Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My...

...Everything.

I wish I looked this cute post torrential downpour.

No, really. I've been umbrella-less for like a month, playing a dangerous game of Russian roulette that involves walking out the door every day of the week, knowing full well that it's going to rain, and just hoping to God that it doesn't between the time I walk from the subway station to work and back again.

I'd say that, for the most part, I'm doing pretty well. The rain has only beaten me, like, 4 times at the most. Granted, one time it packed quite a wallop. [Anthropologie Manager: "Uhhh, you might want to check the mirror before you go out on the floor. Your mascara is all over your face." Oops.] But for a month that is essentially a big "Eff you" to global warming disbelievers everywhere (Are the polar bears sunning themselves up there at least? That's my question...), I'd say I'm coming up even in a fight against Mother Nature that's hardly fair.

Wait. Let's pause to giggle at the idea of polar bears with sunglasses and mojitos with mini umbrellas in them. Ugh, I can't even laugh! I'm too jealous.

Unfortunately, today was one of those days that Mother Nature did NOT decide to cut me some slack and keep me dry. I wore little gladiator sandals and a dress that is, essentially, paper-thin and as cute as it is inappropriate when soaked. Which, of course, prompted a few comments during my 15 minute shower... I mean... walk to the subway after leaving my internship. And while I meandered to the subway, pausing under awnings when the downpour was simply too much to bear, I started thinking about the way the rain changes this city and the people who live in it. It's just funny how people act when they're wet.

Like me, for example. Sometimes (if it's been a bad day already) I just give in to looking downtrodden. Drowned rat. And as much as I try to tell myself I look like a goddess - Venus rising up from the sea... Bo Derek emerging from the ocean... Ariel from The Little Mermaid sparkling midair... I know it's not true. I end up looking more wet dog or floppy fish or frizzy hair. Pictures from childhood to adulthood taken at my grandparents' pool have given me stone cold proof that "wet" is never going to be my best look. I mean, Jessica Alba can dribble like a decrepit octogenarian and she ends up in GQ. Oh, the unfairness of it all.

However, this is not about Jessica Alba and her ability to make gargling sexy. (Or ridiculous. I'm not really a fan of the GQ spread, myself.) New Yorkers change when it pours. The subway station is a sad place to be, like a war zone. Like reconvening in the trenches after enemy fire has died down. Everywhere, hairdos along the platform are mussed and frizzed. Expensive suits are wrinkled and dripped on. High heels are muddied. And the funny thing is, people aren't angry. There's no typical NYC ass-kicking feistiness. They're just... sad. Today everyone mushed themselves onto the crowded downtown C train and not a single person was in a huff about being poked with an umbrella. They were all just kind of persevering, as if the musty train that smelled a little like towels that had been kept in a humid bathroom for a month was just adding insult to injury. With my face stuck in the armpit of some damp-smelling guy who looked like Lurch, I realized riding that train was like watching the straw break the camel's back, 100 times over. Poor, sad C train.

Except I wasn't really feeling sad and down. Even though I could feel my dress sticking to my legs and some stupid woman more than brushed her slimy umbrella against me, I felt kind of... primal. That's the only real word to describe it. The heavy rain breaks something in me - the desire to be perceived as a normal person with a sense of decency. Bottom line: Once my dress is see-through, who cares? Once I'm running down the street jumping puddles, I might as well jump them with style. It may have helped that between the dress and the sandals and the little braided headband I was sporting I already had a serious Flower Child vibe going on, but what I really wanted to do was take off my shoes and dance in the mud and embrace the rain. Roll in it. Splash in it. I wanted someone to sweep me off my feet in the rain and hug me and love me and enjoy how nice and cool it feels on your skin in the summer heat. That's the problem with rain in the city - you're too busy wondering if people can see your panty lines or if your shoes will be ruined to just pause and think about how good it feels. It's a race to get to the other side of the sidewalk, to the scaffolding, before the big bad rain can catch you.

While I was doing just that - racing to a piece of awning, actually - some guy walked past me with a humongous umbrella and decided that, obviously, by the state of my clothing and the fact that I was contemplating walking into the downpour, I needed some convincing. So as he walked past, Mr. Big Ass Umbrella said, "It's just water!" I, of course, answered "Can you leave me alone, please?" But as he walked away, I really just wanted to throw down my purse, remove my shoes, run after him and shove that big, stupid umbrella You Know Where. If you only know me from my blog, you may think this is a possibility considering my Rat Broiling fantasies. But if you know me in real life, you know for sure that I'm never going to be shoving people's umbrellas in places where the sun doesn't shine. (Even though, right now, places where the sun DOES shine are few and far between.) But after a few hours to contemplate Mr. Big Ass Umbrella and his obnoxious comment, I'm taking it to heart. It's just water. For the sake of looking semi-decent in the work place, I'm going to buy an umbrella. But maybe the next time it downpours I'll head outside to my backyard and sit in the rain and let it do what it does. Because hey, it's just water.

TBK2M #1

In an effort to spice things up and update my blog more often, I'm going to try to introduce some less time-consuming fare. Here's one new addition to WMWC. I call it TBK2M (which looks unsettlingly like NKOTB to me.) What does it stand for?

Thoughts Best Kept To Myself

(I put the "2" in there for the edginess factor. Since a blog named after romance and dessert needs all the "edgy" it can muster.)

Anyway, in TBK2M I'll give you insight into the brief, mostly strange, somewhat entertaining things that pop into my head. You know what I mean. Those thoughts that make you giggle out loud walking down the street because you're like "Wow, I can't believe I just thought that!" The thoughts that are best kept to yourself. The thoughts I'm going to post anyway.

Today's TBK2M?

Leaning exhaustedly against a pole on the L train today, I thought:

Hey, would rock climbing enhance my ability to pole dance? Both activities require upper body strength. Would pole dancing enhance my ability to rock climb?

Then I remembered, oh hey, I don't know HOW to pole dance.

But how hard could it be? It's basically only done by women, and we're not really known for our buff upper bodies and superhuman arm strength.

THEN I decided that the next time I'm alone in a subway car, I'm gonna give it a go. Pole dancing is one of those weird things that's still taboo in America. The kind of thing that's only okay on cringe-worthy shows like Daisy of Love or whatever. But it looks SO fun. Like a cross between sliding down a fireman's pole and playing on a swing set.

Bottom line: Next time there's a pole and no one's looking, I'm trying it.

Coffee and a Compliment

This morning on my way to work I stopped in Dunkin' Donuts to grab a medium french vanilla coffee with skim milk and two Sweet and Lows. Prior to my coffee run, I spent a good twenty minutes at home actually straightening my hair, putting on makeup, and choosing jewelry that wasn't just my go-to jewelry but, in fact, actually matched my outfit. Feeling somewhat confident and attractive, but still playing the "Compare Myself to Every Woman on the Street" game as I walked along the West Side, I entered the Dunkin' Donuts, thinking only one thought: "Make sure you say FRENCH VANILLA really loud so they don't screw up your order again."

As I was standing at the counter, fishing through my change purse for a nickel, the guy placing my order looked at me and said, "You look so gorgeous, do you know that?"

Sometimes, that's all it takes. I think it's going to be a good day.

A Promise to Someone Who Matters

Me.

In the past two weeks, more than one person whose opinion matters to me has given me advice that is along the lines of "You have to take care of yourself. You have to make you happy."

Yeah, well, that's easier said than done. I like to make other people happy and tend to lose track of my own happiness along the way. I end up losing sight of what it is that I want and need.

Well you know what? To quote my mother, "Eff you very much," everyone else. I can't appease the entire world and I can't sacrifice myself in the process. I apologize for all of the italics in this (I personally judge people who overuse any kind of font change in their writing. Can't you make a point without the help of underlining or slanty letters?) but they're just necessary right now, you know? And although it's not New Years, I'm making a resolution. An official blog resolution, which makes it real, obviously. The only way it could be realer is if it was on Facebook.

Resolution: I'm going to try to be all about me.

And here are the ways I'm going to do so:

1) Not doing anything I don't want to do. I'll do you favors and I'll be kind, but if I really don't want to do something (excluding working because, well, I need money to finance Number 4 and Number 10) I just won't do it. Simple as that. And if I want to spend my Saturday night reading magazines in my bed, that is totally okay.

2) Making delicious food items for myself and the people around me. But only when I want to, naturally. Microwave cooking for one is also allowed.

3) Not apologizing. This is a big one for me. Unless I really do something mean, or bump someone on the Subway, I'm not saying I'm sorry. So I guess I should change this one to "Not apologizing when an apology isn't necessary."

4) Indulging in a lot of hobbies that include cooking, baking, crafting, exercising, reading, and possible rock climbing if the gaping holes in my fingers from my first attempt on Friday ever heal. Basically I'm going to be a very strong, buff Susie Homemaker. Which is facilitated by the fact that I'm an editorial intern at Martha Stewart Living and totally just scored her new cupcake book (shhh!) Come to my apartment, you might find cupcakes!

This is an origami dragon I made this

 afternoon while watching Californication... 

which, by the way, is awesome. 

5) Making myself look nice for no one but myself, because it makes me feel good.

6) Giving myself things to look forward to that don't rely on other people. Like, "Today, I'm going to get a cup of really good coffee and read a magazine when I get off work." Or, "This weekend, I'm going to wear those shorts I like and go out and have a good time." I'm gonna get myself some Yankee tickets, finally see Hair, and stand in line to see Shakespeare in the Park... because I really want to see Audra do Twelfth Night.

7) Girl time. I've been seeing some of my best friends more often recently, and it's been so refreshing and rehabilitating. So, ladies, I'm going to be calling you more often and wanting to go out for sangria and Mexican and share intimate secrets. I hope you're ready to dish.

8) Letting go of things I can't control. I won't elaborate, but there are things I worry about too much that I can't fix and I can't help. So you know what? I won't worry.

9) Enjoying the way things feel in the moment without worrying about how fleeting they might be. 

10) Having fun. Pure, simple, belly laugh-inducing fun.

Okay, WMWC readers. There's my list and there's my resolution. I'll keep you updated on how it goes, hopefully with pictures of successful crafting/cooking/baking/living adventures.

Oh, and I also made a really sweet origami tortoise after the dragon. Nice, right?

Uh, What Happened To Me?

What just happened a few minutes ago: I walked in my front door, took off my suffocating skirt, put on comfortable pants, and sat down on the couch. Adorable Welsh Subletter offered me the TV remote since it seemed to be my turn to choose the channel. I switched on the "Guide" function of our wonderful gazillion-channel cable, and I literally had a conniption as I was presented with a terrible dilemma.

Yankees Vs. Red Sox or Lakers Vs. Magic?

And then, of course, I had a second conniption.

Why am I having a conniption!?

This is me. If you take away the couch potato bit, because I spend a lot of time out of the house. 

But really. Beer? Remote? Couch? Check. Check. Check.

I mean, okay... I'm taking solace in the fact that I'm still a little bit sad that The Real Housewives of New Jersey is ALSO on and I can't possibly change the channel. But re-read that sentence. I'm choosing TWO SPORTING EVENTS over Bravo. Count 'em, two. And this is not out of the ordinary. Ever since the summer started and I got cable, I have been coming home and flipping right to baseball. Or SportsCenter. Or, with a little guidance from The Boyfriend, the NBA finals. I hated basketball! I do hate basketball! I... I... I...

Oh shit, double play. Really, Yankees?

Sorry, sorry. I know this isn't completely well thought out, but I'm beginning to feel like my quest for Sports Knowledge in order to Entrance the Male Sex has had this opposite effect where instead of luring all these beautiful, sporty men, it has, instead, transformed ME into a man. A pony-tail wearing, tight-tank-top-sporting, pink-fingernailed man. Who drinks beer. And watches sports. And then watches the POST GAME SHOW. 

I think that's when you know it's getting bad.

When I used to visit The Boyfriend up at school, there was constantly some sort of sports game on TV and that was the norm. Walk into any room where there are men and they won't mind - hell, they'll encourage it - if you turn on a channel that deals with sports or games or physical activity or beating someone up. But when you live in a house with girls or are even just watching TV with females around there's just something very strange about going "Wait, wait, wait. Can I interrupt this broadcast of What Not to Wear to check the score for a second?" They look at you like... like your hair is blue. Or you pee standing up. Or something.

Want proof? Adorable Welsh Subletter just went on a cereal run to the grocery store around the corner and the first thing I did was turn off The Office and turn on the basketball game.

I'm living a double life of shame that involves ESPN gamecasts and not-so-secret desires to visit sports bars. But then again, my good friend just revealed to me today that the reason my gladiator sandals were sticking to her kitchen floor is because she and her multiple female suitemates have been practicing beer pong every night. So perhaps I'm not alone...

Stop. I have to draw the line somewhere. As my faithful readers know, the line used to be basketball. Well, I'm officially recanting that statement. Basketball is pretty good. It's sometimes exhilarating and occasionally really interesting. And you can't forget the freak factor - I mean, these guys are effing TALL. There's a certain Ripley's Believe It or Not thrill to basketball, like seeing a lamb with two heads or something. But mark my words, friends. I WILL NOT watch... are you ready for it?... Ultimate Fighting. There is too much blood, too much punching in the face, and FAR too much naked man-hugging. If I want to see scantily-clad man-grabbing, there are plenty of places in New York City I can take myself where I also don't have to hear the crunch of broken facial bones. Sure, it will probably cost ten bucks and a possible two drink minimum, but I'm okay with that.

Now that my secret's out, will you keep reading my blog? Now that you know I'm a cupcake lover AND that I drank all of The Boyfriend's beer he left in the fridge, will you still want to be my friend? (Heh, he didn't know that until now... we're just spilling secrets all over the place, now aren't we?)

Oh, and one more thing. The other night I came home from a late night work shift at Anthropologie (where I tend to wear a headband that has big cloth flowers attached to it and flouncy little skirts) to hang out with The Boyfriend, who was staying at my place. I had a lot of energy, and he seemed to be energetic as well, so we decided we should do something fun. I said "Hey, what do you want to do?" and he said "I don't know, what do you want to do?"

I thought for a second, and then offered a suggestion.

"Want to play a video game?"

Uh oh.

Nothing's Perfect

I wish you could be here with me right now. It's a beautiful Sunday morning. I can hear the occasional bike rider mosey on by, the spokes of his wheels whirring as he rides. A few minutes ago, a tattoo-clad hipster placed his used crap on the sidewalk, a cigarette askew between his lips, in the hopes that someone (the garbage man?) might take it away. About an hour ago, a sad little parade traversed Powers street, making its way down Leonard to the tunes of decrepit middle school bass drums.

Ahhh, The Brooklyn Nook.

But all is not peaches and cream here in what someone once referred to as "Heaven on Earth." Although today is relatively tranquil, I have just been privy to a week that can only be described as a roller coaster ride of awfulness. I try not to be too self-indulgent on this thing and turn it into a giant forum for "This is why my life sucks," but since it IS my blog, I'm going to compromise. I'm going to write an entry about one reason why my life sucks. Just one. And then I'll move on to brighter things. Sound good? If that compromise doesn't satisfy you, I'll make it exciting... with a classic WMWC scene!

Scene: BiddyLuddy, The Boyfriend, and Cupcake Lover stumble in the front door of The Brooklyn Nook after a full day of burgers, dogs, pizza, and beer. It is only a little past midnight, but the whole crowd is sleepy and full and about ready to get to bed. The Boyfriend heads into the kitchen, perhaps to brush his teeth or to remove his contact lenses... or both... when Cupcake Lover hears a high-pitched yell from the kitchen side of the railroad style apartment...

The Boyfriend: Ohhhh my God!

Cupcake Lover: What is it? What's wrong?

The Boyfriend: Oh my God, you have RATS.

Cupcake Lover: What? What are you talking about? 

The Boyfriend: I saw one picking at the garbage over here. 

The Boyfriend points to the space between the stove and the wall where the garbage can IS looking a little bit out of control.

Cupcake Lover: Wait a minute, there is a very distinct difference between "RATS" and "A RAT." Did you see multiple rats? Or just one? DO NOT say we have RATS unless you saw them in, like, a pack or something. Was there a pack?

The Boyfriend: Just one, he was eating at the garbage.

Cupcake Lover: Where did he go?

The Boyfriend: He's still behind the stove! Quick! Where's your camera? We have to take a picture to show your landlord!

The  Boyfriend goes to grab said camera, while Cupcake Lover takes a peek behind the stove. She discovers that yes, indeed, there IS a fat rat sitting behind her beautiful gas stove. In her beautiful apartment. She whimpers a bit.

Photo Copyright: The Boyfriend

The Boyfriend returns, camera in hand.

The Boyfriend: I can't get a good picture! Come here and look at this one. Can you see a tail?

Cupcake Lover: Stop taking pictures of the rat! Ugh. I can't believe we have a rat. We should just put some cheese in the broiler or something and lure him in.

The Boyfriend stops taking pictures, aghast.

The Boyfriend: That's horrible! You want to BROIL the rat?

Cupcake Lover thinks that yes, that's exactly what she meant. But she covers up her malicious intentions quickly, lest The Boyfriend think she's some sort of sadist.

Cupcake Lover: Uhhh, no, I just meant we could trap him in there. With the broiler OFF of course. [Whew, nice save.] Anyway, put the camera down. We'll close the door to the kitchen - it's not like rats can climb into the bed or anything. Tomorrow we'll call the exterminator.

The Boyfriend: Okay. Well, I think I got at least one good picture.

Cupcake Lover and The Boyfriend turn to leave the kitchen, knowing they can't do much of anything to amend the situation at the moment. Cupcake Lover goes to switch off the kitchen light... together they close the kitchen door. And double check to make sure it's closed. Both are a little uneasy and questioning whether or not rats, with their sticky little paws, CAN climb into the bed. No matter. It's time to sleep.

The Boyfriend: Goodnight, Lucifer.

Cupcake Lover: Do NOT name the rat!

End Scene.

This whole travesty happened a few weeks ago, but the saga of The Rat has not ended. We set out some poison for the little bastard, but for weeks he didn't touch it. Until last night, when our adorable Welsh subletter, who has been sleeping on a mattress on the floor since we have had some trouble obtaining a bed frame (but will soon!), woke up dreamily thinking there was a cat on her bed.

Needless to say, we do not have a cat.

The Rat had CRAWLED ONTO HER BED. Yes, you heard that right. ON HER BED.

The poor thing moved halfway across the world only to wind up with vermin in her bed. Granted, she seems to be way less offended than she probably should be (plus now she has a timeless New York City story to tell all her "mates"), but I still feel bad. And disappointed that my perfect little Nook isn't so perfect after all. I love living here, but I can't help but be a little upset that my third roommate is furry.

No matter. That rat is going DOWN. How dare he disturb my happiness! As I write this, a trap is set with a little piece of hamburger bun and peanut butter. It looks enticing, sitting next to the rat poison by the stove. Mmmm mmmm mmmm. Sounds delicious, right Lucifer?

And, well, if all else fails... I'm turning on the broiler.