New York is the land of overachievers.

Case in point: If a New Yorker wants to indulge in mindless entertainment, she'll watch The Daily Show, listen to NPR's "This American Life" and read, well, The New Yorker.

Last night, I caught the finale of Jersey Shore. Then after contemplating picking up a book, I decided instead to watch old episodes of The Real World: Hollywood online. Which prompted me think of my time in LaLaLand (and therefore, make judgmental comparisons between my new home and my former home).

When I lived in LA and used to eavesdrop on coffee shop conversations, I'd usually hear people talk about wanting to produce something, or the possibility of writing a script, or the search for searching for an agent. Sometimes, I'd hear friends compliment each other's headshots.

In New York, I've sat next to a woman who produced Def Poetry Jam, a playwright who's working on her third off-Broadway show, and an editor for a fashion magazine who just got back from France.

In other words, in New York, if you make time (note: not "have" time) to go to a coffee shop in the middle of the day, you're conducting business, not writing blog entries with the hope that a publisher will stumble across said blog entries and give said blogger a book deal.



Spend any amount of time in a gym locker room and you'll realize this: Women like to complain.

It's as though bitching is a form of bonding.

- Why is the temperature of the pool never consistent?
- Yeah, it's so cold today. I mean it's freezing! Freeeezing!

- I'm so tired. I just can't get enough sleep lately. I think I'm going to go home and take a nap.
- I wish I could take a nap. I have to go the restaurant at three today. Ugh.

Complaining is the go-to common ground women use to fill the silence in an awkward situation. I prefer food (discussing it, eating it, judging people based on it, whatever). Nutella, candied pecans, thinly sliced prosciutto, chocolate chip cookies with a hint of sea salt--it's the stuff of happiness.



To me, love never feels familiar. It feels brand new every time. I'm not sure if it's because as we get older, our meaning of love changes. Or if our our awareness of ourselves and our chemistries are heightened, or if we are able to appreciate another generous, beautiful human being more wholly and truly. Like not taking for granted the kindness you see in his eyes, or shying away from the vulnerability projected in your own--the wide, open promise that you would, if you could, give this person the world. Or how whether lying on the couch or standing over the stove, the curve of your body falls magnetically into his. And how, at least for now, he finds most of your quirks not only laughable, but charming. And in the times when you find yourselves apart, you think of ways to express this gratefulness and the joy that you'll see him very soon, but not soon enough.


When you're 32 and have lived alone for two years, you tend to be a little picky when comes to choosing a roommate. Deal breakers include:

1. Owning a rat and two parakeets. The possibility of the vermin escaping from said roommate's room is less of a concern than the thought of what kind of care, grooming and quality time happens between the adult female and her rat behind the closed door.

2. Being quarantined to my bedroom during meal times and Jeopardy! Having space is one thing. I also get being old and finding solitude in your favorite programs. (I too enjoy a quiet, uninterrupted evening with a jar of Nutella and The Jersey Shore.) But only being allowed access to my bedroom and the bathroom is a little extreme, especially since my favorite home activity is eating, and eating only happens after a mess is made in the kitchen.

3. Having friends over to play online video games. A group of twentysomething dudes sitting on a faded sectional sofa, huddled over their laptops, screaming, "Slay the droid!" is not only irksome, but downright emasculating and a discouraging glimpse into the future of the male species.

4. Being against your roommate getting laid. When "no overnight visitors" is the first demand out of a potential roommate's mouth, you can't be surprised when she adds, "and no cooking meat." No sex and no bacon equals misery and no one wants to live with misery.



My iPhone forecast for the last week I was in Hawaii: 82, 81, 80, 80, 81, 80.

My iPhone forecast for my first week in New York: 21, 26, 29, 20, 27, 19.

By the time my monthlong stay ended in Hawaii, my friends and family were applauding my tan, saying that my current state was the tannest they'd ever seen me. (Note: I went through a goth phase in college.)

Let's see how long it takes for my tan lines to fade:

Week One in NY
(Thought I'd spare you the more obvious tan line options.)