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.