I Like 'Em Older

I like 'em older, I must confess. When I look back, I always have. The older, the more attractive to me.

I must be from another time; that I belong in another decade. I miss the 1920s. I miss the 1950s. I have always felt a little lost in modern times.

Don't get me wrong. I do love my iPhone. I do love my coffee maker. I do love air conditioning.

In the end, though, I have such a longing for the older times and I seem to relate a little bit more to them. I used to love listening to my Grandma tell me stories about "downtown" or someone she knew and a party she went to at a house on Bay Street (as if I knew where Bay Street was exactly.) She told me about working downtown at the big department store. It all sounded like a glamorous era, even if it surely wasn't. Times were probably tough, but there was such a golden angle to it. It just sounded nicer than it is now. I could almost picture myself right there with her.

So, it makes sense at least to me why I am simply drawn to those that are older. The older, the better.

Well, not too much older. Just maybe 50 years older than me, or maybe more.

At the very least, I am looking for something before the LBJ era.

That's how I have always felt about older ... things. Yes, things. What did you think I was talking about?

Some people may call them antiques. That word sounds kind of sad to me, though. I just like to think of them as older things. Things with history. Things that tell more of a story than you or I could tell.

For example, there is something exciting for me about a box of old postcards at a flea market. And I have had that feeling since I was a teenager.

The only box most teenage boys would get excited about would be a box of old Playboys. But I was different - for many reasons, one could say. For one, I knew as a teen that I would never, ever, ever like Playboy. My apologies to Hugh Hefner.

But, I just love that you can look at history in such a small way. You're looking at the past and it's right now. They have old stamps and dates. People even wrote stuff on the back. And often, it's pictures of places lost long ago. Hotels that are now demolished. Amusement parks that were bought or abandoned. Lakes that lost their luster. But not then. Then, they were beautiful and something to see and write about.

For about a year now, I have been looking for an old telephone. It has to be black. It has to be rotary. I'd love an old early 1900s telephone. You know the kind? The kind with just the ear piece and has a stand.  I would settle for a 1950s era telephone that has a hand set that is so heavy you have to weight train before deciding to use the phone.

The interesting side note to all of this: I don't even have a land line. I have a cell phone. I want the old telephone because I like old things.

The other interesting side note: I will probably buy both kinds of phones because I won't be content with just the one. I want both kinds.

It's strange about me why I like 'em older. But, don't judge. It is because I love the past.

I love Downton Abbey. It's awesome. And no one can ever say any different. Period.

I love biographies and memoirs of all kinds from Grover Cleveland (yep, I read it cover to cover) to Rob Lowe (because he is beautiful). Oh, Rob Lowe. I couldn't resist you.

I love CBS Sunday Morning. In today's episode alone, I learned about former president Ulysses S.  Grant, and a luxury liner from the 1950s called the S.S. United States, as well the Volkswagen Beetle.  (Side note: some friends either love the show or mercilessly make fun of me because I allegedly am a 90 year old man in my TV choices. It should be noted that I have watched Murder, She Wrote, Father Dowling Mysteries, as well as the occasional Perry Mason TV movies, so these friends have some valid talking points.)

I remember stars from old movies and get excited when I see them on something I have never seen. If I see Ernest Borgnine guest star on a TV show, I will scream out his name as if I just solved the Scooby Doo mystery. "Ernest Borgnine!!!," I will scream to no one. Old Hollywood and all of its starts are just the coolest to me.

I love black and white photos.

I love old cocktail glasses. Did people really drink such little amounts of alcohol back then?

I love Miami Beach hotel architecture, Monaco Grand Prix posters, and the Chrysler building.

I make my friends in DC take me to at least one memorial when I visit. The Jefferson is my favorite.

I love hard cover books, and anyone who says a Kindle is better is wrong. Period. Hold a book, feel the paper. See the art work. The Great Gatsby cover is just as memorable as the words on the page.

I love Louis Armstrong and his song, "We Have All the Time in the World."

When I travel to a new city, I like to buy post cards that say "Greetings From ..." whatever city it is I am in. It's both kitschy and classic.

And lastly, when I do travel, I usually go somewhere historical and/or educational. I was in Bermuda last month and I saw two former British forts.

I long for history and I hope I leave a little behind. Ironically, I am writing on a laptop and posting this to the internet, where it can never be touched or maybe later found at a flea market as part of someone's old leather bound journal.

The irony is especially biting because I desperately want an old style black typewriter. It shouldn't be one of those 1960s color ones that comes in its own case. Those are awful. This should be like the ones old reporters or secretaries used in a screwball comedy with Katharine Hepburn.

So, see - I am a little bit modern. And I do like newer things.

But, I still like 'em older.

Cancelling Your Relationship and Renting A New BF

Sometimes, couples last forever. Like George and Barbara Bush. Silly example, but true. There they are: up in Maine, or maybe down in Texas - who knows? The fact remains, though: they are still together and have been forever.

And some couples take awhile to get there. Ronald Reagan had a wife before Nancy. Good ol' Barbara Streisand had been all around Hollywood before going down the altar later in life to the dashing James Brolin. Even Brad Pitt had multiple (and multiple) pit stops along the highway of love until he landed at the destination known as Brangelina.

(Side note: it's a gross name, and I am totally Team Aniston.)

(Side, side note: did you hear the news that Mike Tyson was on his way to hookup with Robin Givens - his then ex-wife - only to discover she was in bed with Brad Pitt at that exact same moment? That's the kind of low brow, celebrity gossip that is hilarious and awesome and should always and yet never be talked about endlessly.)

I digress: some couples last. And some don't.

Sorry, Justin and Cameron. Sorry, Ben and J-Lo. Sorry, Taylor Swift and whoever you're using this week.

Some couples are for a limited time only. Expiration Relationships, if you will.

That's how it was . . . with me and Netflix.

Netflix had been so amazing. So dependable. So sweet.

He wears red. I love the color red.

He was on time. Every time he said he would be, there he was.

It was all so easy.

I would even brag to friends how amazing it all was. I would want something, and within a day or 2, I had it. Hours of entertainment. Because of Netflix, I was able to catch up on Lost, just in time to watch Season 3 and finally know what everyone at work had been obsessed over.

That was all in the beginning stage. But, oh... how times changed...

By last summer, clearly the relationship had been taken for granted. He started asking for more of me and not in the good ways. It was always the same with him: he needed more cash.

"Why do you need more money? Are you strapped? Did something happen at the office?," I asked. Netflix wouldn't answer entirely. Something about postal fees increasing, but his excuses seemed like ploys. He seemed shifty, uneasy with the relationship, about what we had started together.  The worst part was that he wasn't able to perform like he used to.

His service had been getting slower. Sometimes, I only saw him once a week because he would be delayed, even though his office was just over in Queens.

I stopped trusting him and I cancelled my mailing relationship with him. We were now limited to only streaming.

He should have taken it as a sign. I mean... I had Captain America on my DVD queue for months before I finally got to see it. Captain America? Are you kidding me? I used to be able to see those movies when they were released right away, but now I had to wait... and wait. Waiting a "very long wait" was not what I had hoped for when we had started out.

Well, I was done waiting. I was done with all of it. But, I waited to make my move. I wasn't ready yet to be on my own. In a way, I still needed Netflix. It was still comforting to come home at night and know he was there, even if it was only streaming videos. It was something and, for the time, it was enough.

Over the Christmas holiday, though, something had changed. I started hearing of Amazon Prime. I had shopped on Amazon. It's great. And what? I can get a year of free shipping and all the same movies and TV that Netflix has? Well, clearly this was a potential suitor who meant business. I was interested.

In the end, I made my decision. But what I didn't realize, until the very day it happened, would be how hurtful my timing would be. How insensitive. I never thought of myself as a Brad Pitt, but in the end, I did manage to be so callous.

I ended my nearly 6 year relationship with Netflix ... only 3 days before Valentine's Day.

It was thoughtless on my part. I had been so caught up with making sure my decision didn't affect the next month's billing cycle that I didn't realize what I had done.

Netflix took it with dignity. He didn't ask any questions. He didn't prompt me with any attempt to stop me from my mouse clicking ways. He let me make the decision and he took the classy way out. He was the bigger person here clearly.

Later that evening, he simply wrote an email stating the below:

Your Plan Cancellation Dear Gregory, As you requested, we've cancelled your Unlimited Streaming plan. This change will be effective 02/27/2013.

I appreciated the clean break he allowed us to have. My only regret was how I had let it drag on. I had been unhappy for awhile and I waited to find something better.

It's a life lesson I am taking on into the new relationship with Amazon Prime. If this whole "free shipping fast while giving me lots of movies and TV to watch" doesn't work out, maybe I will go back to Netflix. Maybe I won't. All I know is: in the next relationship, I won't settle. When I order a movie, I know I will get it or I will move on. I expect more.

And I have Netflix to thank for that.

Blah Hambug! (or just a big, deep sigh whenever anyone says "Happy Holidays" to you)

Happy Holidays Everyone! You may have been caught up in the dizzying swirl of last minute shopping, the barrage of cheerful yuletide music, the endless holiday parties and the mandatory hangovers they bring.

I, however, have not. I haven't exactly been screaming BAH anything from my windows, or thanking a young handicapped child, who was lovingly called "Tiny."

But, I did succumb to the barrage of cheerful yuletide music. Just yesterday, I bought Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" for .69 cents on iTunes. (I love a good sale!) And while I'm on the subject of music: John Denver and the Muppets is the essential Christmas album. Hilarious and yet has heart. (Kind of like me, you say?! Oh you!)

Back to my point, though, I have just not been in the mood this year. I saw the Rockefeller Tree in NYC when my friends came to visit. And for the first time ever, I didn't really care.

I didn't even put my Christmas tree up until late in the season.

It was a lot of work putting it up this year ... but it was worth it! 

And my tree really has added something to my place. Whenever I think of the Christmas season, I look over at the tree. And every time I end up looking at those martini glasses and realize how dusty they are because I never drink martinis.

I also have a Snoopy snow globe that plays their Christmas song. I put that out, too. To complete the look, I have left my holly berry wreath up year round on my apartment door so I have something festive to come home to instead of a dull door.

The decorations are set. I think it's rather smart of me that I won't have much clean up come December 26th, or February 6th (which is when you probably take down your tree).

I didn't send a Christmas card out this year, and a result of not sending, I received my fewest cards ever in return this year. I was incredibly impressed by the people who did send this year. I think it's an honest-to-God awesome feat to send Christmas cards. The coordination of the task! Buying stamps alone should win you some kind of prize. I haven't bought a stamp since probably 2010.

I did, however, finally get around to posting my yearly Facebook Christmas Card. This year was the 3rd Annual! It is a vintage picture I find online on some site, and through my 20 minute search, I choose just the right image. Each year, has some perky 1950s female archetype wishing you a happy holidays, but always through gritted teeth.

I would post all 3 of them here, but I am sure it would be considered a copyright infringement of some sorts and I would spend the New Year locked in a place without windows. And since I am delicate flower who needs sunlight, you should just pick an image of a 1950s-type family or woman, and imagine something sarcastic. Every year, it's a hit!

Next year, I may just really stick it to Hallmark altogether and just post an a picture of me and some cactus. Nothing says the holidays like the desert!

I guess my feeling isn't BAH ... it's just BLAH! Apathy toward the holidays. It always comes and goes in an instant when you look back. (except for that week between Christmas and New Years. God, just bring it already!)

The holidays do not have the same meaning from when you are 6 years old and it's the most amazing day of the year (besides your birthday). And really, that's true about most things. When you're "tiny," everything seems special and magical. Summer was this incredibly long, epic season of warm months and now, it's Fall before I blink.

I miss the child-like wanting for a snowy Christmas. If it snows this year, I will just worry about driving my rental car safely down I-95.

I miss craving Egg Nog on November 20 something (whatever day after Thanksgiving is). When I look at Egg Nog, I think ... well there's one way to an early grave and how many calories is it if I just look at it?

But, if it will make you happy, I can run down the street in my night gown, yelling about some three ghosts that came to visit me. How I learned the errors of my blah ways and how I won't make fun of anyone named Dickens ever again. You may wonder what fun medication I am on. But when I ask the newspaper boy to tell me what day it is, you will understand.

Love,
Greg

Flakes ... And I Ain't Talking Snow

Snowflakes are special. No two are alike, I am told.

Gay Flakes, though, well... they are all the same. They may look different, but trust me. They are all the same.

Now, keep in mind: Gay Flakes is not the name of your latest and favorite brand of breakfast cereal. (Although it would probably would be quite tasty and would probably have a useless toy in the box.)

Gay Flakes are actually a quirky, little breed of men. (And I do mean little. ZING!)

Gay Flakes are a group of men who you may have a great first date with, only never to hear from them again. Don't confuse these men with Straight Flakes, where you may have had a subpar date and they forget to shave before the date. Gay Flakes are more dapper. It must be all that shiny packaging in the cereal aisle.

Gay Flakes are that smiley, happy, flirty, cute, group of guys. They say great things. They create and hold conversation. They talk the talk. Great talk. The walking of the walk, well... not so much.

We all know the type. You may even be this type. And it's ok. I am sure there is a support group for you.

However, the truly disappointing aspect of these flakes is that we will never see or hear from them again. They disappear. Much like snow. And perhaps, like snow, they have melted away? The beauty of the snow fall, which only lasted a few hours, has come and gone. Some snow plow came barreling down and pushed them all away.

I'd like to say that's true. It's not. Gay Flakes are not affected by weather. (Although, when summer comes, good luck finding a Gay Flake who isn't in his speedo and away on Fire Island. ZING!)

Gay Flakes are simply a breed of men who just LOVE you on the first date. "Oh, we have to do this again! Are you free tomorrow?!"

"Um . . . sure . . ."

And then the text the next day. "I'm going to have cancel - I feel like crap and I'm getting sent home from work..... I'm so sorry!!!!! :("

Sick. The "I'm sick" line. I used that when I was 23. We've all grown up since then. But, whatever, I take it in stride.

He's not a Gay Flake. Not him. He's perfect. He won't melt away.

He even wrote after the initial text that, "I will make this up too you." Sure, he doesn't know the proper use or spelling of the preposition "to." But, he can't be a Gay Flake. He may not be smart, but not a flake.

But he is. The texts become fewer and fewer. "He's just sick," I say.

Now, at this point I have had one too many Egg Nog boilermakers (I'm not sure if this is such a thing, I just make stuff up.) But, I am so determined that he is not a Gay Flake at this moment, that I will say anything to myself. "Men really are great. This guy is proof." This is my "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" time.

Sure, Christmas is coming, and this is the time when all gays hibernate and commingle with any male they can find through March, so my chances of finding a live one to date for months on hand have to be good, right?

Sadly, I was never a good hunter. I didn't bag a live one this time. Besides, I never looked good in an orange hunting vest or a John Deere hat. Sorry, Ashton Kutcher.

With my hunting skills deteriorating by the minute, I was blindly aware of the reduced interest from him in the texts. He makes a plan to see me on Sunday, but the follow up is rather lacking.

"When? Where?," I say, much like a lost Red Riding Hood. We agree on Sunday, but the details are still firmly lacking. I hold hope. The first date was extraordinary. Without going into detail, his flirtation was felt all the way from three counties over.

Finally, I ask on Saturday, "are we still on?"

To which the text message replies, "Yes!!" What an energetic and non detailed answer! But I take the enthusiasm of the agreement and run with it.

Sadly, "yes!!" was the last I ever heard from this little Gay Flake. He melted. Or was sucked into that black hole we heard about on the news. Either way, Gay Flakes burn bright and fade fast. So, appreciate them for the novelty of their smiles, their earnest view, their eagerness. Don't fall for it, though, because they will likely be gone just in time for another hunting season to begin.

And I'm huntin' wabbits, next time.

Hiding In The Soup Aisle Isn't Easy, But Someone Has To Do It

When you have had as many dates as I have, you start to see them over and over. 

And not in the good way.  

These are the men you ran away from. The ones where you made an excuse to end the date early. Or worse. They did it to me. 

So, needless to say, it's ... unpleasant ... for both of us to run into each other again. It's like being forced to see a really bad movie all over again. "I paid $10 for this?!," I ask no one, only to buy a ticket for the sequel. 

In New York City, it is surprisingly true that if you do not want to run into someone, you will and you do so on multiple occasions. It is an actual fact. Why? I have no idea. There are only 8 million people here. You think we would have other places to go. But, instead, we all have our patterns and daily routes we go. So, you could end up seeing the same people on the subway or a coffee shop with some frequency. 

I seem to only see people I don't want to at times when I am doing the most NON-ROUTINE things. I have seen an old coworker that I loathed once while buying paint in Home Depot of all places. Or once while running to catch an Amtrak home to Massachusetts. Both times when this happened, I pretended that person did not exist and that they were not really in my peripheral vision, even though they were. 

I always find it to be the best ... revenge isn't really the word for it ... but maybe it is. I just find it to be the easiest, yet best way to handle those moments. It's safer and healthier. 

You don't like me. 

I don't like you. 

Let's pretend we each don't exist. 

However, on both occasions, these loathsome people were looking directly at me. Just my luck! 

Why can't people have the good common sense to ignore someone they despise? Maybe it is a bit WASP-y of me to behave that way, and if so, then hand me a dry martini, a summer home in Connecticut, and a Ralph Lauren cable knit sweater. 

To be honest, I am not normally the type of person to stuff all my feelings into a drawer and keep it there. I am nothing if not ... expressive. However, there comes a time in life and relationships when you realize, it is just best if we never discuss anything ever again and we should never look at each other ever again. And then we can all be happy. 

Now with dating, it is so much worse. For all the reasons you can think of. These are people  who on some level actually know you. 

I am going to share a little story about James. And James (for the sake of the blog) is his actual name. (HA!) 

James and I dated for a little while. He was amazing. On our first date, he passed by a flower stand and wanted to buy me a bunch of flowers, and I said, "No ... no. You don't need to." And then he ... didn't.

I only mention it because it's funny in a sense. When someone says no to PRESENTS, they mean yes.  That is the bleepin' rule when it comes to a "no." All the other times anyone says no, they mean it. But with presents? WE MEAN YES! (This is possibly Rule #405 or actually Rule #2 of dating. Look it up!)

Anyways, James was great. He brought me 3 roses for 3 perfect dates on our 3rd date. Can we say Heaven? We did. He said he couldn't believe we were together and he wanted to be with me for as long as I would have him. He worshipped our time together. He seemed to want instant relationship. That's right! We became lesbians. And it was great. I had never been happier to be a lesbian. Who knew!?

We were even planning for him to meet my family for Christmas. FREAKIN' CHRISTMAS, people! My mom was asking what kind of gift to buy him. And we were even planning a possible birthday trip together to Paris for me next Spring. The world and the calendar were ours for the taking. We were the envy of no one, except for my friends who wanted to see Paris before I did. 

A fun little detail to our relationship was that he would text me every morning. Suddenly, one morning there was no text. And I knew. Later, I received a text at 10 a.m. It was the classic "let's be friends" dumping. It went from Christmas talk to let's never talk again. 

No? 

You think he wanted to be friends? 

Well, do your friends return your text? 

So, yea ... he never did. 

And so, I assumed later that day, he must have been poisoned by his afternoon latte, or he fell into a well and Lassie didn't get there in time. Either way, he was never to be heard from again. Until he was heard from again. Or, should I say, seen again. 

Until ... he got a freelance job at my company. 

YES! He did! He took a job at my company and the building space we occupy is only 4 floors. Did he not think I would bump into him? Well, I did. 

In retrospect, I could have reacted better. And would have, had he let me know he was working there. In my classic (and classy!) response upon seeing him near the elevator as I left a meeting space, I said, "You have to f-in' be kiddin' me!" Just so you know, in the moment I did use the f word. I am just being polite here. 

James quickly dashed into the elevator and moved to the side of the wall so no one, including me, could see him further. I wish I could lie and say that part didn't happen, but then again, I also wish I didn't use the f bomb by the elevators either. Oh well. 

James left the company soon afterward, I think. 

You would think that would be the only other time I would see him then, right? In a city like New York, the BIG Apple? Well, you're wrong. 

The second and only other time I have seen him post-text dumping was while shopping in a Target for hurricane supplies. YES! A FREAKIN' HURRICANE! While I was buying bottled water, bread, peanut butter, and cans of soup, I saw my ex. 

And. He. Looked. Awful. #bestrevengeyet

He appeared to have gained some weight in his midsection. He was no longer tanned. He was in sweats. He was in the frozen foods section, buying (I kid you not) microwave pizza. If the hurricane knocks out your electricity, good luck with that! It was the epitome of sad, if you ask me. 

Best of all, he looked like a Walmart shopper, which was especially sad because - don't forget - we were in a Target! 

Now, you may wonder, so I will just say it. I know how to dress for Target. OF COURSE, I looked adorable. 

Hurricane Sandy, we were told, was no joke. So, on Friday night, I got a good haircut. And on Saturday, while doing errands, I had on a striped nautical tee, some cute slim navy chinos, and my Cole Haan blue and brown saddle oxfords. I. Was. Adorable. 

So, like the ever-good WASP. I walked right past him, although this time I did kind of a sideways glance. I said nothing and did not react, but I wanted him to know that I had seen him. After all, he looked horrible. If this hurricane was coming for me, I wanted to at least have a slight YAY feeling before it came. 

For once, upon seeing an ex, or an old coworker, or someone I loathed, I finally had a YAY moment. It quickly left me when I realized this was a guy who had hurt me, and all those feelings came back. So I did what any good New Yorker would do in this situation. I hid in the soup aisle and called my friend. Thank you, Campbell's! 

But, I reacted in the best way possible. I feel like I did, at least. I didn't ignore and yet I didn't curse to the high moon in an office. I let it all happen, but I let him know I wasn't ok with him being anywhere near me. And I looked good. All in a day's work, I'd say. 

Love,

Greg

I Want To Go "There"

Don't ask me why, but I have recently been watching old episodes of Grey's Anatomy. For those that lived under a rock during 2005, it was and (kinda still is) this awesome TV show about Meredith Grey, a TV doctor who was a damaged but lovable girl. She had an up and down love affair with Dr. McDreamy (who was and is still is dreamy or McDreamy, if you will). And the show was just so tortured. Every episode is one big life lesson. Now, I may not completely be like Meredith, nor do I have fun friends like Izzie and George who also live with me, but I can relate.

I like shows - I think we all do - where the person isn't quite "there"yet in their life. We root for them. "Oh ... if you could just find that perfect guy and get married. Oh but not just yet! Of course! Now his ex wife has come back!"

Somewhere, in my tangled life, I have had loves who were lost. ALL of their ex wives came back. I'm kidding, of course. Yet, I can relate to a character who has the family issues (whatever they may be), the love issues, the money issues, the dump your coffee on your lap issues. It's all just popcorn and good times for me to watch because, after all - hey sister, I have been there.

I have even liked it when friends of mine, after being in a relationship, come back to the single world. "Hey, let me catch you up on what you missed." It's almost like I get to refresh their memories on past episodes of a TV show.

The thing of it is, though: I want to get "there." By the way, "there" is this imaginary place in life that every American has created for themselves. It probably involves life, liberty, a car, a McMansion, perfect job, perfect spouse, perfect mistress, perfect vacations, 6 pack abs and tons of money. For me, "there" is something different.

"There" is partially about money. (I mean, this ain't circa 1960 Russia.) I want enough money where I never have to worry about buying yet another pair of shoes if I really want them. I like shoes and I want to buy more. On that front, I am almost "there." Almost. Still got some time on that one, especially since I began to show an interest in the Cole Haan Air Colton Saddle Oxford line. A Burgandy shoe with black croc saddle? How much? Um.... ok!  Again, not quite there.

"There" would also include a nice man. Any man. A pulse. But he has to be around ... like ... all the time. Again, we are waiting on that one.

And finally, "there" would include my own place. I hate a land lord. I hate making small talk with someone I would never talk to. Not unless we are prisoners in a Guadalajara prison. Why Guadalajara, Mexico, you ask? Because! I'm dramatic! And I hear the jicama there is just to die for!

I also really want to own my own place because I hate my bathroom and I hate my kitchen. Those are my 2 favorite rooms after a bedroom. Wink!

Anyways, my point is: I am not "there" yet - and I bet you are not "there," either. That's life. That's TV, too, I guess. And while we don't have a McDreamy (damn, he is handsome!), we have another day to live or another episode to watch. And both usually involve something happening that we have to do or overcome. So, we will probably never be "there." Unless, you are one of those really annoying perfect people that just has EVERYTHING she could ever want (while secretly hiding your pill addiction.) See! Even you need to go "there."

Love,
Me

I Am So ... Lucky

I Am So Lucky. It's all I can think about this week. I survived a hurricane, one in which devastated vast parts of my local area and the Eastern sea board. My work building has been without power all week, and just blocks away from that building, there is still has massive flooding. Subways are getting back to being operational. Wall Street, after 2 unprecedented closed days, is back to business even! (Those greedy little mongers!) It's all getting back to normal. .. slowly... but surely. Because that's what we do. Life moves on.

I have to admit right now to you that this blog post may not be of the laugh-out-loud, hysterical nature. It probably isn't the time, nor my mind set. I do want to point out straight away, though, that life does move on. So, I should try to bring the humor back, but ... it is hard for me right now.

A friend of a friend knew the 23 year old couple who died while walking their dog, killed by a falling tree. Children drowned. Children died from a tree while they had a sleepover. I mean, there are MANY stories about the tragedies, even of the non fatal kind. And that is hard news to watch in the morning -every day this week - while I drink coffee. It isn't the morning news you want to wake up to. In fact, it numbs you.

I woke up the next day after the storm feeling immediately grateful. My eyes opened and, I have to admit, I was surprised. I saw my alarm clock. It was on! I walked my apartment and checked the walls. I looked at my street and there were just a lot of leaves and branches. But everything seemed fine. Only it wasn't.

You see, on Sunday, we were all advised to stay inside. The wind was picking up and the sky had been oddly grey - almost vacant in a way. Sunday, I was home alone. Not much to do. I swiffered floors, I made meals, I snacked, I read a little, I took a 3 hour nap. It was all pretty ho-hum. Monday, our office was closed and the storm was already clearly on its way. By that afternoon, you knew if was time to stay inside. It was dark for sure by 6 and you could see the wind, but by 7 p.m. - well. that was when I really relied on the golden stuff.

What "golden stuff," you ask? Oh just the ol' standby = whiskey! And Bourbon, too! Having now admitted this, I'd like to thank the good people at Knob Creek and Tullamore Dew for getting me through that night especially.

I live alone. I went through the hurricane alone. And so I drank. Not heavily... but enough. As I had told my father when he called that night at 6:30, "Dad, I'm gonna get pretty schnockered." Dad liked my idea.

A good friend, Stephanie, was the constant texter, asking me if I was ok. We had an entire conversation throughout the night and it helped to keep me partially sane. I watched a James Bond movie, an old silly Roger Moore one. A movie I knew would take my mind off things. Facebook was another welcome distraction. I needed to not think about what was happening outside, because to be honest, I was scared.

I live on a tree lined street. The news warned me all too often about trees throughout the day. Trees were certainly blowing. Yet, it was the street light directly across from my window that concerned me far more. From my couch to window view, I could see the street light swaying back and forth. I assumed this is when those 60 mph winds were visiting, but who knows really? I was on my 2nd healthy pouring of whiskey and ginger. I wasn't taking chances. If shit was gonna go down, I was gonna be nice and buzzed, if not sufficiently ... "happy."

I think I even had a vodka something after some whiskey, too. It was 10 pm at that point - why not? My plan all along honestly was to drink just enough so that I could fall right to sleep soundly. I didn't want to wake up in the middle of the storm. I didn't want to hear more noises. I was afraid.

I was afraid because I was alone. Why was I alone?

I was afraid because I could hear things on the roof. Oh why did I have to live on the 2nd floor?

I was afraid because I could hear cracking noises and it almost sounded like it was in the walls. Was my wannabe row house gonna break off, or worse, crumble (like the one in Chelsea did)?

I was afraid because that stupid tree outside is so close to my window in my living room. Will it smash in?

I knew if the roof held that at least I would be ok in my bed. There was just an alley way next to my bed room and no trees or seemingly big objects. But, I am sure, so many go to bed thinking they are fine, only to discover not so much. I was just hoping and telling myself I was ok.

I wasn't worried about electricity or water, or food. Sure, I bought several cans of soup as well as peanut butter and bread (exciting menu!). I bought a semi-decent amount of water for 1 person for a few days. I charged my phone the whole time, even while using it. I did the little things I thought I should. And I live in Brooklyn and I am further inland. I wasn't coastal. So at the end of the day, I figured I would be probably better off than others - and I was right. Fortunately for me.

And that's when it all hit me the next morning. Fortunately for me.

I am so lucky. And whiskey and bourbon companies should really donate to charity for all the advertisements I have said over the past few days. It got me through and into a safe sleep that night. But so many had so much harder of a night than I did. I can only imagine what families are going through. And I feel stupid for getting stir crazy in my apartment on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. So what if I didn't get to go for a run or have some exercise? I had a home, power, heat, internet, electricity ... blah blah ... I had my life!

The numbers are climbing in the death toll and I really have, for the most part, just stopped looking at the news (as ignorant as that might be). I just have turned myself off to it. The two things that have caught my eye is the amount of charity work people are already doing and the controversy of the NYC marathon this weekend.  

It's amazing. People in this area alone and elsewhere are volunteering and donating money, materials. It just shows you the good that is out there in our fellow people.

And consequently, people are upset the city is still holding the race this Sunday. Now, I understand that people feel it takes away from the tragedy, not to mention the perception that resources would be diverted. I could point out that my understanding is the NYC marathon raises money for charity annually. I could show how people travel and have paid for trips to NYC from all over the world already. I could explain how local businesses in all boroughs really can benefit from the customer base. (You know a runner is coming into your bodega for a gatorade or something to eat. It will happen.)

I could go on and on about many points like that - and some would have their counter points. However, you can't deny this. The NYC Marathon is an event that celebrates life - and only someone who has been to the NYC Marathon can truly understand that it celebrates life. I have seen a person with no legs run the NYC marathon. I have seen elderly people run it. I have seen cancer survivors run it. I have seen firefighters in uniform running to honor one of the fallen. People run this race to give purpose to life. If you think it's just a stupid race and there isn't anything special about that day, then you need to get your head out of your ass. Pardon my Irish!

Having an event that celebrates the best about being a New Yorker, that celebrates surviving, that celebrates remembering a loved one lost - this is a good thing. And every day we have on this earth is a gift. And if you DON'T live that day - every day - and push on and make it count, THAT'S when you're disrespecting those who aren't here to celebrate. We should honor the losses by celebrating the day we have today and the possible gains we could have in the future.

Because that's what we do. Life moves on. Life has to move on.

Love,
Greg