Tag Archives: romance

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Silly Little Thing Called Luck

As many bloggers and magazine outlets will say today: I don’t consider myself lucky in relationships. In fact, I’ve considered myself unlucky in the game of love – never one to get the hearts, clubs, or diamonds; only the spades.

Nevertheless, while I could write about the fact that love is probably the factor of a little faith and the luck of great timing – I’m not committed to the idea. I’ve yet to determine what I think the best prescription for finding true love is and I’ve honestly reached a point where it isn’t the priority, but rather something I trust will be in my cards eventually. Maybe.

However – in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, tribute must be paid to those Irish things that have brought me much joy over the years. And perhaps, even a little bit of that silly little thing called luck.

Claddagh ring

My hometown is this beautifully hippie and new age town tucked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains. It is a mecca for up-and-coming bands, artists, and the beat of the streets beats “come as you are.” Growing up in a contradictory town: Southern and accepting of different cultures and orientations, made me an investigator of international affairs, as well as a curator of my own background.

Following my junior year of college, I finally jumped on the Claddagh ring ban-wagon and bought a fancy one (by fancy, I mean more than the $10 one on the side of the street. This one had a real stone with a real personal meaning) from a local artist in downtown Asheville. And since I signed my name to charge it, I never took it off. Not to shower, not to cook, not to do anything. To me, it was symbolic of love in my life – where it be romantic or self. A few guys cleverly turned it around when they asked to be exclusive, but somehow, it only felt  right when it was displaying my single title to the world.

Because even when I find love, it doesn’t mean I’m not open to any other expression of admiration from other sources. So really, my heart is always open. Funny thing is though, a week after I started writing this blog, I tucked away the ring in my drawer, having decided I didn’t need anything that defined me by my relationship status. I may sport it again, but if not, it’ll always remind me the universe is always giving love – as long as we’re perceptive enough to see it.

Fitzgerald’s Pub

Today, I’m not much of an Irish pub kind of girl. Maybe I’ve grown out of the feel or prefer live music or dancing to darts and rugby, but if given the choice, a place with “O’Connor” in the name wouldn’t be first on my going-out list. However, when I interned in the city and was without a friend to my name, the bartenders at this joint in the Flat Iron district became my instant pals.

I’d come in after a long day at the mag or hostessing at a restaurant in Times Square and there they’d be to greet me with their lovely Irish accents: “Lindsay, darling! Give the girl a Guinness, will ya?” I’ve never cared for Guinness but in my naivety, I was flattered by their gesture and always accepted anything they gave me. We’d sit watching baseball (which I know next-to-nothing about), talking about their wives, and dissecting my Southern/Irish roots. Without these entertaining nights, I wouldn’t have had as many dates that summer (somehow, I was always hit on at Fitzgerald’s) or felt like I had a place to just be myself. Now, I take guys there to see how they respond to something so special to me – and of course, to get the opinion from the same bartenders, who after several years, are still serving up the pints. They told me then and they continue to reiterate it every time I stop in: You wear your heart on your sleeve, lady. Don’t ever let that city harden ya.

So far, I haven’t.

Jerry from P.S. I Love You

When I saw this movie in the theaters with my friend L, it was a few days before Christmas and intolerably cold for North Carolina. She brought in a blanket she had stored in her car and we watched the midnight showing with it sprawled across us. Ten minutes into the film, we both started bawling our eyes out…and didn’t stop until the credits rolled.

Now, I know it’s a rom-com like all of the other ones that dazzle our televisions and trick us into believing in serendipitous meetings that end in an honest, everlasting love (though, if you listen to J.Lo, don’t make it your first dance song). But something about Gerald Butler as Jerry captivated me. The movie illustrated that relationships are far from perfect. And most of the time, we treat the ones we love the most with the most critical eye and unforgiving mentality. But even when we’re unforgiving and profoundly ridiculous with the people we care about, if they are worthy of our good and our bad – then they’ll see through it and love us regardless. Just as Jerry did with Holly after she threw a shoe at his face. (I’m embarrassed to admit I did the same to Mr. Idea – and he was less than thrilled).

Now, I don’t expect my husband to schedule out letters before he goes six-feet under – but I do know I will only end up with someone who accepts me for me, flaws, obsessions, and all. And maybe if the heavens humor me, I’ll find a guy who is as go-lucky as a leprechaun and does a little Irish strip tease in suspenders for me, too.

Lucky Charms

My household growing up was void of sweets and anything that was remotely bad for the body. It was only on holidays, special occasions, birthdays, and sleepovers that my mom cracked and bought potato chips or cookies, otherwise, I considered peanut butter and celery sticks just as good as Dunk-a-Roos (remember those?). However, one day at summer camp as a kid, I discovered the goodness that is Lucky Charms.

I begged and pleaded to have a box at home and even offered some of my allowance money to cover the $3 cost. She remained firm for a while, but eventually gave in and bought Lucky Charms once in a blue moon for me. I’m not too much of a cereal eater in my adult life, but if I pick something purely for the taste, I still pick the charms.

And yes, I always leave the marshmallows for last.

Leprechaun in Alabama

This is a real newscast. These are real people. Enough said.

Tall Brunette

And especially for this St. Patrick’s Day, I’m a fan of a newfound friend and Gchat companion. She has Irish roots and lives in the Northwest and we may be polar opposites – but her clever advice and wit always brightens my mood. Not to mention, the gal’s fiercely talented in artistry, penning, and otherwise. Go check out her blog and stay tuned for a podcast from both of us.

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Tequila vs. The WTF Moment

I once went to a free open bar at a joint in Murray Hill. This was before I discovered this particular part of New York is breeding ground for frat guys who never wanted to leave college and still enjoy beer pong more than making a career or adult life for themselves. Even in school, where I was in a sorority and I thoroughly enjoyed Greek life, I never dated or slept with a guy in a fraternity. There has always been something about their Solo cup-decorated apartments, perfectly styled hair (or looks that resemble the Biebs), and stained Ralph Lauren Polos that turned me off.

Imagine that.

Nevertheless, when a friend found booze for free on PulseJFK and invited me to come, I followed in suit, high heels and push-up in tow. Fast forward to midnight, way past the penniless power hour: picture my friend with smeared red lipstick and crusted mascara, sucking face at the corner of the bar with a guy I believe was named Todd. And then there’s me, turning on the charm with a dude who told me he worked for MTV. I’d say what he did for them, but instead of telling me, he told my tequila – which is gladly no longer with me.

At this point in the night, my friend lets me know she’s going home with Todd, who claimed he was one of the Mets. She later confirmed he was, but more of a benchwarmer than an actual athlete. Still fairly new to Manhattan and as broke as an early-20s gal can get, I asked her not to leave (I didn’t want to pay for a ride home). Obviously not one of my closest companions, she encouraged me to go with the MTV man and said she’d text me when she arrived in Hoboken with Todd. I responded with a half-drunken smirk, followed by thoughts of how much I felt sorry for her that she was leaving for dirty Jersey.

Even knew to the city, I knew that wasn’t a favorable ending point for an evening. (Don’t believe me? Ask anyone who takes the PATH at night).

As I watched her exit into the rolling crowds of the M.Hill, Mr. MTV turned his attention to me and asked if I needed another drink. I refused while nodding my head in agreement. Intrigued by my drunken stupor, he welcomed more company from the liquor that not only heats me up, but makes everyone around me instantly hotter. And thus, in the next 20 minutes, I fell for Mr. MTV.

In the bits and pieces I remember, I imagined him opening doors (both literally and figuratively) for me at his company and attending fancy parties ripe with celebrities. I may have devised a fantasy where he introduced me to Ryan Reynolds at rooftop gala in the middle of June, where he instantly found me irresistible and I left Mr. MTV in a dramatic exit as I whisked away to Paris. Perhaps Rome. Hell, I’ll settle for Madrid, if need be.

Mr. MTV, noticing my inability to focus as he enthusiastically bragged about his corner office (or was it a cubicle with a view?), whispered, “Do you want to go back to my place?” Before I could comprehend, tequila (who knows this dude better than I do, apparently), nodded yes.

In barely enough time to grab my bag and cardigan, I found myself hailing a cab, hand-in-hand with Mr. MTV. “I live, like, really close by, in Union Square,” he reassured. Unable to comprehend my coordinates (or to really care), I again, allowed tequila to control my motions by giving him a slurred, encouraging grin. In what seemed like an eternity but probably equated to ten minutes, Mr. MTV had us heading cross-town to an apartment he lived by himself. Somewhere between allowing him to cram his tongue half-way down my throat, telling me to relax, and he does this sort of thing all the time -I woke up.

I could give it an eloquent name, but in all fairness, it was simply a WTF moment.

As Mr. MTV is chatting with the driver, I looked out my window to catch a glimpse of a familiar landmark and realized what I was doing. As if it was in slow motion, I looked down to see my hands, still stamped from the beginning of the evening. I wiggled my fingers to make sure they still had feeling. I was glad to find, they did. I checked to see if I had everything with me that I started with and minus an earring, I thought, “Good job, Linds. All together.”

But then the sobering side of me argued, “Um, no. Look again. You’re a hot mess. Where are you going?”

So, without a word to Mr. MTV or gaining enough courage to look at him, I shouted to the cabbie to stop. Maybe the driver had been in this situation enough times, but he pounded the brakes immediately. Without hesitation, I threw open the door, stumbled my way ten steps across the street, shot my hand in the air, and magically, another yellow-and-black carriage swept me away to a place much better than the place I was heading: home. Alone.

Sometimes it is easy to know when it is time to walk away.

Unfortunately, most of the relationships that leave the most damage aren’t created and ended in a matter of hours. They are often the ones that are a collection of times where we depend on our staying graces as much as we peer over at our boots-made-for-walking, and the ones that Katy Perry claims are measured by fluctuating temperatures. They are the ones encompassed by exhaustion and often leave us, just as I was in my tequila haze, one hell of a mess. And though we know it is so not right and against our better judgment, we always stick around. Because somehow we think – or we convince ourselves- there’s a way for it to work out. If we can only get over one thing, if we can only be brave enough to stick around while he makes up his mind, or if we can establish a scenario where he’ll miss us. That’s when we will be justified in our one-night stand or our shouldn’t-have-lasted-as-long-as-it-did.

Maybe for some couples the patience pays off and the rewards are plenty.

But most of the time, tequila (or denial) comes in the form of syrupy romantic notions that against all other rational thought processes, tells us to keep going and going, when really, it’d be best to steer away from another tall drink of complication. Because while shots in a glass can be difficult to swallow, a shot to the broken heart and at our swollen pride, burns much longer. It is only when the rose-colored glasses are removed and the love drunk haze wears off that we see a relationship or a man for what he really is: a bad idea that’s best left on Saturday night (or in the past), where he belongs.

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A Case for Unsettling

Most of the fodder I get for this blog comes from conversations I have…or ones I overhear. One of the blessings of living in a city is the surplus of people and their oblivious nature regarding who is listening to their words. Or really, the sense of comfort everyone seems to have with strangers, friends they’ve know for five years or five minutes – the city doesn’t sleep and it’s people are unmindful in admitting who they’ve slept with.

Perhaps in a time to come, I’ll be the same. But for today, I’ll just write about it.

Recently, a friend of mine and I were walking through the village, discussing what the best of friends discuss best: sex and love. Unafraid and uninhibited by the fear of judgment – we spoke openly and freely, carelessly and candid. Both of us, in our own respect, have each had our fair share of experiences and as it always seems to do when two 20-somethings discuss the perils of Manhattan mating, the rhetoric inevitably turns to questions. Well, what do you think? Do you think marriage is an illusion? What constitutes as cheating? Do we ever really know the people we are in relationships with? What is all this love stuff, anyways – and how in the world do I make it go away? (But wait, do  want it to?)

My friend has this ridiculous obsession with chocolate chip cookies, but not the ones as big as the ones that are as big as my face and sold in trendy bakeries off of Waverly and Perry. Nope, they prefer those 50 cent goodies we all carried in our lunchboxes in grade school. As cheap and chewy as these suckers are, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stopped to grab them -or the number of instances I’ve given in and asked for a bite. Maybe two.

Nevertheless, as we’re walking through the Bodega, in search for this prized commodities, I ask, “Well, sex is one of those things that can’t be compromised. If it isn’t good, if your drives don’t match, then you can’t seriously stay in the relationship.” Still in search for the cookie-that-must-be-bought, my friend replied, “Yes, I feel that way. But not everyone needs passion.” Astonished by this revelation, I reply, “What’s the point in being in a relationship if you’re not madly in love? Why give up your opportunity to meet someone you could be crazy about to be without someone who is mediocre?”

Excited to have found a few packs and distracted by the cashier, they matter-of-factly stated: “Think about it – they get along fine, the sex is somewhat good, and they are ready to get married. So they do. I mean, it saves on rent.”

And thus is the mantra for settling in New York.

I may have a few unreasonable expectations about the man I ultimately want to be with – like the fact I’ve never dated under 6’0″. But I’m well aware that some standards are not actually qualifications, but preferences. Sure, there are non-negiotables (I won’t date someone without a job or with a heart that’s described lack-luster at best) – but most things can be compromised. Especially if the person actually finds a way to throw me a line or show me a move I’ve never seen or felt before.

However, as much as I realize and accept my ideal man may turn out to be far from the image I’ve constructed in my mind – if there’s one thing I won’t settle for, it’s love. He may be in a profession I would never have pictured myself intrigued by (truth be told, I’ve stuck to businessmen pretty consistently) or sport a look that’s never made me take a second look. He may not come from the background I’d prefer and we may not share some of the syncing interests I’ve had with boyfriends of the past. He may not be the wildest I’ve had or the man to push me to my furthest limit. He may not give me hell or the giggles.

But he, whoever he is, will be unlike any love I’ve known before. I will not place a price on passion or release those desires into a land where they’ll never be fulfilled.  Because, at least when you’re single, there’s always a hope for something that’s better than the one before. And if you’re tied down when you’d rather be with someone who is your real partner- your eyes will wonder. Along with your hands and your mind. Or worst of all, your heart. And by settling for less than you desire to fill a need that’s ultimately void – you waste their’s and your’s time. Not to mention, the prospect of making a cut where it is unjustified and penetrating wounds that could take longer to heal than the length of the phoney relationship.

So here’s a case for unsettling: why should I lock myself into something I know I’d one day leave? Why would I be with someone who checks off boxes but doesn’t give me that intensity or doesn’t grow with the same steady velocity that I do? Why stick around and ditch the single status for something with an expiration date? If it’s sour going in, it’ll be unbearable when it leaves.

And while there may be things that I’ll dismiss in order to allow a promising person into my life, if I don’t know they are the person for me, I won’t stick around for the purpose of settling down. Because frankly, the idea of lowering the level of love I’d like to find is more unsettling than being alone.

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Oh, The Lady You’ve Become

You’re moving to the city you always knew would be home.  And yes, my darling, you’ll be going alone. There will be many limitations, but no limit to what you’ll do. Or how difficult it will be to let go of all you knew. But this town built for millionaires and struggling artists alike, will change more than your address, it’ll change you. You do have those brains in your head and those kickin’ heeled-kicks on you feet, but realize you’ll have to make an effort to remain true.

Because when you first land on Northern ground, you won’t know it then, but you’ll go many places.

You will turn the heads as much as you’ll turn your back in an effort to forget the most charming of faces. On a plane, train, or automobile, you’ll find yourself going above and under water. And not just the waters to the east and to the west, but in ways you’d be ashamed to tell your father. When time moves slower than you had hoped and living on a prayer has left you penniless and broke, don’t sweat. There are opportunities and chance encounters on the next avenue over, and you’ll be thankful to the company you’ve kept. The ambition and fear of regret that brought you to Manhattan will keep you afloat, but it’s your heart that will make you shine. And shine you will my dear, and up that ladder you will climb.

To put on hats you anticipated too big or too small. And skyscrapers you were once convinced were too high and would cause too much of a fall. But on you will go and with each day you’ll grow. Not just into the woman you wanted to become, but into someone you’d be happy to know. The shoes won’t always fit, the zippers won’t always zip, and out of vanity there will be many parties you’ll miss. Because the image you see in the mirror may not be what you see in your pretty head, but pretty it is. So you’ll hold it high and you’ll march on. On and on.  You may worry and you may fret, you may be filled with less hope and more doubt. But you’ll soon rest easy knowing, yes, you’ll always find a way to figure it out. But you’ll still go left when you know you should go right. You’ll lose your heart to some stranger a time or two, and you’ll give him all of your might.

Because even with a pen in your hand and a byline in print – there are certain feelings the glossies can’t make. And that sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of love isn’t always something you can describe and certaintly nothing you can fake. But in the game you’ll play, there may be a charade of players dressed in charm, and nice guys disguised in armor that doesn’t fit your taste. You will date and you will sometimes mate, but most of all you’ll blame it all on fate.

And that little magic will bring you to your knees and wake in places you thought were dead. You will fall head over heels and heels over head. It’ll make you linger on each and every word he said. It’ll make you believe, beyond any reasonable doubt or higher education you achieved, that this feeling, this preciousness can never come to be again. You’ll conclude that while you’ve laid in lust before, this is unlike any romance that’s ever been.

Oh, my sweet, the people you will love.

And though it is a promise I’m sure you’d rather me not keep, you won’t just love once. Or twice or thrice.  You will fall in love on accident and on purpose, with mostly the naughty, but sometimes the very nice. You will change your opinions to fit his, you will let yourself be a fool. And that wildly beating heart, will again be forced to dive back into the pool. And so you’ll swim to chase the fish you’ve always heard were plenty and you may catch the tails of a few. And those you’ll try out for size, place them in your life and maybe in your memories of love, but at some point, you won’t like the view. You’ll grow tired and weary, frustrated with the love you’ve lost and the love you’ve yet to find.

And that’s when you’ll change your mind.

You’ll decide that if love is what you aim to achieve, it is time to start to believe. But not in happily ever after by waiting for prince from the storybooks – but accepting that it is you who will meet your needs. You’ll pick up the pieces of what you shattered, take the blame where it’s due, and forgive the mistakes that were made. And slowly, with a lot of work and more patience than you thought you had, those worries will fade. And even more you will change.

Choices will weigh more heavily than the ones you made the day before. And those adult like things like groceries and buying hosieries will stop seeming so much like a chore. They will become normal and commonplace, part of the routine you’ll make for you. And for the first time, you won’t let what you want be compromised for some dude. No matter how deep the dimple or blue the eye. Because you’ll realize your worth, your hope, your future is in your own rhyme. In the life you create. With maybe, a little help from Captain fate.

And though today is your something-year anniversary of when you packed your bags and moved to the city, the places you’ll go and people you’ll love will continue to grow way past plenty. Your days are always numbered and your twenties certainly won’t last forever, but you’ve found your footing and your balance against every odd. With every disapproving and encouraging nod.

So relish, my love. Thank those powers above. Go out and let your passion play. Listen and appropriately ignore all of those warnings I say. Because, today is your day. Have some fun and celebrate the lady you’ve become.

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Put My New York On

As we said our good-byes at the airport when I returned back to the city, my mom said she watched me “Put my New York on.” Meaning she noticed me shift gears in a single instance – from relaxing and being off guard in the sweetness of the South to prepare for the toughness of the North. I’m not sure if my disposition or attitude altered or if I somehow flipped the intensity of my brow – but my mom’s right, being in New York is unlike being anywhere else.

The city’s pace can be exhausting at times, but it is also exhilarating. It challenges your spirit, your ego, your skills and your failures, your audacity and your ambition. It isn’t a place where excuses are accepted, but an island where business gets done. And not done, but done big or not at all. As much as I adore Ole Blue Eyes, I’m not convinced anyone can ever claim they’ve made it in New York. I think the city makes you instead.

I won’t confess how long I’ve been here (I’ll let you make your own assumption), but in the span I’ve been able to truthfully claim New York as home, I’ve changed. According to my mother’s remark, it is a noticeable change. It’s the difference between the comfort that comes from not being alone and the bravery necessary to take a chance on a city that’ll push you to your limits while bringing you to your knees.

New York ain’t no joke, y’all.

The inhabitants and transplants I’ve encountered here have told time and time again that I’m tougher than what I seem. It continues to surprise me to hear it, but then again, it’s a natural theory that someone is pretty delicate if they are blue-eyed and pint-sized.

In other words, I don’t exactly elude a “stay the hell away from me” energy, but I’d like to think I do pretty well on my own. And half-a-year of daily blog posts later, I don’t just think I’m okay by myself – I know it.

Regardless of how much effort I put into keeping my spirits high or getting to a point where I don’t care if the man I’m ga-ga over thinks I’m so-so –the thing that makes me more independent and self-assured than anything else isn’t a post. It’s not encouragement from others. It’s not having a someone who could be a something. It’s not feeling like a knock-out or knocking out competitors for a gig.

Rather, it’s putting my New York on.

It’s the satisfaction that after years of dreaming and never having the chance to dwell in the place I adored, I finally grew some roots. It’s the constant ups and downs that city living presents; those things you’ll never understand unless you actually spend more than a month or so drenched in the culture. Like having your dress fly way past your head, in a torrential downpour on Fifth Avenue, while pieces of trash wrap their way around your calves. And while the applause of the gawkers was well-intended, I didn’t appreciate it – especially when this was a day I decided to go commando. Or when the one night you don’t make plans, thinking no one else made plans, everyone you know actually did make plans, and you are left to plan with greasy Chinese takeout. Or when in the middle of Times Square, with ten minutes left to make it to fourth-row tickets at the theater that were given to you for free, your cab driver’s credit card machine bites the dust. And you’re without cash, causing you to pull out some words and exchanges you never would have deemed appropriate six states down.

But then there are the splendors of being a slicker that are only appreciated by those of us who have seen the good, the bad, and the superbly New York. Like the sense of accomplishment when you get to the station and the train is there within seconds. Or when someone asks you for directions because you look like you belong, or you don’t need to use Google maps or HopStop to meet your friends for drinks – instead, you just know. Or if you don’t, you’re finally not afraid of getting lost to find your way. Or when you’re walking in beat with your iPod and the street changes precisely when you would have had to come to a stop, allowing you to just keep strutting down the avenue. Or when you don’t feel the need to have a rolodex of friends or go to the hippest parties in meatpacking. You know – when you have an actual life, with actual people who you care about, and you finally feel like you’re living, not just working your way up the ladder or the social calendar?

It’s a good feeling.

Putting my New York on means I’ve learned not only how to adapt to my surroundings but to become them. To allow myself to shed some old ideologies and ways of life that may have worked for me in the past, but now would never fulfill me. It means I’ve reached the point where instead of feeling a little inadequate and out-of-place in a city of people who seem to be obsessed with black, I feel comfortable in all the bright and grey shades I cascade. It’s realizing that a city, a man, a dress – may hug my curves just right at certain points, but like my body will eventually sag and wrinkle in places I’d rather not mention, life will change too.

And though I always have an eye on tomorrow and a mirror within reach to glance back at who I once was, I’m more attracted to the person I’m becoming each and every single day. A girl, that while she puts on her New York when she wakes up, there is always a little North Carolina in the choices she makes.

The world may be my oyster – but I’d like to think I’m some sort of a peal in this city that’s anything but pure.