Killer Sneakers, Old Shirts, and New Loves

I broke down and bought a new pair of running sneakers yesterday after work. I hadn’t really put enough mileage in my last pair, but they were causing irreparable damage to my baby toes so I had to give them up.

I tried on about fifteen pairs and eventually settled on tried-and-true Asics but I don’t love them – they were just the lesser of evils. Really expensive lesser of evils. Ugh. I went out for a run when I got home to break them in, but something felt terribly amiss.

I was wearing my one and only “coordinating” running outfit, a purple and navy sports bra and matching shorts. And bright new sneakers. And I’m tan…NOOO!

I was a Trendy Runner, an occasional jogger who probably likes those Run Easy ads (“They’re so true! Running should be fun, guys!”) and spends way too much money on fashionable running outfits that sit in a drawer. I hated myself instantly, but then remembered my saving grace that I didn’t have an iPod strapped to my arm. My choice was clear: I was going to have to run fast. With sweat seeping through my matchy-matchy outfit and dripping into my eyes, I looked far less cute, and I ended up with a pretty solid negative split for the run. Still, I felt a pang of guilt from abandoning (even temporarily) my Grungy Runner roots. Opening my drawer of running clothes reveals a collection of tshirts and tights that I’ve been wearing for half a decade or more. The other night I wore a shirt I bought at XC Delco Championships during my sophomore year of high school. In 1999. Awesome. That ought to earn me some back some points for yesterday’s betrayal.

At the behest of many friends and colleagues, I’m currently reading Ultramarathon Man by Dean Karnazes. He’s running a 100-mile race through mountains and deserts! I think I’m in love. R was over last night and the book was sitting on my nightstand, Karnazes' hot, muscular body emblazoned on the cover. “If you looked like that, I’d read your memoir, too!” I told him. “That’s it, I don’t want you reading this book anymore,” he replied, playfully tossing it aside. I reassured him that the Ultramarathon Man is married (to his high school sweetheart!) with kids, but you know, given the chance I might be willing to backburner my scruples for an hour or so. And after reading all about his blisters and sundry running-related injuries, I’m pretty sure he’d be cool with my five blackened toenails. See? It’s meant to be.

(I'm just kidding, Beach! You're my one true love! Ultramarathon Man has NOTHING on you. Nothing!)

A Scatterbrained Sea Shanty of Sorts

Happy Monday, lovers! My cheeks are still flushed with that after-beach glow. I’m wearing my favorite dress and a matching bra and thong set. It’s going to be a good day.

I hated to leave the shore last night after such a wonderful long weekend. Although I adore the chaos of six families taking over the 65th street beach, our circle of chairs flanked by piles of surfboards and coolers of sandwiches, there was something comforting about coming home to my hot, quiet apartment. Last night was one of those rare moments when New York City felt vacant to me, the contrast between the city and the beach more dramatic after a few days of acclimation.

SisterOh and I had a few good runs together, though I was struggling with a toe-crushing sneaker issue. I’m pretty sure my right pinky toe needs to be amputated now, and four other toes aren’t looking so hot either. I’ve been relegated to purple nail polish for pedicures – light pink is entirely out of the question – and it won’t be long until I can’t bring my feet into the nail salon at all out of embarrassment. Remind me again why I love this sport? Oh right, tall skinny runner boys. Check.

On Friday night Mrs. F had her annual Italian dinner, serving up baked ziti and ravioli, meatballs and garlic bread, and of course, plenty of wine. BrotherOh had us in stitches as he described how good he has gotten at signing his name – apparently Division I ice hockey players now have celebrity status, and his team holds autograph signing sessions. I ran for a Division III school and the most I ever heard was, “Overpriced Private University has a track team? Where do you run?” Yeah, I’m a little jealous.

The R family hosted another great dinner on Saturday night, complete with Mr. R’s lethal cosmopolitans and Mrs. R’s famous mint brownies for dessert. I think I had four of each. After dinner, the kids (ages 20 to 26) played a head-to-head drinking game where you have to be the first person to yell out a word that starts with the same letter as the card drawn. So if you draw an Ace, you’d have to yell out “apple” or “arm” or whatever A-word comes to your mind before your opponent, and if you lose you drink. I know, it’s not a very deep game, but it gets dirty quickly. “Apple” turns into “asshole” by the second round of drinking. Not wanting to be left out of the fun, the parents joined in and then it got even dirtier. Mr. McB used some choice words that parents are NOT supposed to teach their children, but the real highlight was when Mrs. R, the proper fourth-grade teacher, went up against her son J and a seven was drawn. “SEX!” they both shouted, but Mrs. R eked him out in possibly the only situation where it’s better to be fast at sex.

We went out to the bar after dinner, and when I paid my (ripoff) cover charge the girl mashed my hand with the mother of all handstamps. Huge blue block letters spelling out the band’s name stained my skin and despite two showers and a lot of scrubbing, it’s still faintly there. K let me sleep at her house that night, and I totally had a Walk of Shame the next morning in my tshirt and gym shorts carrying my dress and heels, except, you know, K is a girl and I wore my oh-so-sexy retainers to sleep.

Sunday was gray and thunder clapped over the bay. Determined that the weather would break, I pranced around in my bikini for a while, but I spent the majority of the day curled up on the back deck with a good book. Rainy days at the beach are bit disappointing, but devoting an entire afternoon to eating and reading is pretty close to my idea of heaven.

Snap back to reality of Monday and boring work. They gave me another guy to support, but I haven’t come up with a name for him yet. At first Easy refused to allow it, and HR was very concerned that I’d be overwhelmed with the additional work, which is downright laughable. I had to make sure my tone wasn’t too eager or sarcastic when I agreed to the situation. Oh, gee, now I have slightly less NOTHING to do all day. Rats.

Loud Guy has been on the phone with his girlfriend FOREVER and it is taking all of my willpower not to spin in my chair, grab the headset off him and yell at the girl “BREAK UP WITH HIM!” Really, honey, for all of our sakes. They’re fighting about calling each other. He calls her, she doesn’t respond, she calls him back hours after she says she will, etc. Clearly, she does not want to be dating him. C and I are relatively sure she is married, and the new tattoo she just got on her neck sounds deliciously skanky. GIVE IT UP, LOUD GUY.

Lord knows I’m in no position to judge the Miss Dysfunctional Relationship Pageant. I’ve probably been in the running for the crown a few times myself. But this much I know for certain: cell phones will kill your relationship. The mandatory marathon conversations, inane text messaging, feeling that you have to “check in” with the other person at regular intervals…even the healthiest relationships can’t withstand that kind of technological bombardment. Hang up the phone, Loud Guy, and stop texting her. And I hear you pounding on your keyboard back there – an angry email is really not the way to go here either. Call me old fashioned, but when I want to talk to someone, I like to do it in person whenever possible. You know what else meeting in person facilitates, Loud Guy? Kissing. You can’t argue when you’re kissing, you can’t kiss when you’re on the phone, and kissing is the most fun thing.

The end.

Heck, I'd Settle for Being Beach's Mistress

Last week it was beer for dinner, this week it's Diet Coke for breakfast. My body is about one carbonated drug away from an all-out mutiny. Any moment now I expect a Round Robin from my liver, stomach, kidney, intestines, and heart. Sure, the simple solution would be to go to sleep before 2am, but what fun is that? But “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” sounds perilously close to a self-fulfilling prophecy at this rate of consumption. Fine, body, you win. I’m headed down the shore until Sunday (bless you, Goddess of Four Day Weekends!) so I'll have plenty of time to relax and recoup.

I know I’ve said this at least ten times, but I love the beach. We eat a lot of ice cream. SisterOh and I run together every day. My hair curls from the humidity and salt air. I can walk or bike most everywhere I want to go. DadOh makes the world’s best peanut butter & jelly sandwiches for lunch on the beach. I can kayak, surf, boogey board or play bocce at a moment’s notice. I can’t move ten feet in any direction without bumping into a close friend or relative. It’s perfect. If the beach were a man, I’d want to be Mrs. Beach. Or Mrs. Oh-Beach because I plan to pretentiously hyphenate when I get hitched.

Anyway. This is my way of warning my dear readers that any posts between now and Sunday will be exuberant, impassioned, and invoking the words “love” and “beach” ad nauseam. Bear with me; bitter and bored JackieOh will be back on Monday, though the beach afterglow could carry me to Wednesday.

From Stripping to Peep Shows: This Post is Complete Smut

Phew! The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt Stage 2 went off relatively well last night, all things considered. I interviewed seven people: five girls, two guys, one disaster, one princess, and one salsa-dancing tax accountant. By the end of the night, even I didn’t want to live in my apartment. I also ignored an email from a girl named Crystal Ho, because I don’t really have room in the living room for a stripper pole. Hopefully I’ll have everything squared away tonight.

Despite my bitching, I’m a tiny bit excited about having a new roommate. I don’t have a ton of close girl friends, and the ones I have don’t live in Manhattan, so it’s helpful to have someone around for those “is this dress too slutty without a bra?” moments. (Good Roommate Answer: Yes, but wear it anyway!) Of course, sharing my apartment with someone after I’ve readjusted to living alone will be a bit tough, and it’ll really cut into my hanging around naked time. The obvious solution is to up the ante on my in-bedroom nakedness to make up for lost time. I’m sure my neighbors across the street won’t mind.

Sometimes I forget that not everyone is as comfortable with potential voyeurism as I am. It’s not that I desire it or seek it out; it just doesn’t occur to me as something over which to worry. I have curtains in my bedroom, but they’re fairly sheer and usually tied open. And the curtains in my bathroom window (right next to the toilet) are always wide open. One friend has considerable difficulty with the idea of peeing next to an open window even though he realizes that the nearest windows are a flight down and the angle is impossible. Still, he retaliates by leaving the toilet seat up and it's only a matter of time before I fall in (and then throttle him).

Loud Guy just said into his phone, “You’re my boy, Blue!” It's time to go home.

The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt: The Craiglist Post

Now that bedroom #2 is sufficiently painted, it’s time to enter Stage 1 of The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt: The Craigslist Post.

"Female, 23, control-freak seeks easy-going roommate for the small, kind of sucky second bedroom in my overpriced walk-up apartment. Must be cool with my steady diet of beer for dinner and subsequent piss-poor decision-making skills. Male applicants: please be a tall, sexy, well-muscled masseur who would like to practice at home. Female applicants: please be a dress size 2, shoe size 9, with a designer wardrobe that I can borrow and hot guy friends I can ogle. "

Welcome, email deluge.

I was weirdly sick all weekend – no energy, slight fever, complete lack of appetite. It wasn’t really so bad, because I was at the beach where it’s perfectly appropriate to lie around all day. I lived on Gatorade all weekend. Bonus: bikini-weather weight loss! Oh right, and sunburn on my lower-butt-cheek region. Not so fun.

E and I left the shore around 7:45PM last night, determined to make my 9:30PM train from Philadelphia back to New York. We took the back roads and listened to some Top 40 radio countdown, laughing at how old we feel because we don’t know any of the songs anymore. Who the heck is Hannah Montana and should we care? We talked about all sorts of grown-up things (How great it would be to own a house! Car insurance! Graduate school!). Then it was 9:23 and we were on Schuylkill Expressway making racecar noises to help the car go faster and cracking up. Apparently we are far less grown-up than our musical tastes would indicate. “Stupid people!” cried E. “Don’t they know that when there’s no traffic on the Schuylkill you’re supposed to drive as fast as you can?” At 9:28 I got out at a red light, sprinted through the station and had my ticket by 9:29. It was a shining moment in my train-riding career.

So, I expected a deluge. I didn’t anticipate a flood.

At noon I got a phone call from my management company. My apartment was leaking. At least that’s what the idiot on the phone said. As I discovered after a rain-drenching mad dash home, the leak was actually from a pipe below my bathroom. Cease panic. Well, they snaked the drain in my shower and realized that the problem wasn’t a clogged pipe – it was a broken pipe. Then they ripped up my tile and cut a huge hole in my bathroom floor to reach the broken pipe. I now have no running water, a very pissed off downstairs neighbor who keeps coming upstairs to check on the progress (in his underwear, no less) and FIVE PEOPLE coming tonight to see an apartment with a holey bathroom. Resume panic.

I’m not cancelling the appointments. The rest of the apartment is nice and clean, and it’s July 23 so most apartment hunters are probably nearing a desperation level that would match mine. I’m just going to sweep up the floor, cover it up with a rug as best as I can, and hope that the old man in his underwear stays down on his floor where he belongs.

Trains and Tan Lines

Ow ow my head.

My post-running, no-shower, beer-for-dinner night caught up with me like a freight train this morning. I woke up fully dressed, contacts glued to my eyeballs, and sporting a new mystery bruise/scrape on my shoulder.

Things I Shouldn’t Do Hungover:

1. Wear heels
2. Walk
3. Drink chocolate milk while walking in heels
4. Wear nice dresses

Really. Can someone turn down the lights in here and bring me a Diet Coke? I need to go back to bed for a few hours. I’m saying my thank you’s for the 1:30PM train to the Hamptons because Easy leaves at 1:00 and tells me to go home, too. Thank you, O Glorious Train Schedule, for granting me half-day summer Fridays.

As for me, I’m headed to the train station for a decidedly different beach. Tomorrow, the happiest day of the year, is the start of The Family Vacation. I get three weekends of running with SisterOh, kayaking, reading on the beach, attempting to surf, going out to breakfast…I’m doing my little happy dance wiggle just thinking about it.

And of course, I have ridiculous tan lines to maintain.

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch Because JACKIE HUNGRY

As if I needed further proof as to why salads are the Worst Lunch Decision Ever:

Me: [pawing through delivery bag] Oh man!
C: What, did they forget your salad dressing?
Me: No, they forgot my oatmeal raisin cookies…AND my salad dressing!

The fact that I noticed the cookies were missing first speaks volumes about my culinary priorities. Then Loud Guy had to go to a lunch meeting, so he offered me and C his sandwich and redeemed himself from yesterday’s volume infractions (for now!). We split that, and Pain in the Analyst gave me two of his chocolate chip cookies, thus erasing any memory of my terrible, naked salad. It was a good food day.

By all available evidence, I should be a Fat Girl.

After dinner with a friend last night, he pointed to my half-eaten cheeseburger and asked if I was on a diet. Nevermind that I paired my burger with a side of onion rings and washed it down with a black and white milkshake. Was I feeling okay? He was only half-kidding. Food, you see, is my one true love. I used to be jealous of those somnambular eaters featured in teen magazine exposés (“Shocking! Rare Eating Disorders!”). You wake up and find you at a whole chocolate cake last night? Awesome! I mean, I’m sure some people truly struggle with this issue, but the solution never struck me as terribly complicated: Don’t keep whole cakes in your refrigerator. Of course if I actually had this disorder, I’d wake up to find that I had eaten old Easter candy, chugged two stale Heinekens, perhaps mixed a curious concoction out of condiments and drank a few gallons of Gatorade. Kind of gross, and way less fun than chocolate cake.

Okay, this entry quickly deteriorated into that scene from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days where they list all the ways Kate Hudson’s character can drive the dude crazy: “Oooh, call him in the middle of the night and tell him everything you had to eat that day!” Not that I would ever really do that because a.) it would take too long, b.) I’d probably forget half anyway unless I wrote it down, and c.) it would just make me hungry again.

I’m going to see if Pain In The Analyst has any more snacks now.

Death By Ballet Flat

Whoa. I actually had to do work this morning! I scheduled two meetings! I ordered Easy a car service! I printed something!

What qualifies as “work” differs only slightly from every other day, which I spend reading the entire internet and Google chatting with my mom.

I had to attend a new-employee compliance meeting about insider trading and how to avoid it. My attendance was laughable – I’m relatively certain that insider trading requires at least some knowledge of TRADING, which I distinctly lack. I have a barely-passing grasp of how Nice Hedge Fund operates as it is. So I doodled and made my packing list for the shore this weekend. A far better use of my time, I’d say.

I woke up this morning a few minutes before my alarm went off and couldn’t believe that it was time to get up. It was pouring outside, the kind of day where I’d like to pull on a hoodie, curl up on my sofa with a stack of movies and eat grilled cheese with tomato soup. Instead, I’m freezing my nips off in the office, and the goosebumps on my legs are making me realize that I did a crappy shaving job this morning. I’m dressed like something ripped out of the J. Crew catalog with my matching madras headband/belt/shoes. Soon I’ll be ready for my yacht!

Ok, venting time. I’m about ready to chuck my cute madras shoe at the guy who sits behind me. He has been on the phone with some airfare company (Orbitz, I think) for the past HOUR because he opened a new account to order a plane ticket but then realized he already had an account. Or something like that. He’s tried every excuse – faulty computer system, void the ticket, merge the two accounts blah blah blah. I don’t understand what the Big F-ing Deal is, he’s got his ticket, let it go! His only real problem is that he's one whine away from being pummelled by footwear for his excessive volume. Take it down a notch, Loud Guy, use your inside voice. He sits a good ten feet away with his back to me, so there is no way his voice should project as violently as it does. I can’t even make eye contact with C, who sits next to me, or we’ll both crack up. Finally he finishes sniveling about his airfare account, hangs up the phone...and calls one of his Dude Bros to relay the whole saga.

Hurling shoe in five…four…three…

"I Know I Need Unique New York"

After running class tonight, a friend and I walked over to the NY Philharmonic in Central Park. We were sweaty and gross from the workout and completely out of place because New Yorkers take their outdoor-cultural-event picnics WAY too seriously. This isn’t some Wawa-hoagie-and-six-pack ordeal, nuh uh. We’re talking about fully-stocked wicker picnic baskets, real silverware, bottles of wine WITH GLASSES, candles, portable Crate & Barrel tables and gourmet spreads from Citarella or Whole Foods. It’s absurd. By the time we wove our way through the sea of plaid blankets, we realized we were jealous and famished. We considered swiping a nearby fruit salad and making a run for it (“Hey, we’re both pretty fast, right?”) but thought better. He said the magic word (“margaritas”) and we were out of there. In true Jackie form, I ordered a Taco Salad, which contained roughly three pieces of lettuce and quickly became Taco Soup, but it was served in a giant deep-fried edible bowl, so I was happy. And I’m checking the Philharmonic off the list anyway, as a technicality.

The Summer To-Do List is coming along nicely. There have been a few additions and deletions, but it’s been a successful few weeks. Last night after a bike ride in the park I sat on a bench and listened to The Decemberists play an impressive set on SummerStage. I get hung up on New York City sometimes (the ever-increasing cost of rent, the noise, the crowds, etc.) but nights like last night and tonight remind of why I live here: for free outdoor events, pretentious picnickers, and good margaritas within walking distance of any location.

But man, what I’d give for a Wawa hoagie and a six-pack right about now.

"Four Be the Things I'd Have Been Better Without: Love, Curiosity, Freckles and Doubt"

I was so bored at work today that I signed up for the GRE. Just in case taking the LSAT didn’t suck enough, I’m back for more standardized agony. Maybe next I can take the MCAT and really cover all of my bases. I also ordered a book about Creative Writing MFA programs. For some unknown reason, most of the MFA programs that I’m interested in flippantly require a GRE score. They throw it in there with the list of admissions requirements, but without any guidelines for what kind of score they want. Writing samples, letters of recommendations…oh, by the way, you also need to take this obnoxious four-hour test that costs ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY DOLLARS and involves MATH. Look, I can guarantee that none of my creative writing will require the hypotenuse of this triangle. The positive square root of integer x will never be the defining character trait in my bildungsroman. How about this: I promise that I'm not a complete moron, and then we can just skip the whole ordeal, okay? I haven't taken algebra since the ninth grade. Crap.

See, I don't entirely lack a Life Plan. I know exactly what I want to be doing: writing and teaching college-level creative writing. What I actually lack is a kick in the butt to make me go for it. Volunteers?

The truth is I’m terrified of failing.

There isn’t a whole lot of guess work in becoming a lawyer. You go to school, study hard, get a job, work hard, and eventually retire. I’m not saying it would be easy, but as a hard-working, reasonably intelligent person I think I could succeed in that career path. I also think I would be intensely dissatisfied.

Being a writer requires Talent with a capital T, which can be harnessed, honed, but not taught. Hard work isn’t enough. I don’t know if I have what it takes, and there’s always the underlying fear of failure.

I don’t quite know what’s gotten into me lately, but I feel braver and happier. As a child (okay, teenager, too), I was a total wimp. Simple tasks like calling Domino’s for pizza gave me an anxiety attack because I was afraid someone would ask me a question to which I didn’t know the answer. Going to undergrad in New York City was probably the best move of my life because it forced me to become self-sufficient. Well now I’ve been here for five years, and I’m comfortable. I’m grossly overpaid to sit at my computer all day and look pretty, I have terrific friends who are always willing to imbibe with me, and I have plenty of time and energy to run and cycle. But I want more; I want the fear.

I'm going for it.

Of course, the great Dorothy Parker quipped, “I’d like to have money. And I’d like to be a good writer. These two can come together and I hope they will, but if that’s too adorable I’d rather have money.”

I'm with her.

Okay. Good talk. See you out there.

Feeling Capricious

I’m a Capricorn through and through: stubborn, pragmatic, goal-oriented and loyal. Capricorn even governs the knees and bones, making us goat-fish susceptible to fractures and strains. Crazy, right? I know, horoscopes are so vague they can apply to anything, but mine can be remarkably accurate. And also, I don’t do anything at work so I run out of things to read during the day. Whatever.

This was my horoscope from this past week:

A misguided swan became infatuated with a pedal boat at a pond in Hamburg, Germany. Apparently mistaking it for his soul mate, the devoted bird guarded the boat jealously and rarely left its side. The human owner of the boat found it amusing at first, but later regarded it as a nuisance, since the enamored swan chased away all potential renters of the vehicle. I propose to make this poignant creature your anti-role model in the coming weeks, Capricorn. May he inspire you to free yourself of all delusions you have entertained over the years about the kind of intimate ally you need in order to be happy.

Well, shit. This takes the ugly duckling story one step further – now the grown-up swan is falling for all the wrong boats. Not that I’m the swan or anything. With my luck, the boat would probably already have a girlfriend anyway.

I’ve been feeling uncharacteristically emotional lately. Blame it on the birth control. So tonight I did what any girl would do: made myself a stack of pancakes and watched the Phillies’ 10,000th loss. Then I actually CRIED during the ESPY Awards. Seriously, Emotions, what the hell? Get back in your bottle where you belong.

Sidebar: Is it football season yet? I’m counting down the days until Sundays at Town Tavern with J&A. I can almost taste the $2 Yuenglings. Or maybe that’s just the remainders from last night’s fun.

The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt: The Prologue

I live in a two-bedroom apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, a very nice Midtown neighborhood whose name is the only vestige of its unfriendly past. It could easily be renamed “Actor’s Living Room” or “Gay Man’s Powder Room,” but realtors opt for the innocuous “Midtown West.” I live alone at the moment, me occupying one bedroom and my bike occupying the other, which would be a great arrangement if she’d cough up her half of the rent. She’s not earning her keep, so all-too-soon will I have to embark on The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt.

My bike’s bedroom needs a little work before I can sublet it. Two of the walls were painted Livestrong Yellow by a former roommate, a slight improvement over the Pepto-Bismol Pink from a roommate before her. Last night’s thunderstorm cancelled the Philharmonic and made a bike ride less than desirable, so I bought a gallon of white paint, stripped down to my underwear, and painted. Tonight I’ll have to go back with a brush and finish the edges around the woodwork, but already it’s looking better. Bike isn’t happy because she really liked the Livestrong Yellow, but I doubt many potential roommates will be so passionate about Lance and his bracelet.

Maybe I’m just temporizing by painting. I’ll ’fess up: I dread The Great Midtown Roommate Hunt. The weirdo emails, the interviewing, the bullshitting – it’s a hateful task. Do I want a male or female roommate? Should I limit the age range? Can I share HALF OF MY HOME with this stranger? (Answers: Don’t care, yes definitely, probably not.)

In my infinite wisdom, I overslept this morning and didn’t have time to wash the specks of white paint out of my hair. I am one classy broad. Today’s sacrificial offering goes to the Gods of Perfect Little Dresses. Thank you, O Gods, for granting me this green dress that I can throw on and still look halfway decent for work sans shower.

What Is This, Bizarro World?

Here at Nice Hedge Fund, I support three guys: A senior portfolio manager, an economist, and another portfolio manager. Let’s call them Easy, Easier and Easiest. There’s also Pain in the Analyst A, but all I do for him is rack up a hefty bar tab through ill-advised baseball bets.

Easiest is a very sweet Brazilian man who rarely asks me for anything. I set up his meetings and photocopy articles for him occasionally, but that’s about it. Easier is a brilliant little Canadian man who once ran a marathon at the North Pole so naturally he’s my favorite. I do research for him and start his daily 8AM conference call, but again, not very demanding work.

Then there’s Easy. Easy lives on the Upper East Side, his daughters go to private school in the Bronx, and he weekends in the Hamptons. He’s very tall, vaguely handsome, and makes some odd decisions regarding his hair style.

He’s also appreciative and kind.

He’s Bizarro ARM.

Just like ARM and his daily lunch orders, Easy eats the same breakfast every morning: an eggwhite omelet with peppers, onions, and Swiss and a small coffee with milk. Unlike ARM, Easy doesn’t require his meal to be specially arranged on a tray, and get this: he thanks me when I put the delivery bag on his desk. Shocking, right? For so long I was used to being invisible. Even with the same pedigree and lifestyle as ARM, Easy manages to be, well, easy to work for. For now, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Pain in the Analyst A tells me that Easy isn’t quite so easy for everyone else, especially if you’re a Trader. Ah, the mindless joys of being an Admin.

"Nobody Ever Lives Their Life All the Way Up Except Bullfighters"

My horoscope tells me today: Don't try to spin your wheels too fast; you are doing better than you realize.

I sure hope so, because lately I feel like a character out of a Hemingway novel: completely lost and wanting to drink my way through a series of bad decisions. I’m stuck in my Midtown Holding Pattern and the air traffic controller is out to a liquid lunch, that bitch.

I’m the kind of person who makes plans. I like marking things down on my calendar, making schedules, and thinking ahead. I hate surprises, I’m impatient, and I have difficulty relinquishing control. I’m a catch, I know. Yet for all of these character flaws, I still don’t have a Life Plan, and everyday I come up with a new idea of What I Want to be When I Grow Up. I know I’ll figure it out eventually and at age twenty-three I have time on my side, but I wish I knew NOW what my future looks like. Okay, breathe, Jack.

So in lieu of a Life Plan, I’m focusing my energy on my Summer To-Do List. With a firm grip on my social calendar, maybe the rest of my life won’t feel so haywire. It’s time to pull out the planner and recruit some friends and/or cute (single!) boys to join me in my latest exercise in futility. Any takers?

Summer To-Do List:

New York Philharmonic in Central Park, 7/11 8:00PM
Harry Potter: Order of the Phoenix, in theaters 7/11
Women’s Health Magazine outdoor festival, July 14-15
Free Kayaking on the Hudson, weekends 10:00AM-5:00PM
Muppets Take Manhattan at the Empire-Fulton Ferry State Park, 7/19 at sunset
Brooklyn Cyclones Game with Fireworks, 7/20 (I have 2 tickets), 8/10, 8/17, 8/24
Divine Bar Wine Tasting, 7/24, 8/7, 8/21 6:30PM
Sea Isle City 10-Mile Race, 8/4 5:30PM
Beastie Boys at Central Park SummerStage, 8/8 7:00PM
The Shapes of Space exhibit at the Guggenheim, through 9/5
Richard Serra exhibit at the MoMA, through 9/10
Mythic Creatures exhibit at the AMNH, through 1/6

I'm sure I'll add to this list. Not included on this list, but a given for any night of the week: drinking margaritas.

I Guess This is Growing Up

Lately I feel like I’m going through puberty for the second time. My body shape is changing, my hair doesn’t know if it wants to be straight or curly and my hormones are completely out of whack. I’m like High School Jackie, or worse: Middle School Jackie. Dear Lord, no. Those were not pretty years.

By the end of the work day I had a ton of pent-up energy. I had to do something, and running is my second favorite tension reliever, with cycling as a close third. So the running shoes went on and the sweat started before I was out of my stairwell. Sure, it was 95 degrees outside and sure, I’m crazy, but how could I rest knowing that my competition might not be resting and this could be the workout that makes or breaks a race? It would have been a great run if I didn’t get stung by a bee on my ankle. But I wasn’t deterred. Last month I DID a biathlon, but now I RACE biathlons. I’m pumped. Gotta put all this teen-angst to good use, right?

I convinced K-bell to take a break from Greenwich Village tonight and come uptown for beer, wings and baseball. We watched Ryan Howard suck in the home run derby and talked about our mutual dread for the upcoming five-year high school reunion. He brought up an excellent point – ten years is cool, but at five years, you might be still holding grudges. It's soon enough where you should probably remember everyone’s name, but far enough where in reality, I’m going to have to study the yearbook. Good thing I’m way hotter now than I was in high school (and more modest, too!). And with all these absurd hormones swirling inside of me, I should feel right at home.

Tonight's Beer Wisdom, on relationships: When it's worth it, you hang on. When it stops being fun, you move on. And in between, you drink with your old friends on a Monday night.

Show Me Yours I'll Show You Mine

I spent a gorgeous weekend at the shore with my best friend E and her family. Two perfect beach days for collecting new face freckles and securing my bid for this year’s Whitest Tits and Ass Contest. I’m a shoe-in. My dad’s dark-hair-dark-eyes Italian genes give me a nice tan in the summer, while my mom’s good-Irish-Catholic-girl genes ensure that my lady parts have never seen the light of day. I look ridiculous. Though with all the working out I’m doing these days one would have to look pretty hard to find my boobs, if they weren’t bright white of course. Mother Nature is a cruel negotiator. You want toned abs? Sure, but it’ll cost you a cup size. Damnit.

Anyway, it was such a great weekend. On Friday night we ate dinner on the deck overlooking the beach and watched fireworks all along the shoreline. MomOh and SisterOh came for the day on Saturday, then we got ice cream at Marita’s. On Sunday we went out to breakfast after morning mass. I ran on the beach and kayaked in the ocean. Have I mentioned that the shore is my favorite place on earth? Maybe you couldn’t tell.

I don’t know what it is about the shore that makes me so happy, but there is an engraved bench on the boardwalk that sums it up perfectly: I’m always my best here. This weekend was just a teaser before the real thing, in two weeks, when all of the families arrive and we take over the 66th street beach. I’m counting down the minutes until then.

I Suck At Life. Happy Thursday!

I ate way too much yesterday (ravioli, eggplant parm, at least half a loaf of bread, a piece of cheesecake, a huge cupcake AND an ice cream sundae) and I slept on a sofa that was six inches too short to be comfortable. I got a ride to the train station in a pickup truck where I sat on a pile of nails and precariously perched my feet on a heap of power drills and circular saws. My left shoulder hurts something mean and I don’t even want to hazard a guess why, but I forgot to put on deodorant so I don’t plan on raising my arms much today anyway.

So, I drink a lot at work. Water, I mean, but if margaritas were part of the lunch plan, I’d have a terrific buzz right now. Anyway, I end up needing a potty break every hour or so. Not a big deal, right? I’m bored anyway, so getting up frequently gives me something to do. Except the bathrooms on my floor are located on the Private Equity side, and those guys must do even less work than me because every time I walk by they stare me down. I secretly suspect they’re timing me in there, maybe keeping tally marks. One of the guys was described to me as “the Mayor of Nice Hedge Fund,” and that means he probably pays attention to things like this. So I started staggering my trips: every other pee break I walk down a floor to the bathrooms there. I’m tipping a bit high on the crazy scale, I know, but I don’t want to be labeled as “That Girl Who Pees Eight Times a Day.”

Seriously, I’m a mess. My job is basically to look pretty and answer the phone, and I'm failing miserably at 50% of that today. But it’s Thursday, just one tiny day away from the weekend, so let’s say our prayers of thanks to the Gods of Four-Day Work Weeks for smiling down on us.

Fun York City

I’ve lived in New York City for almost five years now, and it’s natural to occasionally feel trapped in the quotidian Labyrinth. I feel as if I carry a ball of string everywhere, unraveling it as I walk along the same route to work every morning and winding it back up along the same way home. I’m like Theseus, except for the whole “being the son of Poseidon and slaying the Minotaur” part. Too much of a stretch? Okay, fine.

Anyway. The preferred remedy for this String Theory is what I like to call a Fun York Day, which involves quintessential tourist activities that one normally avoids like the plague unless entertaining out-of-town guests. If you can find a friend to share your Fun York Day, well, then you’re made in the shade.

Hang out with the polar bears in the Central Park Zoo, stand in the lobby of the Guggenheim Museum and look up, ask strangers to take your picture at the top of The Reservoir (named for the original Jackie O!) with the Midtown skyline as your backdrop. Maybe you'll stumble on a photo shoot for a famous actress at the miniature sailboat pond; maybe you'll lose a game of darts to a pair of British dudes while making friends with a very large golden retriever. Maybe it will be the kind of day that you wish wouldn’t end.

Just leave that pesky ball of string at home.

I Almost Miss the Ass Bruise

Last night as I circled Central Park on my bike I got to thinking. A dangerous pastime, I know, but an hour and a half in the saddle with nothing but my thoughts for company, and it just sort of happens.

This time last year I had just bought my bike, my baby, more out of necessity than choice. I sat in my orthopedic surgeon’s office and pointed to the exact spot on my shin where a bone scan would later reveal a stress fracture. My Achilles Heel was misplaced six inches north. Say what you want about runners, but we know our bodies. The doctor's prognosis: No running.

So I bought a jersey with pockets and shorts with a chamois (the closest I’ll ever come to having a booty!) and I traded in my running sneakers for shoes with carbon soles and Velcro closures. On my maiden voyage, I rode a block and a half before I fell over at a stop light, feet still attached to my clipless pedals. I limped home with a flat tire, a bloody elbow and a very badly bruised sense of determination.

It was the summer of Team Free Pie, of three idiots sharing a small apartment, of hilarious trips to the grocery store in the pickup truck, of speaking entirely in Wedding Crashers quotations. And I kept falling. Jackie’s Ass Bruise started to sound less like a painful reality and more like a potential band name. Gradually, I got a little better. One morning I called my dad excitedly.

“Guess what I did this morning?” I asked.
“Rode your bike?” Lucky guess.
“Yes, I rode my bike. But I also drank from my waterbottle while still riding and I didn’t fall!”

It was a huge milestone in my career.

It’s funny how acutely I miss that summer without actually wanting relive it. Team Free Pie disbanded: L is in Texas, A is in love and I’m here. My stress fracture healed and I’m much better on a bike these days. I’ve only fallen once this season but it was a spectacular fall, and part of me is still recovering.

Well, friends, it’s the 3rd of July, the market closes early, and I’m out the door at 1PM. I’m overwhelmed with possibilities of how to spend my free afternoon. There’s always Central Park, my bike and my thoughts.

Free Lunch and Nerd Love

One of the terrific benefits here at Nice Hedge Fund is their lunch policy. Every morning we get an email listing the four restaurants from which we can order. You pick out what you want, up to $15, and then you get another email when the delivery arrives. Sure, it means that you eat your lunch at your desk, but overall, it’s a pretty sweet deal.

I spend the better part of my mornings deciding what to get with my fifteen bucks. Pepperoni pizza or pasta primavera? Sushi or sweet and sour chicken? Brownie or blondie? It’s harder than one might expect. How can I know, at 8:30AM, what I want to eat at 12:30PM? Clearly, I have some commitment issues. So I usually mull it over until the 10:30AM deadline, panic, and order my usual turkey sandwich on wheat with lettuce, tomato, American cheese and honey mustard. Today I left my comfort zone and ordered a salad with grilled chicken and tons of veggies. Instant regret. Everyone knows that the only satisfying salad starts with the word “Taco,” is served in an edible deep fried dish and involves such healthy toppings as guacamole, sour cream, and cheese.

So have this page-a-day Mensa puzzle calendar, because, well, I’m a huge nerd. Anyway, here is today’s puzzle, in case you’re also a nerd:

Fill in the blanks to complete the word below:
E _ H _ _ I _ I _ _ I _ T

Now that I know the answer it’s totally easy (and a tiny bit arousing), but I was stumped by this one. I kept trying to force “elephantiasis.” Hugs and kisses to the first genius who solves it.

Love Me, Love My Mess

Yesterday I helped someone move, hauling boxes and bags down four flights of stairs. Ah, the things we do for those we love. Well, it made me realize two things: A) I hate moving, and B) I have way too much shit. I despise moving so much that I’ve stayed in the same apartment for the past three years and I’m a bit of a packrat. Okay, I’m a huge packrat.

College newspaper that ran an article about me? Cool to save. TWELVE COPIES of said paper? Slightly ridiculous. Keeping to my Personal Renaissance Plan, this afternoon I chucked the eleven superfluous newspapers and tons of other junk that I’ve collected over the years. I closed my eyes and forced myself to get rid of folders and notebooks from college (don’t judge me) and it nearly killed me to toss the flashcards I slaved over for Art History exams. I filled trashbag after trashbag; still, there were a few goofy items that I couldn't bear to throw out. Extra buttons that come with nice clothing, hand-written greeting cards, various art supplies and half-used lipgloss top that list. Okay, so this junkie couldn’t go completely cold turkey, but I made some progress. Baby steps.

Besides being a packrat, I’m also a subscriber to the school of “it has to get worse before it can get better,” and at press time my room was a total disaster area. Oops. Heaven help me (and my feet) if I have to get up in the middle of the night because I’ve created quite the obstacle course between my bed and my bathroom.

Baby, Don't Believe Me From Midnight On

Tonight as I headed to a show by a singer/songwriter I like, I found myself on an express train halfway to Coney Island. Now, I adore the kitsch and carnie charm of Coney Island. The Cyclone is hands-down the scariest and best roller coaster I’ve ever ridden, and I’ve never met a corndog I could refuse. Unfortunately, the show was on the Lower East Side, and crossing the Manhattan Bridge wasn’t part of the game plan. My head (heart) was somewhere else entirely.

Some months seem to pass by without much excitement and before I know it I’m sending in my rent check again. June was not one of those months.

In the past 30 days I: started a new job, took the LSATs, made/reconstructed some friendships, lost a pivotal game of Connect Four, competed in my first biathlon, told a few lies and took a few risks. Little by little I’m accepting the fact that Change can be a good thing.

So what better time than now for a little personal renaissance? I’ve got goals, baby. Ride a century, put a few more biathlons under my belt, clear out my junk, enjoy New York as long as I live here, eat healthier, work on my golf swing, save a little money, get into Law School. Easy as pie.

Well, you can’t blame a girl for shooting for the moon. What’s that cheesy quote? If I fall short, I’ll still be amongst the stars, right? Right.

Glad we got this little chat out of the way. Goodnight, lovers.