Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Gone Baby Gone
I guess this concludes my travel blog. It took me a while to get into it but it was actually pretty fun. This class was monumentally less painful than a lot of other ones I've taken at Loyola. I kind of enjoyed writing about my travels and the day to day. It added a little extra stress during the summer, but I'm glad I took the class. Also, I'll be a bit more prepared when I get my first fall semester assignment in about a week and a half. More prepared, but not any less bummed. Yippe, school work. Check ya laterrr.
Long One
I just finished my huge Longer Piece so I figured I'd put it up on the blog because that way I can add photos...I took way too many pictures! It's about my trip to Colorado over the 4th of July, I visited my friend who was working out there and we camped in Colorado Springs.
I was offered a huge brownie and gladly accepted. “Kevin’s mom does catering on the side, so she made us brownies for the trip,” Emily informed, while picking me one from a large-size zip lock bag. “Oh cool. Thanks, Kevin” I said, looking as excited as my dogs when they’re awaiting their beggin’ strips. The brownie stash depleted during the trip, and by the end there were none left. Every outing was an excuse for a brownie. They were chewy, but cake like, with crunchy chocolate chips and just the right ratio of gooey to crispy. As we munched, plans were being made for later. Should we meet up with Erin’s sister in town for dinner? Or head right out to the camp site?
Everyone gave Erin the classic “I don’t care, it’s totally up to you,” answer. After a deliberation which seemed longer than a Supreme Court hearing, it was decided. We would go grocery shopping, then meet up in town with Erin’s sister for dinner, and from there continue on to the camp site.
Erin’s sister Kathy is a 21 year old nursing student. She was babysitting two 15 year old twins with cerebral palsy. One was in a wheel chair and the other could walk with a small limp, both looked about 10. I sat next to Nathan, the brother who could walk, and we talked throughout dinner. He was intriguing, as a boy with a handicap in high school he had ideas about the way in which the school manages special needs students. He talked about his struggle in mathematics (with which I could wholeheartedly relate) and his interest in theology. He lacked confidence, as almost everyone does in high school, but he seemed driven. After conquering my manatee sized veggie burrito and figuring out the bill break down, dinner was over. I told Nathan how interesting his ideas were and how they were quite impressive for a 15 year old. He thanked me for the compliments, which I could tell he received incredibly infrequently and I gave him and his brother, Colin hugs goodbye. We walked out of Jose Ole into the fresh Colorado Springs air, hoped back in the car and continued to the camp site, munching on brownie number 2.
We put up our tent and I was uber excited to lie down, I was stupidly exhausted. We quickly got ready for bed and sipped on beers while chatting in the tent. We were both jolly, filling each other in on every aspect of life. Altitude and fatigue made me feel a little woozy after a whopping one beer. Emily offered another and I sucked it up, sure I had a headache and could hardly keep my eyes open, but I was on vacation. 10 minutes later we were both sleeping like drugged animals.
The following two days were jam-packed. We drove up a fourteener, visited a small hippie town, got soaked in the rain, saw fireworks on a military base and, petted giraffes at a zoo. I felt more American than ever before; being on a military base in the west, seeing independence day fireworks surrounded by soldiers families made me feel like I was in a Ford, Wrangler, and Coors commercial all together. As the trip continued I loved the campsite and bought some souvenirs from the tiny camp shop that doubled as an insect museum, I was having a grand old time.
I most recently thought back on my trip when I got hit on in the subway. For basically the first time ever I was hit on for real, not by an old creepy man, but rather a full-fledged line from a seemingly normal person. “Where did I go to school?” he asked, because I ‘looked familiar.’ I was on the way home from work, wearing my pencil skirt, oxford shirt, heels and, pearls. The guy chatted about how it was the last day of his internship, and that he is in business school at Harvard, and he was on his way to the “[Harvard] Club.” I went along with it and got off at the next stop with a simple, “Have a good one.” Sure, the guy was an MBA at Harvard, and actually pretty attractive, and I never get hit on but I knew it was only because I had “the look.” I had to smile, it was flattering, but I knew if he saw me eating a zip lock bag brownie in my brother’s old t-shirt with no makeup, a skipped shower, and dirty flip flops, he would be ashamed to have hit on me. It made me miss the trip.
As I walked from the subway to the apartment, almost colliding with a cab, delivery bike, and numerous people, I yearned for Colorado. Maybe I could roll with the elitist crowd, and I could also hack it camping, maybe it all depends on my clothes. I contemplated the “real me” while I slipped on my men’s mesh Loyola lacrosse shorts and collapsed on the couch. As I became engrossed in an episode of Scrubs I thought, perhaps the ‘real’ Lauren is just a Colorado-loving, sort of outdoorsy, almost elite, brownie obsessed, couch-potato, and then I laughed, because J.D fell off his scooter.
You’re so dumb Lauren how did you not notice this before? My mind swarmed with confusion, followed by panic. It felt like I had stuck my hand in an electrical socket and the pulse hit my brain. My ticket says LGA, not EWR. I did a quintuple take, until I finally accepted the information; it is 5.35 a.m, and you’re in the airlink shuttle going to the wrong airport.
I was going to Newark airport, but the plane ticket I had was for LaGuardia. I was already out of the city; we had made the crossover to NJ. My trip was doomed, so I did what I do in any questionable situation, called my mom.
“Mom.”
“Yeah?” a groggy morning voice asked.
“Sooo,” I began, totally embarrassed, “I’m going to the wrong airport, what should I do about that?” I made sure to be quiet and sneaky in the back of the freezing, over-air conditioned air-link shuttle to avoid the driver and other pass passenger from listening.
“Wait, what?” the voice woke up fast, “you’re going to the wrong airport, where are you?”
“Well, the airlink we booked is for Newark, but I just looked at my ticket again and my plane takes off from LaGuardia,” I explained while becoming progressively more upset.
“Okay,” now almost fully awake, my mom reached her problem solving tone, “What time is the flight at LaGuardia? Are you already out of the city? What time is it now?”
“Yeah?” a groggy morning voice asked.
“Sooo,” I began, totally embarrassed, “I’m going to the wrong airport, what should I do about that?” I made sure to be quiet and sneaky in the back of the freezing, over-air conditioned air-link shuttle to avoid the driver and other pass passenger from listening.
“Wait, what?” the voice woke up fast, “you’re going to the wrong airport, where are you?”
“Well, the airlink we booked is for Newark, but I just looked at my ticket again and my plane takes off from LaGuardia,” I explained while becoming progressively more upset.
“Okay,” now almost fully awake, my mom reached her problem solving tone, “What time is the flight at LaGuardia? Are you already out of the city? What time is it now?”
At this point, I ignored the part of me that felt like a waste of life for going to the wrong airport, and furthermore, calling my mom because I couldn’t figure out the situation on my own. But I knew instead of beating myself up, I should focus on solving the problem.
“I don’t know where we are exactly, we’re actually stopped at a gas station right now, definitely in New Jersey. It’s 5.42. The flight takes off at 7.30 in LaGuardia.”
“Okay, ask the shuttle driver what to do, he may have a suggestion, they deal with this kind of stuff all the time. Maybe you can make it back. Call me back after you ask him. If not, we’ll figure something else out. I’ll call United [Airlines.]”
“I don’t know where we are exactly, we’re actually stopped at a gas station right now, definitely in New Jersey. It’s 5.42. The flight takes off at 7.30 in LaGuardia.”
“Okay, ask the shuttle driver what to do, he may have a suggestion, they deal with this kind of stuff all the time. Maybe you can make it back. Call me back after you ask him. If not, we’ll figure something else out. I’ll call United [Airlines.]”
Dreading the sentence I was about to say, it occurred to me how smashed my pride already was, and I went for it. “Excuse me,” I started once the shuttle driver got back in the car from cleaning the windshield, “I realized I’m going to the wrong airport, and I actually need to be going to LaGuardia, so do you have any suggestions?”
“Oh man, you’re going to the wrong airport! Hm, I mean I don’t know, at this point I just have to take you to Newark. There’s buses once you get there that bring people to LaGuardia, on the bottom floor you have to go downstairs then...”
I tuned him out once I realized he would be of no help. I called my mom back, “He didn’t know anything.”
“Well maybe you can still get back to LaGuardia. I’ll call United and see if you can change the flight, but you may end up just not going.”
“Yeah,” I replied, now completely crushed and humiliated. I felt a lump start to form in my throat, the negative thoughts spewed out of me, “I’m 20 years old and I can’t even manage travel alone. This sucks, how did I not realize this until now. And Dad booked it, he didn’t see it either,” I complained to my mom.
“Babe, it happens. One time I missed my connector because I got distracted reading a magazine in a store, I’ll call you back.”10 minutes of anxiety later, my mom called.
“Okay, you’re on the 9.20 flight to Denver out of Newark.”
“So, that’s it, I can go on that flight?”
“Yeah, there’s a fee but you can figure that out later, I think it’s like fifty bucks.”
“Alright, thanks so much mom, sorry I woke you up.”
“Call me when you’re boarding, bye babe.”
“Oh man, you’re going to the wrong airport! Hm, I mean I don’t know, at this point I just have to take you to Newark. There’s buses once you get there that bring people to LaGuardia, on the bottom floor you have to go downstairs then...”
I tuned him out once I realized he would be of no help. I called my mom back, “He didn’t know anything.”
“Well maybe you can still get back to LaGuardia. I’ll call United and see if you can change the flight, but you may end up just not going.”
“Yeah,” I replied, now completely crushed and humiliated. I felt a lump start to form in my throat, the negative thoughts spewed out of me, “I’m 20 years old and I can’t even manage travel alone. This sucks, how did I not realize this until now. And Dad booked it, he didn’t see it either,” I complained to my mom.
“Babe, it happens. One time I missed my connector because I got distracted reading a magazine in a store, I’ll call you back.”10 minutes of anxiety later, my mom called.
“Okay, you’re on the 9.20 flight to Denver out of Newark.”
“So, that’s it, I can go on that flight?”
“Yeah, there’s a fee but you can figure that out later, I think it’s like fifty bucks.”
“Alright, thanks so much mom, sorry I woke you up.”
“Call me when you’re boarding, bye babe.”
I was going to Colorado after all. Four hours, two delays, and a few computer glitches in the master United system later, we took off. The end of the devious travel was the beginning my sweet vacation.
On July 2nd I went to visit my friend Emily in Colorado. She worked in Wyoming all summer on the Wyoming Conservation Corps. They work 10 days on, 4 days off, building, fixing, hiking, camping and, occasionally showering.
Her co-worker friend Erin lives in CO and has a car. Erin, her boyfriend Kevin, Emily and I were going camping in Colorado Springs. I had been counting down the days until the trip. I took off a day of my internship to make the trip happen. I live in New York City, and a trip to Colorado felt like visiting a holy land. There would be green luscious trees, fresh oxygen, mountains, and best of all, the trapped feeling I sometimes get in Manhattan would be non-existent.
After collecting my luggage and having a joyful reunion with my best friend, we hopped in Erin’s car. I appreciated the informal meeting of Erin and her boyfriend; no suits, no firm handshakes, just a “Hi I’m Lauren” with a laugh as I stuffed myself into the back seat with my bag, feeling the sweet relief of vacation.
On July 2nd I went to visit my friend Emily in Colorado. She worked in Wyoming all summer on the Wyoming Conservation Corps. They work 10 days on, 4 days off, building, fixing, hiking, camping and, occasionally showering.
Her co-worker friend Erin lives in CO and has a car. Erin, her boyfriend Kevin, Emily and I were going camping in Colorado Springs. I had been counting down the days until the trip. I took off a day of my internship to make the trip happen. I live in New York City, and a trip to Colorado felt like visiting a holy land. There would be green luscious trees, fresh oxygen, mountains, and best of all, the trapped feeling I sometimes get in Manhattan would be non-existent.
After collecting my luggage and having a joyful reunion with my best friend, we hopped in Erin’s car. I appreciated the informal meeting of Erin and her boyfriend; no suits, no firm handshakes, just a “Hi I’m Lauren” with a laugh as I stuffed myself into the back seat with my bag, feeling the sweet relief of vacation.
Emily and I caught up while Erin and Kevin chatted in the front seat. Despite different colleges, and two consecutive summers of having completely different jobs, Emily and my friendship has not faltered one bit. Hanging out with Emily is comfortable, like watching t.v in a pair of old sweatpants. Listening to her blab like a travel agent about the place we were going, I blissfully sunk back into regular Lauren. I was out of the city, out of my corporate clothes and, out of having to try so hard. During the whole trip I didn’t have to look at a computer, wear makeup or even shower. Driving farther from the airport was like a massage, and the following cucumber facial mask would consist of dirt.
I was offered a huge brownie and gladly accepted. “Kevin’s mom does catering on the side, so she made us brownies for the trip,” Emily informed, while picking me one from a large-size zip lock bag. “Oh cool. Thanks, Kevin” I said, looking as excited as my dogs when they’re awaiting their beggin’ strips. The brownie stash depleted during the trip, and by the end there were none left. Every outing was an excuse for a brownie. They were chewy, but cake like, with crunchy chocolate chips and just the right ratio of gooey to crispy. As we munched, plans were being made for later. Should we meet up with Erin’s sister in town for dinner? Or head right out to the camp site?
Everyone gave Erin the classic “I don’t care, it’s totally up to you,” answer. After a deliberation which seemed longer than a Supreme Court hearing, it was decided. We would go grocery shopping, then meet up in town with Erin’s sister for dinner, and from there continue on to the camp site.
Erin’s sister Kathy is a 21 year old nursing student. She was babysitting two 15 year old twins with cerebral palsy. One was in a wheel chair and the other could walk with a small limp, both looked about 10. I sat next to Nathan, the brother who could walk, and we talked throughout dinner. He was intriguing, as a boy with a handicap in high school he had ideas about the way in which the school manages special needs students. He talked about his struggle in mathematics (with which I could wholeheartedly relate) and his interest in theology. He lacked confidence, as almost everyone does in high school, but he seemed driven. After conquering my manatee sized veggie burrito and figuring out the bill break down, dinner was over. I told Nathan how interesting his ideas were and how they were quite impressive for a 15 year old. He thanked me for the compliments, which I could tell he received incredibly infrequently and I gave him and his brother, Colin hugs goodbye. We walked out of Jose Ole into the fresh Colorado Springs air, hoped back in the car and continued to the camp site, munching on brownie number 2.
We checked in with the woman who runs the campsite and then drove up to find a ground. Seeing the camp site was like spending hours studying for a test, thinking you did well, and receiving a C; kind of a disappointment. None of us knew fully what to expect, but the site was packed with R.Vs and there weren’t many spots remaining. Emily and I had flashbacks of crowded New Jersey while we frantically searched for a decent spot. We settled on what we decided was the best one left and set up camp.
We put up our tent and I was uber excited to lie down, I was stupidly exhausted. We quickly got ready for bed and sipped on beers while chatting in the tent. We were both jolly, filling each other in on every aspect of life. Altitude and fatigue made me feel a little woozy after a whopping one beer. Emily offered another and I sucked it up, sure I had a headache and could hardly keep my eyes open, but I was on vacation. 10 minutes later we were both sleeping like drugged animals.
The following two days were jam-packed. We drove up a fourteener, visited a small hippie town, got soaked in the rain, saw fireworks on a military base and, petted giraffes at a zoo. I felt more American than ever before; being on a military base in the west, seeing independence day fireworks surrounded by soldiers families made me feel like I was in a Ford, Wrangler, and Coors commercial all together. As the trip continued I loved the campsite and bought some souvenirs from the tiny camp shop that doubled as an insect museum, I was having a grand old time.
Sunday evening rolled around and it was time to go. Desperately wishing I could stay another day and dreading the subway rides and cab horns that awaited me I got out of Erin’s car at the airport and gave everyone hugs goodbye.
I went to work Monday and replied, “It was good, really fun, but now I’m so tired,” whenever anyone asked how my fourth was. I didn’t venture into detail about how surprisingly hard giraffe’s ears are, and how much they resemble horses up close. I didn’t mention the other gorgeous sites from the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, or the humorous “Hippie-Crit” newspaper we read in the hippie town we visited after. I didn’t talk about the unwarranted amount of patriotism that overcame me while I watched fireworks on a huge military base. I neglected to share how mine and Emily’s typical deep discussions were amplified by the full moon and lake we sat by at night while having them. There was no need for anyone to know. I kept it for myself and thought about it anytime I felt trapped in the big city. The trip was insanely fun and further deepened my weird love for Colorado. Meeting interesting people and experiencing Colorado Springs was like one of Kevin’s Mom’s scrumptious brownies. It was the perfect ratio of enjoyment to relaxation.
I most recently thought back on my trip when I got hit on in the subway. For basically the first time ever I was hit on for real, not by an old creepy man, but rather a full-fledged line from a seemingly normal person. “Where did I go to school?” he asked, because I ‘looked familiar.’ I was on the way home from work, wearing my pencil skirt, oxford shirt, heels and, pearls. The guy chatted about how it was the last day of his internship, and that he is in business school at Harvard, and he was on his way to the “[Harvard] Club.” I went along with it and got off at the next stop with a simple, “Have a good one.” Sure, the guy was an MBA at Harvard, and actually pretty attractive, and I never get hit on but I knew it was only because I had “the look.” I had to smile, it was flattering, but I knew if he saw me eating a zip lock bag brownie in my brother’s old t-shirt with no makeup, a skipped shower, and dirty flip flops, he would be ashamed to have hit on me. It made me miss the trip.
As I walked from the subway to the apartment, almost colliding with a cab, delivery bike, and numerous people, I yearned for Colorado. Maybe I could roll with the elitist crowd, and I could also hack it camping, maybe it all depends on my clothes. I contemplated the “real me” while I slipped on my men’s mesh Loyola lacrosse shorts and collapsed on the couch. As I became engrossed in an episode of Scrubs I thought, perhaps the ‘real’ Lauren is just a Colorado-loving, sort of outdoorsy, almost elite, brownie obsessed, couch-potato, and then I laughed, because J.D fell off his scooter.
Mamu: The Best Grandma Eveerrrr
‘Mamu’ stems from the word Grandma. Mispronounced by my brother at a young age, Grandma became Grandmu then morphed into Mamu. It is the name of my father’s mother. She is Mamu, no questions about it; the name is used by her six children, and has been taken over by the newest grandkids- my Uncle Mike’s 3 young ones who live in Illinois. I think the name gives Mamu some kick and spice. She’s not just Grandma, Grammy, Nana etc, she is Mamu.
Since my birth until age 10, Mamu was our babysitter. She came to our home every morning and tended to us after our parents left for work. Mamu cooked, cleaned, walked us to the park, and drove us to school and practice. When the first parent got home she drove off in her Saturn back to Millburn until the next day.
In 2007 Mamu moved two hours away from us. Now she lives in Brigantine, a beach town near Atlantic City, in the same condo complex as my aunt and uncle. When we first saw the place off Brigantine Ave we laughed because it was set up the same as her other apartment; couch, chair, bed—all where they were before, just in a new setting. Plus, despite the 3 hour travel time, the place smelled exactly the same as her other apartment.
Since my birth until age 10, Mamu was our babysitter. She came to our home every morning and tended to us after our parents left for work. Mamu cooked, cleaned, walked us to the park, and drove us to school and practice. When the first parent got home she drove off in her Saturn back to Millburn until the next day.
In 2007 Mamu moved two hours away from us. Now she lives in Brigantine, a beach town near Atlantic City, in the same condo complex as my aunt and uncle. When we first saw the place off Brigantine Ave we laughed because it was set up the same as her other apartment; couch, chair, bed—all where they were before, just in a new setting. Plus, despite the 3 hour travel time, the place smelled exactly the same as her other apartment.
I went to visit Mamu in May, spontaneously deciding to go down on a Wednesday. I left pretty early and got down around 11. Mamu waved out the window as I parked the car. I gave her a hug, reminding me how much the 85 year old has been shrinking over the past 10 years. She patted me on the back as she always does during hugs, and I was ready to settle in. I plopped on the 20 year old couch and began filling Mamu in on my family’s happenings.
Talking to Mamu always makes me feel like an international executive of sorts; my life sounds so busy and important to her. I poured a glass of 2%milk and toasted an English muffin while we chatted. Mamu ventured out to the porch to read the paper and “watch the world go by.” I spread some apricot marmalade on my muffin and walked to the porch to join her.
I was right near Atlantic City and about a block from the beach but there was no need to go anywhere. I was tremendously excited to eat my English muffin topped with old-lady jam and just hang out. I was with one my favorite people in the world and totally relaxed.
I love rednecks and hippies
Feeling the energy of the crowd and blaring music is a fantastic sensation. The best is standing near a speaker and feeling your chest pound like being in some weird deep underwater pressure. I love to see live music. Obviously it’s better to see a band you know, but seeing almost any band is entertaining. I went to 2 shows this May, both tame, and somewhat different than the shows I typically attend.
In early May I got my family to go to the Beatle’s Brunch with me. I’m aware that to some this sounds super lame, but I enjoyed it. The “Beatles” were the former cast of the Broadway show ‘Beatle Mania.’ They were all talented, and middle-aged. They played all the typical hits and changed outfits and wigs throughout to represent the Beatles’ development throughout the decades. The crowd ranged from those who had seen the real Beatles to teenagers who felt like they missed out and wanted to capture the musical genius. It was the perfect family outing. Good food, stellar music, and we didn’t even have to talk that much.
The next show I went to- at the same venue, this time with just my Dad- was Blue Oyster Cult. Honestly, I only knew their one famous song that everyone knows. My dad got tickets, we figured why not go, even if it is just to hear one song. I looked a little deeper into their catalog and realized they had a few famous songs, and some real intense fans. We arrived at the show fairly early and there was a long line out front. I started to check out the crowd, and it was oddly diverse. Ages spanned from about 20 to 60 and it was male dominated; some guys looked kind of hard core, and some looked a bit redneck.. The herd filed inside and I noticed numerous women with stuck-in-the-80s hairdos. I could be wrong, but it seemed I was the only lady my age wearing a sun dress and sweater at the show. It was phenomenal, I loved being random.
My Dad and I sat at a table with a 30 something Asian couple, a 50 something couple from France, and two manly men with tattoos, facial hair, hunting caps and a bucket of brewskis.
At the table behind us were two middle-aged guys, one brought his son and the son brought two friends. All of them were sporting BOC t-shirts from a show they had seen in Hoboken. One of the middle-aged guys I named “superfan” because he freaking loves Blue Oyster Cult. In between swigs from his Coors he enthusiastically shouted facts about the band to his friend next to him…all of which I heard and relayed to my Dad. Before the show started we knew that only two original members remained, and the bassist had played with White Snake, Deep Purple, and Ozzy.
I pretended to be a major fan, and went along with the crowd. I think its fun to get swept up with the crowd at shows, even if you don’t really know what’s going on. I haven’t listened to Blue Oyster Cult anymore than I did before the show, and I don’t plan on doing so; but the show was fantastic; great music, entertaining crowd and an overall fun time.
In early May I got my family to go to the Beatle’s Brunch with me. I’m aware that to some this sounds super lame, but I enjoyed it. The “Beatles” were the former cast of the Broadway show ‘Beatle Mania.’ They were all talented, and middle-aged. They played all the typical hits and changed outfits and wigs throughout to represent the Beatles’ development throughout the decades. The crowd ranged from those who had seen the real Beatles to teenagers who felt like they missed out and wanted to capture the musical genius. It was the perfect family outing. Good food, stellar music, and we didn’t even have to talk that much.
The next show I went to- at the same venue, this time with just my Dad- was Blue Oyster Cult. Honestly, I only knew their one famous song that everyone knows. My dad got tickets, we figured why not go, even if it is just to hear one song. I looked a little deeper into their catalog and realized they had a few famous songs, and some real intense fans. We arrived at the show fairly early and there was a long line out front. I started to check out the crowd, and it was oddly diverse. Ages spanned from about 20 to 60 and it was male dominated; some guys looked kind of hard core, and some looked a bit redneck.. The herd filed inside and I noticed numerous women with stuck-in-the-80s hairdos. I could be wrong, but it seemed I was the only lady my age wearing a sun dress and sweater at the show. It was phenomenal, I loved being random.
My Dad and I sat at a table with a 30 something Asian couple, a 50 something couple from France, and two manly men with tattoos, facial hair, hunting caps and a bucket of brewskis.
At the table behind us were two middle-aged guys, one brought his son and the son brought two friends. All of them were sporting BOC t-shirts from a show they had seen in Hoboken. One of the middle-aged guys I named “superfan” because he freaking loves Blue Oyster Cult. In between swigs from his Coors he enthusiastically shouted facts about the band to his friend next to him…all of which I heard and relayed to my Dad. Before the show started we knew that only two original members remained, and the bassist had played with White Snake, Deep Purple, and Ozzy.
I pretended to be a major fan, and went along with the crowd. I think its fun to get swept up with the crowd at shows, even if you don’t really know what’s going on. I haven’t listened to Blue Oyster Cult anymore than I did before the show, and I don’t plan on doing so; but the show was fantastic; great music, entertaining crowd and an overall fun time.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
boring internship stuff
I just realized I have comments on my blog! They’ve apparently been there for about a month but I just noticed them. Obviously, I have not been the best at keeping this blog, but I have reasons.
I noticed the comments were about my internship. And that very little guy, Mr. Internship, is what is keeping me from this blog. I just can’t fathom looking at a computer screen after I get home from work. I can watch t.v., but that’s as much screen as I can tolerate. I tend to avoid my phone, and my poor lab top must feel quite sad. During school he’s my best bud, but now it’s just not the same. My facebook has even felt the pain; I just don’t visit it as much anymore.
But Dr. King sent us a “get serious email,” and when I finally checked my email (which I now do about once a month) I thought “oh shat, i’m totally slacking.” So I’m trying to do better. Even though I am deathly sick of computer screens from staring at one all day, I must do my homework! Anyway, I think I’ll write a little about my internship, since it is the very reason I dislike monitors and thus, avoid this class work.
I work at Credit Suisse; a Swiss bank, headquartered in gorgeous Zurich. I work in the Private Banking division as a Marketing Intern. The marketing team in which I work consists of six characters; 3 main, and 3 supporting. They are all ladies ranging in age from 24 to 39. (It took me about five weeks to figure out ages but I got most of them- for some reason I need to know ages of people when I get to know them.)
The cast hails from all over. Two of the ladies are from Switzerland; one is Chinese from Hong Kong & England. One is form the Philippines and came to the U.S. for college. Then there are two Americans, one of whom speaks Italian. It’s quite a nice mix, plus there are some great accents.
The private bank works with insanely wealthy people. To be a P.Bing client, you must have upwards of $20 million. Some clients have a $4 billion net worth. I can’t picture that much money, but it’s out there. Today I heard a story about a family with 70 million, whose kid just graduated from a good college, and is now living in his car in Colorado, river rafting all summer. (Yes, I am outrageously jealous.)
The head of the marketing team, Fiona is an extraordinary lady. She is incredibly nice--she gets everything done without ever pissing anyone off. That is quite a golden characteristic in any business setting. I can tell she’s awesome at marketing-- and I barley know anything about marketing. Fiona and her underlings think of strategic programs to retain and gain clients. It’s all about pleasing the uber-rich, so the people who manage their money (people like my dad) can make a nice living. It’s kind of funny the way it works. Anyway, they think of events, make brochures, and tons of other things...
Above Fiona is a “managing director.” He’s probably mid-50s and has a daughter one year younger than me. He knows my Dad, so he introduced himself to me the first day, (managing directors normally could not care less about interns.) This guy is one of the elite; he has an office! He’s the one whose window I can see out of! I feel comfortable around him because he reminds me of my best friend’s dad. This is kind of risky because I let my sarcastic, ‘wry’ (as Dr. king said) sense of humor run free with him.
He told my Dad in so many words, that ‘I don’t take crap from anyone. (Which by the way is quite false, but I guess that’s the way I am with him.)
Last week I got worried though, he said, “you’re going to go far with your sarcastic answer to everything.” But, I quickly dropped my concern when he proceeded to make fun of my bright yellow nail polish the next day and, CCed me in an email to my dad regarding my ‘gross’ nails.
Occasionally he throws on a jam around 4.30 to loosen up for the end of the day. Yesterday, he called me into his office and asked me to name my favorite song. I was quite hesitant, but with coaxing, I gave in. My favorite song is “Going to California,” by Led Zeppelin. Once I disclosed my song he searched for it on youtube and couldn’t find it, “Is this one of those songs kids sit around and smoke weed to?” he asked. I awkwardly stammered, “Maybe” and laughed, not expecting such an intimidating question. Which he followed up by, “what decade were you born in?” Finally he located the song, which he said was “slow.” My song choice was not his cup of tea, but at least it was interesting.
There are many characters in the office besides just the marketing team. There are some
--quirky interns --a vegan managing director who eats bags of lettuce for lunch---John McGinley’s brother (dr. cox from scrubs.) & --sleveless girl.
This one girl, aprox. 24, always has a sleeveless shirt on! In my head, I call her “sleeveless girl.” I’ve never actually met her, but I see her almost everyday.
Her cubicle is on the way to the marketing closet. The marketing closet is where we throw the extra brochures, booklets, client gifts, and event necessities. It smells of bubble wrap and cardboard. I spend a lot of time in there, fetching things for my co-workers.
The marketing closet is an organized, bland looking, sanctuary. I love going on trips to the closet. I can go in there and shut the door for a little get away. It is time alone; I can take my shoes off and dance around--because for a moment, 30 people can’t see what I am doing at all times. I enjoy the marketing closet, maybe more than the entire cast of characters.
And yes, I have danced around in there, because why not?
(that came dangerously close to a hillary duff song lyric which is embarrassing.)
That's the gist of my internship, what I do and where I fit in during all of this, is not that important, I'm just an intern after all.
Credit Suisse NY office:
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sir Paul
On the way home from work one day, two weeks ago, I got off the subway and heard some loud music. I walked toward our apartment and approached the outskirts of a massive crowd. I asked a woman who was a dead give-away tourist what was going on. She informed me that Sir Paul McCartney was playing on the Ed Sullivan theatre marquee.
On the way to work I saw people setting up cranes and such, but I figured they for some stunt on the Letterman show. It was a lovely surprise, I haven't followed his solo career, but obviously he is one of the Beatles. Thus, he is a somewhat of a legend. Some people are cynical about him going around singing Beatles songs, but I was pumped and while he sang Helter Skelter I felt overwhelmed, I was seeing a Beatle and I was freakin' happy. While introducing "Back in the U.S.S.R" he informed the crowd that 'this place no longer exists,' and we all laughed and sang along. I took some photos, congratulating myself for starting to bring my camera around "just in case." Once he finished and the crowd dispersed a guy said to his friend, "this is the kind of stuff that makes all the b.s of living in the city worth it." I walked across Broadway dodging pedestrians and thought that, Perhaps he's right...?
On the way to work I saw people setting up cranes and such, but I figured they for some stunt on the Letterman show. It was a lovely surprise, I haven't followed his solo career, but obviously he is one of the Beatles. Thus, he is a somewhat of a legend. Some people are cynical about him going around singing Beatles songs, but I was pumped and while he sang Helter Skelter I felt overwhelmed, I was seeing a Beatle and I was freakin' happy. While introducing "Back in the U.S.S.R" he informed the crowd that 'this place no longer exists,' and we all laughed and sang along. I took some photos, congratulating myself for starting to bring my camera around "just in case." Once he finished and the crowd dispersed a guy said to his friend, "this is the kind of stuff that makes all the b.s of living in the city worth it." I walked across Broadway dodging pedestrians and thought that, Perhaps he's right...?
Happy Graduation Jeffrey
It’s weird, because even though I feel pretty immature and know I’m young, I constantly get slapped in the face by how old I’m getting. Jeff’s graduation from college was one of those wicked face whacks. He’s two years older than me, and now a college grad. I remember when he got his license and it shook me—my brother can drive. He seemed incredibly old. This is like that, except a lot worse. I thought college grads were grown up, but he just doesn’t seem that way. Regardless of my convoluted thoughts, in mid-May I traveled down to Washington D.C for Jeff’s graduation festivities.
The traffic on the way down was horrendous. My dad drove one car, and my mom and I followed (Jeff needed one to move out.) Driving 6 hours in bumper to bumper traffic with my mother was worse than preparing, taking, and getting the results of the SATs. The ride was accompanied with snaps of “Slow down! I see break lights!” “Why are you still accelerating?” “You treat this car horribly” and “Do you ever listen to a song all the way through?”
When we finally pulled up to the Key Bridge Marriot my dad ran to check in and upon his return we quickly parked the cars. We were running late for our 5.30 reservation at an Italian place my brother had been longing to try since his freshman year. The streets looked like downtown Baltimore after a Ravens game, so we walked.
Sweating with frizzy hair and a stretched out sun dress I had not planned on wearing, I speed walked to the restaurant moving faster than a golf cart, but not quite the speed of a scooter. I swerved through people like cones in a car commercial, and infrequently glanced back at my exhausted mother lagging behind. I was determined, this reservation meant eating fabulous food, but more importantly I didn’t want to let my brother down. After a walk which took longer than I expected, I saw Jeff under the awning and quickly crossed the street. We went downstairs to inform the inpatient host that indeed one more member of the party was there and two more were on their way. Jeff went back up to the street to find our parents and I held down the fort, finally catching my breath from my travels. The crowd was excited yet classy. People were celebrating, but in a low-key manner to accompany the dim-lit high class restaurant. They would have time to rage at the black tie ball later anyway. We finally sat down to dinner and all scarfed down warm crunchy Italian bread, sopping it up with salty thick olive oil. Jeff spoke of his depression about being done with college, and my parents listened thoughtfully as I munched on my bread, while we all thought about what the hell Jeff would do now.
Graduation marks the first time in Jeff’s life that he’s had no plan. Parallel with my life; we went to middle school, and knew after that was high school, then college. Our parents decided where we good to high school and had a heavy say in where we attended college. There was never a need for us to make decisions, ultimately our parents made them for us. After years of floating by, Jeff had come to the end. It is like a second birth, but instead of being brought home and coddled by loved ones, graduating is more like strangers with masks blindfolding you, throwing you in the back of one of those white vans, and then dumping you out in the dark while the truck is still moving.
After finishing dinner, we rushed back to the hotel with an approximate hour to get spiffed up for the black tie gala hosted by Georgetown for the grads. I tornadoed my room and got ready in time to meet my parents in the cab line. I complained about my hair and the uncomfortable amount of makeup I was wearing while everyone else seemed to enjoy their get-up. We picked up Jeff on the way and arrived about 40 minutes later at Washington Train station. The huge white marble station could make any city train station envious. I felt bad for the poor souls who actually wanted to just take the train, as it was swarmed with fancy folk ready for the night out.
We get inside and take some photos before bumping into a family which we have known for about 10 years. I speak to the younger brother of the graduate who I attended middle school with and had a massive crush on in 5th grade. Of course I was awkward, made some small talk and about 5 minutes in was quite ready to hit the open bar. We walked around checking out the station’s décor and hung around. Around 12 a.m my parents left. I basically invited myself along with Jeff for the night, and he surprisingly seemed okay with it. As soon as they left we drank a significant amount more. I talked with Jeff's lovely girlfriend, and he with his roommate. We left when it died down and went to a few different places, ultimately ending up in a backyard of one of his friend’s houses.
The graduates seemed excited but somewhat somber, realizing this was the end. We ventured back to Jeff’s house where they called me a cab to return to the hotel. I got put in a cab around 5 a.m by a wine-bottle swinging drunken brother telling me to text him when I got home. The cab driver remarked on his state, and I replied “well, it’s his last night of college.”
The traffic on the way down was horrendous. My dad drove one car, and my mom and I followed (Jeff needed one to move out.) Driving 6 hours in bumper to bumper traffic with my mother was worse than preparing, taking, and getting the results of the SATs. The ride was accompanied with snaps of “Slow down! I see break lights!” “Why are you still accelerating?” “You treat this car horribly” and “Do you ever listen to a song all the way through?”
When we finally pulled up to the Key Bridge Marriot my dad ran to check in and upon his return we quickly parked the cars. We were running late for our 5.30 reservation at an Italian place my brother had been longing to try since his freshman year. The streets looked like downtown Baltimore after a Ravens game, so we walked.
Sweating with frizzy hair and a stretched out sun dress I had not planned on wearing, I speed walked to the restaurant moving faster than a golf cart, but not quite the speed of a scooter. I swerved through people like cones in a car commercial, and infrequently glanced back at my exhausted mother lagging behind. I was determined, this reservation meant eating fabulous food, but more importantly I didn’t want to let my brother down. After a walk which took longer than I expected, I saw Jeff under the awning and quickly crossed the street. We went downstairs to inform the inpatient host that indeed one more member of the party was there and two more were on their way. Jeff went back up to the street to find our parents and I held down the fort, finally catching my breath from my travels. The crowd was excited yet classy. People were celebrating, but in a low-key manner to accompany the dim-lit high class restaurant. They would have time to rage at the black tie ball later anyway. We finally sat down to dinner and all scarfed down warm crunchy Italian bread, sopping it up with salty thick olive oil. Jeff spoke of his depression about being done with college, and my parents listened thoughtfully as I munched on my bread, while we all thought about what the hell Jeff would do now.
Graduation marks the first time in Jeff’s life that he’s had no plan. Parallel with my life; we went to middle school, and knew after that was high school, then college. Our parents decided where we good to high school and had a heavy say in where we attended college. There was never a need for us to make decisions, ultimately our parents made them for us. After years of floating by, Jeff had come to the end. It is like a second birth, but instead of being brought home and coddled by loved ones, graduating is more like strangers with masks blindfolding you, throwing you in the back of one of those white vans, and then dumping you out in the dark while the truck is still moving.
After finishing dinner, we rushed back to the hotel with an approximate hour to get spiffed up for the black tie gala hosted by Georgetown for the grads. I tornadoed my room and got ready in time to meet my parents in the cab line. I complained about my hair and the uncomfortable amount of makeup I was wearing while everyone else seemed to enjoy their get-up. We picked up Jeff on the way and arrived about 40 minutes later at Washington Train station. The huge white marble station could make any city train station envious. I felt bad for the poor souls who actually wanted to just take the train, as it was swarmed with fancy folk ready for the night out.
We get inside and take some photos before bumping into a family which we have known for about 10 years. I speak to the younger brother of the graduate who I attended middle school with and had a massive crush on in 5th grade. Of course I was awkward, made some small talk and about 5 minutes in was quite ready to hit the open bar. We walked around checking out the station’s décor and hung around. Around 12 a.m my parents left. I basically invited myself along with Jeff for the night, and he surprisingly seemed okay with it. As soon as they left we drank a significant amount more. I talked with Jeff's lovely girlfriend, and he with his roommate. We left when it died down and went to a few different places, ultimately ending up in a backyard of one of his friend’s houses.
The graduates seemed excited but somewhat somber, realizing this was the end. We ventured back to Jeff’s house where they called me a cab to return to the hotel. I got put in a cab around 5 a.m by a wine-bottle swinging drunken brother telling me to text him when I got home. The cab driver remarked on his state, and I replied “well, it’s his last night of college.”
Monday, June 29, 2009
Internshipping
I'm currently traveling in the dizzyingly monotonous world of a white collar professional. I wear blazers, heels, long skirts and spend hours in a cubicle. I’m in New York, so I wear a shit-ton of black. Manhattan white collar professionals, ironically, love black. Black collar workers would fit better for this area of business (Also it sounds more intense and mysterious, and who doesn’t love a little mystery?) I’m working in the cubicle of a woman who is currently on maternity leave. She left about five pairs of size 8 ½ shoes in her bottom desk drawer, in addition to family photos. In the right corner of her desk are pictures of her husband and her on their wedding day, their beautiful Arian baby boy, and their adorable sandy colored dog. Sometimes while staring off into the depths of my computer monitor I wonder if people walk by and think “why does that young dark complexioned lady have photos of a blond couple in wedding attire and baby on her desk?” I think it would be funny if they did. People here need a little bit of funny.
I work on the 7th floor of a 28 story office building. I got this internship because my good ol’ pops works here. He works on the same floor; on the other side. We’re part of the private banking division. His side of the floor is a little more upbeat. There are bond traders over there so it sounds kind of like a backyard party compared to my area of the floor which sounds like a doctor’s office waiting room. From my desk I can see into three offices. Offices are quite luxurious; they typically have windows so they can see outside! I can see outside by peering into one of the office’s windows. Some offices have televisions, and artwork. Most importantly an office means no one can see what you’re doing on your computer, and your phone conversations are not overheard by about 30 people, like in the cubicle region. Those guys could be playing Tetris for hours and I would have no idea; that’s pretty stellar. From my desk, I can see what 5 people are doing at all times…not that I care, but I’m just saying, someone’s always watching.
As I neglect my critical intern duties I drift into a land of profound thoughts. First about the overwhelming amount of time spent in this cubicle for people who do this full time, and just how short weekends are. Then I think about people with young kids that live in the ‘burbs.
They get up; clean their kids, make breakfast, pack lunch, and get them off to camp or school, then they get ready. Following that is their commute to work where they remain for upwards of 8 hours. After which they commute home, feed and clean their kids, help them with homework and, lecture them about not being bad. Sometime in all of this they manage to attend games, parent teacher conferences, bring their kids on vacations, pay bills, upkeep their home and for those overachievers- exercise. Even if they have a fantastic housekeeper and nanny, there’s still more going in their day to day than on an episode of a trashy teen drama show. It blows my mind when I think of all my parents have done and I question if I could ever do all that.
…In other more random thoughts, I realized how pointless and funny ties are. They are the silliest accessory ever, and it means that mostly all macho business men accessorize, I would like someone to break the news to them. Back to work.
I work on the 7th floor of a 28 story office building. I got this internship because my good ol’ pops works here. He works on the same floor; on the other side. We’re part of the private banking division. His side of the floor is a little more upbeat. There are bond traders over there so it sounds kind of like a backyard party compared to my area of the floor which sounds like a doctor’s office waiting room. From my desk I can see into three offices. Offices are quite luxurious; they typically have windows so they can see outside! I can see outside by peering into one of the office’s windows. Some offices have televisions, and artwork. Most importantly an office means no one can see what you’re doing on your computer, and your phone conversations are not overheard by about 30 people, like in the cubicle region. Those guys could be playing Tetris for hours and I would have no idea; that’s pretty stellar. From my desk, I can see what 5 people are doing at all times…not that I care, but I’m just saying, someone’s always watching.
As I neglect my critical intern duties I drift into a land of profound thoughts. First about the overwhelming amount of time spent in this cubicle for people who do this full time, and just how short weekends are. Then I think about people with young kids that live in the ‘burbs.
They get up; clean their kids, make breakfast, pack lunch, and get them off to camp or school, then they get ready. Following that is their commute to work where they remain for upwards of 8 hours. After which they commute home, feed and clean their kids, help them with homework and, lecture them about not being bad. Sometime in all of this they manage to attend games, parent teacher conferences, bring their kids on vacations, pay bills, upkeep their home and for those overachievers- exercise. Even if they have a fantastic housekeeper and nanny, there’s still more going in their day to day than on an episode of a trashy teen drama show. It blows my mind when I think of all my parents have done and I question if I could ever do all that.
…In other more random thoughts, I realized how pointless and funny ties are. They are the silliest accessory ever, and it means that mostly all macho business men accessorize, I would like someone to break the news to them. Back to work.
The Cabin
The small structure, originally built as an overnight lodge for skeet shooting enthusiasts has been what my family and I affectionately call “the cabin,” for 21 years now. The cabin means nature, relaxation, almost obnoxious amounts of family time, kayaking, the general store, and Uncle Jim. The saggy wood cabin painted burnt red with white trimming stands connected to the new larger than life deck, across the lawn from ‘the shed,’ ‘shed junior,’ and up the driveway from the ‘rock wall’ (all crucial items of cabin culture.) My mom, dad, brother and I went to the cabin in May for what was likely the only time this summer we’d all be there, and likely the only time I’d go there at all this summer.
Attendance at the cabin has dropped steeply over the years. With the addition of the Manhattan apartment, and our generally busier lifestyle, the cabin is like an old stuffed animal. It has millions of memories, induces a warm feeling in the stomach depths, and although we will never cease to love it, we’re too old to sleep with it anymore. Yet, the cabin is a wondrous place. There is a tiny wood burning stove inside creating a musty fiery smell in the winter. It stinks up anything that comes in its path and seeps in like a delicious skunk spray. In the fall, spring and, summer we have campfires (in a pit which my brother and I built a decade ago) with firewood which has been cut and collected from my chainsaw loving father and brother. We spend time reading, talking, and fishing—insane rarities at home.
This visit to the cabin is typical, a satisfying and comforting feeling. It’s almost always the same at the cabin.
My brother, Dad and I clean up branches which had come down in the winter ice storm, while my mom cleans and prepares meals inside. By the end of the work day my legs look as though I fought a hardcore cat and lost, I am pooped but content. I go to bed around 10 and wake up at 8.30 when my dad walks out of his room flipping up every shade, creating a quick blinding explosion of morning light on my brother and my sensitive sleepy eyes. We roll around in our former bunk beds, (now separate on different sides of the living room/kitchen area) for a few minutes before accepting it is indeed morning, waking up early is just another cabin staple. Next step- the general store.
For quite sometime we referred to the general store as the “new general store.” The ‘old’ general store was closer and even more townie; it was tiny and everything seemed fresh but old and dusty at the same time. It was run by a chubby, bearded middle-aged man named Bob. He lived above the store, and ran the store for longer than I’ve been alive. But one day about ten years ago my Dad informed us that Uncle Jim (dad's brother who lives near the cabin,) had just called with news that Bob had tried to commit suicide. It turned out the general store was experiencing all sorts of economic turmoil and poor Bob couldn’t deal. The news saddened us, and worse was seeing the abandoned general store the next time we went up. A staple of our youth was empty, a depressed little store with a seemingly dark future, in the middle of Becket. It was a blow to my naïve mind that even in the magical land of ‘the cabin’ bad things could happen. The general store remains dark and idle after a decade, and the ‘new’ general store a town over thrives next to the fancy new post office they put in last year.
It took time, but we have come to accept and love the new general, and look forward to stopping in. A visit to ‘the general’ while at the cabin is as necessary as a morning pee; you just have to do it. We go to see the typical disappointing array of general store pastries and coffee, at 9.30 we are far too late to get the good stuff. We arrive back at the cabin and eat eggs my mom cooks while staring at the luscious hilly view from the deck.
Uncle Jim stops by while we’re eating; he is in his normal chatty state. It still irks me that he’s 62; he seems younger, and just straight up not in his sixties. He informs us of some local gossip, and how his business is going; tells us about his kid’s family and his new car. I contemplate about his being sixty-something and my cousin having a full blown family. When he leaves, I finish my breakfast, clean and pack up because I’m leaving soon to visit my roommate.
My dad loads up my windshield with Rainex because ‘It’s supposed to rain, and some people are idiots when they drive in the rain.” He tells me numerous times to be careful, all of which I shrug off while secretly adoring how much my parents care about me. I say bye to close another time at the cabin and drive off thinking of the Food Network worthy s'mores I made the previous night during a starry fire. Until next time, my quaint little friend.
Attendance at the cabin has dropped steeply over the years. With the addition of the Manhattan apartment, and our generally busier lifestyle, the cabin is like an old stuffed animal. It has millions of memories, induces a warm feeling in the stomach depths, and although we will never cease to love it, we’re too old to sleep with it anymore. Yet, the cabin is a wondrous place. There is a tiny wood burning stove inside creating a musty fiery smell in the winter. It stinks up anything that comes in its path and seeps in like a delicious skunk spray. In the fall, spring and, summer we have campfires (in a pit which my brother and I built a decade ago) with firewood which has been cut and collected from my chainsaw loving father and brother. We spend time reading, talking, and fishing—insane rarities at home.
This visit to the cabin is typical, a satisfying and comforting feeling. It’s almost always the same at the cabin.
My brother, Dad and I clean up branches which had come down in the winter ice storm, while my mom cleans and prepares meals inside. By the end of the work day my legs look as though I fought a hardcore cat and lost, I am pooped but content. I go to bed around 10 and wake up at 8.30 when my dad walks out of his room flipping up every shade, creating a quick blinding explosion of morning light on my brother and my sensitive sleepy eyes. We roll around in our former bunk beds, (now separate on different sides of the living room/kitchen area) for a few minutes before accepting it is indeed morning, waking up early is just another cabin staple. Next step- the general store.
For quite sometime we referred to the general store as the “new general store.” The ‘old’ general store was closer and even more townie; it was tiny and everything seemed fresh but old and dusty at the same time. It was run by a chubby, bearded middle-aged man named Bob. He lived above the store, and ran the store for longer than I’ve been alive. But one day about ten years ago my Dad informed us that Uncle Jim (dad's brother who lives near the cabin,) had just called with news that Bob had tried to commit suicide. It turned out the general store was experiencing all sorts of economic turmoil and poor Bob couldn’t deal. The news saddened us, and worse was seeing the abandoned general store the next time we went up. A staple of our youth was empty, a depressed little store with a seemingly dark future, in the middle of Becket. It was a blow to my naïve mind that even in the magical land of ‘the cabin’ bad things could happen. The general store remains dark and idle after a decade, and the ‘new’ general store a town over thrives next to the fancy new post office they put in last year.
It took time, but we have come to accept and love the new general, and look forward to stopping in. A visit to ‘the general’ while at the cabin is as necessary as a morning pee; you just have to do it. We go to see the typical disappointing array of general store pastries and coffee, at 9.30 we are far too late to get the good stuff. We arrive back at the cabin and eat eggs my mom cooks while staring at the luscious hilly view from the deck.
Uncle Jim stops by while we’re eating; he is in his normal chatty state. It still irks me that he’s 62; he seems younger, and just straight up not in his sixties. He informs us of some local gossip, and how his business is going; tells us about his kid’s family and his new car. I contemplate about his being sixty-something and my cousin having a full blown family. When he leaves, I finish my breakfast, clean and pack up because I’m leaving soon to visit my roommate.
My dad loads up my windshield with Rainex because ‘It’s supposed to rain, and some people are idiots when they drive in the rain.” He tells me numerous times to be careful, all of which I shrug off while secretly adoring how much my parents care about me. I say bye to close another time at the cabin and drive off thinking of the Food Network worthy s'mores I made the previous night during a starry fire. Until next time, my quaint little friend.
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