Lessons College Can't Teach

When it comes to school, I am ridiculously responsible. I always show up for class on time, never miss an assignment, and actually take notes. My one vice is never feeling guilty for skipping class - as long as it's done within the 2-3 excused absence allowance. So to have a typical 'college moment' of being an irresponsible student is rare for me. Which is why I have to share my morning with you.

I'd been preparing for this particular presentation for a week, only because it's worth 25 percent of my grade. I've read and re-read the chapter it covers, actually avoiding Sparknotes in my diligence to do it correctly. And because the damn book was no where to be found on there. I had my notes all typed up and ready to be printed off prior to the class, I practiced to be sure it was within the 25 minute allotted time slot, and I made a mental note to actually wear real clothes to school. And then God decided to shit on me this morning. Never once having over slept this semester, I chose to do it today, waking up literally 24 minutes before my presentation was suppose to start. Keep in mind it takes me at least 20 minutes to get to school, and another five to find parking. I grabbed the clothes on my floor that I was wearing the night before, jammed a piece of gum in my mouth, and flew out the door while I was still trying to zip up my backpack. Driving like a complete asshole, I made it to school in record time, cut someone off for a parking spot, and stumbled into class as my professor was beginning role call. My only give-away to being ridiculously unprepared was the fact that I still needed to print out my notes. Thank god for my Midwestern charm. A quick smile and plea for a five minute stall, and I was in and out of the library with my notes in hand. I killed the presentation, had the professor laughing, and have no worries about the grade. The most stressful, yet strangely rewarding, morning I've had in a while.

I've mentioned being a little OCD about school and my GPA, but to be completely honest with you, my outlook on it all has sort of changed this semester. I'm in my fifth year of post-high school education. That is one year too many. I hear so many post-grads bitching and moaning about the job market and wanting to go back to binge drinking and pulling adderall all-nighters, but I cannot wait to be done with it. I don't need a college enrollment as an excuse to drink, and I can think of plenty of other things I'd rather be doing all night than researching Marco Polo and his freaking journey through Asia. So even though I'm obviously going to put effort into my final year, I've lightened up on the amount of stress I put on myself when it comes to my school work. My GPA can only slide so much from here, and the experience I'm having outside of the classroom is worth more to me than what I'm learning in it. Being able to summarize the themes of ancient medieval texts may get me an 'A' now, but I have a feeling the knowledge will do jack shit for me in the real world. Being able to handle my liquor and every other lesson I've learned the hard way here is a different story.

Covering the Basis for the Critical

I'm pathetic. I don't even want to look at the last time I posted, but I know off of the top of my head it's nearing the two week mark. Not OK. I will get better at this ridiculous schedule thing, I promise.

I was obnoxiously informed by one of my most loving co-workers that my blog has turned into nothing that I promised it would be. While I initially started it claiming I'd focus on finding balance with fashion, fun, and fitness on a frugal budget, I've strayed into my dating life, drinking habits, and religious views. And as much as I adoringly wanted to hit him for criticizing my blog, he was right. Sort of. While having fun, shopping, and working out take up generous portions of my time, so does drinking, spiritual speculation, and failing miserably in the dating world. And considering the ridiculous number of page views on posts that featured a drunk dial from my ex boyfriend and my humiliating blackout that included a drunk dial to my daddy, I don't think you mind reading about any extra-curricular material. Nonetheless, just for this darling co-worker that puts me in my place during every shift we share, I shall make a point to touch on all that I've promised you. And then some.

Fashion. As in shopping. As in I have done wayyyy too much of it in the past two weeks. Ok, month. But it needs to stop, because the numbers in my accounts are dwindling, and my fridge and gas tank will not fill themselves. It has not all been for nothing though, because there are some fabulous additions now sitting in my wardrobe. As in these babies.

When in doubt for what to buy yourself for your birthday, always head to the shoe section. And finding anything in leopard print is just an added bonus. And the fact that I found them in a shoe warehouse, allowing me to pay my rent this month. Happy birthday to me. Another pair of stilettos I could potentially take a tumble in after a few too many drinks - just what I needed.

One of my best friends came to visit for my birthday, so having fun has not been an issue. I did the unthinkable and took off the entire weekend of work. There were lunch dates, shopping and nights out in the city, sleepovers in Brooklyn, and lazy mornings laying in bed. To say this was all done on a budget would be a blatant lie, but best friends don't come every weekend. Sadly, once she left, my reality of work schedules and homework piles was waiting right where I left it. I was able to take a break to see some family in the city last night, and there's a night out in Long Beach in my very near future, as in tonight, so I haven't become socially awkward quite yet.

As for fitness, the majority of my workouts have consisted of shaking a drink mixer, squatting down to be eye level with the beer cooler, and running around tables on wing night. I've tried to fit in actual runs, yoga classes, and an elevated treadmill that burns ridiculous calories at the gym, but my schedule has been a little crazy. There always seem to be periods of time where this happens, and all I can do is remind myself that it's not the end of the world if I can't work out every day. I just do what I can when I can, and move on. Life will slow down.

So if you were becoming as critical of my blog content as my coworker, relax yourself - I just covered it all. And for those of you who actually appreciate my cynical viewpoints on dating and over-indulgences with drinking, no worries. As long as I continue to have pointless encounters with awkward guys and gin and tonics to numb the annoyance, the stories will keep coming. At least this way, someone will benefit from the entertainment of the never ending unfortunate situations I find myself in.

Budget? What?

Remember that thing I have...ughh what's it called...the one I'm suppose to do all of my balancing on. Oh, yes. A budget. Ring a bell? Yeah, me neither. Probably because I've been blowing my fricken budget like a whore on the Vegas strip. I've been coming up with some pretty noble justifications for myself though (aka excuses). I just moved into a new apartment, I should appreciate the U.S. currency after the headache of the Euros, I needed some things for school, I'd been working hard and needed to reward myself. The most recent excuse to pop into my head after spending an hour too long in the mall yesterday - 'it's my birthday...month'. Thank goodness for my savings and work schedule filled with the best shifts, or I'd be bringing the balance back to Iowa soon.

So, where has all this hard earned money from getting people obliterated, hoping they'll experience their own devastatingly humiliating blackout so I don't feel so bad about mine, gone? Well. If I reveal that, then I will start to feel guilty, and I really don't think that's going to help anything. No worries mama, nothing illegal or sketchy - just shallow and superficial, making me feel like a typical spoiled brat. Just know that I have not suddenly won the lottery or discovered a trust fund that my parents had been hiding from me all these years. The start of the school year always means money with the bar where I work, considering it's located across the street from one of Long Island's biggest universities. There was a little extra cash laying around, I took the opportunity to act like I have a lot more money than what I do, and after my birthday week with one of my best friends coming from home, it will be well past time to start saving again.

The blog was quiet this week, and the only reason I have to explain that one is school. There's something about reading Gerald of freakin' Whales and learning about the Spanish subjunctive that just drains all of my creativity and motivation. School has always been a love/hate relationship with me...over the summer I tend to forget about how much I hate it. When you combine five classes with a full time work schedule, there's not a lot of time left to recap my drunken nights or to criticize whoever is annoying me at the moment. 'It's time to be done' will be my most over-used expression in response to questions regarding school. It is absolutely time to be done.

Despite the mountain of homework that I never seem to make a dent in, the blog will not be abandoned. I have some newly discovered perceptions on school and my time management that I'll most likely ramble on about in the short future, ironically while I'm avoiding the books stacked next to my laptop. Those perceptions include screwing homework when necessary to do other productive things like blogging, yoga, and manicures. And I won't even need the excuse of my birthday for that.

Speaking of the birthday, it's tomorrow, and I'm officially falling into the age box of a grandma...abuela, yia yia, whatever you call that saint of a woman who makes your favorite cookies and never forgets to send you cards in the mail. I'm her age, in less than 24 hours. Being away from home around my birthday always makes me a little homesick, but that is where the glory of my most recent excuse comes in. Until the horror of it all passes, I'm going to spend my money on whatever my little, still youthful, heart desires. Before I have to buy things like wrinkle cream, depends, and glue for my dentures.

From Blackouts to the Bible

I attract the crazies. Really, I think I do. They come out of the woodwork to find me, most recently while I was browsing the mascara selection at Target. Completely minding my own business, debating between the 'Falsies' and 'Stiletto' lash mascara (definitely 'Falsies'), a man approached me and introduced himself, saying that he was conducting a survey of sorts. I don't care. He then asked me if I considered God to be a man or a woman. He had my attention. First of all, no one typically speaks openly of religion on Long Island, especially in the makeup section of Target. Secondly, religious discussions are often the most intriguing for me to be a part of. I grew up in a small town that is heavily influenced by the Christian Reformed beliefs. The majority of answers to religious questioning are not up for interpretation, but rather given, backed by reasoning and facts. After almost 21 years of that, hearing others' opinions and beliefs is always interesting.

The tech savvy missionary had his iphone ready to go, whipping open the Scriptures before I even had a chance to gather my scattered religious opinions. He flipped through Genesis, Romans, and Revelations, reading me his virtually highlighted passages that suggested God to be a multiple, and representation of both the male and female gender. While he was spewing off his religious propaganda, I was cursing my adolescent self, thinking, "...shit. This is what all of my private high school teachers spoke of preparing us for, and I have absolutely no idea of how to back up my argument." And then it dawned on me...I was searching for the reasoning and facts that back up everything the Christian Reformed belief represents, yet the last four years have been a struggle of whether or not I truly believe in it. I was stressing over my argumentative response out of pure habit - I really had no idea how to begin disputing the information this techie missionary was spewing off.  Nor did I really care to.

For four years, I've questioned my faith. I've evaluated my own religious opinion, compared it to that of the beliefs I was brought up in, and was left ready to throw anything to do with the church out the window. It turns out, all I needed was a nerdy, pushy, make-up isle missionary to force me into stating what I genuinely believe. But before I could say anything, I had to shut the guy up. I was ready to buy my 'Falsies' mascara and get the hell out of Target. I put all tact aside, and bluntly informed the man people like him were the reason Christians have the rep of being religious lunatics. We're in the make-up isle of Target for god's sake, and people are staring. After I made my opening statement, I was on a roll. I understand the important concept of missionary work, but while you (the techie missionary) attempted to persuade one person to consider your own beliefs, you caused eight random by-standers to confirm their assumptions of Christians being crazy. Aside from that, why does it matter. Why is it so important to debate whether God is a man, or a woman, or both. Why does the Christian religion have to be so divided by technicalities they insist on emphasizing, when the beliefs are essentially similar.

I want nothing to do with the technicalities. Those technicalities are what make me want to throw in the towel when it comes to religion. Instead, I'm going to refer to the wise words of big brother Bogger, who probably doesn't even remember saying this. It was literally years ago, so long I don't even remember the conversation that prompted it, but after voicing my wonders and questions about God, he simply stated, "Leah, it's not about religion, it's about a relationship."And that is exactly what I said to conclude my earth-shattering argument in the make-up isle. I have no interest in the detailed arguments, scrutinizing every word in the Bible. I really don't care whether you perceive God as a man, woman, both, or neither. I'm going to focus on what I believe for myself, and you should do the same. If a solid relationship with your God is not established, none of it matters anyways.

Living in an environment drastically different from the one I grew up in has forced me to reconsider everything I was taught, establishing what I'm going to hold on to...what is truly important to me. Edges may be blurred, beliefs vague, and opinions a little less specific, but there's something about the roots of your faith that you just can't stray from. And what I've realized after living in New York is that those roots are different for everyone. There are people who grew up in a religious setting such as my hometown, with totally different beliefs, and who am I to judge them. Though I may not be able to spew off a list of my own religious specifications, there is one belief I can share with you. Techie Missionary may have chosen an inappropriate time and place, but he did bring me to some of my own important conclusions I've been searching for for so long. That, my friends, can only be the the work of God.

Bitches Don't Eat Meat

I was borderline excited for classes to start again, but now that they actually have, I've realized I forgot about one minor detail in anticipation to stepping foot on campus for one fricking final year - homework. And not only that, the homework of an English major, which I am convinced has to be the most excruciating of all the degrees. It took three paragraphs into the Marco Polo prologue for me to look up the book on Sparknotes, but I was left bitterly disappointed. 'Tis going to be a long semester.

Now that my agenda requires the works of Polo, Bede, Mandeville, and various other snooze fests, the self-help books and trashy novels are going to have to come to an end - probably for the better, before I became completely uneducated. I was able to squeeze in one final mindless read before the classics consumed me, and though I have my issues with it, this book is the one summer read that I've actually taken seriously ("Why Mr. Right Can't Find You" had some good points as well; I just can't claim it's helped me become any more successful in that department). The book "Skinny Bitch", by Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin, is self-described as "A no-nonsense, tough-love guide for savvy girls who want to stop eating crap and start looking fabulous!". The cheesy promotion wasn't enough to rope me in, but the fact that this book is responsible for countless meat-eaters turned vegetarian/vegan was.

I've always had an obnoxious bone-phobia that left a classmate cutting my steak on a Senior class choir trip, and I've cut meat out of my diet for month long periods of time before, but I've never fully committed myself to become a vegetarian. It always seemed to be inconvenient for my hectic lifestyle that requires meals on the go, and I never put in the time to fully educate myself on the matter. After reading this book, consider me committed. I don't agree with animal cruelty, and I'm aware that livestock production turns our environment to shit, but my strongest reason for giving up meat is the reality of where it comes from. And oh my god, you don't even want to know. I've mentioned I'm from Iowa, where there are probably more cows than people, and considering the cattle industry is one of the biggest money makers there, they're all going to think I'm crazy after reading this. Nonetheless, there is no guarantee that their healthy, well fed, fairly treated, fresh piece of beef is going to end up being my hamburger in New York. I'm not going to give details, because I want you to enjoy your bacon in the morning, but if you have any interest in a vegetarian or vegan diet, this book will definitely help educate you on the matter.

Aside from the fact that it was the final factor in convincing me to give up meat, this book did not receive its' New York Times Bestseller award based on the talent of the authors. Freedman and Barnouin may be funny and crude, I think we'd get along famously in person, but their writing ability is far from that of what a published, bestselling author's should be. It may be my nerdy, English-major self coming out, but I wanted to rip my hair out at the structure and flow of the book. Not only that, these girls are supposedly involved in modeling, explaining the fact that they encourage fasting, eating only a piece of organic fruit for breakfast, and ignoring your body's hunger cues of stomach grumbling, headache, and fatigue when you need to eat. Uh...no wonder all the skinnies are so bitchy. They're starving, dumb ass. As any self-help book, take it with a grain of salt. Girlfriends may be entertaining, but all of their fasting has obviously left them short of a few brain cells.

So now that my final Grecian gyros have been consumed and my mama's Stromboli is in a kitchen over 1,000 miles away, there will be no beef, pork, chicken, or fish in the near future for me. A vegetarian diet feels right for now, and with the facts from the book haunting me at every meal, my appetite is in full agreement.

The Blackout I Want to Forget

I'm a classy bitch. I like to go out and have a good time, and it should be clear to you by now that I am no stranger at the bar, but when it comes down to my drunken self, I always try to maintain a level of class and dignity. This was not the case last night.
I've promised you bar stories, but there's really not much to tell. And I don't want my parents to fret. We'll just narrow it down to this - blacking out is not funny under the following circumstances:
1. You fall in 5 1/2 inch heels
2. You loose your Blackberry
3. Before loosing your Blackberry, you unknowingly drunk dial your father
4. The only way you know the previous information is because it was told to you - the last thing you actually remember is speaking Spanish to the cab driver...on the way to the club

OK, so the last one's a little funny. But only the Spanish speaking part.

My dignity was lost right along with my Blackberry, and I'm not about to say I don't deserve it. Thank god for ah-mazing friends, or I could be tied up in the back of a big white van, wondering where the hell my Hispanic cab driver went. Now that I've finally shaken off the hangover of a lifetime, and have made progress on the phone situation, the night is starting to be a little more amusing to me. Going into work at noon the following day seemed like the cruelest punishment I could be handed, but my co-workers laughs and add-ins of their own stories helped ease some of the humiliation. But no matter how entertaining it may be, nights like the one I had last night are notttt OK for a girl in my situation. Or anyone, period.
I obviously make light of my drinking, but there are consequences that come along with it, and they get a lot more serious than drunken dials to or from ex-lovas. As I said before, my friends are amazing. I was in the biggest city in the United States for god's sake. The fact that I was completely blacked out in a strange club in the middle of the meatpacking district is about as irresponsible as it gets. Along with physical safety is the actual condition of my health. Drinking that much, and in this incident, on an empty stomach, is just not necessary. The fact that my dinner was light and early did nothing to slow the absorption of my Pinnacle Whipped. I drank no more than everyone else, but competition always gets the best of me when we're going shot for shot, and I seem to forget the fact that I am, and always will be, a lightweight. It's usually a blessing in smaller bar tabs. Last night, I would have overdrawn my bank account if it meant avoiding my blackout.

So, moral of the story is - lesson learned. There's nothing wrong with going out and getting shit faced, but it doesn't do you any good if you can't even recall it the next day. It's stupid, irresponsible, and completely un-like the classy bitch standard I try to maintain on my nights out. I'm sure I'll be able to look back later and laugh...but it probably won't be for a while. Until then, I am going to be detoxing my liver and restoring my dignity, and hoping everyone else there will forget about the night as successfully as I did.

Glamourous Gays

I don't feel like writing today. The most uncreative mood makes for horrible blog posts. However, I will give you a little treat that my Brooklyn loves introduced me to. Do yourself a favor and watch...it will be the most enlightening three minutes of your day.

Confessions of a Drunken Ex-Lova

I wish I had a jaw dropping story about my first hurricane experience to entertain you with, but it was actually fairly quiet compared to many other areas on the east coast. I ended up going into Brooklyn and staying with the family - more for boredom precaution than safety. There were no issues with flooding whatsoever, we had power throughout, and a total of zero trees came crashing into the windows and on top of our cars. How mundane. Three bottles of wine later, and 'Irene' went back to being a tragic name saved for crazy aunts and sketchy neighbors. The most eventful it got was a drunk dial from my ex-boyfriend at three in the morning. And that's hardly the thrill I was looking for.

I hate drunk dials from old lovas. I'll admit, I fall guilty to making one or six of them back in the day when I had my first gin and tonic, but the thrill of it all has worn off after my old 23 years. There is no reward left in hearing a slurred "I miss you", "I made a mistake", or, in this case, "When are you moving back home so we can finally get married". Uh...what?

Now. We know I like to make light of things, which is why I can find the good in this. Yes, I'm flattered...I may be single, but I'm getting drunk marriage pre-proposals over the phone. And though it took four years, I now have a right to say the "I told you so" that I promised him I'd be able to someday after he left me brokenhearted in my basement a week before my high school graduation. But that 'I told you so' is never as sweet as we hope it to be, and this drunk dial wasn't quite as entertaining as I wish it was. Because though we were young, and it was a long time ago, and this boy probably had an obscene amount of Grey Goose before making the call, there were once real feelings there...wounds that have taken a long time to heal, leaving me guarded and wary of experiencing the same hurt that he put me through again.
My biggest fear in love is not that I can't find it, but that I won't find it with the right person. Having myself convinced that there was just one specific person meant for me left me feeling completely paranoid with all of my major life decisions. I worried if I made the "wrong" choice, I would only be keeping myself from the person I'm suppose to be with (A.K.A the "wrong choice" of living in New York). And that is why this phone call pissed me the fuck off. Because though we were young, and it's been four years, and there is almost always Grey Goose involved, this is not the first time we've had this conversation. And after those four years, I have yet to find someone that makes my heart skip a beat like this boy did.

His drunk dial came conveniently soon after the bar conversation I promised I'd share with you - the one concerning relationships, and the one that's made me look at all of this in the right perspective. I shared my 'only one specific person' fear with a 40-something year old married man who raised some valid points, completely shifting my mindset on the entire situation. As males usually do - he brought in logic to something I had fantasized in my head. He reminded me that life is all about choices, and who you end up with isn't necessarily because of fate or destiny, but rather because of the decisions you make that you believe are the best for yourself. I shouldn't have 'the love of my life' in the back of my head every time I make a major decision for myself. I need to do what's best for me, and by doing that, my love will come along.
So initially, yes, this phone call upset me, because it brought back that old fear of wondering if staying in New York and still being single isn't just a coincidence. It made me fantasize about the relationship I could have if I ever moved back to the Midwest. But then I remembered the wise, buzzed words of the man at the bar, and I hit myself with a dose of reality. This boy broke my heart. He absolutely humiliated me. And now, after four years and him finally realizing how fucking awesome I am, I'm entertaining the idea of what it would be like for me to throw away everything I have here and for us to make it work - all in fear of him being 'the one' and me being too stubborn to admit it? Reallllly, Leah. I don't want to be with this boy. I just want what I used to have with him...and there is no move big enough to bring that back.  
So, thank you for the flattery, ex-boyfriend. I'm happy you finally realized I am good enough for you. You're about four years too late though, I'm over a thousand miles away, and it's going to take a lot more than a drunk dial to convince me something is good enough to leave what I've made for myself here. That is one decision I am sure of.

Morning News According to Me

There are a few scenarios in which I really don't appreciate living alone. Knowing a hurricane is coming in a very short while is one of them. It's not that I'm nervous...I'm just a little confused. What exactly does one do during a hurricane? Should I be stocking my fridge? Loading up on arts and crafts to entertain me for an unpredictable amount of hours? Or should I be nervous? Hurricanes fall under the staggering category of 'things not found in the Iowa', and this Midwestern girl isn't quite sure what to do. Just to be on the safe side, the coffee, nail polish, trashy magazine, and wine selections will be fully stocked. I'm assuming my yoga class will be canceled, and this makes me annoyed with the whole hurricane business before it even begins.

Speaking of weather - apparently many people in New York felt the after effects of an earthquake in Virginia earlier this week. I was not one of them, and I have earthquake envy. I did feel one while I was in Greece, so the envious feelings aren't as strong as they may have been, but it sounds like I missed out on some thrills - unless New Yorkers are being their dramatic selves when it comes to caution with nature, which is a definite possibility. Try driving here in a snow storm, and plan on the other drivers being more of a risk than the weather itself.

In other news, Derek Jeter is allegedly single again - reading this over my morning coffee made the cup(s) that much more fulfilling. I quit one of my two bar jobs, hoping to clear some space in the schedule for that little thing we like to call school. I have developed a mild addiction to hummus, I'm attempting a vegetarian diet again (more on this later), and falling asleep to Jim Brickman seems to be the cure to any jet lag hangover. Along with a questionable dosage of Nyquil. Only four short blocks away, my new Starbucks has a fabulous seating area with comfy couches, along with a lesbian barista that appreciates the ta-tas and controls my drink order ($), promoting it to be my new study space for the year. I may finally attempt to go jean shopping today, which has not gotten any easier since the sixth grade, and obviously you'll hear about my traumatic experiences shortly after. Another thing you'll hear about - the incredibly enlightening conversation I had about relationships with a complete stranger while I was bartending. As illegitimate as it sounds, he may have said exactly what I needed to hear to finally make me feel at peace with being single.

Enough with my news caps, I need to prepare for this hurricane the only way I know how to. My stops today include the mall, the liquor store, Starbucks, and the gym. After that, I'll be ready for any mother nature predicament that New York will come up with next.

I Be Up in the Gym

...just workin' on my fitness. Because I'm Fergalicious. Obviously. But after almost three weeks away from my normal eating and exercise routine, I better as hell be up in the gym, because there is nothing vicious about the body after a mojito, gyro, souvlaki, and tiropita filled vacation.

I've said it once before, and I'll probably be saying it until the day I die - I hate gyms. The funky smelling recycled towels, awkwardness of panting and pouring sweat three feet away from a complete stranger, and enough eye contact with Sexay Biceps to make you wish you actually put make up on before working out...it's just too stressful for an activity that's suppose to reduce stress. But aside from the 'cons' that kept my running on the streets and boardwalks, shopping around for gyms may lead you to find some great incentives to join at a fairly decent price. Those incentives, along with my desperation to be rid of the new found handles that are no where near being loved, are exactly what lead to my latest plastic purchase.

For me, nothing will ever beat the feeling of running outside. It's more than a physical release...it's time for me to vent mentally as well. Unfortunately, any type of outdoor activity has its' limitations, and with classes soon being added into my schedule, those limitations lead me back down the escalators at the mall and through the doors of XSport Fitness. Their 24 hour availability was the first thing to draw me in - nothing pisses me off more than being dressed and ready to go, only to discover by the locked doors that the gym is not ready for me.

Another incentive XSport offers is an impressive, fee-included selection of group fitness classes. When thinking about switching up your work out routine, or if you're nursing any type of injury or soreness, a fitness class is always something to consider. I love to do pilates and yoga, and used to attend classes frequently, so the thought of it being a regular part of my routine again only pulled me further into a gym membership.

The last consideration to determine my decision, the factor that always represents any 'final say' for me, was the price tag. This is where XSport may not have won out in the end if it weren't for my careless spending habits after I first moved to New York. I was actually a member for the first few months that I lived here, but thanks to the $165.00 one-time-only membership fee, and $49.00 monthly price tag, my shopping habits couldn't support the cost, and I gave up my membership as soon as the sidewalks began to peek through the snow. It was a lot of money then, but the membership fee has proven to be a good investment for me, with the first and last months' payments being all I needed to sign up. Not only that, but my student ID knocked me down to only $35.00 a month - the same rate as most fitness centers in the area, making my choice of gym pretty mindless. And no, I have not actually found my student ID card, but I brought along enough paraphernalia to be worth half of Adelphi's bookstore, and combined with my Midwestern charm and on-cue smiles, there was no way Guido Juice-head trainer could say 'no'.
**Just a side note - it may just seem like an incredibly unflattering photo of you, representing where your money will be going for the next 65 years, but a student ID comes in quite handy with reduced rates. I have yet to find mine (I'm still convinced I will), but it would have saved me a few Euros at museums and historical sights visited in Greece. Restaurants, tourist attractions, fitness centers, even merchandise such as Apple computers, offer student discounts. All you need to do is flash that unfortunate photo, and smile pretty to prove you look better in person.

A final motivational thought for joining a gym - actually having to pay for a membership is incentive to get your ass to the gym and get your money's worth. A monthly bill alone won't pay for that vicious, Fergalicious body. You gotta be up in the gym, so every time you turn around brothas gather round, lookin' at you up and down, 'cause you delicious. D to the E to the L-I-C-I-O-U-S.

Traumatic Travels

Want to see what I look like after a total 27 hours of traveling?

Me neither. Sorry. But pretteee, huh.

What was the most wonderful vacation happened to have the most horrid ending. Starting the moment I woke up. I'll sum it up as briefly as I can, and just tell you that after taking Tylenol on an empty stomach, I was vomiting more impressively than my most impressive hangover. Thanks to the pharmacist's recommendation, I had to stick a dissolving tablet in a place that I believe has one purpose, and one purpose only. After all had failed, and I was still in the bathroom with only an hour to spare before my taxi came to take me to Athens, I made a visit to the most illegitimate, sketchy doctor's office I hope to ever be in. There were no diplomas hanging on that wall to say the least. A nice, pleasant little shot in the ass was received, and I was sent on my way. Under a different last name than my own. Heh.

Take my morning and add in a two and a half hour car ride to the airport, nine hour plane delay, potential Greek passengers turned rioters, countless minutes standing in lines, and a busted open suitcase on the luggage belt. It's safe to say I'm happy to be home.
I can already tell I'm going to be a little mixed up with my sleep schedule for a while. It's 2:00 PM and I'm considering hibernation for the rest of the day. After my last 27 hours...hell - I'd even take just the tablet-in-the-place-it-shouldn't-go excuse, productivity is not expected. The bags are unpacked and the fridge is stocked...my work is done for the day.

Self Help for the Stubborn

Before I even begin this post, let me assure you that I do not live within the 'self-help' section of Barnes and Noble. I'm much too cynical of a person to regularly indulge myself in someone else's criticism of my life. I went in for the sole purpose of finding my guidebook to Mr. Right, and left with more than I intended on buying. Typical. After a summer filled with Cosmopolitan and trashy romance novels, I was ready for something a little more enlightening. Literally spotting it on my way out of the store, I ran across Christine Hassler's “20 Something, 20 Everything”, my current read for the remainder of the summer.
With my 23^rd birthday coming up next month, I'm obviously well into my twenties. I've accomplished a lot for myself in the short time I've graduated high school, but sometimes I feel as if I'm not making the most out of the so-called “best years of my life”. I can list all that I've done, produce my blue print for what I have left to do, and yet I feel as if it's not enough. And despite their achievements and goals set for themselves, after endless Skype sessions and coffee dates with friends, I know I'm not alone. Hassler's book focuses on all of the above and so much more, shedding light on how prominent these feelings are amongst women post high school. Intertwining real-life scenarios with thought provoking questions, “20 Something, 20 Everything” therapeutically addresses concerns and issues that commonly arise within the ever changing and unsteady years of the twenties.
While I work and write on finding balance in health, schooling, work, and my social life, the most important, and often most difficult, aspect that needs constant attention is the balance of one's own self. It's difficult to be completely content in any area of your life if you aren't content in who you are as a person. With all of the decision making and life changing experiences that happen in your twenties, knowing and accepting yourself needs to be a priority. The book “20 Something, 20 Everything” not only forces you to look at who you are, but also what you want out of life. Hassler strips away the motivational cliches', promising, “...it will be more fun than studying, more rewarding than going to a psychic, and cheaper than seeing a therapist”. I will vouch for her when I say I've had plenty of experience in all three, and over halfway through the book, she's honest on all parts.
While my summer reading thus far has been anything but intelligent and inspirational, trust me when I say that Hassler's book is worth looking in to. Be ready to do some writing – making up for the financial cost that therapy rapes you of does not mean skimming through a large print book to find all of life's answers. I really considered skipping portions of the questions, and I can already say I'm happy I didn't. It may be time consuming, but so are my nights out drinking and riding mopeds. So that's hardly an excuse.
So my lovely readers, if you can relate to any of the feelings mentioned, if you're wanting to do some self-reflection, or if you're just looking for a little nudge in the right direction, I cannot recommend a better book. And that should mean a lot coming from a cynical, stubborn lush who once told a therapist that their degree meant nothing and declared they would never know more than her.

My Mr. Wrongs of Greece

While “Why Mr. Right Can't Find You” has been read cover to cover, I have unfortunately also learned lessons in dating through experience during my time in Greece. There's never a dull moment in my love life - which is interesting, because there never seems to be a successful moment either. I can't even take a short European vacation without being bothered by boys' bullshit. From the past, short two weeks here, my freshly experienced advice to anyone dating outside of their own country:

Just because he claims to speak English, doesn't mean he actually can.

I don't know if they think it will impress me, or maybe it's their form of a pick-up line, but I have had countless encounters with faux-English speakers. We get through the greeting, he can usually tell me his name, and once in a while I get an age, hometown, or career, but beyond that, the conversation goes downhill pretty quickly. According to the multilingual standards of the guys I've met here, I am a native English speaker, completely fluent in Spanish, know quite a bit of Greek, and my one word knowledge of Dutch translates to speaking “some” of the language. Unless he has proven his understanding of the language and can keep up past “where are you from”, don't get too excited when a guy claims to speak your language. The conversation will be pretty succinct, and you'll be back at square one, almost missing your American, English speaking douche lords.

Just because he's from a different country does not mean he will actually call when he says he will.

I'd been catching his eye all day, because he happened to be sitting next to my potential gorgeous Greek soulmate. But alas, it always needs to be the friend that is interested, and he was the one who approached me. He actually spoke plausible English, so we were able to carry a conversation. He seemed very interested, and asked for a way to contact me. I gave him a number where he could reach me, and he obviously never called. Sound familiar? Just because he's not American, doesn't mean he'll call.

They're not motorcycles, they're mopeds, and once you turn 16, you shouldn't date anyone who drives one.

I'm not really even sure how to present this dating experience except to tell you I was re-telling the story to my sister on the phone last night, and we were both having trouble catching our breath because we were laughing so hard. Conversation came easy with this guy in particular, and I eventually accepted a ride offer on his “motorcycle”. After walking to Guam and back in my stilettos, we finally approached a black replica of my 7^th grade boyfriends' moped, sans florescent orange flag. I know they are more popular to ride in Europe, and acceptable even after turning driving age, but I realized quite quickly that driving through the country side on the back of a moped, my five inch heels awkwardly clinging to the sides and hoop earrings getting tangled in my hair, is much more glamorous in the movies. Things got creepy fast when he took me to a discrete location on a dirt rode, tried to impress me with a mediocre view of the moon, and directly requested "kiss me" in an accent that went from romantic to repulsive in .2 seconds. After my request to be brought back, and his annoying remarks of "you don't like me" in the now-tarnished accent, I got my wish, and we hoped back on that sexy ride. Just to make the experience that much better, the moped proved its' worth, needing some pushing in order to make it up the country hillside. In my stilettos. I stopped trying not to laugh, made a mental note to blog about it, and concluded that mopeds need to be left to the juvenile.

Clearly European men have not influenced the success rate of my dating life, but I can't say I'm bothered. If anything, I'm thankful. They've done the unthinkable - made me actually appreciate my American counterparts. The next time at home I'm let down by a guy who doesn't call, I won't be disappointed - I'll just be grateful he drove a car and it all unfolded in English.

Forgiveness from the Lady Bits

Men really have no idea what women go through for beauty. I reached a new level of understanding with this statement recently. Ladies, if someone ever tells you that waxing any where below the belly button and above the knee is 'not that bad', they're lying. One hundred percent. This is coming from a girl who was consistently body slammed by her older brother throughout childhood. I really think I can handle a natural labor after my waxing horrors.

Much of the pain may have had to do with the fact that I applied our freshman year drinking motto, “go big or go home”, to my first ever waxing appointment. Let's not misinterpret this – my lady bits have always been well maintained, I just considered hot wax being poured all over them to be unnecessary and avoidable. But curiosity finally got the best of me, along with a calendar filled with three weeks of beach time, and my appointment was booked. Because I'm Dutch, and wanted to make the most of my first-time customer's half off coupon, there was no child's play involved, and we definitely went straight for the brazilian. I felt like my lady bits would never forgive me. I am hardly being my dramatic self when I say I was literally light headed after a while. Although I do have to say, now that the pain has dulled and I can finally see straight again, Jennifer did some good work down there. I consider the woman a saint after the verbal slurs she endured that morning. Definitely had to tip over 20% after that one. Now I feel as if I need to get my money and pain's worth and spontaneously flash her work for others to see. Good thing they're more open minded with things like that in Europe.

I considered waving my white flag and surrendering approximately 19 times throughout the appointment, but I can already say I'm happy I put myself through it, because I am in a swim suit more than clothes for the majority of this trip. I was a solid fourteen shades lighter than everyone else the day I arrived in Greece, so I hope to at least leave looking a similar ethnicity to them. I typically attempt to avoid personifying the phrase “beauty is pain”, but in the case of waxing my goods and not having to give it a second thought while here, I'll take it.

Worth 1,000 Words

Heaven on Earth

I wish I could show you what I've seen thus far over a blog post, but descriptions and pictures cannot do it justice. No worries - I will at least attempt. I think my jet lag is still hanging around, because my sleep schedule is off. We finally made it to bed around three last night, and yet it's only 6:30, and here I am awake. The only reason why I am perfectly OK with this right now is because I'm sitting out on the balcony with the view of the Mediterranean on one side, and the mountains on the other. There are palm trees lining the middle of the street, birds announcing the start of the day, and a Yia Yia watering her plants down below. The sun is starting to shine over the tips of the mountains, and to top it all off, I'm here with some of my favorite people. This has to be an earthly version of heaven.

 I had originally planned to post often, but my internet and writing time is limited, and I am completely content with that. I never thought I would say this, but aside from not being able to call my mama any time I'd like, I am actually enjoying not having a cell phone. Once I get over the weird feeling of wanting to check it but not being able to, it's enjoyable to be less available. I will resume back to normalcy as soon as I'm back in New York, but for the time being, I need to just let myself enjoy where I am right now. So check in every so often, as I'll be doing the same. My whines will be traded in for wishing, my gin and tonics for mojitos, and my work clothes for swim suits. It must be summer vacation.

Plane Ride 9 Hours Too Long

I don't fare well when traveling. It's not that I don't enjoy it - I love a good vacation just as much as anyone else. It's the 'getting there' part that I struggle with. Flying used to be enjoyable for me. It didn't happen very often, so whenever I was able to take a plane, it was new and exciting. After four years of consistent air travel, it's safe to say the excitement has worn off. I may even go as far as to say it's beginning to make car trips feel a little more...accommodating. On car rides, I am at least able to vocally express my discomfort to the driver (aka daddy). I have the opportunity to persuade a stop at any given shopping center or coffee shop location, and am comforted by the fact that the bodies much too close to me are my siblings. This plane ride is especially awkward for me. Each conversation I hold starts off with Greek mumbo jumbo that I don't understand a word of, the man behind me somehow has his legs positioned in a way that prevents me from putting my seat back, and it's somewhere between four and eleven in the morning. But has been light out for the past two hours. The airplane food has caused mayja abdominal discomfort. And I'm definitely the only Dutch girl on here.

I came prepared of course, and I've already killed most of one of the two books I brought along. "Why Mr. Right Can't Find You". No, I'm not joking. And yes, it actually does have some good points - many of which I'll be writing about later. The unfortunate part of reading this self-help book, aside from the fact that the cashier was definitely trying not to smirk as he rang me up, is that the title in itself is a little embarrassing to be seen reading. It may as well say - "I'm single and Can't Find Anyone That Wants To Be With Me". But, I'm a little nerdy, and a lot studious, so research is going to be done. Scenarios such as Mr. Minnesota are not uncommon for me, and it's time to figure out what's going wrong.

I'll try and blog as much as I can while in Greece. Some of my posts are going to be written during the next eight hours of this plane ride, while others will be short updates and photo braggings of the trip. The blog may have an awkward feel to it for the next few weeks, and timing is going to be a little off with no consistent internet, but bear with me. I'll come back rejuvenated, ready to be a smart ass and test the self esteem of those around me once again. That's what my vacations are for, after all. 

Douche Lords Come from Near and Far

Ohh boys. You try and claim that you're really not that bad, you don't play games, and it's us girls that are the confusing ones, but then one of you goes and pulls a stunt like this. And you wonder why your gender holds the reputation that it does.
Let me indulge you in the latest tragedy of my pathetic love life.

We're going back a short two days ago to my work shift. There is a ridiculously gorgeous guy at my table - brown eyes, reddish/brown hair, just beautiful. We start talking, and I soon find out he's from Minnesota, of all places. I mildly freak out inside, because guys from the Midwest just seem to be a little less douchey than the ones here (it is true my Midwestern girls - you can find much, much worse), and after we bond over the fact that nothing beats a Christmas in Minnesota and people from home are simply a lot nicer, he asks if I want to meet up with him and some friends in the city the next day, and numbers are exchanged. The only catch - Mr. Minnesota was doing a summer internship on Long Island, and is going back to the Midwest in a week. He mentioned looking for jobs out here once he graduated, but this was basically going to be a no strings attached, one time get together with someone that actually knew where the others' home state was on the map.

Now. Just because I am legitimately going to want feedback, this needs to be detailed: our texting conversation that night, and the next day, verbatim.

Mr. Minnesota: Miss Iowa! How's work going without us?
Me: A lot less fun, what are you guys up to tonight?
Mr. Minnestoa: Just hanging out at our course, it's boring here so we're probably going to bed soon. But I'll keep you updated on tomorrow - it would be cool to see you one last time before I went back home
Me: Yeah, definitely. It sucks you're leaving so soon, but let me know what your plans are for tomorrow
Mr. Minnesota: (By the way, I do know his real name) Will do
(Next day)
Me: Hey, so I'm moving into my new apartment today and I need to pack for my vacation on Monday so I don't think I'm going to have time to go into the city, I'm sorry! But I still want to hang out before you leave, do you work tomorrow?
Mr. Minnesota: Oh, alright. Bummer. (Maybe I should avoid guys that use the word 'bummer'?) When do you work next?
Me: Well I'm actually leaving for Greece on Monday for three weeks, so I have this weekend off
Mr. Minnesota: Oh damn! No, I don't have tomorrow off
Me: What time do you usually get off?
Mr. Minnesota: Probably around 3 or 4
Me: Want to do something after?
Mr. Minnesota: Yeah we could, that would be fun. I'll let you know when I get off tomorrow.
Me: Perfect, sounds good.

And tomorrow? As in today? No call, no text, not even a lame, made up excuse for why he couldn't meet up. Do I not even deserve some sort of courtesy lie anymore? I'm not angry or upset, hell - I'm not even surprised. I'm just confused - yet another douche lord, or am I doing something wrong? Did I sound too desperate? Should I have sounded more desperate? I didn't get in touch with him at all today to see what the hell was up...mistake? It was about the shortest lived love interest I've had to date, with hardly any time for me to fuck things up. Does anyone have the answer for what went on here? I need some honest, male opinion. And just to further support my confusion, the ta-tas were looking ridiculously fabulous when I met him.
What the hell, Mr. Minnesota?
Long Island has enough of a tool population the way it is, they're migrating from the Midwest now, too?

We'll get into my views on relationships and statuses later. I'm too cynical for that chat right now, but for the time being...advice, anyone?
Do any of you ladies have stories similar to Mr. Minnesota? And guys...can you shed any light on the situation? Be brutally honest - I can handle it.

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up with String...

...these are a few of my favorite thingsss. I'm cranky, overwhelmed, and my coffee cup is empty. And I'm just lazy. So I'm going to attempt to bring a little sunshine into this rainy day. Survival pictorial for getting through my hectic days, cue Julie Andrews - these are a few of my favorite things...

This is my secret for keeping my room smelling as good as it does - Febreze Air Freshener and Fabric Spray. I spray it on my clothes, bed linens, and roommates' open doorways when they're not looking. It works wonders.

Starbucks. Instant. On the Go. That's all you need to know.

I wanted practical gifts for Christmas my senior year of high school, knowing I was moving far enough away that homemade meals would not be an option. The George Foreman was received, and the grilled PB&J was born. Along with paninis, grilled cheese, burgers, grilled vegetables, chicken breast, essentially anything your creative, famished little heart desires - a George Foreman is a great option for someone who's lazy and wants a good dinner.

This has been my lifeline lately. Aside from my planet issue mentioned previously, face cleansing towelettes are ideal for working long nights and coming home exhausted. No one wants to spend ten minutes getting ready for bed after a twelve hour shift at the bar, so these towelettes are perfect for still being able to take off your make-up as you're getting in to bed - literally. I have yet to resort to the traveling finger-toothbrush - I hope my laziness doesn't come to that.

Self Explanatory

I'm obsessively organized in general, but having multiple make-up/travel bags keeps me organized and prepared when I don't have the time to actually pack a bag. I usually have a main makeup bag that stays at my apartment, a bag with makeup essentials, deodorant, mini body-spray, hair clip, and pens (necessity for my job) ready to go with me to work, and another bag with my school ID (that I have yet to find), calculator, pens and pencils, and various other things I find useful for entertaining myself with when I get bored in class. Having separate bags always available and ready to go makes it easy to always have what I need, even when I don't have time to think about it.

Mayhem with My Mercury

I have a planet on my face. How is it that I'm two months short of 23 years old, and I still manage to get pimples the size of a jelly bean? Not OK. I tried the old toothpaste trick, and woke up with sticky hair and a minty smelling pillow. Definition of beauty sleep.

With a work schedule from hell and workouts consisting of moving my obnoxious wardrobe from one shoebox room to another, (please remind me next time I move – movers are, in fact, worth the money) I hardly have time, let alone motivation, to do anything else with my day. Which is unfortunate, because there are things to be done. I'd list them, but I doubt you care that much. The only reason why I'm mentioning any of this is because it's affecting my blog posting. I feel as if I'm stuck in limbo in every possible scenario in my life, making it really difficult to concentrate on my writing. And the fact that I can see my planet out of the corner of my eye when I glance down at the keypad doesn't help the situation.

What to do when you don't know what the hell to do with yourself.

Make a list. Write out everything that needs to be done, and when it needs to be done by. You're much more likely to be productive when you can see your “to do” list laid out in front of you.

Call your mom. Or your sister, grandma, boyfriend...anyone you feel can ground you. She's not even aware of it, but just five minutes on the phone with my mama can bring some comfort and reassurance into my day.

Get your needed daily dosage of coffee. Or wine. Or whatever you're doing – it's none of my business. Now is not the time to attempt to cut down on caffeine or any other substance in your life. We'll work on that later.

Avoid mirrors. This may just be a personal preference, but I feel like a beached whale and have an accurately sized model of Mercury on my face. Plus the eyebrows need attention, the sun has slaughtered my hair color, and there's a mysterious purple bruise on my thigh. Mirrors are currently not my friend.

Cut yourself some slack. I haven't been working out consistently, my eating-out bill is a tad high thanks to the roommates' kitchen cleaning habits, and I haven't been able to catch up with friends as often as I'd like. I can't let myself feel guilty for things that are out of my control right now – I just need to carry on and do what needs to be done right now.

Remind yourself that this is temporary. I mentioned in a previous post how it's important to remember that nothing needs to last forever - not if you don't let it. I will be in my new apartment in less than a week, I will finally be on my way to Greece in that same amount of time, and my relationships, workouts, and overall daily normalcy will eventually restore themselves. I just have to keep up with this mayhem until then.

My planet and I need to wrap it up and make our way to work. And you can be sure the iced coffee is coming with us.

Family Away From Home

If there's one event in a girls' adulthood that makes her miss her mama, it's moving. (There are actually countless events, but this is the one occurring at the moment). She may be lacking the muscles needed, but trips to Ikea and Target to pick out furniture, bed linens, and bathroom accessories are just a lot less exciting with my mom half the country away. Sending pictures on my Blackberry and receiving gift cards through the mail can only suffice for so much. I want to actually have my mom here to see me wipe out an entire display of 'As Seen on TV' Ped Eggs with my overstuffed cart at Bed Bath and Beyond. The seester Abby would probably appreciate that one too. I miss my mommy. Wah.

And just for the record - I abandoned ship at Bed Bath and Beyond. Because I did, in fact, knock over an abnormally large display that I still believe jumped out of no where, and I was not about to take responsibility for it. So I hit up a few local stores, put my hair up and fedora on, and hoped I wouldn't be recognized when I went back a few hours later for my intended purchases. True story.

One week and counting until moving/vacation to Greece, and I am proud to report I have made some progress on my to-do-list. I should elaborate on my trip, before you begin to assume I'm actually hoarding thousands of dollars for exotic vacations and pretending I'm financially independent so you won't secretly despise me.
I've mentioned my previous job as an au pair - the reason for moving to Long Island. The job itself was temporary, but the place that was created for me in the family is not. I love those two little boys with my whole heart, and I gained so much from my year with them - the most valuable to me being a big, loud, beautiful, Greek-American family. Going beyond the immediate family I lived with, I was welcomed with open arms into the homes of their aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents - and I know I always will be. They are the most incredibly compassionate and generous people I've met here, and I am blessed to have them in my life. Aside from my boys, the family lives in Brooklyn, so I may not be able to see them as often as I'd like, but they are such an important part of my life here. I was thrilled for my own family to be able to meet them during a visit last summer - they were able to understand the praises I had been singing since meeting them my first weekend on Long Island.

My YiaYia and Papou

My handsome boys

Our faces sum up it all up

Anyways. Enough of my photo bragging. This family of mine has a house in Greece, where they often stay during the summers, and lucky little Leah is going to pop in for a visit. In terms of funding, you must know that I literally took an extra job last school year, as a high school tutor, to pay for this trip. So do not assume I have my daddy's credit card numbers written down somewhere - it took enduring hours and hours of attempting to decipher broken Urdu, deciphering way too many inappropriate Spanish comments, and relentlessly encouraging effort from punky, know-it-all high school students for me to go to Greece. And I know, before even leaving, that it will be beyond worth it.

After all of this Asian invasion living and endless shifts at the bar, getting off of Long Island for a few weeks cannot come soon enough.

Being Drunk Is Not an Excuse

Am I the only one that listens to piano music on Pandora? My page automatically starts with Lorie Line Radio. Surely this is not normal for a 22 year old. My only comfort is that Brittany Haan's Pandora most likely blasts an organ's rendition of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata when she signs in. One of the 483 reasons why I love her.

It's ridiculously humid on Long Island right now, making my typical afternoon run difficult to get through. Or even convince myself to begin. I have access to my school's gym, but I cannot find my student ID for the life of me, and lets be honest, going to the gym is about as thrilling as a visit to the gynecologist. I'd much rather take my run to the scenic outdoors than stare at the white washed cement walls in front of my treadmill. My dad swears he can run twice as far on the treadmill - I start swearing after .2 miles, am excruciatingly bored by .5, and usually call it quits around .8. It's not that difficult, it's just that boring.
The obvious solution to the heat would be to run early in the morning. And now lets refer back to my previous post and confirm that it's just not going to happen. I'm past my days of obsessively running 10 miles in whatever heat the good lord blessed us with that day, so my advice for a lush, late night working, busy bee college student who appreciates a good workout: do what you can.

There are some days I have the time and energy to put in a solid eight miles, and so I do exactly that. For longer runs, I love to go to a more scenic location - a local park, the beach boardwalk...anywhere where I have a little more to take in, with less risk of getting bored. My long runs are my favorite workout, and it is so frustrating when the reason for stopping is because I'm bored - it can be a difficult hurdle for me to overcome. If this is your problem when working out, do the obvious thing, and give yourself some type of entertainment. Whether it's the view around you, or the TV at the gym, address your entertainment issue head on, and give yourself something to focus on.
I obviously don't have the ambition for a long run every day of the week - there are days when there is absolutely no motivation to workout at all. The first step to no motivation is to simply put on your work out clothes. It's much more difficult to put off a workout when you're walking around in gym shorts and running shoes. (Although I will admit to a time when my motivation was so non-existent, I literally laid down on my bed and took a nap after this attempt for ambition - running shoes and all). Once you're physically ready, it will be a lot easier for you to become mentally prepared to workout.

If you're still not in the mood to break a sweat, give yourself 15 minutes. Knowing I always feel better afterwards, I try to talk myself into some form of exercise. You don't necessarily need to put in a four mile run and three sets of 15 reps on every weight machine in order to get a good workout. Hop on the elliptical, jog around the neighborhood, hell - even a walk around the block. Give yourself 15 minutes to get in the mood to workout, and if you're still not feeling it, to hell with it. Chances are though, at this point, you will have put so much effort into actually motivate a workout, you'll want to continue for lasting results.
Another cure to boredom? Mix up your workout. It was a lot easier when I was home and had access to my outdoor shed stocked full of gear, but there are so many different forms of exercise - don't limit yourself to just one or two. Invest in a pair of roller blades, fill up the air in your bicycle tires, or break out your old jump rope. Finding new ways to work out not only brings a little fun into your routine, but it can make you feel like a kid again - and who doesn't like that?

An issue I often face during my day is time to workout - or lack there of. There are days when I hardly have time to pee, much less squeeze in a workout, and that's OK. Rest days are vital to a healthy, active lifestyle, and you should allow yourself at least one per week. If it's not a rest day, and your time is limited, refer back to my golden workout rule: do what you can. Even if it's 20 minutes of cardio, something is always better than nothing. Consistency and quality are most important when it comes to maintaining an exercise routine, so squeeze in whatever you can find time for.  

Today may be one of those days where I need to lace up my running shoes in order to motivate myself to get out the door. Ever since I stopped validating "I'm lazy", "I'm hungover", or "I'm drunk", as justified excuses to miss a work out, it's been much more difficult to feel OK about skipping them. Damn.

Manic Monday, I Wish it was Sunday

Today was the first day in a while where I've woken up before 10:00. I am truly ashamed. I realize summer is for sleeping in when you're a student, but I have taken this concept to an entirely new level. I need to start setting an alarm clock.
It's Monday, which is justifying why I'm still in bed after over an hour of being awake. Moving day is looming, my room is in shambles, and holyshitIhavesomuchtodothisweek. It is not an easy task to move by yourself. I really should reconsider my chosen single status. Except that it's not happening. Unless prince charming comes along and completely overwhelms me. Or brings me my dream ring wrapped in its little blue box. Then considerations will be made.

It's going to be randoms today, because I'm scatter-brained as it is and I have no earth shattering or enlightening knowledge to even pretend to indulge you in. So my unintelligent, absent-minded randoms for you to waste your time on this dreaded Monday.

1. There are mice in my apartment again. And I may actually be boarder line racist after my living experience here.
2. I did the unthinkable this weekend. I took a drink back because it was too strong. And I am truly ashamed. In my defense, they poured about 8 oz of Captain Mo into my 12 oz pina colada cup, and I had to drive. And once had a very bad night with the Captain.

The Captain has wronged me one too many times

 3. I have found that parking in the lot half a block away keeps me from getting parking tickets (knock on wood). Annoying, and scurry at 3:00 AM, but effective.
4. The most incredibly agitating line a guy can use on me - "I've never met a girl like you before". No shit Sherlock, probably because you've never met anyone from Iowa before. I've heard it as often as I've heard my own name.
5. Speaking of guys, why are you so hesitant to approach girls? We see you looking, can practically read your lips when you comment to your friend, so why do you stay lurking in the corner? One of life's little mysteries. If you're a guy, and you find yourself in this situation, just go talk to her. Trust me on this one. If you're catching her eye that often, she wants you to come over.
6. With all of the social media options we have today, it's really hard to excuse ignoring your sister's text. Because she sees your tweet three hours later, and then questions your ability to tweet and not text. This was big brother Bogger's lesson learned this weekend.
7. Packages from home still make my day.
8. If you stop cleaning just to test your roommates' contribution, or lack there of, you will only end up with a nasty ass bathroom that you can hardly force yourself to use. Just keep cleaning.
9. I can't wait to move. And then go to Greece. #winning
10. I feel like I need a 10th. But I can't think of any more randoms....I have on lavender nail polish.

I started to apologize for my lack of intelligence and organization in this post, but I'm actually not sorry. Give me a break, it's Monday.

Making Space for No Roommates

Reason #74 of why I should really consider getting a boyfriend - I don't know what the hell is going on with my window AC. I've had a consultation with my father over the phone, but it really didn't do much except encourage me to re-position the unit in a way that prompted a phone call from my landlord, concerned it was going to fall onto the sidewalk two stories below. It sounds like water is dripping in the inside, and it randomly spits out mist along with the cool air coming from the vent. I'm just going to consider it an indoor sprinkler cooling system. It's actually quite convenient after getting in from a long, sweaty run.

Let's talk organization. And I'll give you a glimpse of this monstrosity in my window. To clear up any doubts that I may not be living in as little of a shoebox as I claim, or my dramatic side is coming out when I describe my room - visual evidence. I do, in fact, live in an adorable, cozy, yet suffocating shoebox.

It's hard to imagine what is in this room originally started out as a pile small enough to fit into little Lola to make the drive to New York. I remember a talk I had with my Aunt Lynn about living in New York, and a piece of advice she gave was "Don't have too much stuff, because you're going to be moving around a lot". I should have taken this more seriously.

Now that I'm getting ready to pack Lola up for another trip, thank god only 20 miles away this time, I've started to sort through my belongings. I never realized how much shit I've accumulated over the last year living in this apartment until I forced myself to sit there and justify whether it was worth the move. The random objects have been easy to sort, but the clothes...an on going process. I have literally been sorting over the past month, and there are still cuts to make. The standing clothing rack will not be going into my new apartment, so some things are going to have to go.

You know the rule, "If you haven't worn it in a year, get rid of it"? Well, that rule sucks. My biggest fear: there's a chill in the air this coming autumn, and I go to my closet thinking, "I have the perfect apple green cardigan to go with this navy blue chiffon blouse I'm wearing". I begin shifting through my hangers, more and more desperately as the seconds creep by, until my heart drops as I remember I gave away that perfect cardigan three months before, simply because I hadn't worn it in a year. No. There is no year rule with me. Instead, if I come across a piece I haven't worn in a while, I assess why that is. If it's an extreme style that probably won't come back around for another decade or four, I get rid of it. If it's a classic piece that I love, but simply haven't coordinated into an outfit for a while, such as my apple green cardigan, I keep it.
I'm all for de-cluttering and organization, but my wardrobe is the one area I let cramp my shoebox room style. In order to create more room in my new space, folding more of my tops is going to be mandatory. Thanks to my experience working at Express, I have this skill down to a science, but for those of you that still have mommy do the folding - one of my roommates is here to lend a hand.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZL42UQIjBWg

When I do decide to let something go, I always always donate. Give to a friend, local charity, thrift shop - there are numerous opportunities to donate clothing, so there really is no excuse to actually throw away something you're getting rid of. It not only goes to a great cause, but it helps ease the heartache a little. I hate to let go of my lace turquoise blouse, but knowing someone will appreciate it almost as much as I did makes it a little easier. If that doesn't work, think of the the ways you can fill the new space you are creating. I may not be able to replace my new clothing voids with more clothes, but I will be moving into an apartment with no roommates in sight, and that fact alone is worth letting go of that turquoise blouse.

The Comfort of Date Night

My Asian roommates never cease to amaze me, but this time their ability to disgust hit an all time low. Still groggy and blurry eyed from my beauty sleep, I stumbled into the kitchen to make my coffee, as I do every morning. Along with mountains of curry, white rice, and other freakish looking edibles consuming the kitchen, was an extra little surprise. They left me none other than a dead fish - laying right. in front. of my coffee pot. I have never really understood the concept of "being this close to throwing up" until I lived with these roommates. I was "this close" to throwing up. I don't really need to explain the fact that I don't appreciate being stared at by any form of animal while making my morning coffee - just know that I am literally counting the days until I move out of China town. 21.

I am more than ready to live sans nasty roommates, and though I've wanted to live alone for a while now, there are some things I miss about living with people...people that I love, and have similar cultural habits to my own. It's been so long since I've actually lived in my parents' home, but I still miss the small comforts of living with my family. It wasn't even always about talking - just knowing they were there. I loved Sunday mornings when my dad and I timed breakfast at the same time - silently skimming the paper and draining the coffee pot together. There was something so calming about falling asleep for an afternoon nap on the living room couch, with the muffled sounds of my mom cooking dinner coming from the kitchen. And there was nothing that my siblings most likely secretly loathed more than me crawling into their laps while they were trying to relax, or having to publicly hold my hand or escort me by the arm as if I was some sort of royalty. Which I should be. But what they don't realize is that those small comforts meant the most to me. And they still do. Just the presence of a loved one is a powerful thing. I indulge in every one of these scenarios each time I visit home.

Knowing I am not going to have those moments here, I have learned to create new comforts for myself. When you start a life over a thousand miles from home, you cannot be afraid to do things on your own. It may initially seem awkward and uncomfortable, but you'll find yourself able to appreciate a different kind of comfort - the comfort of being secure by yourself. For example, I am at Panera Bread right now for dinner...obviously alone, or I would be one rude dinner date blogging away as I ate. I used to feel sorry for the people I saw eating alone, assuming they would never voluntarily be in the situation. Depending on the age box, I would mentally categorize them as either a loner with no friends, a crazy cat lady/bird man (childhood neighbor experience), or the last one living in their social group. I don't think I fall into either of the assumed categories, confirming my new found belief that there is no shame in doing things on your own, such as eating out.

I could have called someone to come out with me tonight. Or I could have stayed in and made dinner in my repulsive Asian invaded kitchen. But I chose to go out to eat by myself, because there's something relaxing about sitting next to this picture window, surrounded by my eclectic company, with a soothing jazz saxophone filling in the conversation lulls. Nothing will ever be able to replace family dinners at home, which is by far my favorite comfort when I'm there, but I've found a new way to find my little moments of comfort in New York.  

My bad ass date and myself

 So don't be afraid to go out on a date with yourself.  Browse the shelves of a local book store, take a walk around the neighborhood, or go out for a coffee. It's not only a great mental break from every day life, but you may discover to enjoy something you've never considered before. And once you get over the weird feeling of being alone, you may find spending time with yourself is not as lonely as it sounds.