairspray and extra bobby pins/clips (just in case)
A new case of Altoids and my travel toothbrush/toothpaste for after lunch/coffee
Flats, for the subway ride there and back
An extra pair of nylons, just in case
My wallet, newly organized and with the addition of my social security card and checkbook, for filling out paperwork
Lipstick, Blistex, foundation, hairbrush with mirror
Snacks, in case I’m hungry before lunch (I was going to pack my lunch but figured I’d need the air by noon/one)
Airborne, because I’m fighting off a cold with all my might
Tissues & Vicks Vitamin C Drops (” “)
Ibuprofen
Sound like a good list? Do you think I’m missing anything? I just wish my cousin Allison were here to do my hair and makeup in the morning! Then it would really be like middle school.
This afternoon, after coming back earlier than I expected from babysitting in New Jersey, I took a three-hour walk through Queens to clear my mind and stock up on the above mentioned items (plus 12-hour Claritin-D –can’t forget that!). It was an absolutely beautiful fall day, so I just kept going along Queens Blvd under the BQE until I could see Manhattan. I visited Doughboy Park, which I read about last week in NFT’s online section of Woodside/Sunnyside, Queens, found the local cinema in Sunnyside ($5 Tuesday nights!), stumbled upon the Woodside Library (closed on the weekends–gotta love the lack of funding for libraries these days), and finally reached the 24-hour CVS I’d heard about (such a breath of fresh air after a month of frequenting Duane Reeds). For some reason, I sang Bob Seger the entire way: Ah, here I am, on the road again, here I am… I stopped to get a manicure (I’ve been biting them again so they’re really short–but at least not embarassing now), a 10-minute chair massage (she said that next time I should book an hour), and a $5 eyebrow threading (God, I love it).
Sometimes, it’s the shallow things in life that give us confidence. I’ve always been a fake-it-’till-you-make-it kind of girl, myself.
Along the way, though, an amazing thing happened: I started to shed some of the insecurities I’d been building up since accepting the job on Friday. I started visualizing myself walking into the office, polished and put together, with a confident-yet-friendly demeanor, and wowing them. I started thinking: I’m going to be the best damn National Sales Assistant they’ve ever seen! I even started smiling back at the creepy Spanish guys who were, in turn, smiling at me (seriously, it’s getting kind of ridiculous–I get hit on even when I’m in work-out clothes and no make-up…that’s just insulting). I’m going to channel what my cousin Lauren introduced to me as the Insentati Method: I will allow good things to come into my life; I can visualize myself being succesful…
Now I just need to hit up my netipot, my Vicks Steam Vaporizer, my nebulizer, and let the Nyquil that I took an hour ago do it’s work…
I forgot how therapeutic the simple act of chopping up some onions and peppers can be. The smell of oil and garlic and butter all steaming together into one heavenly mix; the kitchen windows fogging up with the warmth of the stove/oven; the music turned up a little too loud… it always puts a smile on my face. I would have opened the bottle of Chianti Classico from Casa Emma that a friend got me, to truly round out the evening, but I didn’t have the heart—I promised I would drink it with him when he came to visit me in New York. The only thing my night-in was missing was someone to share it with.
I contemplated posting an ad in the personals section of Craigslist: “one short Italian girl in need of dinner companion—looking for someone to cook for while we share a bottle of wine and good conversation.” I figured, though, that I might be sending the wrong signal. Hell, I thought, maybe I’ll throw in “who loves to give/receive oral” just to see what kind of responses I get.
So there I was, alone, in a new city. With no one to cook for. But I didn’t let that stop me; otherwise, I’ll end up getting takeout every night and sitting in front of the TV. (I’ve already forced myself to eat at our pseudo-kitchen table for every meal so I don’t fall into that rut.) I decided to sauté a big batch of peppers, onions, and mushrooms to use for two different meals (take that, Suze Orman!). The first was simply tacos with 97% fat free turkey—yet another foray into “how to make low-fat ground meat taste good.” (It’s not easy.) I’ve been acclimating to the neighborhood by eating an almost-entirely-Latino diet as of late, partly because it’s cheap and easy, and partly because the “Food Dynasty” seems to carry little besides Goya products. I think I’ve had some form of rice and beans for the last three days straight.
The other meal is what I was really excited about: quiche. My mom made an awesome broccoli cheddar quiche last weekend using Julia Child’s recipe, and since my roommate and I eat eggs practically every day for breakfast it seemed like a perfect idea: make a yummy quiche, and simply heat up a piece every morning. Julia’s ratio of egg to cream is as follows:
3 eggs to 1 ½-2 cups of half & half or heavy cream
It seems like too much cream, but it’s perfect. Just add a tsp. of pepper and nutmeg (the secret ingredient) and any other ingredients you like. Pour into a pie crust and bake at 375 for 25-30 minutes (mine took longer, but it was in a deep dish ceramic pie plate, not glass) until the egg mixture is set and “puffed” and “golden brown.” Of course, there are many variations, but this is the basic recipe for a quiche. Julia has instructions for how to make the crust, too, but, hey, it’s pie season…no reason to make a shell if you don’t have to! She suggests serving it with a fresh loaf of French bread or a salad, for lunch.
[Interesting side note: when I bought the Pillsbury pie crust, the cashier had no idea what it was—she asked me a bunch of questions (Is it ready? Does it come with the stuff inside?) and even asked the cashier next to her to come over and have a look. I think I need to start a column: “You know you don’t live in the suburbs, when…”]
It looks delicious, aside from the fact that the edge is about an inch higher than the eggs…I thought it would rise! And, I might have forgotten to crimp the edges…I’m a disaster.
Mmm...eggs and pastry. What's not to like?
Two other interesting cooking tips I learned this week (that’s going to be my second column: “Things my mom taught me”): tarragon is delicious in eggs of any style (it’s true—I’ve been using it all week), and never add salt to a recipe that already has butter and/or cream—it’s already salty enough. Oh, and another of Julia’s tips: don’t crowd the mushrooms! If you cook them in a separate pan, with lots of space, they turn out golden brown and delicious every time.
Anyone got any other tips/recipes for quiche you’d like to share? Or another way to serve rice and beans?
I’ll let you know how it tastes in the morning…
And if you need another reason to Get Happy, here’s Barbara Streisand and Judy Garland doing the original, which was covered on Glee this week (hopefully it doesn’t get taken down, like the last one):
In case you haven’t noticed, I finally gave my blog a real title, and I’m playing around with the layout. It still has a long way to go, but I’d love to hear your feedback! Do you like it?
(The URL won’t change–Wordpress allows you to change the title without changing the URL. So you can still find me under adriennelynn.wordpress.com/)
Just to make this post more interesting, here’s Rachel and Sunshine singing the first minute of Beyonce/Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” on Glee. Enjoy!
Lately, I’ve been touched by the number of people who have opened up to me and told me how they’re really doing. Not in an adolescent I’m-going-to-bitch-to-you-for-an-hour-about-how-awful-my-life-is kind of way. Just in an honest well-since-you-asked-things-aren’t actually-perfect sort of way. I think it’s a sign of growing up, and I like it.
Looking back on middle school and early high school I’m struck by the shallowness of it. Everyone was so painfully self-conscious that we combatted it by over-complimenting each other. I felt forced to compliment at least ten people a day on their clothes, their hair, their bag, their make-up…and god forbid I didn’t get ten compliments back (I must have looked horrible and probably no one really liked me). It’s some kind of strange, unwritten suburban girl rule of conduct: thou must compliment each other upon every meeting–and if there’s nothing to say, make it up. Playing the “let’s see who can be the cutest today” game gets old after awhile, though. And all that fake, forced smiling is probably the reason I have progressed crow’s feet in my mid-twenties.
(That’s not to say that all the compliments were insincere, of course. But it was forced in the sense that most of the compliments came out of feelings of jealousy or competition–and that auomatically makes for an uncomfortable interaction.)
I’m actually a little bit in awe of these people who open up, because it’s something I have trouble with myself. I feel like I’ve been putting on an everything’s fine front since I was about twelve, and it’s hard to start tearing down that wall now. But it’s so much healthier to be able to confide in the people we care about. It humanizes them, and it humanizes us. And, little by little, maybe we’ll all start realizing that we don’t have to be perfect.
I feel like every time someone lets me in, it in turn helps my own wall break down. And every time I confide in someone else, another brick crumbles. It’s funny, because I don’t know what’s on the other side, but I keep visualizing rays of golden sunbeams bursting through the chinks, and I think there are tall trees with wide branches and green, green grass. And every time I feel those sunbeams I feel a little lighter and a little warmer.
So I’m genuinely grateful of having people in my life who trust me enough to confide in me. And who, conversely, also want to share with me when they’re on top of the world. Being there for the lows makes watching them at the top that much more rewarding. Because they will get back on top.
I moved to Woodside, New York, (i.e. Queens) twenty-five days ago. Of those twenty-five days, eight (plus a few nights and traveling) were spent in New Jersey, four were in Massachusetts, one was at Six Flags, and for three of them I had guests. That leaves about seven days in total of time at my new apartment, with no more than two or three consecutive nights at a time.
So I guess you could say I’m still settling in.
I haven’t stopped moving in about two months. And in some ways, my mind hasn’t caught up to my body. I’m beginning to think that I left it somewhere in the alleyways of Prague or in one of the seemingly hundreds of planes, trains, cars, buses, and taxis I’ve taken in that time. One would think that I would be looking forward to rest, and silence, and routine. But I’m becoming afraid of what’s going to happen when the lights stop blurring and the floor stops spinning and everything around me is still. (Ah, reality. It’s like a harsh slap of sunshine the morning after a one-night stand: unexpected and unwelcome.)
In some ways I still feel like I’m living in a foreign country. My neighborhood in Queens is primarily Hispanic and Asian—I don’t think I’ve bumped into a single other non-Hispanic white twenty-something in all the time I’ve been here (which, as I just recounted, is not that much time I guess). I’m starting to think I should dig out my old Spanish textbooks just so I can order takeout without repeating myself a dozen times. I hear Spanish music at all hours of the night; I don’t recognize half the brands at the grocery/convenience stores; there are shops under the expressway on Roosevelt Ave that make me feel like I’m back in Beijing—they sell nothing but cheap goods like Hello Kitty backpacks and knock-off Nikes, which they wrap in paper-thin, dusty black plastic bags.
Conversely, I haven’t seen a Starbucks in days. Or a CVS. Or an Au Bon Pain. Or any chain that you could name, for that matter. And that is unbelievably refreshing.
New York exudes excitement. You can feel it every time you walk out the door. The noise, the lights, the traffic, the people…it’s trite but true. And it’s beginning to hit me that I’m really here and a part of it now. On 9/11 I was returning from Six Flags with a few friends, and as we crossed the bridge from New Jersey to the city we had an unbelievable view of the twin blue lights shooting up from Ground Zero into the darkness of a clear, low-cloud night. As we got closer you could see just how strong those beams were—I’ve never seen anything like it. It was so eerie. When I got home I ran in to tell Helen, and we went up to our roof deck so she could see it. Standing there, looking out at the lights over Queens towards the Manhattan skyline, I thought to myself: “this is my home now.”
Yesterday I walked from the R to my apartment without even noticing—I just looked up and I was there. And on the phone today to Chase Bank, where I now have an account, I rattled off my address without having to mentally flip through two or three before remembering the right one. So I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on myself that there are still pictures to hang and dishes to sort and the only things in my fridge right now besides condiments are garlic, onions, pineapple chunks, week-old spaghetti sauce, and a solo Amstel Light that’s not even mine.
A house doesn’t become a home overnight. And a city isn’t yours until you’ve thrown up on the subway at least once.
p.s. If this video doesn’t get you excited about New York, I don’t know what will.
