Reflecting on Relationships

There was this boy, Tash, in New York. I found myself thinking about him this morning and concluded that he’s probably one of the most influential people in my life. I didn’t expect it, but something about Tash changed me.

Going into the relationship, I (too soon) asked “the relationship question,” wondering if there was a chance for anything concrete between us. He very honestly told me that while he enjoyed spending time with me and being exclusive, there wasn’t really any reasonable expectation of longevity. Initially, I was hurt by this, but once I accepted the situation for what it was, I was still willing and happy to pursue something—whatever—with Tash.

So we dated. We hung out. We read and talked and watched documentaries. We explored New York and new hobbies.

And about a month into it, I found myself in an awkward situation. I had said the g word (girlfriend), and he nonchalantly said that he wouldn’t mind calling me his girlfriend. He asked if I would want that. I heard him ask. I kept talking, avoiding it as much as possible. He asked again. And again, thinking I hadn’t heard. Eventually the conversation smoothed over into something else, the question unresolved.

When I first moved to New York, I didn’t want to date. I didn’t want to think about boys and relationships and the drama and heartbreak of it all. I wanted to focus on me, to exile myself to a tiny island for six months and see what I came away with.

Tash happened kind of by accident. We were introduced by a mutual friend and hit it off. He taught me about aesthetics and beauty and religion and spontaneity. And I taught him about… I don’t even know. But it worked, we worked. And he treated me better than I’d ever been.

But when he mentioned the whole girlfriend thing, I kind of freaked out. I had become so comfortable with the idea of not being his girlfriend. Having guidelines was fine because I could follow them. I didn’t have to rely on him; I could be my own strong, independent self. I didn’t need him, but I could still find happiness in spending time with him.

It was healthy. For so long, my relationships were marked by codependency. I wanted someone to take care of me and to take an interest in everything I was involved in. I wanted that complete meshing of my life with someone else’s. There is one person, in particular, that comes to mind. I think the world of him and I respect him highly, but I would never let myself be in a relationship with him again. Simply put, I loved him in the unhealthiest way possible. And it didn’t benefit me.

But Tash… I learned to love him simply. I learned to love myself first and him second. And eventually he did become my boyfriend, but not because of some conversation or conscious decision. We just started calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. there was no grandiose show of affection; just two people admitting that they work well together.

And we were right--there wasn’t any longevity to it. We spent a semester learning about each other and then said our goodbyes when he moved back home. No harm, no foul. I look back on my time with him and still smile. There is no bitterness or resentment, just a spot in my heart for someone that helped make me happy during a particular time in my life.

He set the standard for what I should expect for myself: someone who cares about me, who respects me and my opinion; someone who wants to see me and spend time with me and who doesn’t think of my as just another commitment, a distraction; someone who pushes me to try new things; someone who calls me gorgeous and means it; someone who texts me kitchy-cute (slightly dirty) things or lyrics just because I’m on his mind. And someone who lets me love myself first and foremost.

Going forward, I would never accept anything less.

Tash and me

Today's Obsession: Flying Pigs

As much as I love it, New York still admittedly has a way of wearing me down. Maybe it's the fact that it's snowing. Still. In April. Or maybe it's the fact that I don't eat. Or that I'm poor. Or that there's no levity to my day. Maybe it's the fact that my person is here, while my life is still in Boston. Or the catcalls at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday morning (really? Does that ever work out for you?). Maybe it's the fact that every time I leave someplace people ask me if I'll be safe getting home. Or the fact that even if I'm in the biggest city, I still interact with few, if any, people and curl up alone with the silence to lull me to sleep.

But then I remember this is New York, home of glittering lights and eccentric freakshows. People write songs about this place and drop everything to move from their podunk little towns to come here. Lives and love and jobs are centered around this tiny island. Here, in this slummed down city of grit and grime are some of the shiniest celebrities and skyscrapers. There's history written everywhere. And everywhere, there's history being written.

Here, on this Sepia-tinted island of the schizophrenics, it's easy to forget the positives. But the truth is that I do love New York. And I also love New York art. I'm not talking about the Met or MoMA. I mean real New York art that captures this place.

And while I give a big shout-out to this cuff bracelet, which has a taste of New York, I've been long-obsessed with this art piece. According to the artist description... "Made with actual vintage New York Times front pages, found paper, paint, tissue, cutout letters and even a few dollar bills, this piece is an original take on the MTA Subway Map, incorporating not only the subway lines but the noisy, jumbled scrapbook of neighborhoods and districts."

I have no clue what the original piece went for and it's not available, but there are relatively cheap print copies which, when matted and framed, would be pretty darn snazzy. The best part of all, I have to say, is the flying pig. As Post columnist Cindy Adams would say, "Only in New York, kids. Only in New York." Obsessed.

New York City Subway 8 x 10 paper print on etsy, $20

Poem: To the Woman on the Subway...

I was sitting on my own
with half an empty seat beside me.
And he walked on with his guitar
and started to berate me.

"Why you smiling, little girl,"
(I'd politely smiled and moved right)
But then his hateful words continued
as a drunk man picked a pointless fight

With a white girl minding all my own.
I discreetly looked the other way
Trying to avoid eye contact
But hearing all he had to say.

"White man raped the black women,"
he said between cap-fulls of booze,
and told me how my parents failed me
and how my god will always lose.

He spat about the "homosexuals,"
like they were a different breed.
But the hypocrisy was lost on him
And so he did proceed.

All this while, I couldn't help
But laugh and smile and smirk.
Sticks and stones, my sorry friend.
you're just some drunken jerk.

And while my eyes danced about,
I caught her gaze across the train,
And we shared a private moment then
Before he started in again.

She watched me for a while
And I just kept very still,
I think it pissed him off that I
wouldn't let him have his fill.

She pulled herself up to her feet
And the car came to a halt.
But before she left to rejoin her life,
she intervened in my assault.

"Are you okay," she mouthed,
So I smiled and gave her a nod.
She smiled back and took her leave,
And he got off at the next stop.

So to the woman in my car
who stopped to share a smile:
Thanks for noting my struggle
And making it all less hostile.

Funny how an alliance grows:
Once a stranger, now a friend.
The world would be so beautiful
if people followed your simple trend.

Thank you for the smile
And for making sure that I was fine.
I didn't catch your name,
but I won't forget how you were kind.

The Shis Outgrow Tiny PQ

Once upon a time, I wrote a post titled "Toto, We're Not in PQ Anymore..." about my best friend and our shared childhood and how somewhere between then and now, we grew up.

I talk to Bo on a multiple-times-daily basis. She is my rock and I her's... We'd probably fall apart if we were to be seperated from each other, but somehow by leaning on one another, we form some sort of Tee-pee-esque structure and stay afloat.

Bo recently moved to Georgia, as I've mentioned before. And having her on the same time schedule has been angelic. We talk all the time: Morning text, lunch chats, late-night vent sessions.

--

Recently, one of the girls Bo and I grew up with had a baby boy with her husband. Bo and I have been talking about it, trying to decide if the recent birth made us feel old or young.

Honestly, it just makes me feel different. I'm 3,000 miles from home working my butt off in some cubicle. The notion of getting married or having kids sounds so far away, it's almost comical.

From there, the conversation transitioned to other people we went to high school with, particularly the losers we dated. Of all the people I dated or "talked to" or crushed on in high school, none left the state. A couple are in community college, a couple are in UCs or similar schools, and more than one have been through rehab. It's not like I'm attracted to bad boys (goodness, I'm not). But my school just didn't have the finest pickings.

--

San Diego does not qualify by any means as a small town. But my little corner of the city (Rancho Penasquitos--shortened to PQ) functions very much like some tiny little podunk town. There are two high schools with enough of a rivalry to create stirs, there is one "town center" with the local hangout (Vons shopping center and Jack-in-the-Box, respectively), there are seasonal carnivals and PTAs.

And for as long as I can remember, I've wanted to get out, to see the world, to try something new. I always felt like my dreams (whatever they were that particular week) were too big for my little neighborhood.

In one of our daily ongoing conversations via various social media and technological networks, Bo wrote "Why do I feel that you and I are the only people from that town growing and changing? Obviously we were born for leaving..." and I got thinking.


Which came first? Was I born for leaving, therefore I grew and changed because I had to adapt in a new world? Or did I grow and change and therefore had to leave to find something bigger and better?

--

I'm a city girl now, through and through. I actually looked at apartments with lawns the other day (obviously in other towns) and was turned off by how much space there was between apartments. What personality is there in thick walls? In matching furniture and manicured lawns? How am I supposed to entertain myself at night without being able to eavesdrop on my neighbors late night phone sex?

Whichever came first, Bo, we outgrew our tiny little town. Now, all we gotta do is take on the world. The world is a big place, even if my apartment is 8'x10'. Shi shi shii!!!

###

In a New York Minute...

I don't really feel like I have anything super cohesive to say right now... Things have really picked up at Marie Claire, so I'm just working to plow through my work and don't have the down time to sit and digest and contemplate what I want to blog about. It also probably doesn't help that I've been increasing my intake of caffeine, which makes me more awake, yes, but less productive. Like, I turn into a machine and crank out all my work, without leaving too much wiggle room for my "artistic freedom."

Things really are incredible, though. I'm treated with an insane amount of respect, given that I'm only a lowly intern. Yesterday, I was in one of the editors' office and she asked what year I was in school, hinting that if I were to graduate soon and a position were available, I would be considered. Which is freaking aweeessommmeeee if only I weren't some prepubescent child who won't be graduating until 2014.

Really, though, I love this industry. And, from the looks of it, I'm not too shabby at navigating it. I like working with so many women (who knew?) and having Friday afternoon bake-offs in the office. Everyone always looks good and smells good and they just so happen to be extremely talented, too. That, and the security guards (there's really only one cute one, but whatever) are so darn attractive.

I'm making friends, I'm planting roots, and I've started feeling out different neighborhoods for their post-grad living potential... Are the windows big enough? Is there exposed brick? Do they allow pets (I will soooo be that idiot that buys a dog and feeds it even when I can't afford food for myself)? Is it safe? As a totally random side note, I'm starting to think my parents think all of New York is a ghetto, when in reality, I feel safer here than I do in Boston.

This is starting to turn all lovey-dovey isn't it (sorry). I'm busy, hence the minimal posts. But I'll get the brain juices flowing and post something in the so-freaky-it'll-blow-your-mind category soon. Get ready.

Oh the Places We Go: New York

The Huntington News, 2.17.11
By Marian Daniells, News Staff

My first few trips to New York when I was 6, and later when I was 12, left me starstruck and fascinated. How could my hometown in California, with its simple green lawns and suburban soccer moms, possibly compare to a glittery world of skyscrapers and showtunes?

But when I made my way back to the Big Apple once I was older, I felt a little out of place. I found the fast-paced, single-mindedness of New Yorkers and the frenzy of the tourism industry exhausting.

But, of course, I was cursed with a passion for an industry that is centered around New York. From the time I was 12, it’s been a dream of mine to work at Marie Claire. I used to tell myself that I could write from anywhere, and I suppose that’s true; but to deny that New York — the “concrete jungle where dreams are made” — has a monopoly over the American writing industry is to be painfully naïve.

I had to come to terms with the fact that some day — and probably for many days — I would have to live, to work, to brown-nose and pay my dues in New York City.

And here I am...



Check out the full article here.

10 Going on 40

I spent the past weekend in Boston, seeing old friends and re-familiarizing myself with my beloved city. It was great to see everyone, but I have to admit that the drama that I'd been skirting for the past month (being several states away makes the skirting easy) all managed to catch up to me in one weekend. Between that and recent changes, I got to thinking.

I lived in the same house for 17 years. The only "move" I every did was from the pretty, well-lit middle room to the slightly more dank and shaded second room. I painted the walls bubble gum pink (still have no clue why) and got some new bedding. Viola! Instant move.

So, naturally, it's been a little disorienting since I finished high school. Since graduating, I've moved 7 times:

1. Into my first closet of a room in Melvin Hall fall 2009
2. Into my second room living with Ali in Speare winter 2009
3. Into 12 boxes, one backpack and a two boxes I shipped home summer 2010
4. Into home, post-Europe
5. Into Dav A fall 2010
6. Out of Dav A (and into boxes. Again)
7. Into my New York closet version 2.0 Jan 2011 (I count these as two moves because there was a full month between the two)

Every time I move--and especially when I move to a new city--I feel like I gain some unique insight. I like little things from every place I've lived and I want to be able to smush them all together and have it all: New York's energy and awesome subway system, Boston's Athenaeum and Nu's campus and all my friends, and California's weather (duh) and beach and Mexican food and my family and my pets :)

It's as though every time I move, I become a little more introverted and my personality gets a little mini makeover.

Nothing made me more aware of this fact than this weekend. Someone recently told me that sometimes I act like I'm 40 and sometimes I act like I'm 10. I find the statement comical yet pretty darn accurate. But since living in New York, I've been favoring the 40 side.

I live in a tiny little room and have few friends in the city. I'm not complaining, but I spend a lot of time with myself, thinking and being calm and just being comfortable with myself. I also work full-time and hadn't anticipated that it would be so darn tiring (The idea of working AND having kids just makes me want to take a nap on my desk). I'm emotionally drained and don't feel the need to party hardy because everything's so darn expensive. So I watch a lot of movies. I read. I write. I plan.

Some may interpret that as being cold, but I think of it as a new found maturity.