My Firsthand Realization of the Connection Between Puerto Ricans and Baseball

My great-grandmother Brunhilda Ross (nee Torres) was a force to be reckoned with.  She was a strong Puerto Rican woman who loved hard and hated harder. . .once she even slapped a clerk at a chocolatier for not having the candy she wanted in stock.  If you were in her good graces, you would never be treated better than anyone else.  She could be very generous – showering her favorites with praise and gifts.  She could be motherly – one of my mother’s favorite memories was their date every year to see the Rockette’s at Radio City.  She was also headstrong and could be more than a little domineering.

I grew up basking in the glory of her adoration.  I can remember calling her to invite her to visit – I loved that she spent her golden years literally traveling the globe.  I eagerly awaited both her stories of foreign lands and the currency she brought back for me for my collection.  Gabby, my little sister, had the opposite experience with her.  Their stubborn dispositions led to butting heads on numerous occasions and Gab was called “diablo” more than once. 

On her visits to see my family, she would watch us until our parents returned from work.  I was ecstatic to not have to go to our daily afterschool program; everyone else? Not so much.   She was old school – what she said went, no exceptions and you better believe there was corporal punishment.   She upheld every one of the rules my parents set and then some with an iron fist.

One of these rules was our boundaries system.  We were only allowed to go about three or four houses down on either side without a parent being present.  These were marked by a curve in the road on one side and a lamppost on the other.  I was a pretty obedient child who generally stuck to these guidelines; Gabby was a bit more free in her interpretation of our invisible fence.  One day, when I was 7 or 8, making Gab 5 or 6, she decided to go for a bike ride.  It had just finished raining and the sidewalks were wet.  Despite being told “No,” Gabby decided to take the path of exercise and fresh air and out she went.  Little to our knowledge, this was a serious transgression in Bruni’s eyes.  She went running out of the house after Gabby.  As Gabby passed our house and the yelling coming out of our Great-Grandmother’s mouth, she pedaled her little legs past as fast as she could. 

This did not fly and Bruni marched right over to our tree and pulled off a branch the size of a bat (not joking, no exaggeration it felt like this 85-year-old woman turned into Godzilla before our eyes).  As she went after Gabby, paddle in hand, my brother followed her, who was followed by me.  When Gabby got to the lamppost, she turned her head and looked back at us.  You could see the wheels turning in her head – should she keep going?  Or should she turn around and head back our way?

She took the path of obedience.  As soon as she turned her bike around and bagan pedaling towards us, Bruni took her stance like she had entered the batter’s box.  She was ready.  Batter up:  in one swift swing Gabby was off her bike and battle was won.   She got in trouble for disobeying our Great-Grandmother (who left the next day) until our brother saved the day.  What was first a horror story has now become a family joke that when shared elicits both shaking heads and laughter.

Pick-Up Lines That Will NEVER Work (But May Get You Slapped)

The average New York City inhabitant spends a good chunk of their morning and evening commutes in the Subway system.  Here you will cross thousands of other worker bees running to and fro, hurrying to get to the craziness of another workday or the relative calm sanctuary that is home.   Despite being surrounded at any given time by numerous strangers, you know that you will never see the majority of these people ever again, and thus you, like everyone around you, buries themselves into their books or magazines or tablets.  Maybe it’s been a rough day so you might just lean back, eyes closed, entranced into the music coming out of your ear buds. 

Whatever your style, one thing is clear and common:  you do not interact with others.  With the exception of a few scenarios (you are offering your seat to someone who is disabled/elderly/pregnant/female, you are apologizing for stepping on someone, you are sharing a laugh over an awkward crazy person causing a scene, etc), every good New Yorker (including the transplants) innately knows that you keep to yourself and do not force yourself into someone else’s life or reality.

Last week, I had the pleasure (and by pleasure I most certainly mean misfortune) of someone who was not aware of the proper subway etiquette mentioned previously.  There I sat, really enjoying the latest James Patterson book on my Kindle (yes I’m a thriller-loving, nerdface bookworm :]) about halfway into my trip home.  As the stops passed, people got on and off and the people on one side of me changed frequently.  On the other sat a man, non-descript but in his thirties. . .the type who blends in well and had I not had the interaction I am about to share with you, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him.

Before long, I became distracted by him because it became apparent that he was smelling me – as in he would turn toward me and sniff in my direction and next to my hair.  I tried ignoring him but this did nothing.  Finally, I turned and said, “Can I help you?”  His response, with a smile was, “Your pheromones smell out of this world!”

I can only imagine the look of disgust that showed on my face.  I was so shocked that I jumped up and ran out the open doors and waited for the next train.  Gentlemen, even if you are thinking it, saying something so creepily inappropriate will never work.  Keep those thoughts to yourself – the ladies of NYC appreciate your cooperation.

An Obese Boy and his Broccoli

There is an obese kitty that lives in my apartment named Oliver.  He loves to snuggle and sleep in my hair.  It often feels like he thinks he is a pup and provides us endless hours of entertainment.

Last night, we were laying around with our wine and our Most Eligible Dallas,  letting our food settle.  Elle had brought over her famous, award-winning spinach dip and we had spent the evening gorging on that, chips and cheese. The lonely vegetable tray we also got for dipping sat virtually untouched…that was until Olli spotted a raw piece of broccoli….

UPDATE:  Ok so the video wouldn’t load to ANYWHERE from my phone except onto FB.  Here’s the link to that. . .hope to have this glitch fixed soon! Fat little Oliver

The Grand Canyon Killer and Other Reasons Why I Avoid NYC Buses

Last night I met a man who is either a serial killer or who has some serious aspirations to become one.  It was late for a Thursday – around 1:15 am and I was just leaving my friends’ apartment.  As these friends lived down by the seaport, it was normal for the area to be a quiet ghost town but for someone who was used to being surrounded by the Big Apple’s constant hustle and bustle regardless of the time, it was a little eerie and off-putting.

As I scurried towards the subway that would take me back towards the relative safety of my lively neighborhood, I was pretty uncomfortable with both the silence and the fact that to get to the station, I was going to have to travel through Chinatown – an area of town I absolutely loathe.   It was at that moment that I spotted an M15 bus lighting up the night and heading exactly my way.  This would not only help me bypass 15 more minutes of walking, it would get me to a well-populated subway stop just 4 away from mine.

The driver waited patiently as I ran towards the bus.  He seemed pleasant enough and even inquired whether or not I was lost.  Deciding that he seemed safer than the homeless crackhead sprawled out sleeping the back, I sat in the front section.  Upon getting myself settled into my seat in preparation for the 65 block trip, I got the uncomfortable feeling that I was getting watched and looking up, I noticed the driver peering back at me in his mirror.  Something about him made all the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end.

Finally he stopped simply staring and spoke: an inquiry as to whether or not I liked the current weather.  As I responded that I was not really a fan of the humidity, he responded enthusiastically about how much I might love Arizona – one of his favorite places, known for its dry heat.  Just as I thought to myself that maybe I needed to lay off the Criminal Minds and Law&Order, the conversation turned from hiking in the beautiful Grand Canyon to some of the many murders that had occurred there.  I was barraged with stories of death and violence. . .husbands killing wives, boyfriends doing away with girlfriends – it didn’t take long to notice that all the victims in each of his stories were women.  He spoke passionately when talking about serial killers who’s “type” was young females and even mentioned that in Arizona’s deserts, it was easy for someone to disappear without a trace or for an act of violence to be disguised as an accident. 

I am a big believer in listening to what my intuition tells me so it was at this point that I started to literally be afraid – as in terrified to the point that I texted the driver ID# and the bus route I was on to one of my friends.  I kicked myself for telling the driver which stop I was riding to. 

Normal protocol for New York City’s MTA public buses is to skip stops in which there are no passengers waiting to get on and no passengers riding have signaled that they would like to get off.  My driver pulled over briefly at every desolate stop, making the trip last as long as possible.  At 42nd St, which was about 25 minutes into a ride that felt like 3 hours, a hoodrat-looking young guy got on.  I had never been so happy to see a stranger before in my life!  My face must have been very readable because he looked me in the eyes with questioning concern and sat across the aisle.  Before long, he too was seeing just why I was so freaked out.

Deciding that 10 streets was an easy walk to the subway and that I had reached my limit on the late-night crime tales, I interrupted the final account of a wayward girlfriend who met her grisly end by being thrown over the side of a cliff and into the river to inform the busdriver that I would get off the next stop.  I saw the bench signifying my safety get closer and I breathed a sigh of relief. . .until he didn’t stop.  At this point, I was pretty much having a panic attack in my brain.  Mid-internal freakout, I vaguely heard the driver say he would drop me at my intended destination.

Those 10 city streets were the longest of my life and when I was finally released, I literally sprinted all the way into the subway.  Safely nestled among other young professionals on their way home, the adrenaline was coursing through my veins and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as I recounted everything I had just heard.   Whether it was just that the driver was a lonely, overly-enthusiastic, creepy storyteller or that his passionate speech was a cover for more sinister fantasies, I came to an easy conclusion:  it will be a long time before I brave those buses again.

Skinny Single Summer

As the weather begins to cool and my birthday has passed (September 9th is STILL summer as far as I’m concerned), it is time to admit that the seasons are beginning to change and autumn is arriving. 

A record number of my girlfriends and I began this past summer without boyfriends (a rarity for us, believe me), and thus the season was dubbed Skinny Single Summer.  We really stepped our life game, as young, attractive, successful 20-somethings, up.  So with all this new me-time and experience for self-reflection, what are the three biggest lessons Skinny Single Summer taught me?

For starters, there are a lot and I mean A LOT of freaks inhabiting this beautiful concrete jungle I currently call home.  In the past three months, I went on almost more dates than I thought I could possibly handle.  While it’s true that I have been on some fun ones, I have also been on more than a few horrific dates. . .some, like this one, I blogged about. . .others were pushed back into the far crevices in my brain only to make a guest appearance at a later date if I’m feeling short on material.  However, at the beginning of the summer, despite full knowledge that the freaks are out there, I made a promise to accept dates from guys I normally might not for superficial reasons and as cliché as it sounds, my eyes were opened to different types of people that I had been missing out on up until this point.  So it’s true, I have the “physical type” of the guy I’m most often attracted to, I’m not going to rule someone out simple because he doesn’t match up perfectly to that.

Second, my sister is one of the most fabulous people I know.  I have always loved her so much and considered her one of my best friends, but in some part of my brain, I couldn’t shake thinking of her as my little baby sister. . .some sort of child, I guess.  In the five+ weeks she spent staying with me, I really got to see and appreciate her in a way that I hadn’t since I came to NYC six years ago.  Seeing how hard she works and how kind of a heart she has when she interacts with others,  I can’t help but be so proud of who she has become :]

Finally, while being in a relationship can be so rewarding – I’m a team-oriented person so I like that feeling of having someone who always has my back – flying solo can be just as rewarding.  I really got to know myself and it was freeing to do exactly what I wanted whenever I wanted without having to consider someone else’s opinions or feelings.  In some ways, I feel like parts of myself that had been tucked away were reawakened as I did my self-exploring. 

So what now?  I’m putting much more of a focus on my little 238 item bucket list. . .I like the way challenging myself and pushing myself feels.  While you won’t see me doing something like hillbilly hand fishing (as it is my literal definition of a nightmare), I will be doing a lot more stepping outside of my comfort zone.  I’ve also decided that whoever my next relationship will be is going to be someone really special, as opposed to liking aspects of someone and hoping the rest will follow.  This also means checking my own baggage and allowing the possibility of getting hurt.  Am I ready?  I’m terrified. . .but bring it on!

Taco Bell (A Love Story)

There was a solid year or two that I was under the spell of a lovely little Mexican spot (ok fine – a giant fake tex-mex conglomerate that uses essentially dog meat for their ground beef) called Taco Bell.  I visited the one in the student union at St. John’s so regularly that Luis, the man who ran the show there, not only knew me by order but by name too.  When I really wanted to treat myself, I paid a visit to what my girlfriends and I called “Taco Palace” – a restaurant the franchise had renovated so well that it seemed far too classy for the word “taco” in its name to be simply followed by plain, old “bell.”

After spending some quality time enjoying dollar bottles one night, what I wanted and craved more than anything was a trip to the palace.  Walking out of the bar, I was faced with a serious judgment call:  how to get to Taco Palace?  I knew driving was a terrible idea and yet my only other option was walking 2.41 miles past  cemeteries and through the hood (yes that is exact mileage; I google mapped that for you guys specifically for this story. . .you’re welcome).  Assuring myself that because I was at that time a college track athlete, the latter option was quickly chosen.

By the time I finally arrived at T.P for fourth meal, I was ravenous and the only cure, in my mind, was soft tacos.  I had just walked (well, ran past the cemeteries and through the projects) for over two miles thinking about nothing but taco goodness the entire trek!  As the dining area was closed, I walked up to the drive through and knocked on the window.  Repeatedly.  Until it got to the point that they realized that ignoring me was not going to work and I was a woman on a mission.  When the good workers of Taco Bell opened it, I was ready: I demanded 8 soft tacos.

After a little initial confusion on their part met by absolute assurance on mine, I got my prize.  I sat on a parking pylon enjoying my late night treat, but before long, an NYPD car pulled up.  I really didn’t have time/want/need/desire to give them attention – in the battle between police officer and stack of tacos, those bad boys win every time.  Yet, despite my initial ambivalence towards them, when they realized how far I had come (and on my own in the dead of night, no less), they offered me a ride home (ok so maybe that actually isn’t very surprising).  In attempting to find a way to not leave my apartment the next day, I demonstrated good decision-making by explaining that I had left my car by the bar rather than drive and asked for one of them to drive me home and the other to follow in my car.

Much to my surprise (and the surprise of my roommates when I rolled up courtesy of a special escort), they said yes.  Their reward?  Each of them got two or three tacos.  Eight, as it would turn out, is far too many for any one girl in one single sitting.

19 and Craaaaazy

Every once in a while, even in a big city like New York, you will run into someone or come across something that will propel you straight into deja vu.  This happened to me last Wednesday.  Near my old college is a bar that does a drink special in which every bottle of beer is $1 on Wednesdays.  Feeling reminiscent, Roomie and I decided to take a trip down memory lane and go.

Nearby sat your average group of guys in their late twenties. . .while this normally elicit a second thought, the sight of them in this college bar, especially the sullen friend in the middle, propelled me straight back to my 19 year old self – the girl who carried around a fake Maryland I.D. and was known to rock a slight twang when she felt like she was talking to some guy she’d never plan to see again.  It didn’t take long, back then, to realize that being a doe-eyed Southern girl was like crack for New York males used to loud attitudes, which in turn equated being bought more drinks than I could possibly want.

On one such night, my target had been a reasonably attractive guy who was sending off “LEAVE ME ALONE” body language louder than the neon lights advertising a seedy strip club.  Noticing that his friends were talking and flirting with girls, I knew the challenge had been set for me, whether he was aware or not.  After a few hours of coaxing the friendliness out of him, he eventually asked for my number.

Therein was the problem.  Not only did I think he was actually kind of cool and fun to talk to, Scott NYPD was a police officer and 26 who knew me as 22 year old Sally, a small town girl from Maryland. . .obviously none of those things are true.  Being the crazy, invincible 19 year old that I was, I decided to let it play out.  After 3 or so weeks of playing the part, our courtship fizzled. . .I grew tired of the role and he grew tired of getting rejected and pushed away.

Every once in a while, like this past Wednesday, I’ll see a guy who so reminds me of those weeks and it will make me wonder about whatever happened to good old Scott NYPD and if he ever thinks back to that crazy Southern girl he met one night over wings and cold frothy beer.

And Then He Popped Out His Eyeball

Whenever men are put in a situation in which they are competing for the attention of a group of females, that natural primal need to one-up each other and compete emerges.  While they may not be able to control characteristics like looks or height, they can certainly try to prove that they are funnier or more generous or more masculine than any other guy they find themselves up against.

While this is a common occurence, there are times when this one-upmanship is taken to such a surprising level and presents and crazy twist.  For example, a few weekends ago, a group of girls that I used to work with got together for some much needed girl-love time.  As we sat together enjoying our endless food and bevies (it was, after all, the Corona sponsored pre-party for the Kenny Chesney concert in the Meadowlands), we were approached by two guys.  The Cowboy was very much the alpha -the more attractive and confident of the two, the one who led – and he knew one of my girlfriends presenting two very distinct advantages. 

After joining our table, the subtle war for attention began.  What we learned, no one was expecting: The Cowboy brought a very unique trait to our attention. . .his friend, 20/0, had a glass eye.  Not only did 20/0 have this glass eye, he actually took it out of his socket.  Around the table, the reaction was a mix of confusion, surprise, awe, horror and awkward (you already know which I felt. . .I did, in this moment of reveal, ask if he’d ever lent it to someone so they could be a Triceratops. . .not even my fave type of dinosaur and totally inappropriate #fail).

As we obviously continued to talk about it on-and-off for the rest of the day, I couldn’t help but smile.  While these little battle royales amongst boys seeking attention surely provide amusement and stories to tell over again, a well-timed and well placed joke works even better.

Home Homeeeee on the Rangeeee. . .Well Except for Me. . .

It’s one of those gorgeous, perfect days in New York City – low 80’s and sunny with a nice breeze and miraculously low humidity.  It’s on a day like this that one longs to not be behind a desk or working away on the phone but taking business outside. . .like to the links for example.

I have long-held a fantasy about networking or hammering out contracts over a nice game of golf but unfortunately for me, that little pipe dream is seemingly going to stay just that – a very distant dream.  It’s not that I couldn’t find people in my industry to meet me out for a round or that there are no courses around. . .it’s something much different and a lot more personal.  You see, as much as I hate to admit a shortcoming when it comes to anything involving sports and athletics, when it comes to golf, I am a fail.

Don’t get me wrong – on a mini-golf course, it’s going down. . .I’m known to get pretty competitive.  Take me out to the driving range, and I’m convinced that something awful WILL happen.  True I’ve only been to the driving range once and some may think that I’m jumping to premature judgments, the story I am about to share with you – one that has taken me almost three years to make public – should convince you that it’s probably best that I stay far, far away from a bag of clubs.

It was a day much like this one and GDC, the guy I was dating at the time (no, not his initials, just the acronym for what my girlfriends and I privately called him and still call him whenever he comes up in conversation), decided it was the perfect time to show me the ropes of golfing.  Knowing that it was probably best to get my bearings on a driving range before trying out an actual course, that is where he took me.  

While he got right to work knocking balls far and long, my borrowed clubs and I joined a group starter class so I could learn the basics.  Ever the overeager student, I was the picture of concentration, focusing on exactly what my instructor was saying along with how he was moving and holding his body.  While I wasn’t an immediate natural, I also wasn’t an embarrassment either. . .yet.

Because I wasn’t the best in my class right off the bat and that felt like a problem to me at the time, after my turn to hit was over, I decided to practice my swing in the back, away from our group of novices.  I figured by the time it was my turn again, I could wow everyone with my sudden improvement.  Fate had other ideas for me. 

My first few swings were right on the money. . .until suddenly, they weren’t.  With one swing, I brought down my dream of golfing glory – I didn’t see that a man had come up and had stood (unreasonably) close to me at the same time that I pulled back my club to swing.  I felt the impact and immediately turned around to find him laying on the ground clutching his groin, moaning/crying/cursing/rolling around on the ground.

While he ended up being ok (or so the range’s first aid people said he would be), I have been forever traumatized.  The date (and that guy’s week) and my desire to become a golfing pro were ruined and I have yet to go back.  Yet days like this, those beautiful summer days, I feel the call to get up and try again.  Maybe next time, I should go for a one-on-one lesson and stay away from group settings. . .

Nothing to See Here. . .Just Getting Confused For a Terrorist. . .No Big. . .

It was a beautiful, sunny Wednesday morning. . .at least outside of the airport.  Inside, at least for me, was a totally different reality.  I hadn’t thought much about it when the TSA began full-body scanning people and handing out pat downs and then I started getting chosen for one.  Often.  As in every time I flew, it was pretty much a guarantee that a body scan was going down.  As in if this were a baseball game and getting selected for a full body scan was a home run, I’d be batting near 1000.

To remedy this situation, on the particular Wednesday I just mentioned, I chose to wear capri leggings and a tank top. . .logic being that anything I could have hidden under my outfit would be visible, and I could slide through security quickfast.  As I approached the gate, things seemed to be going my way – I was making record time.  The Gate Master had other ideas.  Maybe it was that I said, “Wow! I always get chosen for the full body scan!” or maybe my hot pink tank top assaulted The Gate Master’s eyes, but he directed me into that glass box/room smack in the middle of the crowds pressing through security.  My jailer was a big, middle-aged woman named L’Mykell.  (Side note:  I know I normally create nicknames for people i.e. The Gate Master, The Switch Hitter, etc but the following two REAL names were simply too good for me to not use)

As L’Mykell rubbed patted down my body, she got too close for comfort when she reached her hands under my bra but over my shirt.  The drumbeats she played on my bubbies didn’t help matters.  I happen to be one of those people who becomes super awkward in awkward situations that make me uncomfortable and L’Mykell playing my bubbies like she was Tommy Lee during Motley Crue’s prime took me there.  I internally cringed as I heard myself say, “HEY! Normally someone at least buys me dinner first!!”

No-nonsense L’Mykell was NOT in the mood to play.  She stopped her pat down to stareglare at me before turning to look and nod at her co-worker – a woman appearing a few years older than me named “Brown” (literally that’s what her name was. . .I almost can’t. . .).  Brown immediately grabbed my carry-on’s and began rifling through them while L’Mykell went over my person with a black light and brushed my hands and arms with paper.  This ended just in time for me to see Brown holding a trophy from my bag, almost triumphantly up to the light – my chicken cutlets.

All the ladies out there – whether they need/want the extra boost – know exactly what these babies are.  It is practically ingrained in our DNA to know a chicken cutlet when we see one.  As I stood pressed against one wall of my glass cell watching, I luckily had the presence of mind to realize where I was and not draw (any extra) attention to myself or cause a scene.  La Guardia airport.  God Bless America!  The blessing about being in New York during a rush hour flight is that the people running around me were self-absorbed New Yorkers, more focused on getting to their destination and whatever went on during their date last night or that conference call before they left their apartment to notice me.

And so I sat, foot tapping until freedom was finally mine.  Shoving my belongings back into bags, I rushed away and barely made it onto my flight.  Easily the most awkward and uncomfortable encounter I’ve ever had courtesy of the TSA, I have come to acknowledge that if I decide to fly, I need to watch the sass and eye contact.  Maybe that’s it. . .or maybe like the eloquent TSA operator in Milwaukee informed me upon choosing me for a scan, “I can tell you’re some sort of brown. . .” (I was literally on my way home from a trip to Puerto Rico in which 93% of my time was spent on the beach or doing outdoor activities, so true I was pretty dark at that point). . .this is my flight reality, whether I accept it or not.