New York anniversary, year 4.

I'm a few weeks late on my fourth-anniversary-in-New-York post, or something, which is just about perfect for my current state of mind and affairs. This is not to say that I've taken toward tardiness, as my yoga schedule relies quite a bit on heavily-pointed promptness - it's more like I've refocused the lens in terms of which things do and do not require certain levels of attention and priority.

I've fallen out of frenzy into a softer variation of busyness. A softer variation of everything, even, but still within the context of the city. Still a bee, but probably not the first one out of the hive on any given day. Definitely not, in fact - as I slip further and further into this warm bath, I've found myself staring at the hoards of subway riders exploding forth from the doors like water from a dam while I putter about, wondering what exactly they are rushing to, and for.

It's a lot of this - time for wondering about inane things. I love it so much. I imagine that it's a little bit like being in a coma, or an extremely pleasant and extended dream. I understand that it is probably super annoying. But I can only take care of myself and my family, and so here we are.

The city is playing very prettily toward my little tableau, with the sunbeams on full blast and seemingly doing its level best to hold off on the god-awful stinking humidity for as long as possible. It's golden hour after golden hour, and if you steer clear of Chinatown in direct sunlight I would say you can really do pretty well to avoid that fetid summertime ripeness that New York is so famous for. No promises for July and August, though.

We're rounding the corner on three months in our third apartment in our third neighborhood in Brooklyn. It's our favorite spot yet - the aesthetic a combination of modern and vintage, the neighborhood a combination of grit and warmth. Three being the auspicious number of balance, and I would say that we are feeling pretty darn balanced as we settle into our new cubbyhole. No longer wishing for more space, a different view, or really much of anything at all. And as we talk more and more about what's next, I actually feel for the first time like we can't leave. Because of all of this - this neighborhood and this community and my amazing, amazing friends.

These friends! I am sometimes so surprised to look around me and see such a dense and varied garden of loyal compatriots. It seems like a lifetime ago that I was sitting alone in our Dumbo apartment night after night, waiting for Clay to come home. My yoga situation actually allows me to balance soothing my inner introvert with my tendencies toward friend-neglect, giving me plenty of alone time during the day and freeing up nights and weekends for socializing. My friends are envious of my schedule and I of their income, and we all do our best to support each other anyway. Between the husband and the lifestyle and the city and the people, I've never felt so supported in my whole life.

I feel so here, really here, moreso than I ever have. 'Putting down roots' is the best way to say it. No longer arriving, a polite observer and a thank-you-very-much-for-letting-me-squat-here-for-a-while sort of participant, but a solid and fully-acclimated piece of the root system. Like if I left, the city might notice, might lose its own balance, if only for a minute.

Today I stand in tadasana on our new balcony and let the hot wind whip through my hair and splayed fingers, feeling every inch a mountain as the trains blow by on the Williamsburg bridge. I can feel myself growing right up out of the concrete, reaching as far down into the dirt as my skull is tall. The people continue to burst out of the subway cars like ants from a desecrated anthill, but I am not one of them, no longer. I am the earth, I am the wind.

I'm losing, loosening, my grip. And it's nice.

New York anniversary, year 3.

Over the long weekend, we caught up with a friend of ours who is wrestling with a decision to take a dream job in another city. Seriously, this is a Dream Job/Career Maker, and the potential city is, from what I've heard, a very nice place to live (details withheld to protect a lovely person who didn't ask for his/her life to be publicized here). Seems like a no-brainer, but said person is not entirely sure he/she is ready to leave New York.

Of course, I was all, pfft, dream job! You can come back! Live while you're young! and so forth, but I think that the idea of an unbreakable tie to the city is something that, despite all my talk of Colorado dreams, I'm finally starting to get.

***

Today marks three years since I first set foot in Manhattan without a return ticket. Three years! And as I start to round the corner towards my twenty-eighth birthday (no-longer-a-spring-chicken-hood looming ever closer), it grows increasingly obvious that the most significant relationship of my twenties is this one, the one between myself and the city. My partnership with this pulsating, roiling, vibrantly enthusiastic, stubborn, sullen and always richly incredible place. 'Place' doesn't seem like a quite substantial enough word, but I suppose she can be found on a map, and 'state of mind' seemed to err on the side of perhaps a bit poetic, which didn't seem right here. I'm officially putting a fork in it, calling her my most main of squeezes (sorry darling) mostly because of the unparalleled part she's played in helping me to foster and cultivate my relationship with myself.

Actually, I should probably be my real main squeeze. So she's like, number 2 (again, sorry honey).

A quick side note that seems worth mentioning: I'm going to continue to bless her with that holiest of pronouns ("she"), in agreement with the hordes of songwriters, authors, screenwriters, poets and otherwise artists who have labeled her as such over the years. The energy of the city, while sometimes dark and violent, does feel uniquely (and sometimes divinely) feminine to me. I see in her Shakti, Diana, Gaia, Aphrodite. Creator and destroyer, pursuer and seductress, muse to many and unmistakably motherly - she is She, a modern-day and ever-morphing goddess; she is all that is love.

Looking back on my first anniversary post, it is painfully obvious that I was too young to understand, that I was so scared to commit. That I was frustrated with her for not eagerly reaching out to me as I arrived on her shores. Even my eventual understanding was shallow (although throw a couple more years at it and I'm sure this will look puny as well, but here we are). It wasn't about whether she had the time; I needed her validation to be able to grow and she was unwilling to give it to me. I hated her for keeping it from me, something Chicago had so easily given.

But she needed to know that I was serious about her, that I was serious about me. She needed to know that I would, at some point, be able to let go of my attachment and be that validation for myself.

And I have.

So now I've relaxed, she's opened up, and we've settled into something comfortable, something familiar. I see her, through the dirt and chaos and frustration and hate and hurt and all that's been dumped on her over the years. I see the pure electric love throbbing at her core, pumping through the streets and tunnels and rivers as she cradles these millions of people in her arms. She's more mature than I gave her credit for, quietly and non-judgmentally allowing her masses to walk all over her and blame her and use her as a stepping stone to becoming what they want to be. Day after day after day she takes beating after beating after beating, and she thrives and blooms and flourishes around her scars, shining so through all the ashes.

And somewhere in the midst of all of that, she sees me and returns the favor.

For every crowded subway ride through Manhattan, she trades me a moment of cobble-laden silence on a Brooklyn evening. And for each gray and dreary morning, a lunchtime seat warmed by sunlight in Meatpacking plaza. One terrifying hurricane in exchange for crisp afternoons spent with old and new friends at the tiniest and best dive bar garden in Red Hook, which I'm so thankful can continue to thrive. We go on like that, me being patient with her as she fusses and fumes, her rewarding me for my time with shy and stolen moments that she's taught me to seek, that I've learned to find. The more time I give, the more she helps me to see.

And it's me, along with the city, that comes into ever-clearer focus.

So tonight I raise a glass to you, sweet city, in honor of our three years together. I've said it before, but it still rings true - in exchange for my residency, I will continue to try, to take it in, to expand, to arrive. And I will know for certain that I am always enough.

And I will never again be alone, not here.

July - Nov 2012

Lately I've found myself so full that I've just no room left for words. Sorry 'bout it, and here's a little recap of the past five months, in photos. Yes, this is a cop-out, but it's better than nothing.

July: We got a new baby. Welcome to the family, Prince Harry-Buttons Jones.

Hi Mom!

Who thought I would turn out to be such a menace? 

I love my brother Ian. Sometimes.

August: Toured Colorado via rental car with the USA Pro Cycling Challenge. VandeVelde, allez!

I love Aspen.

I also love Cadel Evans, but not enough to wait around for an autograph.

VandeVelde in yellow in Aspen. Foreshadowing!

We had pretty good seats.

We ride fancy bikes, too!

VandeVelde (L) vs Leipheimer (Y) in the time trial.

Also, I turned 27.

Sept: Clay turns 31.

I like him a lot.

October: Engaged! Welcome to the family, Jennifer Ann Jones (Jones pending).

The pretty!

You know what's fun, is trying on diamonds at Tiffany.

We are getting married at Full Moon Farm. How cute is that?

I mean, come on.

More October: Hurricane Sandy!!! This was the scariest few hours of my life so far. We are okay; New York is not. But New York is pretty used to persevering, at this point.

Where are you, Manhattan?

Need to hang onto the ground so we don't fall off. Nobody is drunk.

November: We went to Belize. Unintentional engagement-moon; very pretty, lots of bugs.

Boats at Blackbird Caye.

Sunset behind our cabana at Blackbird Caye. 

Day trip to Half Moon Caye - see definition: island. Idyllic!

Clay and Chris snorkeling around Half Moon Caye reefs.

The most darling hipster-esque ruins of a 200-year-old lighthouse at Half Moon Caye.

That's all. Maybe one of these days I'll write you a little story about some of this stuff.

New York anniversary, year 2.

There is a feeling that New York fosters within the bowels of the subways, a moment that feels as though someone has cooked it up specifically as a smack in the head for anyone who was thinking they could remove themselves from the wonderful demographic cesspool that New York is so famous for and escape to the suburban pockets of uniformity of their youths. This, of course, is the moment when you realize that the person sitting next to you on the subway is getting off at the same stop as you. I mean, sometimes this person looks like you, but, let's be real, more often than not they look like nothing you've ever seen before and can't believe exists in polite society, and now they are getting off at your stop. With you. Moving in tandem through your neighborhood, potentially living in your building. My narrow midwestern mind has a moment of panic as it tries to process how this person could possibly be existing on a parallel track to my own. New York smiles quietly at the literal and metaphysical tableau it has created just for me, gently cracking open my skull and prying until the light and air starts to hit me right in my under-used brain.

New York is a constant reminder to each and every one of its ridiculous inhabitants that we are all the same.

*

I remember the exact instant that my small brain expanded to house the information that I was part of a connected ecosystem, that my tiny actions on this earth could potentially impact every other human being on the planet, if not every creature. Maybe some people are born with this sense of scope hard-coded into their brain, but I was definitely not. I'm guessing I could say the same for many of the folks who grew up in nice shiny bubble communities in the midwest. Not that I'm knocking any of that. It certainly was nice.

Anyhow, I was eight years old and we were moving from one lovely suburb of western Michigan to another when this particular expansion took place. Despite the fact that a move meant I would have to switch schools, I had generously decided to forgive my parents for this as it meant a new bedroom for yours truly, and I had long since proclaimed my current bedroom to be tragically undersized (my tendency to over-dramatize situations has not progressed much since then). I remember that in the midst of my triumph, my mom was stressing out because the people trying to move into our current house were anxious for us to get out so they could move in, but the owners of the house we wanted to move into were stalling on closing because they had not yet found a new house to move into. She was explaining the situation to me on the verge of tears, and I did not understand what she was making such a big deal about. My brain was registering one one channel only, and that channel was the huge purple bedroom in my future - how could anyone possibly be upset with times such as these ahead of us? So she ditched the realtor-speak and went for a simpler explanation.

"The people buying our house can't move in until we move out, and we can't move out until we have some place to move in, meaning we need the people in the house we're buying to move out. And they don't want to, which means we have to wait. Us moving depends on whether they move."

At that moment, the light-bulb went on and I realized that not only did our move depend on their move, but there were people trying to buy the house of the people trying to buy our house, and that THEY couldn't move in until we moved out and the people buying our house moved out of their house and into our house. And someone was trying to buy the house of those people as well! And the same went in the other direction, for the people who were moving out of the house we were trying to move into. What seemed like a singular event ("let's get a new house!") was in fact a much, much larger affair, and involved jumping into a line of millions and millions of people all moving houses at the same time. You couldn't, then, decide to change your own situation without impacting innumerable other people, people you will never meet but that were involved in the transaction you made when you were eight years old and begged your parents for a larger bedroom.

I don't remember my reaction to this, but I do remember trying very deliberately to digest the shock and take in the enormity of the truth I had just uncovered. I don't think I've slept quite the same since.

*

Today marks two years since I moved to New York City, another year of catalyst added to the heat of my particular journey of self-expansion. I closed year 1 on the beach in Miami; year 2 at the office preparing all kinds of planning presentations, so I hope you'll forgive me that my reflections aren't quite as blissed-out as they were last time around.

Everything has changed, but not much has changed. I still hate the heat, I still miss Chicago (the tulips on Michigan Ave in the spring! ack), and I still create all kinds of stress for myself from the energy and dichotomies that the city presents. But the whole thing appears as a more mature sort of struggle, through a lens of gratitude for the proliferation that my life here continues to foster. Life is, after all, pretty grand.

Someone told me this weekend that the first two years are the hardest. As these have been two of the best years of my life, I certainly hope they're right, and I continue on.

I continue to try, I continue to take it in, I continue to expand, I continue to arrive.

Sweet, sweet Milwaukee.

Less than two hours after leaving La Guardia, I de-planed in frigid Milwaukee just in time to catch a very important announcement over the PA.

"Excuse me! If you are, um, a young woman, with kind of a brownish wool coat, you left your Walmart shopping bag at the Starbucks near the center of the terminal. We're holding it for you at the Starbucks so come on back over here! Thank you, so sorry to interrupt! Have a great night!"

I actually paused to stare, dumbfounded, at the loudspeaker.

Milwaukee is a gem of a city tucked along the banks of Lake Michigan, about 90 miles north of Chicago in southwestern Wisconsin. New Yorkers, I found, are entirely unaware of its location on the globe and why anyone would possibly bother visiting. Their blank or slightly concerned stares when I had mentioned I was planning on making the trip were nothing short of hilarious.

"It's like, freezing there, right? It's like up near Canada? I mean... what will you do there?"

I guess it is pretty cold.

I had spent about six years here, college and then some, and was back in town for the first time in years to visit a friend from school. It's a beautiful little city, filled with phenomenal dive bars, staunchly loyal Packer fans, surprisingly great restaurants and some of the most wonderfully kind people I've ever met.

They are so polite. They are kind and funny and encouraging. They apologize when they bump into you, and hold the door every time. Apparently, they return your shopping bag when you leave it at the Starbucks at the airport.

We packed so much into 48 hours - tapas, sangria, bikram yoga, pancake brunch, sports bars, Marquette basketball, dinners, a Mardi Gras parade at the Hofbräuhaus and at least six hours at the piano bar, fawning over some hottie piano player like a couple of MU co-eds. It was a fabulous little bite-sized vacation that left me longing to find a way to stay wrapped in the comfortably warm words and gestures of midwesterners.

Upon returning to NYC and settling into my staycation week, I ran up to the gym for a yoga class. I made sure to get there super early so I could sit for a while in silence, get my breath in check for the class. Weekday workout bonus - spotted Dakota Fanning on the rowing machines with her trainer, squee!

My silence was delicious and lasted approximately two seconds, until another woman joined me - a woman who, apparently, had set up one of the gym's yoga mats for herself at least a half hour prior to class starting and then left, and was FURIOUS to find that it had been removed by the cleaning crew. This woman was in about her mid-sixties and threw a legit temper tantrum right there in the yoga studio, with me as her only audience. My jaw dropped as she screamed at me for at least five full minutes - she didn't understand how ANYONE could POSSIBLY be so INEPT and just COMPLETELY STUPID as to move her mat. This is the LAST THING she FUCKING NEEDED, they were always RUINING her DAY. JUST FUCKING RUINING IT. And then she set up a new mat (which took approximately four seconds) and stomped off to talk to a manager about the inadequacies of the maintenance crew.

In a yoga class. I'm not joking.

My New Yorker friends tell me I'm too polite, why am I always apologizing, I need to be more confrontational, I'm so naïve. They are so in charge, they are so empowered. They've looked at this situation and decided that there is something wrong with me, that I am the one who needs to re-evaluate her interpersonal skills.

You know what's empowering? The high you get from interacting with pleasant people all day long. Isn't there enough rage in the world without needing to scream out every person who touches your yoga mat?

Pfffft.

Non-commital.

I am a perpetual renter.

I've been happily renting for five years now, skipping from city to city and apartment to apartment as happy as a kid with a one-bedroom cupcake. Renting is irrefutably tied to breezy city living, which suits me very well. I've had phenomenal luck finding wonderful spaces bursting with amenities - home ownership, so it seemed, with minimal responsibility involved. "Why would you possibly want to own," I would blithely proclaim, "when you can rent?"

Apparently there's at least one really good reason: that space, that glorious piece of real estate, does not in any way, shape or form, belong to you. And unless you're willing to take that next step and become an owner, you should not count on it to be there when you want or need it.

We have been squatting for almost two years now on a gorgeous Brooklyn one-bedroom, a true New York anomaly. Plenty of space, sound-proofed walls, brand-new finishings and appliances, natural light pouring in through every double-wide, doubled-paned window. We're tucked in a nook behind the Manhattan bridge overpass in DUMBO, quite possibly the cutest little four-block stretch of cobbled streets and greenspace that the East River bank has to offer. We're one of the only buildings in DUMBO with reasonable rent, one of the only buildings that hasn't gone condo. It's my first New York apartment, my first adult apartment (with paint and purchased furniture), my first home together with Sir. I want to stay in this apartment for the rest of my life, or at least the next ten years. Or maybe five years. Suffice to say, we were definitely planning on renewing our lease in June.

I guess I've never stayed in an apartment long enough to know that permanent renter-status isn't always a possibility.

As of February 1st, in fact, that option is no longer on the table. We had heard rumblings in the elevator, but now here it was in black and white, staring back at me like an ugly purple bruise from the top of my inbox. Sir and I scanned and rescanned the brief letter from the rental company that explained the situation in broken-English legalese. I read aloud, he paced. It sounded a little something like this:

"Blah blah... selling the units as condos... first right of refusal for 60 days, at which point we will begin marketing your space... yada yada will not be renewing your lease... shit."

In other words, if we like it, then we need to put a ring on it. And I felt a tiny bit shocked and hurt to be given an ultimatum. Isn't my love... my rent money... our lease... isn't that enough?

It is not. It says so, right there on the screen.

All matters of whether or not I've conscientiously saved a sizable down payment aside (I definitely have not), I'm not entirely sure I'm ready for that kind of commitment. The thought of being tied to a city and a space is giving me a tiny panic attack, making me want to run and scream and flail my arms and put a Jen-shaped hole in the wall.

As a person who dives headfirst into relationships before ever even thinking to check the depth of the pool, I've always thought of myself as about as commitment-phobic as a golden retriever. But apparently when it comes to living situation, I can only handle my commitment doled out in one-year-at-a-time-sized slices. Per my recent track record, I haven't been able to commit to a city for more than a year and a half since I left Milwaukee, let alone an apartment. I haven't felt particularly trapped by any of my living arrangements, yet here I am. Why can't I stay in one place? Am I a person who is looking for an easy escape, should things go awry?

And if so, what's wrong with that, exactly?

I think for the first time in my life, I am beginning to understand why people get freaked out by marriage.

*A note*
To be clear, I am aware that we live a wonderful and privileged life and that losing our amazing apartment does not count as a personal tragedy. I am not looking for any sympathy on this. Actually, we are both control freaks and have already found several options for new apartment buildings that will suit us just fine, even if they are not 100% as perfect as our DUMBO bungalow. I just found this little episode interesting. That's all.

Surprise!

House parties are sort of a mixed bag for me. There's something about being casually social in a large group of people, a handful of which I know somewhat well and the majority of which I do not know at all, that simultaneously excites me and has me practically retching, scaling the walls in search of an exit.

The weight of the potential is both exactly what I'm looking for and entirely too much for me to handle.

I don't recall feeling this way prior to my adulthood and the death of my single-girl status. I'm fairly certain I confidently canvassed large gatherings without blinking an eye; birthday parties, roller-skating parties, high school dances, college orientation week. I had an impenetrable facade of bravado, underneath which lay the knowledge that my social standing, my sense of self and my brand image could be defined by the events of an evening.

I think it's not knowing exactly who I was or could be that made the idea of going to a party that much more interesting.

A note: I am not one of those people who is always surrounded by a group of friends. With the exception of a few brief years of high school and college where I attempted to assimilate into a larger flock, I am basically a one-friend-at-a-time sort of girl. Don't ask me why - certainly, there are benefits to having a self-sustaining mobile ecosystem around at all times to provide protection against awkward social circumstances - but I just have never been able to sustain that kind of setup for any prolonged period of time. People with groups, ladies who are concerned that they might end up with twenty-four bridesmaids: you will probably never understand this post. Please disregard.

Sir and I went to a surprise birthday party for a coworker of his last night, hopping the F train to West 4th and wandering across the chilly Village until we came upon the building where our birthday-having friend and his lady co-habitate. It was one of those fantastically New York buildings, with the heavy old elevator doors and a cascade of wizened fire escapes trickling down the darkened brick facade. We buzzed up and took our places, relaxing into the scene in very much the same way that a lone sheep will melt into the flock. We caught up with old friends and made small talk with friendly acquaintances. We hushed ourselves and gathered quietly in the dark, truly and thoroughly surprising our friend upon his return home. We slapped him on the back, congratulating him on surviving another year of life, and resumed our mingling and former level of din.

This was all well and good for about fifteen minutes, after which point it became painfully apparent that Sir was much more familiar with this crowd than I am. I lost him.

I mean, he was there, right across the room. We've not yet achieved the social status that involves the types of New York City apartments where someone might actually get lost. But he was elsewhere, refilling on refreshments or involved in another conversation to the extent that I was completely and totally alone. This is not to say that he was being inconsiderate, just that I was outnumbered in this group of people who knew each other intimately. Everyone knew someone, everyone was occupied; everyone was consumed in conversation but me.

Oh, god.

I folded my arms across my chest, disguising the surely-visible pounding of my heart. I re-tied a shoe. I tugged at my hair, adjusting and re-adjusting my hat. I picked at the snack table, not really hungry. I scanned through my phone, pretending to be too wrapped up in phone-happenings to notice the party swirling around me. And I nearly collapsed in relief on the inside when Sir returned to me, and again a few minutes later when he declared that he was ready to leave. I practically skipped to the subway entrance, the dirty green glass globe shining like a beacon in the cold night air.

All psychoanalyzing aside, safe to say I am not the party animal I once was.

It is truly mortifying admit this about myself, and yet at the same time, I could not care less. It's the death of an ego - my younger self is appalled to see myself become such a needy loner-type, but my more mature self seems to have always known that this was where I was headed. Maybe it's aided by the pull of the universe, gently reminding me that the intended manner of survival, when you really get down to it, is as nothing more than perfectly complemented teams of two.

Maybe I need to get a grip.

Homebody.

I was having a conversation today with Amanda Blair about the myriad reasons that I, at the ripe old age of 26, have become a homebody. I tick off my list of excuses for not partaking in barsy evenings, explain that going out just doesn't seem worth it to me anymore. I'm not opposed to it, but it seems going out to dinner has become more of my cup of tea.

It probably always has been, but that concept takes on a solid form now that I'm part of a team. All the little annoyances - the too-loud music, the crowds of people, the over-priced everything, the coat situation, the hangovers - had once seemed insignificant under the veil of potential. Now that I know that my potential is waiting at home for me in a darling apartment in Brooklyn, the cons take on a glaring sharp focus and the whole thing seems insignificant in comparison to what's going on in my living room.

She disagrees with me, of course. But she does a much better job of listening than I ever could, letting me make my points and acknowledging my perspective before educating me on all the wonderful things I'm missing out on by hiding away in Brooklyn every weekend. To hear her tell it, she loves getting ready, finding the perfect bar, laughing it up, dancing, having stories to tell. And while I'm sure she does love all of those things, I'm certain that the reality of the situation is that she's just so much braver than me.

My darling Amanda Blair. That girl, I swear. She has so much courage. She is a spitfire and a spark, sweet and genuine and fiercely loyal. She stomps all over this marvelous city in 5-inch heels and would probably be blithely unaware if it attempted to cut her down. People say New York eats you alive; Amanda invites it to her birthday party.

And she writes about it, the whole damn thing.

I think she thinks we're cut of the same cloth, us twenty-something NYC transplants. But there's an enormous difference between us that's made very apparent by our transplantation motives: she was chasing a dream, and I was chasing a BOY.

Well, a man. A man-boy. And a job. But still.

To give myself some credit, there is definitely a good amount of gutsiness involved in taking a chance on another human being, and even more so when that chance involves uprooting your life and starting over somewhere else. It is no easy thing to wager your lifestyle on a relationship. And now that I think of it, the overwhelming relief at realizing that everything was going to be better than perfect was probably enough to keep me on the couch for a lifetime or two.

Even so, I can't imagine going through that alone. I'm not certain that I could, but she sure did. If it was traumatizing in the slightest, I certainly can't tell.

Some people find everything in their homes, and some create them where they stand. Different types of courage, I guess, but I'll always be jealous of people who beam overt fearlessness from their very toenails on any given Tuesday. That girl could make friends with a paper bag.

Shiver for me, girl.

The last bit I wrote on here was about the October snow, and it hasn't snowed since.

Somewhere between my delight in that freak blizzard and the way the breath caught in my throat last week when my LaGuardia-to-O'Hare flight dipped beneath the clouds to unveil the frozen city on the lake, silvery-pale and glittering in the icy-thin sunlight, is where I unearthed a very tiny, very insignificant but altogether real nugget of wisdom about myself.

I like the cold.

I just knew, right there at the airport. No matter how many times I've denied it, it's been there the whole time, trapped under my skin like a speck of sand, like a pea under the umpteenth mattress. It had worried itself into a pearl, a Great Truth that I never knew existed prior to that very moment. I stepped through that revolving door, luggage in hand, felt the wind pierce my wimpy jacket and I just KNEW, as easy as breathing.

I like the cold.

I like the winter and the snow. I do! I'm going to say it like an affirmation, because I'm excited to know myself a little bit better. I like the cold!

I like it to the extent that I experienced a very defined sinking feeling in my chest this morning when the weatherman said it was to be "back up in the mid-forties by mid-day."

New York never feels clean to me, except in wintertime. It's the smell that the clear, dry cold brings, the way it stings your nostrils and punches you in the gut as you suck it deep into your whimpering, shriveling lungs in slow, controlled breaths. It doesn't smell like garbage, urine, or burnt halal, it smells like crisp, clean, perfect snow and silence. And it makes me forget about all the resentment I harbor for the city when it roils, putrid, in the unwavering heat and suffocating humidity of summer.

I don't know what this bit of enlightenment means for me, Sir and the locations of our future, but I know that right in this very minute, it means I'm growing all the more impatient for a real winter and some goddamn snow.

When will it snow, New York? Why do you torment me with weird mild winter weather and lingering humidity? WHY?

Christmas is over, but Santa, if you could please bring winter to NYC, I'll be waiting for you. I'll be the one with all the scarves.

Hair day.

Normally, Monday morning is about bleary eyes on the train and trying to reassemble my head in one or two too many status meetings. This week, I took the morning off and had myself a little hair day instead.

I woke up an hour earlier than normal and skipped over to the west Village, where Reagan was getting gussied up with her husband, señor photographer extraordinaire Jake, ready to start our shoot. Reagan and Jake are putting together some video tutorials for Hairdresser on Fire showcasing a bunch of Aussie products. I'm very excited that she had me as one of her hair models - even though it was 7:30 in the AM, I think we had a pretty good time.

Side note: I was "split ends" girl. Aussie Split End Protector. I found this to be a combo of mortifying and hilarious, as you've probably witnessed me picking at my split ends like nobody's business on more than one occasion. Typecast.

Finished products are still in the works, but here's a sampling of Jake's stills from the day. I make some really weird faces so don't make fun (I think my fantasy modeling career died a little bit that day).

I was one of five models - here are some beautiful shots of my darling Amanda Blair. I think she might be a real model in disguise. A model shark (similar to a pool shark).

You work that chair, AB.

Despite being completely exhausted that evening, as an end to my hair day I watched Tangled on Netflix Instant. Sir is in London on a business trip (trying to conceal my jealousy), which is when I like to try to muck up his Netflix account with bizarre girly items. I didn't really intend to watch it but I had hair on the brain. I also didn't intend to stay up until 1:30 am to watch the whole thing.

Confession: it was an awesome movie. Completely hilarious and really well done.

Stay tuned for links to the finished tutorial! And New York - stop being so damn muggy so we can have some actual good hair days!

Casual pirate.

"Just guide it down the neck with a bit of oomph," she instructs me, confident.

I grip the butt of the bottle in my left palm, finding the groove of the glass seam with my thumb. My right hand holds the sword firm around the handle, the heavy blade balancing on the cool glass right where the bottle begins to taper into the neck. She shows me the motion again, assuring me that there will be plenty of pressure, that it will pop right off.

Tentative, I slide the blade quickly down the bottle, flat against the glass. Nothing.

"More oomph!" She smiles, setting the blade back in place.

I bite my lip, adjusting my grip within the hilt and swing, round two. The top sails off as easily as if I had been beheading a banana. A flood of champagne, and everybody cheers. Squealing, I relinquish the dripping bottle, shake the champagne from my hand and pose for a victory photo, avec blade.

And that's how you saber a bottle of champagne.

Wednesday afternoon Vespa-riding.

There is only one acceptable way to do Times Square, and that is on the back of a Vespa on a summer day.

I, along with everyone else who lives on or around Manhattan, definitely have a love-hate thing going on with Times Square. It's kind of a mess, and New Yorkers tend to avoid it like the plague. I think it's one of those things that is fun/necessary to do one time and then never again. Unfortunately, there are a lot of really good things to do and eat around Times Square, so sometimes it's just unavoidable.

If and when you cannot avoid it, like when your friend wants to go to lunch at Esca (delish), don't fret - just hitch yourself a ride on the back of her Vespa. What taxis? What swarms of obnoxious tourists? What oppressive heat? It's a traffic-dissolver (squeeze on through!) with a built-in breeze-machine. Hike up your maxi-dress and slip on a helmet - you've just turned the likes of 'being on fire' into an enjoyable experience. My birthday is next week, in case anyone is looking for a last-minute gift. Vespa Vespa Vespa.

I wish, I really wish with everything that I have that I had taken a picture of my first motorbike experience this afternoon. I think my mother will be pleased that I did not, and instead was holding on tight. I guess you'll just have to believe me.

Early.

As luck and train schedules would have it, early Tuesday evening I found myself in the West Village, twenty minutes ahead of time for a much-needed haircut and gab sesh with the internet's favorite stylist. Not wanting to waste a minute of the weather, I set out for a leisurely stroll around the block.

The Village, as movies would have us believe, has an air of pure ethereal magic on a pleasant evening. It's quieter than it should be, it's prettier than it should be. It basically makes me want to explode. That's one of my favorite things about New York - the little pockets of magical bits in the midst of all the cacophony, and the Village is among my favorite of the pockets. Something about walking in the streets there makes me feel like I'm interrupting something fancy, something us plebians aren't intended to see.

I mean, give me a break.

Obviously trespassing, I step lightly, easily, carelessly, trying to blend in. I size up the pedestrian traffic to determine locals from visitors, wondering who else is playing the same game. I try not to look like a tourist when I whip out my phone to capture a ridiculously haughty-looking kitty, watching me from someone's fancy brownstone window.

Be snootier, cat. I dare you.

Did you know the Village was originally the bohemian capital of New York? The East Coast, even. And now, old glamour, European romance. The history makes me like it more. It makes me wonder at the dirty secrets of an uninhibited youth the rich old ladies must be hiding behind close-shorn Persians in striped vests.

I think I could write roughly one hundred short stories about the people who live in the Village, drawing partly on Hollywood lore and partly on these brief glimpses of their lives. Maybe someday I will.

I have yet to experience a place that inspires me like New York City. I wish I had the time and energy to do sort out what to do with it.

New York anniversary.

I arrived in New York City one year ago, today.

One truly does arrive in New York. I don't think it's possible to show up without at least some (potentially false) feeling of grandeur. Soon to be squashed, of course. Unless you're Beyonce, one of first things you realize upon arrival is that the city hasn't noticed your entrance.

But you push through feelings of unimportance and announce your arrival to friends and family, proud as a parent watching a child taking its first steps. Your first steps in New York are important in that way, even if no New Yorker would be caught dead acknowledging them.

I unfurled my hastily packed-up life, set up our beautiful DUMBO apartment and waited for the stuff of movies to start happening to me.

Of course, it didn't. Maybe it does for some, but for most, you have to earn it, or at the very least, go out and find it. But I didn't know any better.

So I kept walking. And started running, despite the heat. I ran the streets of Brooklyn, to the park and back, along the bridges to Manhattan. I ran in the morning, evenings, all the time enveloped in waves of unbearable heat. 

For some reason, it never occurred to me that a New York summer would be so damn hot. With the heat, a resentment of New York began to build.

A note: It seems appropriate that, in honor of our anniversary, I should let loose with a confession. Here it is.

About two months into the summer, I broke down and admitted to my mother in a ridiculous fit of hot, embarrassed tears, that I hated it here. I hated the heat, the garbage, the smells. I hated the swarms of tourists by the office, hated fighting through masses of people just to get to and from work each day. I hated living among such poverty, shocking as it was to be venturing outside of a variety of cushy well-off bubbles for the first time in my life. I hated my boyfriend's schedule, the long hours, the traveling. I admitted to my mother and, cathartically, to myself that I missed Chicago.

I missed the sparkling clean streets, living on the beach, the miles and miles of breezy bike paths along Lake Michigan. I missed kindness, polite strangers. I missed running by the water. I missed working with my best friends and walking to the office every day, unencumbered by trains and tourists. I missed the beautiful park behind my apartment, missed sitting quietly by the fountains night after night, dreaming about moving to New York.

Chicago was a beautiful safe place, where nothing ever happened.

My mother, blunt as ever, asked if I would like to move back, and I said no. And I really didn't. I wanted the dirt, the grit, the strife. I wanted to struggle to achieve, to not have anything handed to me. I wanted the badge of résumé honor that came with making it in advertising in New York. I wanted to be worthy of a city as dark and beautiful as any on this earth. Lying in bed that night, waiting for Sir to come home from a business trip, I took a deep breath and blew it out, letting go of Chicago and committing to my relationship with New York.

It sounds stupid, but it worked.

Once you let go of what a place isn't, you can start to see what it is, and you remember why you were so dead set on arriving there to begin with. The tragic charm, the history, the beauty of the whole thing. The pulse and the energy. The quiet parts, flanked by madness. The nights in the Village, the weekends in Brooklyn. The bridges and the cabs and the trains. The weird interludes and "only in New York" experiences that made me want to write and write and write, even if I didn't. That magical movie feeling - it really is everywhere. And my god, the food.

I've spent twelve months eating my way through this city, and I'm definitely larger for it. And I don't just mean fatter, although I won't argue with you there. It's been my own little Eat Pray Love experience, the 'eat' portion. I exist more than I did, I am more than I was capable of being. To quote Lewis Carroll, I'm much muchier than I was before, and all the better for it.

People are always asking me which city I like better. It's not a fair comparison, really. Chicago embraces you. New York waits for you to embrace her. She just doesn't have that kind of time.

*

I'm celebrating my first anniversary with New York on the sand in Miami, quietly allowing everything I've accumulated over the past year to strip away with the waves. Somehow it seems fitting - balancing a year of extreme emotions with ultimate peace and calm. 

It's also one year living with Sir, who remains buried in the Times as I head out to the surf. Yet another scary, hurried decision that could not have ended better. I can't remember the last time I felt this content.

Because I'm realizing, in the middle of a perfect vacation on a perfect beach, that I won't be sad when it's over. That this vacation is a time to reset, not escape. That I miss my life in New York. I don't think that's ever happened to me before.

I think that's when you know you're doing it right.

I think that's when you've finally arrived.

Jaded.

On Friday night, you make plans to go out with your lady friend, as both of your boyfriends were going to be detained at that work thing. Spin class, dinner and a movie, on the calendar.

But she's not feeling well and unfortunately, the evening falls through. So you go to spin anyway, and afterwards, pause in the subway tunnel. Downtown to Brooklyn, or uptown, to a solo movie adventure? You hesitate for only a minute; you can hear the uptown train charging in. Uptown it is.

You switch trains at West 4 St and catch the blue line back down to lower Manhattan. Three short stops later, you surface in TriBeCa, sure-footed and resolved to catch the earlier showing. You deftly make your way through TriBeCa to Battery Park City, pausing only briefly to stare at the Freedom Towers' progress before continuing on to the theater, determined not to let the night get away.

But you've remembered incorrectly, and missed the earlier showing by almost an hour. So you shove disappointment aside and purchase a ticket for a girly thriller, and a small popcorn, please. You almost never see the girly flicks anymore; maybe it will be fun.

But it's not fun, it's just dumb. Super dumb, and poorly written. The popcorn is stale and gives you a stomachache. And you're all alone in New York City on a Friday night, in a sea of strangers.

Annoyed and fully disappointed, you start to walk back to the train. You put on your very best jaded New Yorker face and pick up the pace, shouldering through crowds and rolling your eyes in disgust at slow-moving awestruck tourists. If they would just, PLEASE, get out of the damn way.

At the next intersection, a yellow taxi pulls up and honks, twice. You were going to take the train, but for some reason, you decide to get in. Seated and situated, you give your destination, bracing yourself for "No Brooklyn! No Brooklyn!" and a kick out the door.

But it doesn't come.

"Where in DUMBO, ma'am?" instead, with a thick New York accent, the kind that makes you think of the Godfather and pizza by the slice.

"Water at Adams, please."

"Yes ma'am, sure thing."

You notice that unlike most cab drivers, he's younger, clean cut and polite. He drives quickly, but carefully. The car is old and worn, but is clean and smells pleasant, like old leather. It's comfortable and warm.

"You can take either bridge; usually less traffic on the Manhattan," you offer, as most cab drivers don't seem to know the way to Brooklyn, as ridiculous as that seems.

"If you don't mind, ma'am, I'll take the Brooklyn, and the tunnel to get there. I promise you, it'll be much quicker."

Surprised, you murmur your agreement, and sit back to enjoy the silence. You loop up and down and around and below lower Manhattan before sure enough, being spit out on the Brooklyn Bridge, where there's no traffic at all.

"The first exit, please, and then turn right."

"Of course. I'll actually take the second right, if that's alright with you. I've got a shortcut."

Again shocked, you go with it, and somehow it's definitely faster. Despite being trained by cabbie after cabbie to give explicit directions, you fall silent for the remainder of the trip. He navigates the neighborhood expertly before pulling up right in front of your door, unfazed by the cobbled road and excessive construction.

"This is probably it then, ma'am?"

"Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much!"

He laughs at your delight and offers to write down his shortcuts for you. You smile and thank him, saying you'll remember; it won't be necessary.

"I'm a born and bred New Yorker, ma'am, and I know every inch of this city as if I drew it myself. It's in my best interest to provide the very best service to my customers, which means finding and knowing the quickest, best routes. I hope you enjoyed your trip, and have a very good night."

You did have a very good night, actually. 

You smile again and tip him heavily, not caring whether his politeness was a gimmick. He waits to make sure you get inside safely, and you turn back and wave before slipping into the building as another couple hails him down.

The door closes behind you and you realize that your stomach-ache has disappeared. And you suspect that the whole "jaded New Yorker" thing is nothing more than something people made up as a scapegoat for their own bad moods.

You'll try to remember that, the next time.

Hot chocolate festivals, and so on.

The City Bakery is hosting a hot chocolate festival. A hot chocolate festival! Seriously, the wonderment never stops.

How did I not know about this prior to today? Look at all the amazing flavors I've missed. You're a real kick in the pants sometimes, New York, you know that?

Adjusting Friday lunch plans accordingly. Spicy fig!

Movie magic.

I think I'll start a posting series on NYC's hidden treasures. I suppose technically we were in Brooklyn, but NYC imposes their locality taxes on the boroughs, so I'm counting it.

Last night, feeling very SATC and tired of being apartment-bound, I decided to take Sir on a date night to the reRun theatre, on Front and Jay in Dumbo. I bought tickets for two to see Lovers of Hate, a SXSW/Sundance-approved indie on special release for Valentine's day weekend, and we ventured out the harrowing 1.5 blocks to reBar.

Dark and cavernous ReBar is a one of my favorite establishments here in Dumbo, so when they opened reRun, an indie theater / gastropub late this summer, I'm not entirely sure why it took me until February to get there.

Better late than never.

A tiny blink-and-miss-it style theatre, tucked in the back of a bustling bar at the end of a dark hallway. Eclectic décor, a warm and chuckly staff of film and food-loving hipsters, a menu of classic movie food, redone in a uniquely gastropub sort of way.

Sir had a steak-sausage hot dog with house-made relishes and garlic chips, I sampled the bespoke popcorn (paprika with bacon grease; herbed salts with clarified butter) served in greasy brown-paper bags. The movie was dark and delightful, the drinks were plentiful and the tickets were just five bucks a pop.

There were maybe seven other patrons there last night; it really was just Sir and me and the city. A NYC-inspired night out on the town, having hardly left our block.

This is the kind of place where even a night at the movies can feel like magic.

"The most amazing thing about living in a city like New York is that any night of the week you can go to Paris." -Carrie Bradshaw, SATC, taking herself on a solo date night at the Paris Theatre, in midtown on 58th and 5th.

New Yorkers make up a city of poets, narrating their own internal monologues as they traipse down picturesque streets, photograph cappuccino art, eat gourmet meals and sip artisan cocktails, shop sample sales, observe the crazies on the subways and ponder the meaning of life on their backs in the grass of Central Park. We over-romanticize, over-dramatize, and over-scrutinize as every moment of every day becomes a potential post or tweet, an instant of self-reflection.

I'm still under a year in, so perhaps I should state this as a humble observance rather than brashly categorize myself as such. But at nine months and counting, I'm starting to make sense of the self-narration. There's something about living in the city where so many famous stories were set that makes life feel like a bit of a dream.

I apologize if these flowery self-reflective posts are getting tiresome, but I just can't seem to help it. They come spewing from my fingertips like foul language from the mouth of a yellow-cab taxi driver.

Nobody's forcing you to read this, anyhow.