New York City real estate causes many a housing arrangement made in desperation. If you live in NYC (or, for that matter, any city with insanely high rents), you likely know a few 30-somethings who still live with roommates or someone whose “convertible bedroom” is actually the living room with a room divider. The city is pockmarked with couples who moved in together more quickly than they would or should have, all citing the same very good reason: “It doesn’t make sense to pay two rents when he’s here all the time anyway.”
I had a shitty housing arrangement horror story in my mid-20s and hoped that would be my last. But then I wed a recent immigrant who needed a permit to work, a green card, and a job. Thus I found myself newly married and living with a roommate. Keep reading »
Last week, I had a stalker experience that left me feeling very uneasy. I frequent a Starbucks about a mile away from my house and sometimes just spend the entire day there writing. On one particular afternoon, a young man came into the cafe. I just happened to look up at that same exact moment and we made eye contact. I politely smiled, then returned to my work.
The following day, I was walking my dog on my street, when a very familiar guy approached me.
“Hey, what’s your dog’s name?” he questioned.
“Um, it’s Sam,” I responded casually then noticed his face look very familiar.
“Hey, didn’t I see you yesterday at Starbucks?” I asked the stranger. He haphazardly nodded, responded, “Yeah, I think so.” Then we both said goodbye and parted ways.
I didn’t think too much of it at first. I figured the guy just happened to live on my street. A coincidence, right? That was until I got home and checked my Facebook inbox and noticed one unread message in my “other” folder. Keep reading »
“If you want to have kids you’d better do it while you’re young. The women in our family go through menopause early — 38 to be exact. Your grandmother? 39.”
My mother said that to me every few weeks from the moment I started menstruating until I hit 30. But at 25, I was more concerned with drink specials than finding someone special. During my monthly fertility chats with Mom, I’d internally puff up and congratulate myself for not being into all that conventional crap.
I was the cool chick. The one who didn’t need a boyfriend and didn’t want to get married and lived in a big, bad city and focused on work and traipsed about to parties; soaking up new experiences and bad dating stories like a weathered Army vet with a killer hangover. This was my identity and I loved every second of it. Keep reading »
As a child, I was sick with relative frequency. I remember returning to third grade after a month off with mono, several pounds lighter, and my skin pale from lack of exposure to sun. As I walked in, all Colin from The Secret Garden, the bitchiest girl in the class announced “You’re, like, always sick.”
It had occurred to me that I was sick more often than my peers. True, my mother had a fairly lenient stay-home-from-school policy, but by the time I was 10, I’d had mono, bronchitis, pneumonia, an ongoing bladder reflux issue and several sinus infections. My sisters are the same way. We’re evolutionarily weak. Whatever.
One might posit that having two orthopedic surgeries and a few viral and bacterial infections would foster some stoicism around unwellness. Well, one would be wrong. Practice, in my case, does not make perfect. When I’m ill, I’m a nightmare. Keep reading »