Much To My Delight

Much To My Delight

15 Years in New York (and I still can’t tell you which bridge is which)


It just occurred to me that this month marks fifteen years since I moved to New York City.

No friends, no family, no job, no furniture…just three hockey bags stuffed with clothes and a key to a $500 room in a shared apartment across the river in Hoboken. It’s a good thing I did this at 22, because I can assure you I would never pull this shit at 37.

At 22, I wanted adventure. It felt like I was on a tourist visa and my time here would someday run out, so I treated the early years like one long vacation. I knew I’d eventually move away and I did. I made it a full two years before I came running back. But why on earth would I do that? This place is crazy!

I came back because without great fanfare or ceremony, New York very quietly became home. Over the years, I acquired a lot of friends, family, jobs and furniture (most of it crap from Ikea, but whatever). There is no longer a push to finish up all the fun I’m going to have before I settle somewhere reasonable. Fifteen years ago I stretched my limbs and ended up here. Now my roots are tucked firmly underground, buried beneath a mound of cold gray concrete, deep with cracks and littered with sun-dried chewing gum.

Like any long-term relationship, it hasn’t been all cakepops and roses, and for all her architectural glory, culinary splendor, retail majesty, and theatrical glitter, New York City also kicks its occupants right in the shins with a melange of discourteous odors, robust armies of mites and vermin, hideously scary ROUSes (rents of unusual size), and dangerous tidal waves of human currents. Walking through certain streets in New York City is like being swept into a violently rotating tornado, a delirious funnel spun out of smog and bus exhaust filled with tattered newspapers, expired metrocards, crushed coffee cups, cheap broken umbrellas and paper sacks filled with barely-burnt sugared cashews. There are areas in Manhattan that feel like they’ve been set on fire, where the constant flicker of light and color make your eyes tear and the clamor of honks and blares thump in your temples like a steel drum.

But then you turn a corner onto a narrow street paved with crumbling bricks and spot a community garden you’ve never noticed before. You look skyward and catch an utterly bizarre installation peeking behind the glass of a local artist’s window. The wheels of your car tip onto the Queensboro Bridge and the skyline unfolds like a subway map to welcome you into the mouth of a postcard. You feel the first chill of rain on your forehead and, like magic, a man appears with fifty umbrellas.


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There is a reason New York City is photographed, filmed and rhapsodized to death. It can dropkick your spirit and swallow your soul, but if you have a high tolerance for frustration and confined spaces, you will be rewarded a multitude of inimitable quirks and charms found almost nowhere else. It can be daunting, and callous, and occasionally unkind, but one thing this city will never, ever be is boring.

In exchange for occasionally breaking your back and crushing your heart, as payback for pushing through biting winters and sticky summers, as pennance for small closets and very little kitchen space, you will be rewarded the guarantee to experience, witness, feel, taste, hear, smell or do something interesting every single day. Some days it’s spying a group of young shirtless men doing flips over groups of tourists in Washington Square Park or a man strolling casually around the East Village with an enormous yellow python draped across his shoulders.

Sometimes it’s walking outside and catching a movie crew filming on your stoop or watching a long-limbed model shift and contort herself for a team of photographers, right in the middle of a busy street. There are women here who push their dogs around in Maclaren baby strollers and men with buckets on their heads playing didgeridoos outside your subway station. It is a city shared by oddballs and outcasts, starving artists and superstars, executives and refugees, sometimes living only a block or a building away from someone living an entirely different kind of life.

You can go to the Bronx and ask an old Italian man to roll you a handmade cigar or a young shopgirl to pipe fresh mascarpone into a cannoli shell so crisp it immediately shatters under the weight of your teeth. You can head to Harlem and have your hair braided on the street for 25 dollars, or drive around parts of Williamsburg to witness dozens of Orthodox men in long black coats walk so slowly and calmly it’s like they’ve figured out the secret to life. You can take the 7 to Jackson Heights and have the most authentic dining experience outside of Pakistan, Colombia, or Bangladesh, or take a cab to midtown, Gramercy or Brooklyn and have the most memorable and extravagant dining experience of your natural born life.


You will hear every language.  You will find a store for every need. You will smell a thousand different cuisines being cooked every day. You will never see, do, or experience everything New York has to offer because it is constantly, fearlessly, endlessly changing. If you live here, you’re never done. There’s always more.

You either love living in New York City or you begin to hate living in New York City. You either learn to accept its curtness, or you grow to resent it. People have strong opinions about this town. It’s not an easy place to live, but it’s also not an easy place to leave. There will never be a market for an “I feel ambivalent about NY” t-shirt.

This city is loud, grimy, ugly, beautiful, strange, sophisticated, sexy, exciting and just straight up weird. It’s a wonderful place, it really is. It is to me, anyway. At 37, I guess I still want some adventure. And so I stay.

Happy 15th anniversary to you and me, NYC. Loving you hasn’t always been easy, but it’s definitely been worth it. You’re my first, my last, my everything.


PS: You need a shower.

PPS: And where is that 2nd avenue train line you promised years ago?

PPPS:  Enough with the parking tickets already. We get it.


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Snip, Snip. Just the Tip.


I always forget how much I hate making small talk until I need a haircut.

I can tolerate people weeping openly, can engage in conversation about disturbing thoughts or memories, and manage to stay pretty calm when someone presents in crisis, but try talking to me about the weather and I become almost useless. Can’t swing it. You’ve got exactly four minutes to discuss how humid it’s been and then I’m going to start asking questions about your childhood.

Because of this aversion to small talk, I avoid beauty treatments at large, and put off the necessary ones (like haircuts) until my locks have become so raggedy that the ends start begging for sweet release. I really knew I needed a cut when last week one of my sassier clients looked at me curiously and asked: “Why is your hair not sexy today?” Shortly after that comment she asked when I planned to bring cookies into the office again. I can’t reward this behavior with baked goods. But I can get a haircut.


<Modeling my resting bitch face, circa 2011>

Anyway, my hair was “not sexy” because the last stylist I tried to make small talk with didn’t really put in the layers my thick hair demands. His touch was too subtle, too sparing. He was a young, handsome guy who’d just moved here from Serbia a few months prior, so our conversations actually had a bit more heft to them since I married into a Croatian family. Still, once I shared my impressive knowledge of the language (Sretan Bozic! Sretan Uskrs! Bog!) and my affection for Eastern European pastries, we pretty much ran out of subjects to cover. Plus, his English wasn’t great and my Serbo-Croatian repertoire consists only of Merry Christmas, Happy Easter and goodbye.

So Friday, after an impressively short workday, I popped into a salon I pass everyday on my way home from the train. It is a bare bones, no-frills kind of joint that mostly attracts very old ladies with steel walkers and names like Esther. The walls are painted an unsettling shade of green and the lighting is so harsh it’s like every crease in your face has been put under a veil of magnifying glass. When I walked in and asked for just a haircut, the receptionist seemed relieved they wouldn’t be preforming another weekly wash and set.

I was quickly sent over to a teensy Asian woman named Susie, who was eager to understand why I had never come see her before if I lived on this street for seven years. She wanted to know where my hair had been and who’d had their hands on it. A lot of people had–I’m a notorious salon jumper. She critiqued its color (the left side was too blonde), its shape (she agreed with my client–not sexy. needed more layers) and its ability to keep my husband’s attention (don’t worry; by the time I’m done with you he won’t be able to keep his hands out of it!).

I found Susie pleasant. Just enough talk to make me comfortable and get the information needed to meet my beauty needs, but not so much that I felt pressure to endure endless conversation about my hair or anyone else’s. Mostly I was just relieved that she never asked me what I do for a living. When you work as a therapist, sometimes this conversation can be really weird, and I’ve had some awkward exchanges with past stylists: (PS: All quotes verbatim)

“Who would want to work with crazy people?” (Perhaps there’s a more tactful way you’d like to ask this question.)

“So my boyfriend does this thing where he hides out in the bedroom for days playing video games and not showering. He also never wants to have sex with me and has to count to 20 before doing anything. What’s his problem?” (As much as I’d love to diagnose your partner without ever having met him, I think I would rather sit quietly and read this magazine on my lap.)

Everyone comes in here and tells me their problems. I’m pretty much a therapist too.” ( Super! Would you consider yourself more Gestalt or Jungian in practice? )

But Susie was a pro, and she appeared eager to have me settle down and commit to a regular stylist as my hair had clearly already made its way around town. She was kind of cute, and kept pointing out what she considered her assets as a stylist. After sharing a particularly useful bit of information (“Never keep your hair parted the same way all the time. It thins your hair. Flip it to the right one week, then wear it on the left the next week”), she exclaimed, “See! Susie shares all the best tips!” Susie did share the best tips.


<Doing what Susie taught me and flipping me hair to the opposite side. Hello volume! That Susie!!>

After making an unmemorable statement she thought was funny, she said, “See! Susie makes all the customers laugh. I’m funny, right?” Susie was funny, actually. Right after cutting my long bangs she sang, “Snip, snip! Just the tip!” and the pre-pubescent part of my brain almost exploded.

By the end of the cut and dry, I was pretty much sold on Susie, especially as the tally for the event was only thirty-five bucks. I was happy with her handiwork and so was she. As I left the salon she called out, “Make your husband take you out to dinner tonight. I hope he recognizes you!”

So we went out to dinner, and by sheer coincidence, the restaurant was next door to the last salon I visited. The weather was lovely, so we ate outside on the sidewalk in front. As luck would have it, out comes my Serbian hairstylist for a smoke break. He was looking in my general direction, so I gave a friendly, slightly awkward wave. Based on the furtive look on his face, I’m still not sure if he thought I was some random girl flirting with him or, as Susie predicted, I had become wholly unrecognizable.

Either way, I was just relieved he didn’t come up to the table and start talking about the weather.



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What it’s like to be a therapist, part 4


He enters my office each week with two enormous bags. One is a 50-pound army sack he pulls over his shoulders like a backpack; the other a large black leather duffel he stuffs onto his arm. He fits every single thing he owns in those two bags, and carries them everywhere he goes. He has to. He lives in a shelter, and there are no lockers for him to stow his belongings.

He drags his luggage onto crowded buses, through narrow subway stairwells, and up and down the avenues by foot when he doesn’t have metro fare. It’s exhausting just to watch him carry those things, but somehow he manages. He hasn’t missed a single appointment yet. He never makes excuses and he always shows up exactly ten minutes early, which is more than I can say for 85% of my other clients.

He is never without those heavy bags.

I ask how his week’s been going and he tells me about the nice people he’s met recently. He has the kind of warm and easy smile that makes him very approachable, and he is often the recipient of random generosity and kindness, which makes me very happy to hear. This week he was given several free lunches, a couple cups of coffee, and a free phone charger. A few weeks ago a relative sent him jeans and sneakers, his only pair of each. But the biggest gift he received was a late model ipod, and he considers it his saving grace. The music keeps him calm and helps him manage some very serious symptoms that make his life much more complicated than most.

In a material sense, he has very little. But in his mind–where it really counts–he already has everything he needs. I know, because he told me as such.

He says he feels lucky. He tells me how appreciative he is when people offer him a muffin or a stick of gum.

He says, more than once:  ”I am grateful.”

He is a remarkable person who I definitely wouldn’t know if I didn’t have this job. And if I’m being honest, he is the kind of person I pass probably 15 times a day without ever stopping to offer a muffin or a stick of gum. You can slap a fancy word like countertransference on it if you want to, but I’m not sure it’s possible to engage in this kind of conversation without pausing to examine your own values.

This job I do gives me no choice but to check in with myself on a regular basis. It’s helping me become more open-minded and less judgmental. It’s encouraging me to complain less and appreciate more.

Speaking with this gentleman is a humbling experience.

I am grateful for it.

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Here’s where I try to write about my creative process without putting you all to sleep.

Posting has slowed down a bit for me, so I’m always incredibly grateful when someone writes and gives me a great idea for a post. Today’s thanks are extended to the lovely Maryn at The Well, who asked me to answer these 10 questions from Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit.

I had a little fun with mine, and encourage you to do the same! If you’re a blogger looking to examine your creative habits, feel free to copy these questions and send your link to Maryn at The Well too.

Here goes:


1. What is the first creative moment you remember?

When I was probably 7 or 8 years old, my parents bought a new refrigerator. It arrived in a long, slender cardboard box. My brother and I flipped it on its side, brought in a collection of small household items, some blankets, and a box of markers and created a trailer home that we lived in quite comfortably for about a week. When it started falling apart, we flattened it out and used it to toboggan ourselves down the stairs. We didn’t play again until our parents bought a new stove in 1989.

2. What is the best idea you ever had?

When I was a kid and pre-teen, I fantasized about becoming an author when I grew up. At this point I was still journaling a lot and saw promise in many of my ideas. Most of my entries centered around my homework and what mom made for dinner, but trust me, they showed great potential and were actually quite fascinating to skim extremely briefly.

In this phase of life, I really enjoyed staring at myself in reflective surfaces and imagining what I would grow up to look like. Specifically, I found myself posing several times a week for the photo I would eventually use for my book’s jacket cover. I needed to figure out how many teeth to show when smiling so I could look extremely pretty while also convincing people I was incredibly smart.

My favorite place to practice this was in my room, at night, under the light of my reading lamp. The lamp’s polished brass was super reflective, and when I tilted it a certain way my face not only looked thinner, but more tan and blemish-free.

What I’m telling you is this:  You know those warming filters on your iphone camera that make you look so much hotter than you actually are?

I invented those.


3. What is the dumbest idea you ever had?

Besides not banking on photo filters 25 years ago? Let’s see. That would be shaving off all my arm hair in the 6th grade. Luckily it did not grow back thicker and darker like my mother warned.

IMG_6792See that, Ma? Almost no arm hair at all. Wive’s tail effectively busted. 

4. What is your creative ambition?

To write a collection of personal essays. In my head, the writing reminds people of David Sedaris (you know who he is) and Rick Bragg (you’ve probably never heard of him, but trust me, he’s good). Think a large portion of funny with a small side order of sentimentality, caught just before it turns too gooey.


5. What are the vital steps to achieving this ambition?

Step 1: Make tea. Strike that. Let’s do coffee.

Step 2: Sit.

Step 3: Write.

Step 4: Curse. Wring hands. Knead knots from forehead.

Step 5: Recover.

Step 6. Pray. Bargain. Center. Take a walk. Curse again, just because it’s so fun.

Step 7. Sit.

Step 8:  Write.

Step 9: Repeat daily until completion.


All my creative pursuits begin with coffee.


6. Describe your first successful creative act.

I took a fiction class at UT, which was a stretch for me because I was more of a journalism/creative non-fiction kind of gal. The first story I submitted was crap, but the second one grabbed the professor’s attention and he requested I read it aloud to the very large class. It was the type of scenario that gave you an ego boost and stomach cramps at the same time.

The story was fiction in the truest sense, and for some reason I’d chosen to base it on a young girl’s sudden recollection of her childhood sexual abuse (an interesting choice for a future therapist, no?). The professor pulled me aside and asked if it would be too triggering for me to read it aloud, as he had assumed it was based on personal experience due to some of the explicit details. a) I thought it was very sensitive and responsible of my professor to do this. b) I gained confidence in my skills as a writer that day.


7. Describe your second successful act. How does it compare to the first?

I made a baby shower card for one of my besties who loves country music. I drew a baby with big blonde hair and bright lipstick, with a onesie that read “Burpin’ 9 to 5″. I thought that was pretty good. It’s ridiculous for me to compare this act to the first, but creativity comes in many forms.

8. Which artists do you admire most and why? What do you have in common?

I have always been drawn to personal essays, humor, and Southern writing. I like old-fashioned storytelling with simple language and rich detail. Growing up, my favorite thing to read were Lewis Grizzard’s columns, which only ran in Southern newspapers. I loved them because they were short, easy to read, down-to-earth and full of charm. He was very funny, but he also found a way to pull at the heartstrings in a very subtle way. I have always tried to strike this balance, and if I had to name a greatest influence, it’d be him.


The writer I admire the most is Rick Bragg, who I mentioned before. His books and articles are wonderful to read and simply beautifully written. Some people would probably find him a bit heavy-handed with the metaphor, but I just go crazy for it. I have read his memoir “All Over But the Shoutin’” probably six times, and never tire of the way he writes. I have always loved the Southern voice, and his drips with honey without becoming cloyingly sweet.  If my writing were ever compared to his, I’d be really proud.


9. What is your greatest fear?

Wasting, losing, or squandering valuable time. Also, mice.


10. What is your idea of mastery?

Getting your point across in as few words as possible.

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While You Were Sleeping


There are two camps of people, generally–morning people and night people. I’m not going to tell you which kind I am, but  I will let you know upfront that some of my very first bras are still defrosting.

I’ve been a card-carrying member of the “morning person” camp since childhood, a fate that drew much ridicule in my pre-teen days as I was always the first one to fall asleep at slumber parties. Sweet little Southern* girls they were, my friends not only froze my bra as punishment, but on separate occasions also threw all of my clothes out a 2nd-floor window, used a mattress-sized maxipad as a kick-me sign, and hurled a small (but very dead) frog in my face. Sweet Southern girls, my ass. Those bitches were ruthless.

But now we’re all grown up and those girls are now women who spend their evenings praying for their small children to go down as easily as their friend Jennifer did all those years ago. I know this because I generally wake up around the same time as all the mommies with young children. They are typically the only people making comments on Facebook at 7 a.m. on Saturday mornings, usually with declarations like: “Dear Baby Jesus, All I ask is for one full night of sleep. ONE NIGHT.” or “Somebody send help. I need an IV of French Roast. Stat.”

So yeah, I still go to bed early and wake up early. Everyday. Weekends too. Call me a drip. Call me a party pooper. Call me an old lady. Just don’t call me after 11 because I will be knocked the eff out. Clearly, all of this will be subject to change if my husband and I decide to make a human, but for now, this is my life. Down by 11, up by 6:30.

texas lizzie's wedding 2006 042

The ritual in our house goes like this: Around 10:20 pm I settle into bed, then at 10:30, Vin comes into the room and reads beside me. I read too, for exactly three minutes until the book falls on my face. Vin removes the book, turns off the lamp, and turns on the big box fan in the corner to keep me cool and create white noise. The white noise is to block out whatever Vin then decides to do for the next four or five hours.

Because when I go to bed, Vinny’s night has just begun.

Born and raised in the city that never sleeps, Vinny burns the midnight oil until at least 2 or 3 every night. The only time I spend those hours vertically on purpose are if my best friend is getting married, the party of the decade is underway or I’m promised a glimpse of a lunar eclipse that only occurs once every 200 years. He goes to bed around 2, and he’s up around 9 or 10. On weekends–much later on both ends.

The man has a good four hours to kill late at night after I’ve gone to sleep, and while I’d never encourage it, if he ever wanted to lead some salacious double-life, he is certainly married to the right dupe. For all I know, he could be spending his late nights bouncing between boobie bars and grimy fight clubs. He could be plotting some great heist or gambling away our savings in Atlantic City. Instead, I’m pretty sure he uses that time to do freelance work, record music at his studio in Brooklyn, play Madden or guitar, watch copious amounts of Sports Center, and make midnight runs to the 24-hour grocery for questionable snacks. Thankfully, I’ve never found a red bra stuffed in the couch cushions or poker chips strewn across the coffee table. I have, however, found several half-eaten Entenmann’s crumb cakes on the kitchen counter. Scoundrel!


Now, in the morning, I have my five or six hours of “me” time. I’m most productive in the early morning, so on a typical weekend I use the hours between 6:30 and 11:30 am to grocery shop, do food prep for the week, clean house, write or read in the yard, and take the train into the city for a long walk. I cherish this time and find that I don’t really enjoy sleeping in because it pains me to waste daylight hours. My circadian rhythms match those of an 87-year-old man (ie: my grandfather).

It used to really bother me that Vin and I lead such separate lives at the beginning and ends of our days. We both spend so much time at work that it seems like we should spend as much of our off-time together as possible. I’d love it if he were the kind of guy to join me on a 2-hour early-morning hike across the city, and he’d be elated if I joined him at a midnight movie without drooling down my shirt. But the simple fact is, he is a night owl and I am a lark. Unless we both miraculously get jobs that offer similar schedules or we experience a dramatic life change that would require a shift in our basic biological functioning, this is how days and nights are done, with each of us spending hours on our own while the other is sleeping.

And then, out of nowhere, come those sweet little moments that make you realize every cloud in the nighttime sky does indeed have a silver lining.

Jen & Vin at the Bar


One night last week, the motor in our bedroom fan completely conked out. Of course, we didn’t realize it was broken until it was 10:30 and I was already tucking in for the night. I kicked the blanket off the bed and wrestled the sheets with my bare feet, my legs poking their way from beneath a cotton tangle so I wouldn’t drench them with sweat. I told Vin I’d stop by one of the variety stores near our apartment on the way home from work the next day. He shut off the lamp, kissed me goodnight, and walked into the living room. If he turned on the TV, he must have had to lean in to hear it. My white-noise machine had officially kicked the bucket, and he always tries hard not to wake me up.

Still, shortly after midnight, he did.

I rolled over in the pitch dark, and through squinty eyes watched Vin remove the broken machine from its perch in the corner and carefully plug in a new fan so I could get a good night’s rest. He’d managed to find one of the only Home Depots that stayed open until midnight, hopped in the car, and bought a replacement. It was such a loving act, and it was one of those moments that reminded me how lucky I am to be married to such a thoughtful and kind person.

I mean, sure, he could have made this sweet gesture right after a quick stop at Cheetah’s Gentleman’s Club, but I really doubt it.



*(technically, Texans are Southwestern but it doesn’t sound as gentile. Plus, you know I don’t really think y’all are bitches. Love ya, mean it.)

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You want the good news or the bad news first?


Last night I had the strangest dream. I sailed away to China in a little row boat to find ya, and you said you had to get your laundry clean. Just kidding. That’s a line from an awesomely awful song from the ’80s. Two points to whoever can name it.

I did have a weird dream last night though. And the night before. My dreams have become more vivid and strange as I’ve gotten older and I’m not exactly sure what that means for my psyche, but it makes for some interesting 2 a.m. conversations with my husband.

Still in a fog, I mumble to him: “Dude. I just had the weirdest dream. I was eating brunch with a group of girlfriends, when all of a sudden we got news from neighbors that a nuclear holocaust was about to destroy the entire world. So we got in our cars and drove to the place we were told would be the safest.”

“Where was it?” He leaned in, completely captivated by the story created in my subconscious mind. (This is a total fabrication. He didn’t ask me where the holding place was. He was too invested in Sports Center.)

“It was I-Hop.” I said. The safe place was I-Hop. (Side note: Did y’all know they put pancake batter in their omelets to make them more fluffy? That’s fucking gross.)

The night before that I dreamed I was in a rocket ship, headed for space with a large group of drag queens. We were mid-atmosphere when I got slapped across the face for accidentally calling someone her birth-name of Clarence instead of her chosen stage name, Clarice.

I’m not really sure what the point of me telling you my dreams is. Frankly, I’m lacking in material which is why I haven’t blogged in a month. So when opening up this page I thought to myself, who wouldn’t want to hear about pancakes and drag queens? So now that we’re reacquainted, I guess I’ll just give a brief, albeit convoluted update on what’s been happening this summer, a few recent thoughts, and some moderately insightful observations about life in general. Hold onto your hats, kittens. This is going to be the most interesting thing you read in the next three minutes. (This is total fabrication. You will probably leave this page to read an article about gross things restaurants do to make your food look better. By the way, did you know that when they photograph ice cream for TV they’re really using two big scoops of butter?).

* I am currently writing this post from my little backyard in Queens, my personal oasis. I am wearing a 10-year-old nightgown, eyeglasses and a towel on my head. There is a little Italian man staring at me from his back patio. I wave hello. It is a nice morning. I love this backyard so very much, and am using it as much as I possibly can this summer because…

ma yard

*The house we rent is for sale. Arrrrrrrrghhhhh. People have come by to look at it, and some have expressed at least moderate interest in buying it. This was something we figured would eventually happen, and it’s weird that it’s occurring in the  same year we feel closest to leaving this nest and buying our own. We would *like” to buy something by the end of this year, but now we are really feeling the pressure to have our ducks in a row and our dollars in a large green pile.

One night a few weeks ago, the realtor showed the house to an inspector. The next few nights were sleepless for me, which is unusual and rare (don’t hate–congratulate). By that Sunday I had a full-on panic meltdown and bawled my eyes out. I released a big bulk of the tension, and I’ve slept like a baby ever since. (Therapist’s note–just let it go. Cry it out already.)

Hence, this has become the summer of saving. No traveling on deck, less eating out, more buckling down. I even added an extra day at work. Time to get serious! Our big, dreamy goal at present is to buy a two-family home in our current neighborhood of Astoria, and rent out the second apartment to help pay down the mortgage. All phalanges crossed that we come closer to becoming home owners/landlords by the end of 2014. All we need is a few more tens of thousands of dollars so we can buy a house in poor repair that costs quite a bit more than half a mil. (This is not a fabrication. It’s fucking gross.)

*I spent my birthday on a picnic blanket in Central Park with a great group of friends. It was a sublimely wonderful day, and not just because people showered me with cupcakes, donuts and fried chicken. I was in my favorite place with my favorite people, and that’s a special way to usher in a new year of life. I love my friends. Such good humans.


* After seven summers of fruitfulness, this winter was officially too brutal for the backyard fig tree. This is what it usually looks like by late July…


This is what it looks like on this first day of July this year:

sad tree

If that’s not symbolic for what’s most likely our last summer in this apartment, I don’t know what is! The grapes have turned to raisins and the tree’s turned into a scenery piece for a Tim Burton flick.

* I have REALLY gotten back into cooking lately. I go through phases where I simply can’t be bothered with fussy dinners, and then I go through periods when I want to create elaborate, interesting and special meals. I’m in the latter phase right now, and have started a new summer tradition where I’m opening up my home to local friends every Wednesday night for dinner. Here was the first installation.

indian food

* Our toilet seat is busted for the second time in six months. Every time I sit down, I have to hold onto the wall to prevent myself from falling into the bowl. It’s an awkward warning to hand out to visitors:

“Hey guys, feel free to use our toilet…just follow these instructions. Ladies–pretend you’re on a boogie board and try to find your balance. Fellas–just take the whole seat off, place gently on the floor and replace when your mission is complete.”

*I became an auntie to TWO separate sets of twins!! Crazy, right? They are tiny and adorable and both sets have the coolest parents in the world. Lucky kids, very lucky auntie and uncle.


* In hindsight, I recognize that my birthday balloons looks like a huge set of boobs.

I opened in an awkward place so I might as well end in one.



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Flowers in the Attic: You smell DELICIOUS.


If you are a Generation X’er like myself, I will bet you a bazillion dollars that you had a copy of VC Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic as a pre-teen girl, and that you acquired it in some kind of seedy 7th grade underground book market because your mother wouldn’t buy it for you. You fed on it late at night, presumably by the light of a full moon or a shanghaied flashlight, with your sheets pulled tightly over your head to create an impenetrable cotton fortress. You felt everything reading that book–exhilarated, disgusted, shocked, embarrassed, perhaps even a little bit dirty. You couldn’t sleep because you were too excited. You could never look at your brother the same way. It was so, so bad but so, so good. The book jacket classifies it as a “gothic melodrama” — a pretty conservative description for something geared toward teenagers that featured themes like child neglect, torture, murder and incest. Babysitter’s Club this was not.

 book cover

Anyway, if loving Flowers in the Attic is wrong, I don’t want to be right. I’m thinking about starting a book club just so I can get some women of a certain age together to make paper flowers, eat powdered donuts and discuss how fucked up it is that this is considered YA fiction. During our meeting, we’ll screen the new remake of the movie, currently airing on Lifetime Television.

Yes, ladies. It’s happened. It’s here. There’s a remake of Flowers in the Attic on Lifetime. Get it while the gettin’s goooooood!!

And by good, I of course mean awful!!! So awful! I loved it so much, you don’t even understand. In an homage to the original experience, I captured it on TIVO and gobbled it up early in the morning in secret before my husband was awake. It was such a delectable way to start my Saturday.

The casting was brilliant. Ellen Burstyn played the evil grandmother and she scared the absolute shit out of me.

And check out who plays the mother, Corrine…

heather graham

{You said it sister– not me.}

So, let’s pause and discuss Heather Graham for a second. Greatest actor of our generation, right? This line from the movie tickled me because it’s the exact phrase in my thought bubble every time I see her act.  She looked beautiful in the movie, but her acting was handily outshone by all four of the people cast to play her children, two of whom were five years old.

If you’ve read the book or seen the original movie, you already know what happened to those sweet, innocent tow-headed kids. Nothing good. Being locked in an attic for two years will do terrible things to your psyche, your sexual proclivities and your skin tone. It will also make a great jumping off point for the sequel, so viewers can further titillate themselves by glimpsing into the future and seeing how the kids fared ten years after their escape, presumably after a decade of trauma counseling.

And we call this…Petals on the Wind.

God bless you Lifetime. You filled my Saturday with so much joy. And guys, don’t worry. I took breaks between these movies to go outside and get some fresh air and sunshine. If the first film taught me anything it’s that blonde hair and gray skin do not mix.

This time, Vin was awake so I had to nibble on my guilty pleasure between eye rolls and audible whines of disapproval. He was looking twitchy, and I could tell he was fiending for some hockey highlights or basketball.

“If you change the channel, I will murder you,” I warned. This seemed pretty rational–even understated–at the time, especially when juxtaposed against the truly unsettling threats being tossed around on-screen. Plus, there was a suicide-by-donuts scene coming up, and I honestly thought he’d enjoy it. petals

I know I was! I wasn’t familiar with this story, and had forgotten that there had been several follow-up books in the continuing saga of this very dysfunctional family. And my goodness–this one was even more salacious, more tawdry, more disturbing and more campy than the first. So much maliciousness, so much ridiculously bad acting, so many uncomfortable love scenes. I know…ew. It was ridiculous and over-the-top and I was yelling at the screen the whole time. “Listen, I get it! He’s hot and he’s a doctor, but HE’S YOUR BROTHER!!!!”. At one point I cried out, “I need a girlfriend here on the couch with me!” because I wanted someone to share the fun with.

And I guess that’s why I wrote this post today. I’m certainly no film critic. But I really wanted to share this special experience with you, my invisible internet friends. I know you understand me, because you were there. In the ’80s, under the covers, in the shadows. If not in solid form, than in spirit. This post is for you. Please, set your Tivo’s and invite me over. It will be such a gas.

And to my mother, who tried in vain to shield me from these hallmarks of 80′s youth culture. Brava, lady. You were doing parenting right. I can see why you thought this material was inappropriate for children.

But for cultured, experienced, classy, educated adults? Mmm, mmm, mmm. Sweet as powdered sugar.



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Some Thoughts on Aging.


One morning last October, during the early part of my 36th trip around the sun, I woke up with a crick in my neck. It is now weeks away from June and the crick is still there, except it’s no longer a crick, it’s a creak, which means one thing. An obvious, sometimes painful, but often beautiful truth. I’m growing older.

Newsflash: You are too. And you know it. But if you’re anything like me, you still have a hard time really believing it. You think it every time you and your girlfriends swap recipes in lieu of mini-skirts or you brag about your high-end vacuum cleaner. You realize it every time you look over at your husband, fully engrossed in a news program or stock tips or golf on TV. You are amazed to look down at your children with their little faces and limited responsibilities, with the head-smacking recognition that HOLY SHIT I’m the grown-up in this house. I have moved on to a completely different plane of life and I didn’t even feel it coming.



Yesterday I was three feet tall, and now I’m rubbing thick cream into hands that sometimes feel like paper.

Yesterday I was passing notes in the hallway, and now I’m decorating cupcakes for my daughter’s class.

Yesterday I got my first job, and now I’m a year away from retirement.

Yesterday I held you, and now I’m kissing you goodbye.

6. Joy & Zoe 0231



Isn’t it weird? Doesn’t it go fast? Does anyone actually feel their age, or are we all just in a constant state of stupefaction that we’re not 7 or 18 or 23 anymore? I think one of the most oft repeated sentences I hear at work is:  ”How is it possible that I’m already…(29) (36) (48) (55) (60)(73), etc…

I’m almost 37. It’s not old. But it’s not super young. I’m not even sure it’s really in the middle either. It’s just…37.

Thirty-seven sounds interesting to me. Sexy, even. Thirty-seven isn’t girlish and innocent; it’s grown-up and self-assured, guided more by instinct and experience than blind faith and others’ advise. At 37, risks have been taken, mistakes made, lessons learned. There are still dreams left to chase, milestones to be reached, different paths to welcome or reject. There is still enough time ahead to do the things you’ve fantasized about, and enough time behind to make you rev up your pace so you can make sure they actually get done.

Because at 37, time is sterling. We talk about time constantly. We talk about how we want more of it. How we want to spend it wisely. How we want it for ourselves. How we want to share it with others. We want to learn how to suspend it. Generate it. Savor it.

Lately life has been showing me little reminders that tides have turned and I am being commissioned to a new phase. Even though time doesn’t exactly feel like it’s fleeting, there is an understanding that it is indeed finite. That it’s rolling along at a steady clip, and I am required to keep pace, whether I like it or not. In this phase there are decisions to settle, nests to feather, biological calls that must be consciously answered or prudently silenced. I don’t wish I were younger. I wish I had more time.

How is it possible that I’m already 37?

I ask myself this as I’m interviewing interns at my agency, whose boundless enthusiasm and wide-eyed eagerness practically bolster me from my own chair. I ask myself this as many of my friends deliver their first, second and even third child. I ask myself this while balanced on the hard wooden bleachers of a high school gym, as my 8-year-old niece climbs to the top of the pyramid during a cheerleading competition.

Has it really been 20 years since I’ve held a pom-pon?


I have a client in his early 60s who said to me last week: “I’m not that bothered by growing older. All of the finest things in the world are aged.” Damn, I thought to myself. What a great way to view this weird, wonderful, difficult process.

So I am challenging myself to not be too bothered by growing older.

I will simply jump the hurdles that life presents, and strive to make my days meaningful. To keep trying. To keep doing. To keep planning things to look forward to. To give others my best. To give my dreams a shot. If I fuck up, I’ll start all over again. I’ll take the time I’ve been given and I’ll maximize it. Enjoy it. Savor it.

Really, what other option is there?  We’re all moving down the same road, we’re just at different mile markers. Let’s give each other high-fives and rah-rahs along the way. It’s going to be an adventure. And we’re all going to be just fine.

We’ve got spirit.

Yes, we do.





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Cheap, Fun Things to Do in NYC (in Every Borough)


Get your kicks ready. Put some cash on the Metrocard. These suggestions involve a lot of walking, and a lot of traveling from borough to borough. Most people complain about how expensive New York City is, but there are TONS of things to do here that are either completely free or extremely affordable. The first trick to getting the most out of a trip to New York City (or making the most of living in NYC) is opening yourself up to experiences outside of Manhattan, because the other boroughs add so much to the culture of the city as a whole.

The second trick? Get a really comfortable pair of shoes.

 30 things

1. On the west side, Take the 1, 2 or 3 train to Columbia University at 110th Street. On the east side, take the 6 or 4/5 to 96th or higher, if you like. Walk down…all the way down until your feet collapse under the weight of you. I started doing this when I lived on West 93rd street. If I went after work I’d sometimes pass friends heading home on their commutes, which was really fun.


2. Stroll through Chelsea Market (preferably on a weekday). Watch the bakers knead dough into bread. Admire the artistry on a million painted cupcakes. Imagine Giada DeLaurentis giving you a personal tour through Buon Italia. Sample the incredible selection of flavored oils and salts at The Filling Station. Buy a snack and walk out the back door…

3. Then take your gelato, or crepe or lobster bisque up to the Highline (one of the entry points is right behind Chelsea Market). It’s an elevated park that runs from Gansevoort to West 30th Street, and it’s great.  Hang on the bleachers, relax on the wooden chaise lounges, then walk the length of it. It’s a great vantage point, and there are always cool art installations to admire.

3. Ride the Staten Island ferry to Staten Island, and back again. It’s free, and a pretty lovely view of downtown Manhattan on a warm, breezy day. Alternatively, take the $2 tram over the East River to Roosevelt Island. No cars are allowed on, so you have to walk around. Its strange history is fascinating.

13. Amuse yourself at one of the city’s summer street festivals in various boroughs. They’re all basically the same, but that’s part of the fun. They sell the most random stuff (socks, toiletry samples, vegetable peelers?) and all offer the same food (fresh lemonade, Italian sausages, zeppoles, crepes), but they are so quintessentially summertime in New York.



4. Take the Hoboken ferry  (or the PATH train) to Hoboken, NJ, and take a walk around. This little town is stinking adorable, and offers an amazing view of the city from the park at the water’s edge. Don’t forget to walk down the main thoroughfare in town–Washington Street. Tons of cute little shops, bars, restaurants and Carlo’s Bakery (from “Cake Boss” fame).

5. Hit the Brooklyn Flea and peruse the unique vintage goods. While you’re there, grab some delicious and unique grub at Williamsburg’s huge food vendor-palooza–Smorgasburg. There are smaller versions of this in Queens at LIC Flea and Astoria Flea.


6. Walk the Brooklyn Bridge from Manhattan to Brooklyn, then hang at Brooklyn Bridge Park for a while. It’s awesome. Walk back from Brooklyn to Manhattan, and behold one of the greatest views ever. I never get tired of this (until I get side-swiped by a bicycle).


7. If you have more time to spend on the Brooklyn side, don’t miss a stroll through DUMBO (downtown under the manhattan bridge overpass). What a cool area. Check out the view beneath the two bridges and the vintage carousel on the water, then grab a pastry from the wonderful French bakery, Almondine. Keep going to the end of the block, then spend some time in the coolest bookstore/art space–  The PowerHouse Arena. (PS: If you’re looking for uniquely beautiful kids’ books–this is the place).


8. Little Italy on Mulberry street is okay, but let’s face it–it’s cheesier than a plate of lasagna (much like this sentence). For a more authentic experience, head to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, long-considered the “real” Little Italy of NYC. Arthur Avenue Retail Market is a don’t-miss for food lovers (they  even have a guy rolling cigars up front, which is pretty cool). My favorite thing to do in the area is grab some fresh (AND CHEAP) homemade pasta and ravioli from Borgatti’s Ravioli & Egg Noodles to cook at home. This place is a gem.

9. You don’t have to hop on a train to bask in the splendor of Grand Central. It’s crazy hectic and nuts in there, but its splendor cannot be denied. (Also: I still haven’t done it, but you’ve gotta try the whispering wall in there).

10. Take the N or R train to Coney Island! It’s so retro, it’s fabulous. Walk the boardwalk, eat something greasy, do some grade-A people watching, and catch the Coney Island Circus Sideshow ($10 adults; $5 kids) around the corner from Nathan’s hot dogs. (Do the side show before you eat, not after–watching people swallow knives or drive nails through their nose (no, seriously) could make anyone lose their lunch).


11. Grab a coffee and walk around the West Village, arguably one of the most charming neighborhoods in Manhattan. Feeling daring? Plop on someone’s stoop and read the Times.

12. Pardon the obvious, but get thee to Central Park! It’s hard to not feel good about life in Central Park. It’s wonderful. My favorite spot is the area near Bethesda Fountain, because there’s just so much activity always happening (photo shoots! acrobatic troupes! musical performers! disco rollerskaters!). I’d rather meet a friend for a lap around the park than happy hour.


14. Watch some seriously impressive–and aggressive–basketball action at the West 4th Street Courts, otherwise known as “The Cage”.


15. Take the ferry to Governer’s Island in the summertime ($2, round-trip). Once you’re there, you’ll marvel that this little oasis from the city exists. The Jazz Age Lawn Fest is held there for two weekends in the summer (June 14/15 and August 16/17). My friends got engaged there two years ago, and the band even played them a dance!

16. Explore Pearl River Mart, a Chinese emporium with trinkets and tschotskes for days. I miss the days when this was a dusty, grimy, 3-story wonderland on Canal Street, but the glossier version on Broadway is still extremely fun to browse for unique gifts.


17. Is it Tuesday? You can get free admission to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden today (you can also get free admission here on Saturdays from 10-12). Is it Wednesday? Today’s the day to head to the Bronx; the New York Botanical Garden is free all day today (and from 9-10 am on Saturdays), and the Bronx Zoo offers pay-what-you-can admission. (PS: Admission to the Botanic Gardens in Brooklyn is free every weekend from November through February).

18. Grab a lemon or cherry ice from the Lemon Ice King in Corona, Queens, then cross the street to watch European men play bocce ball in the middle of the street. This is what New York is all about.


19. Eating a full meal at Balthazar is an ambrosial experience, but it’s definitely on the high end. To indulge in their atmosphere and goodies on the cheap, grab a take-away croissant and a coffee (I had one of the best lattes of my life there) and walk around SOHO, window-shopping. It’s like Paris meets New York without maxing out your credit card.

20. See a super-cheap or free concert through Celebrate Brooklyn at the Prospect Park Bandshell. Janelle Monae is playing there for FREE in early June. One of my favorite shows ever was there, and it only set me back three bucks!
21.  The New Yorkiest foods are all the cheapest eats in town. Grab a slice, a bagel, a knish, a hot dog, a pretzel, some awful glazed nuts, a black and white cookie, or a Mister Softee dipped cone. Head toward nearest park. Delight in your New Yorkiness.

22. Work off the calories at one of the free exercise classes available every day of the week, in every borough through Shape Up NYC.  There’s your basic yoga, Zumba, and Cardio Kick-boxing, but they also offer classes in African Dance, Women’s Self-Defense, and Pre-Natal belly dancing!

24. See a movie outside in a park or on a pier. They’re totally free! This year, I can’t wait for Princess Bride, Back to the Future, Zoolander and Clueless. Apparently there’s some popular movie called Frozen that will also be shown later this summer, but I’m letting that one go.

25. Think beyond Central Park–NYC is full of so many great, green outdoor spaces. Some favorites are Riverside Drive Park, Washington Square Park, Ft. Greene Park, and Astoria Park. Lay around, read a book, people-watch, picnic.


26. Eat donuts. They’re cheap. They’re delicious. They’re dough magic. New York City is donut crazy, and we have a lot of fancy-pants, artisanal varieties. The favorites: Doughnut Plant (Chelsea, Lower East Side), Dough (Bedford-Stuy, Smorgasburg), Peter Pan (Greenpoint, BK), Dough Loco (East Harlem), and the 100% vegan, totally adorable Dun-Well Donut shop in East Williamsburg.
27. Explore all the borough’s fantastic ethnic enclaves and marvel in the various cultures that comprise this wonderful place. Here’s a fun list of New York City’s ethnic neighborhoods. I love popping into grocery stores in different neighborhoods and stocking up on hard-to-find spices.
28. Pretend you’re making a coffee table book and start a fun photography project with your camera or iphone. Once you start noticing something ubiquitous in NYC, take a picture whenever you see it. Fun ideas include bicycles, bodegas, hot dog stands, newspaper kiosks, people on cell phones, and abandoned metrocards.
29. Simply look up! Delight in all the odd little things that make New York City such a unique and wonderful place. There’s a whole lot of cool stuff happening way up high, from art installations, graffiti, larger-than-life ads and swank apartment penthouses.
30. The best entertainment money can buy is a $5 round-trip Metrocard. Take the train to a neighborhood you’ve never been to before, walk around and explore. Think beyond Manhattan–some of the best things in New York City are tucked away in neighborhoods you’ve never set foot in.



(All photos by Jenn of Much to My Delight.)


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When you’re married to a really thin person.


You ever seen those couples who get up at 6 a.m., put on matching hoodies and go jogging together? They usually “fuel” with some kind of green juice before lacing up, then do some stretches on the edge of a track and run laps side-by-side before exchanging high-fives at the finish line.

Vinny and I are not that couple. I’d like for us to be that couple, to a certain extent. Maybe not necessarily jogging (because I hate it), but it’d be great if we ate well and participated in some type of exercise either separately or together, and routinely. As we get older, I think more and more about how important it is for us to lead a long life together and it feels like if we form some good habits now it will ensure we have energy and good health later. I really like this guy, so I’m hoping to ride this thing out as long as we can.

cake^ Off to a great start! (photo by Jason & Anna Photography)^

If you’ve not yet noticed, I am married to a very slim person. A naturally slim person. The kind of person who can throw back an entire crumb cake without feeling a tug on his waistband, who’s never had to ask himself if a moment on the lips is worth a lifetime on the hips. In the nearly 14 years that I have known him, Vinny has gained weight exactly twice. One time was during a two-month road trip when he spent 8 hours a day in a car seat, stopping only to buy drive-through hamburgers, and the second time was when he broke his ankle in two places and was bed-bound for three months. Both times he gained weight in the exact area that needed filling out, and stayed perfectly trim and hard as a rock everywhere else. This is all to say that Vinny has never worried about weight gain a day in his life. Oh! And in other news that falls under the category of life isn’t fair, his eyelashes are really long and dark too.



Whereas my husband’s svelte figure comes naturally, my relative thinness is the result of a faithful combination of bargaining, restriction and prayer. I don’t have a fast metabolism, so bad habits catch up to me quickly. I’m not tall, so two new pounds looks like seven. If I was bed-bound for three months, my entire body would turn into spongy mush and my face would be round as pie. I wouldn’t say that I’m fixated on my shape and size, but I’m definitely aware of what it takes to maintain a reasonable weight and healthy body and I really want to do so. As someone in her mid-30s, it’s getting harder to ignore the fact that I should probably be spending my Saturday mornings in a spin class, not the doughnut shop.

That said, last Saturday morning a miracle occurred. I convinced Vinny to lap the entire track of Central Park with me. We walked, of course. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

And it was great!! The sun was shining, people were happy, frisbees were flying. Dogs were running, babies were laughing, joggers were panting. Seriously, as some of the only walkers on the jogging track, it was hard not to notice how much more effort and energy the joggers were putting into the endeavor. We actually felt bad for them. It didn’t sound fun what they were doing. We spent the first half of our walk amazed by how many joggers there were, and how awful it looked.

Then we got lapped by a guy in his mid-70s and felt extremely lazy.

Up around the northern part of the park, I started feeling stabby hunger pains. I have always lamented the fact that the only food you can find in the park are hot dogs, pretzels and ice cream bars, but this realization actually inspired my business side.

“Why aren’t there any food trucks in the park?” I asked. “Do you know how much money a smoothie cart or a taco truck would make parked right here? They’d make a fortune!” PS: If someone would be willing to back me financially, let’s work on this project. We spent the next part of our walk talking about food, and trying to figure out what we’d grab for lunch. After a few other options were thrown out (Oh! But the famous Levain cookies are soooo close!!), we kept our Saturday virtuous and decided we’d head to the salad bar at Whole Foods after our jaunt.

He looked at me and said, “Sounds good. We’ll do the salad bar.” I began to think we were turning into one of those matching hoodie couples. “But you know I’m getting tiramisu after, right?”

“Of course you are dear,” I said. I told him he was a great workout buddy, and gave him an enthusiastic high five right there on the track.

cookie monsters





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About Jenn.


Kindly ignore the "food/friends/fun" part on the top of this page. It no longer describes this blog; I just don't know how to change it. Pretend it says something more accurate like "Stories of my Life", or "For a good time, read Jenn". The deets: I'm a 30-something Texan who moved to New York, became a therapist, and married a guy named Vinny from Queens. I delight in observing the world around me, and write about it here.


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