Shame on me. My adventures have been stalled at page thirty since August and there is just no excuse for that. A quick update, then it's back to the regular scheduled story-telling.
New:
Apartment, roommates and job. I gave up on washing cars and I now coach gymnastics. It is the best and most rewarding job I've ever had. My little girls and boys are precious and make even the worst days wonderful.
Friends, hairstyle and method of organizing my closet. I color coordinate now.
Classes that challenge me, teachers, responsibilites and guilty pleasures.
and
Adventures, of course.
Same:
Bad study habits, best friend and favorite boy.
Poor budgeting skills, bumperless car and love of high heals.
Perpetually empty gas tank.
Craving for the big city, desire to dress fabulously and stay young at heart forever.
Magnetism to odd people and even odder situations.
Stay tuned...
Page Thirty: I Need To Buy A Welcome Mat
I thought that adjusting back to the Texan's lifestyle would be challenging. I guess there is nothing at all challenging about the routine I developed immediately upon returning home: wake up, remove PJ's, put on swim suit, grab iPod, cell phone, water bottle, towel, and lay in pool chair...continue laying in pool chair until you can't produce anymore sweat and you absolutely must jump in the pool...jump in pool. Repeat daily.
The only obstacle I've noticed is driving. I can't seem to get my car to go over 60 mph without feeling like I'm doing laps at Texas Motor Speedway. I'm getting there though...slowly.
I packed my life up once more and loaded it all into my car. My entire life fits into my maroon X-Terra, not at all comfortably or in a way that's really highway safe, but it fits. Getting back to school meant getting a good hug I'd been waiting a long time for. It meant two new roommates to share coffee with in the morning and closets with at night. It meant multiple "how are you's" and "did you have a good summer's?". I have already acquired new skills, like painting a kitchen orange in your underwear while drinking white wine, making sure to jump off the counter gracefully to skip the lame songs that come on the shuffle. I'm clearly a bonafide multi-tasker.
It's exciting to see my old friends in their new houses with their big smiles painted on their faces as they show me around. It seems we are all happy to be growing up. When are we supposed to stop being happy about getting older?
My thank you notes are written, addressed and stamped. They're starring in me in my face as we speak begging to be sent out. One for my boss at ABC, one for my boss at Haute PR, one full of thanks and promised prayers for Mary, and one for my dad's boss thanking him for the plane ride back home. Honestly, I'm not looking forward to sending them away. When they're gone, it means that it really is all over.
My bed is made, my clothes are hung and there are two boxes of Kashi in my pantry. So, this must be home.
The only obstacle I've noticed is driving. I can't seem to get my car to go over 60 mph without feeling like I'm doing laps at Texas Motor Speedway. I'm getting there though...slowly.
I packed my life up once more and loaded it all into my car. My entire life fits into my maroon X-Terra, not at all comfortably or in a way that's really highway safe, but it fits. Getting back to school meant getting a good hug I'd been waiting a long time for. It meant two new roommates to share coffee with in the morning and closets with at night. It meant multiple "how are you's" and "did you have a good summer's?". I have already acquired new skills, like painting a kitchen orange in your underwear while drinking white wine, making sure to jump off the counter gracefully to skip the lame songs that come on the shuffle. I'm clearly a bonafide multi-tasker.
It's exciting to see my old friends in their new houses with their big smiles painted on their faces as they show me around. It seems we are all happy to be growing up. When are we supposed to stop being happy about getting older?
My thank you notes are written, addressed and stamped. They're starring in me in my face as we speak begging to be sent out. One for my boss at ABC, one for my boss at Haute PR, one full of thanks and promised prayers for Mary, and one for my dad's boss thanking him for the plane ride back home. Honestly, I'm not looking forward to sending them away. When they're gone, it means that it really is all over.
My bed is made, my clothes are hung and there are two boxes of Kashi in my pantry. So, this must be home.
Page Twenty-Nine: Now What?
I ended my adventure viewing the city from Top of the Rock on one last adventure with the British boy, then looking out the window of a Challenger down at the place that I called home for three months. I was blessed with perfect timing and was able to ride in the back of an empty jet, non-stop to Texas with the pilot I trust the most...my dad. He had a trip to New Jersey and I met him at the airport, loaded my tons and tons of lugguge into the back of the plane and napped on a leather couch for the 2 hour and 52 minute ride to Fort Worth. I love sneaking into the life of luxury, even if only for a moment, even if it really is only a fluke. My dad let the other pilot take over for most of the flight so we could catch up on the happenings of an unforgetable summer in New York City. I shared my stories and relayed my adventures in a way that is suitable for the ears of parents. Have I mentioned how grateful I am to have parents like the ones I have?
I was lugging one of my bags up the stairs in my house to be greeted by a little fellow, an unexpected visitor, one that you would only find on your stairs in Texas. I screamed "Lizard in the house, lizard in the house" until my dad came and caught the little guy. This is why my mom yells at my dad when he leaves the door out to the pool open. The backyard and all of it's tropical rainforest-esque vegetation is a much more suitable habitat for creatures of his kind. His tail fell off when my dad caught him to put him back in his happy place.
So now I'm back. I'm back in Texas with more clothing than I came with, more shoes, more stuff in general. I also came back with more life experience, a few more friends, and an entirely new outlook on how I want to live, love and be loved. My world has been changed by a place, and now I find myself back where I started. I'm not writing from a cubicle on the 17th floor of 2 Penn Plaza or an upper eastside apartment. I'm back in my bedroom in Texas. I can't help but wonder, now what?
I guess these aren't the Intern's Confessions anymore, are they? I guess these are the Ex-Intern's Confessions, the Texan's Confessions, the College Student's Confessions. I don't know what's going to fill these pages from now on and I don't know how I will be organizing my thoughts from here on out. But if I know myself at all than I know that the adventures are nowhere near over.
I try not to live in the past. I try to make clean chapter breaks when it comes to life and I try to be the girl with the smooth transitions. There's only one last thing to do before I say goodbye to what was once The Intern's Confessions... my ode to New York City and what it's made me:
Thanks for terrifying me, smacking me in the face, bringing me to tears, making me feel lonely for the first time in my life, stealing all of my money, mutalating the bottom of my feet, ruining all of my high heels, destroying my once golden bronzed skin, introducing me to people I'll know for life, throwing me into jobs I was not quite ready for, helping me to master Microsoft Excel, showing me the hard life, letting me get a glimpse into the life of the man on the subway who never arrives at his stop because the subway is his refuge and his home, showing me what hungry, poor, hurting, tired, broken, defeated looks like, and thank you that I've never had to be this person.
Thanks for blinding me with the city lights, shutting me up when I wanted to complain, letting me feel the most free I've ever felt, allowing me to get lost, giving me the opportunity to figure things out on my own, for laughing, running, walking, shopping, drinking, singing, swimming, dancing, learning, growing, teaching, loving, hating, fearing, hoping, aching, smiling.
It's really good to be home.
Page Twenty-Eight: Hard Falls and Close Calls
First of all, please excuse the nerdiness of a rhyming page title. Not really my style, but it just worked to well to not use it.
While the previous page displayed my sentimental side, page twenty-eight will depict absolutely no sentiment whatsoever. After reading this you will only view this Texan as a clumsy idiot with an odd magnetism to strange situations and even stranger people.
Rachel and I, after much debate decided that not going out in the city one last time before she headed home would just be criminal. We raced back to Jersey, got ourselves as cute as a humid sticky basement will allow and then made our way back to the city. Note: don't even try to wear jeans or pants of any kind in humidity like that. There is no hope. You might as well not even straighten your hair or put on make-up.
We met up with the crew of interns that I found myself surrounded by all summer long, in the same booth that I have found myself sitting in all summer long. Like a typical Rach and the Texan night would go, we managed to find friends of the Italian descent. Go figure. Also remaining in perfect Rach and the Texan character, we managed to find a Duane Reade to satisfy our perpetual Goldfish and Trail-Mix craving.
Rach and two of the Italians waited outside while I went in with Nico, the third and most studly Italian, on a desperate search for crunchy goodness. I was wearing a pair of grey peak-toes that were my moms until she realized once and for all, after years of convincing, that she is not 26 anymore. They are out of this world high and are painful even to my completely numb feet.
I took about two steps down the flight of stairs before my big show. I missed a step or slipped or tripped or stumbled and found myself tumbling head-first to what I thought would be my inevitable demise. Nico grabbed my right foot trying to be a hero and thank God he did. Miraculously I was granted another chance at life.
The entire Duane Reade staff rushed to my rescue which makes me wonder how loud of a thud I made. They thought they were going to have to call an ambulance, I swear. I assured them I was fine in between my obnoxious and uncontrollable laughter. They quickly jumped on my dramatic plunge as the perfect opportunity to try to sell me every medicine, bangage, pair of flip-flops they had in that place. Somehow, I ended up standing at the register with a $17.00 total.
Excuse me Duane Reade, I don't have brain damage. I just want my Goldfish, Ok? (A new bag of course, because I crushed the first bag into crumbs.)
So I relay the tramatic experience to Rach wishing she had been there to see it. On to the next part of the adventure...the close call part.
We are standing outside talking to the Italians. I didn't take into much consideration that the particular corner we were standing on was strangely empty. One of the Italians threw out a generous cocain offer. This Texan has a strict no hard drugs policy so I politely said, no thank you, have a good night, we're going to head home. Rachel and I turned around to see about 8 NFL sized black boys surrounding us. We squeezed out of the not-so-friendly looking semi-circle as quickly as possible.
Rachel is convinced she has a guardian angel and judging by her track record, I believe her. An off-duty cab was sitting on the corner and for some reason signaled to me saying he would take us. We got in and Rach told him to not let anyone in the cab besides us. Just drive, just drive, mister. The group of guys that seemed to magically appear were trying to follow us into the cab, so miracle man sped off.
To make matters worse, in the all of the commotion and cab jumping, Rach lost her cell phone. Of course.
Is the moral of the story this summer to stay away from Italian boys? Wolf in sheeps clothing, perhaps?
Nah, too pretty.
While the previous page displayed my sentimental side, page twenty-eight will depict absolutely no sentiment whatsoever. After reading this you will only view this Texan as a clumsy idiot with an odd magnetism to strange situations and even stranger people.
Rachel and I, after much debate decided that not going out in the city one last time before she headed home would just be criminal. We raced back to Jersey, got ourselves as cute as a humid sticky basement will allow and then made our way back to the city. Note: don't even try to wear jeans or pants of any kind in humidity like that. There is no hope. You might as well not even straighten your hair or put on make-up.
We met up with the crew of interns that I found myself surrounded by all summer long, in the same booth that I have found myself sitting in all summer long. Like a typical Rach and the Texan night would go, we managed to find friends of the Italian descent. Go figure. Also remaining in perfect Rach and the Texan character, we managed to find a Duane Reade to satisfy our perpetual Goldfish and Trail-Mix craving.
Rach and two of the Italians waited outside while I went in with Nico, the third and most studly Italian, on a desperate search for crunchy goodness. I was wearing a pair of grey peak-toes that were my moms until she realized once and for all, after years of convincing, that she is not 26 anymore. They are out of this world high and are painful even to my completely numb feet.
I took about two steps down the flight of stairs before my big show. I missed a step or slipped or tripped or stumbled and found myself tumbling head-first to what I thought would be my inevitable demise. Nico grabbed my right foot trying to be a hero and thank God he did. Miraculously I was granted another chance at life.
The entire Duane Reade staff rushed to my rescue which makes me wonder how loud of a thud I made. They thought they were going to have to call an ambulance, I swear. I assured them I was fine in between my obnoxious and uncontrollable laughter. They quickly jumped on my dramatic plunge as the perfect opportunity to try to sell me every medicine, bangage, pair of flip-flops they had in that place. Somehow, I ended up standing at the register with a $17.00 total.
Excuse me Duane Reade, I don't have brain damage. I just want my Goldfish, Ok? (A new bag of course, because I crushed the first bag into crumbs.)
So I relay the tramatic experience to Rach wishing she had been there to see it. On to the next part of the adventure...the close call part.
We are standing outside talking to the Italians. I didn't take into much consideration that the particular corner we were standing on was strangely empty. One of the Italians threw out a generous cocain offer. This Texan has a strict no hard drugs policy so I politely said, no thank you, have a good night, we're going to head home. Rachel and I turned around to see about 8 NFL sized black boys surrounding us. We squeezed out of the not-so-friendly looking semi-circle as quickly as possible.
Rachel is convinced she has a guardian angel and judging by her track record, I believe her. An off-duty cab was sitting on the corner and for some reason signaled to me saying he would take us. We got in and Rach told him to not let anyone in the cab besides us. Just drive, just drive, mister. The group of guys that seemed to magically appear were trying to follow us into the cab, so miracle man sped off.
To make matters worse, in the all of the commotion and cab jumping, Rach lost her cell phone. Of course.
Is the moral of the story this summer to stay away from Italian boys? Wolf in sheeps clothing, perhaps?
Nah, too pretty.
Page Twenty-Seven: Affection Was Never Wasted
As my time here is running short I find myself writing less and living more. I'm soaking up every last drop of this city. I think I look at it's sky line through different eyes now. I honestly cannot express what this place has meant in my life. It's stupid to even try to put it into words because I would never do the impact it's made any justice at all.
I've found friends I will remember forever. The people I've developed relationships are one's with big dreams and big personalities and I'm dying to see what they will be up to a year from now. There's no doubt in my mind each of them will be diving deep into big things. With 5 days left in NYC, I can't help but get a little sappy. I came to the city to drown myself with the real world and I think I did just that.
I worked at a restaurant in Maine a couple summers back and my boss gave me a compliment I won't ever forget. "You know why I love you so much? Because you haven't been hardend by the world yet."
I didn't know what that meant. I didn't really know if that statement was even a compliment at all. Now I know that is. I hope I never become hardend by the world. I feel like I've lived in a place for the last 3 months, where everyone is a little hardened; a little tougher, a little meaner, a little colder and a little more worldly. I think I took from these people what I was meant to take. Caution, wisdom, stregnth, courage, selflessness, self-respect, desire, drive, a little fear even. I hope I rubbed off on this place a little, too.
My adventures in the city aren't over yet. I know what can happen in a short 5 days. In fact, my next page, page twenty-eight, will depict some of my most memorable adventures yet.
I'm so grateful for what this city has given me.
Page Twenty-Six: The Mafia Doesn't Exist
Thursday was bitter sweet. I sent Anna off and picked Rachel up. I wish I could put our vacation together into words. I'll start by saying the mafia does exist. Then I will tell you that we have befriended a few mobsters. Hopefully I won't regret saying any of this. Hopefully Don won't be sitting on my couch in a suit with a cigar tonight when I come home from work.
We have spent two of our evenings turned into nights on Mulberry St. drinking wine and having fake birthdays. After bottle number three, a version of the happy birthday song that had a raunchy, Italian undertone, and a free t-shirt, we headed with our new friends to the Mulberry St. Bar. There we taught the mafia men how to take a shot like a Texan and we snagged another free t-shirt. Rachel and I were wearing both of them by the end of the night.
The mafia does exist and they're a pretty rowdy crowd, if I do say so myself. Who knew people who looked just like my grandpa could be so much fun?
Later we met up with two of my friends and they came back to my apartment with us. I spent the rest of the night and into the morning searching Direct TV tirelessly for Family Guy, laughing with the Asian boy, Andrew, Rachel and a precious Turkish boy who ironically is named Turk.
Let me set the scene:
Madison Ave. (a place where a girl like me really doesn't belong. I have a hard enough time purchasing trail-mix and Duane Reade.) The club was called Bruno and it was filled to the brim with people my parents age and older. Rachel and I ventured there with the mafia knowing that we live life like it's a movie script.
The man and the woman at the door knew that we were coming. The man greeted us and the woman said follow me. It didn't look like a club or a bar or a restaurant. It looked like an apartment building for the rich and famous. We walked down a hallway and then the woman pressed a button. The wall slid open and we walked inside to a table. Don handed the woman a roll of cash.
I learned to never walk in front of the boys in a place like this, because "you will get a better table if the men are in front". The mafia men didn't like our location. So with a raise of his hand and a whisper to our hostess, the woman found us a better table and kindly made the people sitting there move...so we could have it. Seriously?
Rachel and I danced the night away in a 45-year-old fashion.
Any description of my last couple of nights really do the real thing no justice at all. I have a funny life.
We have spent two of our evenings turned into nights on Mulberry St. drinking wine and having fake birthdays. After bottle number three, a version of the happy birthday song that had a raunchy, Italian undertone, and a free t-shirt, we headed with our new friends to the Mulberry St. Bar. There we taught the mafia men how to take a shot like a Texan and we snagged another free t-shirt. Rachel and I were wearing both of them by the end of the night.
The mafia does exist and they're a pretty rowdy crowd, if I do say so myself. Who knew people who looked just like my grandpa could be so much fun?
Later we met up with two of my friends and they came back to my apartment with us. I spent the rest of the night and into the morning searching Direct TV tirelessly for Family Guy, laughing with the Asian boy, Andrew, Rachel and a precious Turkish boy who ironically is named Turk.
Let me set the scene:
Madison Ave. (a place where a girl like me really doesn't belong. I have a hard enough time purchasing trail-mix and Duane Reade.) The club was called Bruno and it was filled to the brim with people my parents age and older. Rachel and I ventured there with the mafia knowing that we live life like it's a movie script.
The man and the woman at the door knew that we were coming. The man greeted us and the woman said follow me. It didn't look like a club or a bar or a restaurant. It looked like an apartment building for the rich and famous. We walked down a hallway and then the woman pressed a button. The wall slid open and we walked inside to a table. Don handed the woman a roll of cash.
I learned to never walk in front of the boys in a place like this, because "you will get a better table if the men are in front". The mafia men didn't like our location. So with a raise of his hand and a whisper to our hostess, the woman found us a better table and kindly made the people sitting there move...so we could have it. Seriously?
Rachel and I danced the night away in a 45-year-old fashion.
Any description of my last couple of nights really do the real thing no justice at all. I have a funny life.
Page Twenty-Five: The Chronicles of the Texans
I have had the most wonderful time with my little slice of Texas this past week. I send Anna off tomorrow morning just to see another smiling Texan come for a visit in the big city. I had no idea what it meant to have a visitor. Well, this is what it means...it means you go on a vacation yourself. When your supposed to be working/cleaning/slee
ping/saving money/etc...you're not.
When you're supposed to be tucked into bed before a big day at ABC you're standing in the pouring rain screaming your lungs out at a Dave Matthews concert.
When you're supposed to be eating a slice of cheese pizza for 2.75 for dinner, you're dishing out 15 bucks at a fancy italian place on 5th Ave.
When you're supposed to be dry cleaning all of the pencil skirts your mom let you borrow, you're stuffing one in a back pack with your wet swim suit and a tooth brush.
There are stories that will never be told and memories that will never be forgotten.
I played tour-guide like I'd lived here for years. She saw everything.
We made our commute everymorning and discovered a love for Dunkin Donuts coffee.
We went on a Coney Island adventure to meet up with Tom, the British boy. I'd never been there before and I loved it! We got food on the boardwalk and watched "Shoot the Freak" for a while. I will definately be making another day a Coney Island day.
It was absolutely gorgeous for her entire stay, until the day of the Dave Matthews concert. We didn't care though. We wore our swim suits anyways. As soon as we got to Long Island, we ran to the beach that was completely empty aside from the two life-guards, who I'm sure were annoyed to be working in the rain. We went swimming and dug up all the pretty shells we could find, then we finished off our box of Mike&Ikes so we could store them inside. Dave was simply amazing. The theater literally sits in the water. When the tide rose, people in the box seats were in water up to their ankles.
My mini-vacacation was wonderful and I'm sad to see Anna leave! It was so good to have a familiar face here for a while.
Safe travels Anna Banana, I hope you loved every second you spent in NYC...and Rach, I'll see you soon!
ping/saving money/etc...you're not.When you're supposed to be tucked into bed before a big day at ABC you're standing in the pouring rain screaming your lungs out at a Dave Matthews concert.
When you're supposed to be eating a slice of cheese pizza for 2.75 for dinner, you're dishing out 15 bucks at a fancy italian place on 5th Ave.
When you're supposed to be dry cleaning all of the pencil skirts your mom let you borrow, you're stuffing one in a back pack with your wet swim suit and a tooth brush.
There are stories that will never be told and memories that will never be forgotten.
I played tour-guide like I'd lived here for years. She saw everything.
We made our commute everymorning and discovered a love for Dunkin Donuts coffee.
We went on a Coney Island adventure to meet up with Tom, the British boy. I'd never been there before and I loved it! We got food on the boardwalk and watched "Shoot the Freak" for a while. I will definately be making another day a Coney Island day.
It was absolutely gorgeous for her entire stay, until the day of the Dave Matthews concert. We didn't care though. We wore our swim suits anyways. As soon as we got to Long Island, we ran to the beach that was completely empty aside from the two life-guards, who I'm sure were annoyed to be working in the rain. We went swimming and dug up all the pretty shells we could find, then we finished off our box of Mike&Ikes so we could store them inside. Dave was simply amazing. The theater literally sits in the water. When the tide rose, people in the box seats were in water up to their ankles.
My mini-vacacation was wonderful and I'm sad to see Anna leave! It was so good to have a familiar face here for a while.
Safe travels Anna Banana, I hope you loved every second you spent in NYC...and Rach, I'll see you soon!
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