Really?

I am not what you would call "lucky."  Don't get me wrong, I've got a pretty great life, terrific friends and a family that I like most of the time (just kidding--all the time!).  But my life is not charmed.  Other people just seem to walk in the light--win $1,000 in the lottery, go to a bar the exact night Jay-Z is there and chats him up, or just generally gets through life with little thought about what could go wrong.

I am not that person.  I have never won more than $100 in the lottery (and I maintain that was only because Andrew was there--I've never won even a dollar on my own), the only person I've ever seen in a bar was that guy from that movie, and, though I often worry more than necessary, I'm beginning to think that worry stems from conditioning, and the repeated examples of how whenever one messy situation clears up in my life, another immediately opens.  There's a reason you've never heard of the "Luck o' the Norwegians."  Though we can hold our own against the Irish when it comes to imbibing, we descendants of the Vikings do not hail from the golden land of frolicking leprechauns, pots of gold and rainbows.

Case in point--I spent ten months worrying about getting a job.  I finally did.  I then spent the next 4 months searching for a second part-time job.  I worried a lot about this, because it is kind of necessary for me to actually live in New York City with any kind of solvency.  In the past 4 months, I have applied to many a CraigsList ad, had about 4 or 5 interviews and spent everyday searching for jobs, babysitting gigs or freelance editorial work.

Two weeks ago, I scored a recurring editorial gig.  Last week I finally got a part time job with a pretty decent schedule (Tuesday and Wednesday nights at an alternative dance studio, where I will get to take free classes).

So what could be wrong now?  Well, I have a mouse infestation.  In the past two weeks, I have caught THREE MICE.  This is seriously distressing for me, because I hate vermin of all persuasions, classifications, species and breeds.  Luckily, Andrew was around to catch two of them.  But last night I arrived home to find a suspiciously turd-like object on my stove top (that's right, the little buggers like to hide in my stove.  How horrifying is that?).  I toed the remaining traps on the ground.  Three were empty.  The fourth seemed heavy and the little red door that seals off the trap was shut tight.

Crap.

Not only had I had a third mouse scampering around my apartment whilst I was out at happy hour, but now it was dead.  In my kitchen.  And I had to dispose of it on my own.

I'm not proud of how I behaved.  I like to think I'm not much of a girly-girl.  But let's look at the evidence: I hate mice, rats, cockroaches, any insect larger than a pinhead and things with more than two legs.  I sometimes think that shrieking is an acceptable reaction when encountering any of these things.  Blood, while not my favorite of fluids (ranking slightly above bile, but well below vodka) doesn't totally make me want to pass out, though I think long and hard before donating.  Perhaps I am a bit of a priss.

So with muffled shrieks, some retching and quite a bit of swearing (maybe I'm not a priss after all?) I managed to scoop up the trap onto a dustpan, deposit it in a garbage bag, tightly tie the bag and toss it out my front door.  At 10 o'clock last night, I was so not walking outside to the trash room in my pjs. 

Also, there was that whole earthquake thing, and now I've got to spend my whole weekend in Maryland worrying about what hurricane-induced mess will be waiting for me on Sunday behind door number 5D.  I pray my crap-ass windows don't shatter.  But, looking back on my life and string of uncannily un-serendipitous events it comprises, I will be disheartened, angry, tearful and vomitous, but wholly un-surprised if, upon arrival back at my apartment, I should open the door and be greeted by a flooded, windowless, looted apartment, as a tidal wave of drowned mice washes over my feet and heads for the stairs.

Happy Friday.

An Open Letter to Strangers

Dear Strangers I Meet on the Street, in Malls, at Hotels and Mini-Golf Courses,

STOP TELLING ME TO SMILE.

I'm not unhappy.  That's just my face.  I can't help it that it looks angry.

And, if I was unhappy, having a dirty old man talk to me would not make me feel less unhappy.  In fact, if I was unhappy, telling me to smile would probably earn you a dirtier stare (didn't think it was possible?  Guess again) and a kick in the shin.  Or at least a heavy-duty flat tire when you tried to walk away.

My face, when relaxed, tends to look tense/angry/sad/scowly.  You commenting on it does not make me feel better about it or you.

So, strangers, when you see me looking angry, WALK AWAY.  You don't poke a sleeping bear and you don't make comments about my facial expression.  Either ill-advised activity is likely to get you dead.

Respectfully,
BW

The First and Last Time I Drank Jim Beam

This weekend, Andrew and I trucked down to Maryland for Emily and Mike's Second Monthly Post-Wedding Surplus Alcohol Bash.  Or, as my dad tipsily called it "Emily 2.0." 

Despite sitting in 2 hours of Manhattan traffic on Friday and SEVEN HOURS of stupid rain traffic on Sunday (with hangover) the weekend still managed to be both epic and epically embarrassing.

On Friday night we had a couple drinks and a relatively calm round of Taboo.

On Saturday, we had lunch with my parents and brother.

On Saturday night, we had a lot of drinks, a couple rounds of Kan Jam (a game that requires throwing a Frisbee into a black plastic cylinder) and two rounds of decidedly not-calm Taboo (there was lots of clapping, A-T-T-A-C-K-ing and swearing from the MacDonald boys).

The evening started around 5, included a barbeque and short-lived fire pit, in addition to the activities previously mentioned, and was headed towards becoming a chill, early-to-bed night, as most guests had departed by 9, leaving Emily, Mike, John, Andrew and myself inside playing Taboo in our jammies by 9:30.

Cue two rounds of Kings and the boys feeling a serious buzz.  Norwegian tanks that we are, (me, definitely, Emily, not so much), we girls were not quite at the party level, and decided to kick it in to gear, so I switched to drinking straight Crown.

One round of Taboo later (in which the Thoreson girls kicked MacDonald/Vigliotta butt) we were all feeling pretty good.  And getting pretty dance-y.

Around midnight, things started breaking down.  And by that I mean we started breaking down.  Cut to a YouTube playlist full of hip hop, MJ and some good old fashioned classics (Macarena, anybody?  Yes, please).  I've never headbanged so much or gotten so low in my life.  There were a few moves pulled out by other dancers that I've never seen in my life also--Emily spent the majority of the time dancing on the couch, Mike pulled a sassy hip-swinging hand clap and of the two other guys, one pantomimed a telescope during Miley Cyrus' "The Climb" and one "Jumped On It" a la The Fresh Prince of Bel Air.

Halfway through the dance party, I decided it was a good idea to switch from straight Crown to straight Jim Beam.  Until Sunday morning, I stood by my decision.

Despite my worst hangover to date and an epic cinnamon-roll fail, the weekend was a definite win.  The fact that I can't move my neck, have bruises on my shin and feel a strange emotion bordering on embarrassment and self-judgment when I look at the pictures from Saturday night, tells me I made a series of bad decisions.  The fact that I am 23 and have awesome friends tells me that it's ok.

Thanks to those friends.  At least, I hope we're still friends after I danced up on all of you.

Downtime

I am quickly approaching the first weekend I’ve had alone in my apartment since June.  Can you believe it?  Between traveling to Maryland and Long Island, and having visitors come here, I have been busy every single weekend since June 25th!  And every weekend before that as well!

Though I love visiting with my family and friends, I really am looking forward to this weekend.  But I don’t know what to do!  Based on my complete lack of tan and the fact that it is already August, I know I have to do something outside.  Unfortunately, it looks like isolated thunderstorms all weekend, so I MUST remember to bring my umbrella.

But, some of my options are:

-trekking out to Coney Island for some beach fun (though if I’m going to be interrupted by rain, I don’t know if I want to make the 2-hour journey)
-finally finding the farmers’ market I’ve heard is in my neighborhood but haven’t found yet
-attending Summer Streets on Park Ave and walking around with lots of other people who are walking and biking around
-reading in Central Park
-walking around a neighborhood I haven’t spent much time in (I’m thinking Soho, Lower East Side (I’ve never even SEEN Avenue A) or Brooklyn) to see what’s about

This is why I make lists.  Because just writing that list has helped me narrow it down to #2 and #5.  And I don’t see any reason why I can’t do both!  If it’s gray in the morning, I’ll do the farmers market and hope it clears up for the afternoon.  If it’s sunny in the AM, I’ll start by walking around somewhere not-near my house.

This is going to be great!  I’ll get some exercise, see something new and hopefully catch a little vitamin D for my cloistered and sickly epidermis.  This is what living in New York is all about.  Yay for occasional weekends without plans.