Saturday, October 20, 2012

My Bestie

I only have a handful of friends in New York.

Ok, fine... I only have a handful of friends. Period.

Anyway, one of my New York friends, Jen, sticks out like a sore thumb from my handful.

The only thing Jen and I have in common is a common friend, Teresa. And it is only because of our love and respect for Teresa that Jen and I initially stayed in the same room together long enough to develop a mutual affection.

Jen is fashionable. I'm... not. She's loud. I'm less loud bordering on quiet. She likes to talk politics. I do not. Oh yeah, and speaking of politics. We don't have those in common either.

I try to avoid political conversations with Jen, but the other night, she wouldn't let me, so we took Teresa's living room hostage and went at it despite the fact that everyone else in the living room was either a sleeping newborn or trying to watch Modern Family.

"I'm fiscally conservative!" I hissed at one point, trying to rebut her argument that I was disagreeing with everything she agreed with just to be stubborn. I instantly thought of all the ways I am not fiscally conservative and hoped she wouldn't.
"Freezing your leftover pizza does not make you fiscally conservative," Jen spat. "It makes you weird."
"I'm personally fiscally conservative!"
She scoffed.

"Whatever!" I shouted. "Binders of women?"

I mean, seriously. What kind of person doesn't believe in leftovers?





Sent from my iPhone


Saturday, October 6, 2012

On Coloring


I'll tell you what: Having kids is tough.

Well, technically, Tiffany and I don't have kids (I know I've been away from the blog a long time, but still, three weeks would be a pretty aggressive gestation period for a human being). But we are living with two of them now--and their parents--until we find a place of our own in New York.

When I say tough, I mean that having children around is so much fun I don't have time to do any of the things I should be doing when I'm not at work--like writing this blog, going for a run, or finding an apartment where we wouldn't have kids to play with anymore.

I came upstairs in my running clothes the other day, and Peter, our friends' 2-year-old, was lying on the floor on his stomach in the kitchen, coloring.

"Come on, Rebo," he said, using the nickname his mom and a few other soccer teammates gave me in college. "Color."

He had just learned to call someone to him by waving his hand toward himself, and he scooped his entire arm through the air to indicate that I should come closer.

"Maybe later," I said. "I'm going for a run real quick."

Peter stared at me.

I stared at Peter.

And then, in that amazing ability children have, he forgave me for the words I had just uttered, and scooped his arm through the air again as if I hadn't spoken at all.

"No," he said, matter-of-factly. "Color."

He patted the floor next to him and held up a purple crayon.

I took it.