If You're A Man, Skip This Post

I didn't think twice about sending out the following email:

Hey Camping Group,

This is probably overshare. I hate to bail on people last minute, especially after the car was just booked, but I just checked the monthly calendar. There's no way to say this delicately - I'm going to start hemorrhaging starting on Thursday or Friday. I'd suck it up for anything other than camping. Camping is already a bit unhygienic - I'm gonna be a walking toxic waste. And bears can smell blood.

I'm sorry - I feel bad about canceling last minute.

Do you guys want to reschedule our camping weekend? Or do you guys intend to still go even though I'm out of the carpool? Although now you'll only need one tent.

Cheers,

M

I didn't think it was too much overshare; I was trying to convey the direness that is the first day of the female period to my camping group (which includes men).

Then I forwarded the email to Lil' and the following ensued:

Lil’: Oh my lord, lol
Me: How was that? TMI?
Lil’: Talk about overshare. Holy shit.
Me: Really? I wanted to convey the seriousness of the situation
Lil’: I mean, I don't think even I would have said that lol.
Me: Geez
Lil’: It's hilarious, I think it was the "hemorrhaging" and "walking toxic waste"
Me: Lmao, I was trying to be honest.
Lil’: You're so cute
Me: I called the park. They said there are bears.
Lil’: LOL
Me: The lady laughed at me on the phone. I thought it was a valid question.

They Lie

New York City is not the largest city in the United States.

That's the only way I can explain how I keep bumping into random people I know in the most random locales, and this happens all the time.

Last night saw me leaving the apartment of a friend on the Upper East Side after a movie at Union Square (Up. Loved it.) and dinner at his apartment. He cooked while I sat my lazy bum on his couch with a glass of wine and the cutest black Puggle in the world on my lap. Slightly woozy from a head cold, I didn't have the energy to whip out my umbrella in the light drizzle, so I'm getting slightly soaked as I'm swaying on my feet from exhaustion and a full belly of beef, mushrooms, and Swiss Chard, trying to keep my eyes peeled for an empty cab (Seriously, what are people doing at 11 pm on a Wednesday night?).

From the corner of my eye, I see a tall-ish guy walking across the street towards me but I ignore him as I keep my eyes on oncoming traffic. Suddenly, he stops on my left side and grabs my arm and says, "Margarita!"

I must have looked slightly befuddled for a second before it registers that he's speaking to me.

My eyes focus on his face and his chocolate brown eyes . . . and then there was recognition. (You guys should click through and read that post. I hate clicking through too, but he was a Douche of the First Order and that post really sums him up wonderfully.)

I don't recall what we talked about but after a few minutes, he went on his merry way, and I went on mine. All I do remember thinking is, "Why don't I dress up more for work?"

Once home, I ask Lil, "So how do I look today? Be honest. I just ran into The ManWhore (that's her charming name for him, very apropos if I might add)."

Lil, seeming to realize that I wanted a real answer, says sincerely, "You never look bad but you're not looking your most fabulous right now." Then she hastens to add, "But it's a good thing that he saw you looking the way you are now because you weren't even trying and you still looked fine!"

I was mollified. It's not that I particularly cared about his opinion, it was simply a point of pride.

The funny thing is, something made me think of him a couple days ago and all of a sudden, BAM! there he was in the flesh. Very nice flesh, if I might add. This is probably a rhetorical question, but why are such a high rate of attractive men complete and utter toolbags?

A Huge Pile of Randomosity

I had the urge to blog, but I didn’t have a specific topic in my mind, just a whole jumble of thoughts that were in no way connected, but I thought I would give Blog some love, kind of like it’s a person. Then I reasoned that I’d be on vacation for a whole week without internet access, and I’d better show Blog some love NOW, and then I looked at my sidebar, and January and February only have two posts apiece while May is already at 3. I’m averaging a post a week at this rate, and I was like, woah, M, don’t start setting the bar TOO high, or people will start expecting you to blog on a weekly basis.

Those 122 words should be an indication of the kind of post you’re getting.

Lemon Zest Luna Bars are the most disgusting things ever.

This morning I rush to work to finish a project that my boss wanted to see at 9:30. THE MAN CALLS IN SICK. Yay, blog! Bad boss for making me rush and look like I rolled out of bed and put on random clothes.

My cell phone went off at 10 AM this past Sunday morning. An annoyingly chipper male voice said, “Still on for tennis at 11, right?” “Yes, but it is 10 now. Why are we discussing this? This is M sleep time.” And I hung up. Yeah . . . don’t ever assume I’m a nice person, especially before I’ve had my coffee. 30 minutes later, I get a text as I’m sitting on the couch watching the Lost season finale, “I’m going to be 15 minutes late picking you up so you can finish your coffee, baby ;)” For some reason, I was touched by this . . . and then he roundly kicked my ass in tennis, which lost him any brownie points he may have garnered. Maybe.

Speaking of Lost, that show is a nice glass of red wine, a chocolate brownie, and a new dress all rolled into one. The suspense for the new season is going to kill me.

I am questioning the wisdom of letting Catchy dye my hair next week. She is emphatic in the quality of her dyeing skills, but some part of me is thinking, “Your little sister is doing something potentially horrifying to your head.” And she would totally take a swig of her wine and be like, “Oops, forgive me?” with a sheepish expression, and I would.

The third date with Tennis Boy is tonight! Third date for me is when things take a sharp nosedive or plateau into nothingness.

In two days, I will be lying on a sandy beach in a bathing suit arguing with my cousin whether we should have mojitos or margaritas with (or for) lunch.

Until then, I still have to pack. I refuse to check my luggage unless I am traveling with wine (which I’m not this time around) so I bought 3 ounce size samples of all my toiletries. Trusting the airline industry with your luggage is like trusting that guy in a wife beater at the bar with your drink while you go to the bathroom. Both of them will leave you wondering the next day, “Where the hell are my clothes?”

Food . . . We're Still Friends

After being silent for a month on the blogosphere, you get bombarded with the daily minutiae of my life.

In the spirit of saving my pennies, and as a revolt against the hemorrhage of last month’s credit card bill (food, although fickle, is quite tasty and at times, expensive), I’ve decided to bring my lunch to work every day. Bringing lunch to work means shopping for groceries. This is something I tend to do at random times, like the middle of the weekend or during my lunch hours, which are moderately busy. Trader Joe’s is the exception; that place is jam packed from open to close. Tonight, acting on a whim, I ventured to my nearest Food Emporium right after work.

Have any of you gone to the grocery store right after work? It’s a total shit show. I had no idea this is when people did their grocery shopping. I can’t imagine this is only a regional thing. How do you people cope?

So I spoke to my mother, a font of information of “all things mothers know”, i.e. what some people might call common knowledge or common sense, and I asked her, “When do you grocery shop?”

Her response? “7 AM or I don’t go.” She hates crowds, too.

Ah, like Mami, like daughter. Except for the being awake at 7 AM thing.

Anyways . . .

My mother always goes to the store with a list; she is the grab-and-get-out kind of food shopper. When my sister and I were children, she would stand at the deli/bakery counter and send us out on missions for the items on her list. It was a game. My sis and I would race to find the items and the winner would be the one who came back first. So my mother would try to pick items that were equi-distant from her, while handicapping me since I was the older child and, therefore, faster. Catchy and I had the brands and sizes that our Mom wanted down pat, because if we brought back the wrong one, we had to go return it, and lose precious game points. Our knowledge came in handy whenever my Papi was the one doing the grocery shopping. My Dad, although my Mom always gave him a list, is a meanderer; he likes to go up and down the aisles and look at new fun things to try (I am also this kind of grocery shopper, I should ask Catchy what kind of shopper she is. I bet she’s like my mother). However, he never knew which brands to get, and Catchy and I were more than happy to chip in with our two cents, “But that’s not the one Mom gets!”

Meandering back to the conclusion of my grocery store expedition . . . one should not meander for groceries after work. It is highly inadvisable.

Food is a Fickle Friend

Rewind to Monday morning, my alarm clock goes off, I do my usual roll over and the SLAM of the snooze button. In the process of rolling back onto my side, whatever is inside my stomach is doing the shimmy shimmy shake and not in the fun way.

My first thought was, "You can't call in sick today; you're going to be "sick" that long weekend in June. Maybe you'll feel better after it's all out of your system."

Let's just say I didn't not feel better when it was "all" out of my system.

Cuban food . . . you're the food of my people! Was that really necessary?

Me: Maybe I should have some ginger ale and that will make me feel better.

Stomach: You're putting something else inside of me? Are you nuts? I'm going to toss it, muahahaha.

Me (a couple hours later): It might be time for chicken and rice.

Stomach: Ha! You're not very bright, are you? Put that fork down. Good job.

Me: I'm just gonna stick with the ginger ale.

Stomach (two hours later): Okay, I'm getting hungry. You do have to feed me at some point.

Me: Because that worked out so well before. More chicken and rice?

Stomach: . . . I make no promises.

Me = 0, Digestive System = 1.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar

I came. I saw. I conquered Bear Mountain.*

Yes, folks. I camped. In the wilderness. For two days.

And it was utterly amazing.

One of the greatest (if not the greatest, and I am not exaggerating) feelings in the world has to be stepping under the hot water after a weekend camping trip and washing away two days worth of bug spray, sunscreen, dirt, smoke smell, and just plain ol’ sweat off your body. Oh soap, beautiful soap. I could write you an ode.

No log cabins and bunk beds. Uh uh. When I camp, I camp hardcore. I popped a squat like the best of them! We slept in tents! On the ground! Only a thin strip of tarp separated me from the harsh elements and the big bad bugs! If you know me at all, you have to realize why this is tantamount to me winning an Olympic Gold Medal . . . in weightlifting.

Ned 2 (I know 4 Neds, but Ned 2 is my male bestie) asked me to go camping, and I said, “Please remove me from all your camping inquiries from this point forward. I will never entertain the thought of actually camping out in the Outdoors.”

You should never say never; you’re just tempting fate.

You almost know how it goes. I had the kind of rough week that made me question my mental health. No joke. There may have been a male involved. All I knew was that there was no way I could spend the weekend in the city without becoming certifiable. So without overly thinking it, I texted Ned 2, “Is there any room in the car? I cannot be in the city this weekend.” And that is how I wound up deciding to camp, completely spontaneously, kind of like my skiing trip.

Ned 2 being Ned 2, he hooked me up with a sleeping bag and camping backpack and gave me a comprehensive “List of Things I Needed.” I dutifully trudged to Duane Reade and filled my backpack with everything on his list plus a couple additional items I needed, like cigars. I think I must give off some incompetent vibe or something because when we were parking our car at the campsite in preparation for our HIKE (oh yes, no car/RV camping. We HIKED SIX MILES, WITH HEAVY BACKPACKS to our campsite), Ned 2 turns to me and is like, “Did you bring water and a flashlight?” I couldn’t help feeling a little miffed, “No, I just brought a couple liters of whiskey and some marshmallows. Duh, I brought water.” Seriously, why do people think I’m incapable of functioning without supervision? I honestly thought he wanted to check my bag to make sure there was water in it .

Anyways. Me, Ned 2, one of Ned 2’s best male friends, and my friend Lisa headed off into the big, bad woods, also known as Harriman State Park. Remember how with skiing I was very nonchalant? “Oh, I run 25 miles a week. I can do this no sweat”? Yeah, well, I was going camping on 5 hours of sleep and slightly dehydrated from drinking the night before, because that’s just how I roll sometimes. Like a dumbass.

I went salsa dancing with Sacha, one of Lil's friends, and one of his friends the evening before The Big Camp, as I now call it. If we had only gone salsa dancing and I had been in bed by midnight, it would have all been okay. However, my friend Diego (very, very sexy Diego. This is totally irrelevant to the camping story), a club promoter texts me, “Come out to The Empire Hotel!” Since I hadn’t seen Diego in awhile because of my whole Lenten alcohol fast (there are certain people that are just more fun when you’re drinking), I thought, why the hell not? So that’s how Sacha and I skipped the long line and wound up drinking cranberry vodkas on a balmy spring evening with a view of the entire New York City skyline. And why I wasn’t in bed till 4:15 AM.

What my pampered city-self learned this weekend:

a) Sometimes you just need to test yourself against the elements, to see how far you can push yourself. Verdict . . . pretty friggin’ far. Thank you, Jonathan’s treadmill. Jillian Michaels and her Shred have nothing on you,
b) Not everyone engages in hanky panky while camping. Yes, we went swimming in our underwear in the kind of cold water that you can’t withstand more than 10 minutes without dropping your core body temperature, but we were only friends having a good time. Did I sneak a peek at nearly naked boys? Is the sky blue? Is my name Margarita? Well no, but I did.
c) I can be hardcore, bitches. 500 thread count sheets? I scoff at you. Just give me ear plugs and I am good to go,
d) Bug spray is your friend.

Two hours and an Indian buffet later, I loofah-ed every inch of my body and slathered myself in Jasmine Vanilla from head to toe; I picked up my toxic muddy clothes from the bathroom floor and held them two feet in front of me as I placed them in a bag separate from my dirty laundry, because they were just THAT filthy.

As my extremely sore ass sat on the couch on Sunday eve sipping on a Gewurztraminer and waited for my Thai food to be delivered, I thought to myself, "What did you learn this weekend, M?"

You kick ass. Fo sho, people ;)

We Live In A Drinking World

Giving up alcohol for Lent wasn't that hard; I thought it was going to be more difficult. After a particularly rough week, I'd crave a glass of wine on Friday evenings but other than that, it was easy to pass on any and all alcohol.

What was greatly amusing to me were various people's reactions when I told them I wasn't drinking for Lent.

Ned 2: But my taco and tequila party is in the middle of March. Are you sure you want to do that?

Ben (while we were at Hiro, a nightclub in the Meatpacking District): Lent is 46 days? When does it end?
Me: Easter.
Ben: But it's after sundown! (He looks at me like he's discovered a loophole and deserves a pat on the back.)

Rahm: You gave up alcohol for "Lent”? What is a “Lent”?
Me: lol, 40 days after Ash Wednesday, ends on Easter. Catholic practice.
Rahm: Oh . . . I didn’t realize you were religious.
Me: You're supposed to give up something
Rahm: And you chose alcohol!!! My god.

Me: What time's it at? I'm not drinking - I gave up alcohol for Lent.
Ned 2: Haha . . . that still sounds funny coming from you.

Me: Elle, I gave up alcohol for Lent.
Elle: Oh no.
Elle: So does this include all liquor. . . even at home wine?
Me: Everything.
Elle: Uh oh.

Dubai Boy: Some more Guinness, mate?
Me: Don't I wish mate ;) I gave up alcohol for Lent.
Dubai Boy: And you turned to weed?
Me: No!