Yoga for Non Yogis

I have decided to re-introduce yoga into my weekly workout routines.   With all the aches and pains I am experiencing increasing my mileage in preparation for the 2014 Brooklyn Half Marathon I needed something that would stretch and soothe my muscles.  This month I enrolled in a $50 trial membership at a Bikram Yoga studio in Staten Island.  The best way I can describe it as a 90 minute, fire-hot yoga practice for beginners.  During class last night I observed the temperature spike to 110.5 degrees.  Cozy!  Here is a recap of some the pleasures that await you in this type of yoga practice:

Standing Deep Breathing:

Expect to be so sick of deep breathing by the end.  It’s basically regulated hyperventilating.  Some of the more experienced yogis make the most horrific throat noises doing this; a room full of Darth Vaders.

Half Moon Pose:

Feel like your dislocating your back bending sideways and backwards?  That’s normal! 

Awkward Pose:

Get some squats in!  Oh, and if you think just because your good at squats you will be fine with this posture, first spend 15+ seconds squatting normally, then try squatting on your tippy toes, and then try squatting on your tippy toes with both knees buckled in.  By the end you feel like your hearts going to explode and you want to run screaming out of the room, but you refrain and smile warmly at the teacher, is THIS all you got?

Eagle Pose:

More like twisty pretzel pose.  Snake your arms and legs around each other and then comfortably sit in a pretend chair.  Namaste.

Standing Head to Knee:

Sweat confounds this posture.  I lose my 10 finger foot grip in this posture constantly due to the overwhelming amount of sweat pouring from my body.   For those who are lucky enough to lock one leg out parallel to the floor, it’s still not good enough; your forehead must touch your knee.   While some people may master this simple looking L-shaped pose I resemble a person more intent on getting a sweaty thigh high boot off my leg.  You ladies all know how that looks.

Standing Separate Leg Stretching Pose:

It’s fancy for a split.  Place both legs out and try to touch your toes.  4 ft. minimum space between your right and left leg.  This would not be so bad if my feet did not slide out further because of how sweaty my feet get, making it a very painful almost split.  Then put your forehead to the floor.  Nope.

Tree Pose:

I feel like this is one of the signature yoga postures.  Without the aid of one of my hands I cannot keep that one leg up on my thigh like that.  And whoever manages to in class I give a snarky look to.  They deserve it. 

 Toe Stand Pose:

Nope, Nope, Nope.

Dead Body Pose:

Nailed it!

Wind-Removing Pose:

Also known as squishing internal organs pose, but it’s on the floor so I like this one.

 

Cobra Pose:

Lower back trauma.

 

So these are just some scintillating examples of what I go through during these torturous yoga sessions.  Is it unhealthy?  Probably.  Yoga itself is wonderful, however yoga for 90 minutes in 110+ bacteria growing sweatrooms is probably not too good for you.  Like Crossfit, (yes I said it).  But I am stubborn and I need to make back my $50.00 for the month so continue I shall!  After each session all the survivors, I mean class participants, laugh and smile in the locker room applauding each other for not giving the teacher the finger  for saying "LOCK. YOUR. KNEES." one too many times and running out of the studio crying and searching for water.  That being said, it is challenging, and definitely not for everybody.  I do enjoy it, even though I am not good at it.  Kudos to all those love this form of yoga, and practice it religiously.   I envy your rodlike posture and your eternal high spirits, but I will stick to blowing my knees out playing soccer and running ridiculously long distances.

In the end, I guess any type of exercise IS exercise, so pick your poison.   
Namaste   

 

 

Pura Vida Honeymoon

Welcome to Costa Rica!  Frank and I chose to spend 10 sunny days in South America, exploring the country during our honeymoon.  As some of my more intimate friends may know, I am a big geek on logging daily journal entries whenever I am abroad but alas, I thought a blog would suffice for this trip.  Our flight departing from Newark on March 5th was close to 6 hours; I cannot be sure of the exact time because of the Dramamine Frank doped me up with.  Flying is my favorite!

Did you know?  Costa Rica is about the size of West Virginia.  The dominant language is Spanish and over half the population is Catholic.  This country also does not have an army.  The population is about 4.25 million, (which according to my tour guide may be closer to 4.5 million with the number of undocumented folks from neighboring Nicaragua).  Natives are often referred to as Ticos and their slogan is "Pura Vida" means Pure Life.  Sort of like hakuna matata!  The best time to visit would be during Dry Season, anywhere from December to April.  My tour guide said during this high tourist season is when work is the best, he was on his 40th straight day of work, 12+ hours each day.  Yikes.  Rainy season is at its highest from August to October.  Best fruit to try?  Hands down the pineapples.  All the fruit is amazing there but pineapples were a complement to my meal every breakfast, lunch, dinner, and poolside drink!  The weather was warm but never oppressive and lacked New York's signature summertime humidity. What Corona is for Mexico or Red Stripe is for Jamaica, Imperial is for Costa Rica.  Currency is in colones, and highly inflated, but US dollars are accepted everywhere.  The coins look like this...

We stayed in the Northwestern part of Costa Rica in two places, Guanacaste and 3 hours away at the rainforest at the foot of the Arenal Volcano.  The areas are highlighted in orange below.

Our first 5 nights we stayed at the Riu Palace in Guanacaste, which was built about 3 years ago.  A tour guide told us that during construction one of the 6 active volcanos in the country erupted destroying part of the all inclusive resort which made developers scramble to reconstruct.  The Riu Palace is situated adjacent to the Riu Guanacaste, which is the older Riu resort.  Both are beautiful, but my recommendation?  Riu Palace for opulence and romance, Riu Guanacaste for vacationing with friends and partying.  Howler monkeys serenaded us every evening and morning around 5pm and 5am.  The sound is terrifying and loud.  I would have though a dinosaur was coming with the noise they made.  This was our view from our 3rd floor honeymoon suite. 

 

During our stay at the Riu we went on a Catamaran/snorkeling Tour where we played with starfish and puffer fish, (complements of our deep diving tour guide).  The side of the country we were on was flanked by the Pacific Ocean, so the water is not the crystal clear, white sandy beach type of place but still nothing to turn your nose up at.  We watched the sun dip beneath the ocean and saw a mansion on top of a hill that belonged to Mel Gibson.  A pod of playful dolphins raced our Catamaran back to shore.  One woman saw a stingray jump out of the ocean.  Yes, stingrays jump out of the water.  Crazy! 

Our view from the water coming towards the Riu Palace

After the Catamaran I got water in my ear that destroyed my equilibrium for the rest of the night into the next day.  No amount of hopping would release me from the torture so I begrudgingly paid a visit to the resort doctor with Frank.  The resort doctor looked all of 18 years of age, (she said she was 25) and concluded that there was wax in my ear blocking the canal.  Gross.  She used a long water needle and pumped it into my left ear several times until two big gobs of wax fell out.  Freaking. Gross. The bill was $145.00 dollars to have water inserted into my ear. 

We rode jet skis and took a boat ride to Coco Beach which was about a 15-20 minute ride to a touristy area with shores lined with bars, eateries and quaint, colorful shops.  On our way back our curious dolphin friends came to cheerfully guide us back to shore.

Riu Palace offered daily Art opportunities, (canvass fees not included) that I convinced Frank to partake in with me.  We created, with very crude paint brushes and no stencils, the following two painting.  There's something very calming and soothing about drawing and painting that makes hours pass like mere minutes.  My plan is to hang these pictures up in our home for our future children to see what mommy and daddy did in Costa Rica while on our honeymoon.  Guess who made which!

Frank and I went on another tour that included horse back riding on some pretty frail looking horses, (natives insisted that the dry season makes food sparse but I still have my doubts) zip lining across the forest canopy from huge tree to tree, bathing in natural hot springs, enjoying a natural steam room created off of volcanic gases, and volcanic mud baths that were considered "cleansing", "exfoliating", and "youth preserving".  GIVE. ME. SOME. FOR. THE. PLANE.  Here is a picture of me with Heaven's mud.

If you look carefully you can see me zip lining through the trees!

One of the hanging bridges we traversed.

Soon we packed up our bags and said goodbye to Guanacaste as we were entering the second leg of our trip to stay in the rainforest three hours away at the Tabacon Grand Spa. We drove over the continental divide which separated the plush, green side of the country from the arid, brownish side.  Literally on our right was all green rolling pastures and sharp hill divides and on the left was the same landscape only sparser and browner.  The wind whipped your face as cold and hot air currents collided creating dense fog and mist at such high altitudes.  

The Tabacon Grand Spa was a resort similar to what you would see on "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous".  Not all inclusive, you can burn through a pretty penny staying here.  You can find Tabacon in the heart of the Costa Rican rainforest near the base of the Arenal Volcano, which had last erupted in 2010.  What makes the resort so significant is that it boasts natural thermal mineral springs that flow directly from volcanic activity. 

Arenal erupted on July 29th, 1968 officially killing 68 people, however locals put the true number much higher at around 250.  Since active lava and pyroclastic flows have ceased since 2010, only gas emissions can be seen emanating from the top of Arenal.

I wanted to go on the famous cave tour however I was immediately deterred once I learned that bats would share the same space as us during our visit. 

It got dark around 6:15pm every night, which surprised me.  You could see the bats swooping in and out of the sky, much too close for my liking.  One amazing ecological rainforest tour we went on included hanging bridges and a waterfall.  We trekked through a nature trail and were lucky enough to spot a Toucan, (which Frank thought was a mythical creature!) wild boars, spider and howler monkeys, and even a type of leopard called a Margay, (which thankfully slept soundly in a tree not 15 feet from where we walked).

This is a picture of what our tour guide so appropriately called, "a walking palm".

Next, Oscar, our tour guide pointed out the industrious little Leaf Cutter Ants.  The soldier ants are slightly bigger than the big black ants we have here in the US, only these ants have large pinchers.  They carry bits and pieces of leafs and wood back to the colony to create compost.  Fungus grows off the compost which is the food the ants eat.  The queen of the colony lays an egg every 80 seconds and can live up to 15 years!  What was even more fascinating was the way in which indigenous people used these ants.  When someone had a deep wound that required what we would consider stitches, they would place a Leaf Cutter Ant on the wound so it would pinch the wound shut.  Then they would twist off the bodies, leaving the head with the pinchers in place.  They did this with dozens of ants to create stitches and would hold for weeks at a time.  Oscar sacrificed himself to show us a demo....

Even more amazing was the strength of these little critters.  This is Oscar holding a Cutter Ant upside down while it pinched a giant dead leaf.  Amazing!!!

The natural waterfall was much more chilly than the hot springs at the resort.

I saw some of the largest and most beautiful trees and plants in my life.  Words and pictures cannot do my awe for them justice.  I swung from vines like Tarzan, drank the best coffee and watched the clearest stars dance across a cool breeze night.  We went ATV'ing, which destroyed my back and resulted in a chiropractor visit as soon as I got back home.  We drove through craters created by tremendous boulders that were forcefully spewed out of the mouth of Arenal and saw water purification systems that the local town La Fortuna used, (the tap water is safe to drink in the country).  The country also has the best surfing in the world, or so claims the millionaire retiree we sat beside on the plane.  I wanted to see baby sea turtles hatching and making their way to the ocean, but the season for that is Oct-December, and unfortunately meant for another vacation.

It is noteworthy to mention the tragic mystery behind the Malaysian plane that disappeared in flight during our honeymoon.  My fear of flying was naturally heightened on the flight home.

The best part of the trip for me was sharing this wonderful experience with my husband, as he handled all booking reservations, travel accommodations, and swimmer's ear aches.  Whether it was seeing how handsome he was in the water or how adorably inept he was at painting Toucans, being with him made the experience all the more memorable.  After all, how could you resist a face like this?!

I have to say though, other than the sight of my family, this was the second best sight for sore eyes...

Pura Vida!

Cheers to almost 30 years!

Hello world!  It has been far too long since my last post.  I am currently 9 days away from my 29^th birthday.  Now while I know that 29 is not old by any measure, I cannot help but feel a sense of impending doom as these days too quickly melt away.  In reality, it sorta, kinda is my 30^th birthday since I spent 9 months in the womb and then 364 days after that until my first birthday.  Yeah, wrap your minds around that! 

                There are plenty of things that have made me feel old that I have realized as of late.  I began the painful process of sorting through my entire wardrobe for the transition to my new, big girl house.  I had to look at articles of clothing that I absolutely adore and throw them out because, alas, they were simply too young for me to wear anymore.  Betsey Johnson, we had a good run!  The lowest point of this sorting process was when my husband, (that’s weird) saw me sitting in piles of clothes and garbage bags on the floor cutting up clothing before I threw pieces away.  “Why are you doing that Cynthia?” Well why not?!  When in reality, the answer was much more obvious, “So I don’t garbage dive my own trash and retrieve these golden gems, DUH!”  But that would be impossible to explain to a man.

            Another great one is going to a bar and feeling like THE OLDEST PERSON THERE.  I remember how I scoffed at older patrons in the bar when I was in college, regarding them as ancient relics, and now I look at these younguns' getting shitfaced and hardcore making out in a bar and I skeeve touching the barstool.  For God's sake, I now leave every bar bathroom with the stealth of a ninja, a far cry from my days laying on the subway floor waiting for the good ole' PATH train. When did this happen?!

           Do not even get me started on how old you feel when you begin home improvements. I remember walking into someone's home a few months ago and saying, "wow, I really like your backsplash!" And the teenage daughter who was there said, "you are kidding me right?"  Abashed, I couldn't say that I was nose ring girl.

                I suppose I can rebel and stay a kid forever, be reckless, get wasted, stay out late and start drama wherever I go, but that’s just too exhausting now.  There is a part of me that truly misses doing what I wanted with sheer and utter disregard for the consequences.  Now, every decision and move I make is carefully calculated.  How boring.  If I were to go back in time 21 year old Cindy would slap the crap out of myself for not being a millionaire by now, or at least ruler of the world, (seriously, that’s the expectation I had for myself).  I guess the worst part of growing up is feeling like I am losing my creative edge, my spark.  Being responsible is so much work.  I can completely understand how people can live dual lives, and I believe everyone does to an extent.  It is impossible to wear the same mask with every experience we encounter throughout life.

                There was plenty of excitement in this last year for me.  Between getting married, a new house, and my batshit crazy family and friends, there were simply no brakes on the looney train in terms of something new happening.  There are also plenty of things that I am looking forward to, like watching my niece and nephew grow, friends’ wedding and the arrival of their newborns, vacations, adventures, learning more about my new hubby, and eventually motherhood, (which is about 3,901,473 bottles of Wells Banana Bread Beer and 8,450,395 bottles of wine away).   

                So, as I look nostalgically on the year past and come to terms with entering the last year of my 20’s, (oh my God I am having a panic attack), here is a couple of new birthday resolutions I would like to live by:

Age is just a number

Laugh more, like, a lot more

Travel to two different countries in my 29^th year

Have more confidence in myself

Be daring

Act silly

Dance more

Play soccer by myself more

TRY to run a marathon

Write more often

Spend more time with friends and family

Bite my nails and worry less

Be patient

Become a better person and more content with who I am and what I have achieved in life.

Figure out who I am supposed to be.

Okay so the last one may take longer.  Feel free to add to this, as I am sure I will.

Cheers to almost 30 years!

 

 

What to Do When a Bird Gets Lost in Your Car

Happy Friday everyone!  I thought I would share with you a hilarious small story from my personal life.  As many of you may already know, my family and I are avid animal lovers.  Picture the scene from the movie “Pet Detective” where Fulton Greenwall walks into Ace Ventura’s Budapest Temple room and sees Ace humming covered in animals.  Yep, that’s our kind of environment. 

On Monday afternoon my mom was driving home with Kaylee on Forest Avenue when all of a sudden she sees a small bird get clipped by a car in front of her.  The poor thing flapped from side to side helplessly on the blacktop as the car continued to drive away.  Of course, mom quickly pulled over and scooped up the little injured bird, I think it was a finch, and put it in a box in the backseat.  Needless to say, Kaylee is overjoyed because she thinks she has a new pet, and mom is freaking out about what to do with an injured, wild bird. 

When my mom gets home she leaves the bird in the car with the windows rolled down for air while she unloads Kaylee from her car seat and takes her inside the house.  When she returns, the bird is gone!  She searched everywhere, and concluded happily that the little creature had righted itself and flew the coop.

My sister, Mandy, comes out of the house a short while later to double check the car because she has her doubts about the magical Lazarus bird.   She scours the car with the zealousness of a bloodhound and finally hears faint chirping coming from far underneath one of the car seats.  There it is!  By now, Kaylee has come out of the house and is running around the car screaming “Get it, GET IT”! Apparently, this bird was quite elusive as it managed to stay successfully out of Mandy’s grasp  for 10 minutes.  We needed reinforcements. 

My mom gets my brother, Peter, an imposing 6’4’’ inch monster, to come and gracefully catch this finger long refugee.  It was like watching a bull in a china closet.   He opened the hood of the car and looked through the engine, went underneath the car and fumbled around but still no bird.  Finally, Peter found him.  The bird had managed to hop into a hole, the size of a silver dollar, behind the dashboard.  Everyone watched laughing hysterically as Peter contorted his body in my mom’s tiny blue Honda Civic trying to extract the bird from the car.  Peter literally ripped off chunks of pieces from the car to get this little guy.  Kaylee was so excited she was sitting on Peter’s back as he lay strewn across the car seats as he yelled, “Get this kid off me!!”   

All you could see was a tiny bird leg and tail feather dangling from the hole in the dashboard.  After trying to coax him out Peter finally decided he would need to pull him from the hole. 

Mom: “You are going to kill him!  You are going to pluck his little leg off!”

Peter: “Mom, if this bird gets lost and dies in your car it is going to stink!”  “I am just going to gently tug him out”.  “I am just going to pull his little butt out”.

HAHAHAHA!!  So picture my brother freaking out trying to grab this bird’s tail feathers as it is squirming and kicking and flapping.  I can’t even believe he actually grabbed it with his hands because he is such a germ-o-phob.

Mandy is dying laughing, my mom is nervous about the bird, and Kaylee is just loving all of the action.  Finally, the bird becomes dislodged from his hideaway, intact and all!  Victory! 

I wish Mandy would have filmed this.  Mom puts the bird in another box with a lid and leaves him on the steps in front of the house as they reassemble the car.  Of course, Kaylee opens the box, and the bird fly-hops into the bushes in the yard.  I hope he is alive and well somewhere.   At least he was off the street.

The best part in this story is that Mandy’s hubby Justin asks why she got home an hour later than she said she was going to be.  Her reply was that they had to catch a bird in mom’s car.  Justin simply says “OK”.  Later, Mandy says “why didn’t you ask me how it happened?!”  His reply was,” it doesn’t surprise me anymore”.  HAHAHAHAHA! 

 I love my weird family, if it weren’t for people like us, the world would be less colorful.  Viva la Finch!!

Boston

I have been meaning to write about the horrific current events going on in our country lately but I have been too sick all week to put my thoughts to pen.

On Monday, April 15^th, runners from all over the world came to run the famous Boston Marathon.  Around 3pm in the afternoon two explosions ripped through the spectator crowds killing 3 people and severely maiming countless others.  Although I do not know for sure, rumor has it that 20-25 people required surgical amputations of their limbs from rigged pressure cooker bombs filled with nails, gunpowder and ball bearings.  Over 180 people were injured.  Sadly, among the casualties were an 8 year old boy, and two female college students. 

Rather than rehash the events that have transpired since then and delve into the massive manhunt that spanned the country, I want to share how this terrorist attack affected me. 

While investigators pieced together countless images and surveillance videos of the crowd for possible suspects I cried.  I called my friend to make sure he wasn’t running.  I searched facebook for other running friends that I was hoping had not participated in the race.  I cried Tuesday and Wednesday, and eventually that sadness turned into rage.  When the explosions occurred during the marathon it was around the 4:09 minute mark, about the time that I would have been finishing the race, had I ran.  How could this happen? 

I have been a soccer player all my life.  After college, I developed a passion for running.  While I am by no means an amazing runner, I love to run and have become pretty decent at it.  I also found that the running community in Staten Island has some of the nicest, most passionate people around.  I cannot explain the general good feeling that you experience when participating in a race.  Whether you are participating in a big NYRR event or a smaller Saturday morning Fun Run the runners are always happy, fun, and jovial people.  You high five strangers and compliment winners you do not even know.  You seek to better yourself regardless of who else is running beside you.  Not to sound too corny, but the running community really is like a family.  To think that people would try to crush that very close bonding atmosphere that a race creates between people is, to me, destroying runnings’ innocence.  Never again will I run without a small seed of fear in the back of my mind.  Indeed, my last carefree run ever was Thursday, April 11^th when I ran in Clove Lakes Park.  I will never feel entirely comfortable with inviting my friends and family to come see me run.  This has birthed a sad realization in me that was not there before. 

I know you could walk out of your house and get hit by a plane.  The chances again of this happening at a race are slim to none.  However that irresistible seed of doubt will always be in every runner’s mind.  Never again will bag check be simple and easy.  We will see the ramifications of this tragedy with tighter security in the crowds, with bomb sniffing dogs surveying the streets.  You will see a look of apprehension exchanged between families at the sight of a lone, hooded spectator at the guardrails. 

It is Friday, April 19^th.  I have just heard that police have apprehended one of the two alleged terrorists.  He is 19 years old. The city of Boston has been shut down for hours; millions of dollars have been spent on diverting countless intelligence resources to the area to search for him.

I am absolutely elated to hear that this may all possibly be over.  To ruin the sacredness of a sport that defines the Olympics today is heart wrenching.  To think that there are countless family members and runners that will never experience a simple run the same way again because they lost one or both of their legs is reprehensible.  It’s like taking water from a fish.

I wonder how this will affect races in the future.  Will the mood be more somber?  Will people be more cautious? Will people be less trusting to share a simple high five with a stranger?  It is important for us not to let this tragedy negatively affect the spirit of running, but rather, strengthen it.        

My prayers go out to all the heroes that April 15^th created.  All the first responders and physicans assistants, nurses, doctors, police, firefighters and EMTs who rushed towards the explosions instead of away.  To all the runners who after finishing this grueling self revelatory race that ran afterwards to give blood or lend a helping hand.  To the man in the cowboy hat that lost both his sons years ago, one to war and the other to suicide, that pinched a spectator’s leg artery shut and wheeled him to an ambulance, saving his life.  And to the victims wounded and the innocents killed, my heart breaks for you.  I want my children to be able to read this someday and empathize with what happened before it’s read in black and white in a history book.  Because you can learn about an event, but not truly feel it.    

Tomorrow I plan on going on my first run since this tragedy occurred, (and the first since I have been sick).  This type of cowardly terrorism should not change your passions in life, even if they make you a bit more cautious with them.  I wish I could run as if April 15^th never happened, but unfortunately that innocence is lost forever.  But my silver lining is that because of this tragedy I have chosen to run in my first ever marathon at the end of September in New Hampshire.         

The only solace I can take from this event is that even though there may be evil in this world, the good outnumber the bad.  Where there is darkness there will always be light, and where there are victims there will always be heroes, and if you choose the wrong side in life, we will find you. 

Finding the Perfect Wedding Dress When You’re Not Shaped like Heidi Klum

Dress shopping…eek! I automatically begin hyperventilating every time this subject comes up.  Yesterday my sister and I trekked into the city to visit what apparently is THE mecca of wedding dress stores…Kleinfeld Bridal on W 20^th Street.  Mandy, an avid wedding show connoisseur and a die hard “Yes to the Dress” fanatic, insisted upon getting the “Kleinfeld Experience”. 

Usually you need to make an appointment with Kleinfeld’s for bridal however on February 6^th they had their annual blowout sale with dresses marked down and an additional 25% off at the register.  Doors opened at 3pm.  This link is what a friend from college sent me…(thanks Tracey!)

http://www.kleinfeldbridal.com/blowout-sale.cfm

I have heard horror stories about lines wrapped around blocks for sales like this and I was extremely apprehensive about waiting in line outside that long, (I have terrible patience!).  On top of that, it was snowing pretty steadily, and no one wants to be a wet bride trying on dresses.  One amazing thing about Klinefeld’s, which I wish other companies would adopt, (hint stores on Black Friday) was give each bride-to-be a number and instruct them to come back at 3pm when doors open.  Genius!  No camp outs, no folding chairs on the curb, just a number and a time.  After doing some investigating on the computer I found that they start issuing numbers as early as 9am, so you can try and beat the crowds that are all clamouring for numbers at 3pm.  I also found that you could arrive a bit earlier at 2:30pm for the initial door busting rush. 

So, like a bat out of hell, I left my house at 6:45am to pick up my MOH Mandy and we flew to the city.  I practically pushed her out of the car when we pulled up to W 20^th so she could get the ticket as I parked.  She arrived at Klinefeld’s at approximately 9am and was given #25.  I felt like Charlie from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory with my Golden Ticket.  I kept checking my bag every half hour to make sure it was still safely tucked away.

 

To kill time, we went to David’s Bridal on 6^th Avenue where I registered as a walk in appointment.  David’s Bridal is one of the few places where you actually do not have to make an official appointment for and will not be unceremoniously turned away at the door.  I figured I could at least get an idea of the type of dress I wanted there, and who knows maybe even find THE dress. 

My attendant was very nice, and asked for my shoe size (9 ½), height (5’8”) approx. dress size (10), and bust size (36B).  She left all of the items I requested in my fitting room and instructed me to change into the slip and corset top.  Slips, ughhhh.  The size she brought me was a 32A.  I didn’t understand why I could not fit comfortably into all those itty bitty clasps until I took it off and saw the tag.  My MOH asked for the right size and again I tried it on without looking.  This was a size 32B.  Still definitely NOT what I needed but I sucked it up and sucked it in and squished into the corset top.  Thank the Lord I was not born centuries ago where these kinds of garments were a staple in women’s wardrobes. I must have tried on 12 different dresses and none of them grabbed me.  I was extremely happy to find that in many dresses I needed a size 8.  The attendant told me that the average size bride is size 10, (MADE MY  DAY!).  My problem is my 40” hips, so some dresses that were snug on my hips wound up being loose on my bust.  Instead, Mandy and I had more fun goofing off in the fitting room and sneakily snapping pictures, (a no-no) of me in each gown. 

 

At around 2:00pm we made our way back to Klinefeld’s.  A number of women were beginning to swarm the lobby.  I saw one lady with a #4 and another with a number #115.  Some women were there for accessories only; one number I saw was #507!!  

 

We all sardined into Klinefeld’s grandiose lobby.  The store itself is impressive, high ceiling with decorative floral arrangements hugging close to the walls.  They finally called numbers 1-30 at 2:30pm.  YESSS first dips!  They gave each bride a personal attendant and said we would be with 3 other brides in a fitting room, only 3 dresses at a time.  Mandy and I walked, (to put it mildly) to the heavy hitter dresses, the 5k plus ones that would definitely be taken by someone if I did not try them on first. 

I was ecstatic to find the one dress I LOVED online as the first dress I saw.  What are the odds of that?!  When I tried it on Mandy cried.  Such a dork!!!  It was a beautiful dress.  I just felt it did not fit my body type well.  The problem here is that these dresses are pay in full, no returns, take home NOW dresses.  There is no, “let me think about it”.  I tried on many other fancy name dresses, including Pnina Tornai, (which to my embarrassment and Mandy’s horror I pronounced Pinot Noir).  I randomly picked up one dress and a girl gasped and whispered, that’s a Pnina Tornai!  I thought to myself, “lady, I have no idea who that designer is but if you want it I’m taking it!!”

 

I shared the fitting room with a very friendly Asian woman and another woman who was getting married in Nigeria.  A worldly bunch were we!  My fitting attendant was one of the bridal consultants from the show, (Mandy remembers her vividly).  Some of the dresses were gorgeous.  You could literally hear screeches and shrieks from women who found their dresses.  It reminded me of the tip jar at Medieval Times, when someone finds a dress, all the workers clamour around and celebrate.  Mandy was in her wedding dress glory, picking me out dresses that had more glitter and glam on them than a damn disco ball.  Some of the dresses needed major alterations.  Yes, you could get a 6k dress for 3k, but you would probably spend over 1k in alterations.  One dress I tried on literally had a giant hole inside; others had makeup stains and missing sequins.  I get it, you are getting the old inventory they are trying to move out, and you may just score with a beautiful dress that needs minor work done, but I wasn’t to happy with the idea of wearing a wedding dress that countless other women pulled, squished, zipped and shimmied into for months.

 

Dresses ranged in the $700-15k range.  I had no idea how much shoes, hair accessories and veils were until the saleswoman said “this veil reduced to $600 is a steal!”  WHAT?!?!  I can go to Michael’s arts and crafts, get my own tulle and bedazzle my own veil for a fraction of that cost.  Headpieces-$500, shoes-$400, earrings-$200.  Overwhelmed by the reality of the potential true cost of wedding gear got me kind of down.  I felt even worse when I went home dress less; I was defeated!  So the search continues for the wedding dress. 

I will keep you posted!!!

My Dark Passenger

My title is clearly an ode to Dexter fans.  Yesterday I was driving home from Frank’s house around 8:30pm.  Flying down Forest Hill Road in my grey Hyundai Sonata I had just pasted the intersection at Rockland Avenue.  For anyone who frequently uses this route on Staten Island you all know how there are no street lights around that bend right by the Verrazano Little League Baseball field.  Occasionally you can spot a dead deer in the vicinity, since it’s highly wooded and usually desolate area come nightfall.  All of a sudden, I spot what appears to be the soles of shoes walking in the middle of the street.  I SLAMMED on my breaks before narrowly hitting a young woman dressed in dark colors walking erratically in the middle of my lane.  Thank God I saw her shoes!  I pulled up slowly beside her; she appeared to not take any notice of how close she came to death. This girl is going to get hit by a car if she continues walking in the middle of the street like this.

“Are you ok?” Usually I am terrified of the thought of picking up hitch hikers because let’s face it there’s so many things that could go wrong but this poor girl seemed so out of it.  As I am asking this I am surveying the area to see if there’s an ambush of guys about to drag me out of my car or rob me or whatever but there was none.  My mind wanders to all of the “Ladies Beware!” chain emails you get at work about thieves and rapists taking advantage of good Samaritans in similar ways such as this. 

She looked as if she could be walking onto the College of Staten Island campus just a few blocks down.  Dressed in a long black jacket, sparkly Victoria Secret grey sweatpants, with her long, dark brown hair collected into a ponytail and clutching a black coach bag, she seemed like a girl who just went through a bad breakup with a boyfriend.  The petite, white, 20-something girl looked my way and said she needed to get to Forest Ave and that she lost her phone connection with her friend. 

Of all times my cell phone was dead.  Of course.  In a split second I had to make a decision about picking up a stranger, by myself, at night, with no phone.

“Get in the car I will drive you”.  At this point I am praying to God I do not end up a lampshade.  I just didn’t want her to get hit by a car and I wanted her off that dark road. 

She gets in the car and she starts telling me she is looking for Keith.

“You know Keith,” she says to me.  “He sells crack on the corner”.

 

Fuck. 

This young girl was so smashed out on drugs.  I felt so bad.  She wasn’t a homeless, degenerate, toothless old druggie but a young, seemingly healthy woman.  My heart broke for her.

“What did you take?”  I asked nonchalantly.

“I took a Xantax you know,” and she continues rambling on in incoherent sentences as she riffles through her pocket book.  She had taken way more than a Xantax that much was clear.  She didn’t seem to be aware of my presence and did not make eye contact.   

Internally, I start panicking, “what the hell is she searching for in her bag?” ”Is she looking for a gun?”  “I am going to die, she’s going to attack me, I am such an idiot”.

As my dark passenger continues searching and talking about drug dealer Keith I turned on my interior car lights to illuminate what the heck she was searching for in that bag.  She didn’t even notice I had turned the lights on or the fact that I was clutching the steering with death grip, searing white knuckle pressure.

“So, whatcha looking for in your bag?”  I ask ever so innocently.

The girl turns to me and stops rummaging.  Thank God.

“He was supposed to meet me but I don’t know what happened”.  “Tell Keith I was looking for him,” she says this so certainly as if I know him.  “I lost him on the phone.”

I nod and say, “yes, I will tell Keith if I see him”.  Holy fuck.

I am speeding down Forest Hill Road which eventually turns into Woolley Ave.  I wanted her out of my car as quickly as possible because I was just so afraid and freaked out.

When we hit the intersection at Victory Blvd, I had to stop at the red light.  Drats.

She asked, “can I have your number and you can call me if you see Keith?” 

“Umm, let me have your phone number instead my phone is dead,” I reply.

“347-938….” She stops. She is so drugged out she can’t remember her own cell phone number. 

“Ok, so what’s your name?”  I ask. 

“Jessica M.” (I am omitting her last name for privacy).

“You tell Keith when you see him that Jessica M. was looking for him,” she continues, “he owes me money.”

“I will tell him” I assure her.

With that, Jessica kicks open my door and gets out of my car on Victory. 

“Wait, Forest Ave isn’t too far away!”  I exclaimed.

“Here is good….do you have any money?” 

I told her I was sorry but I didn’t have any money.  I just didn’t want her buying more drugs.  She said OK, and closed the door.  I look up to speed away, I wanted to get home as quickly as possible to call 911 but the damn light had turned back to red.  “Fuckkkkk!”

Jessica walks back over to my window.  “Do you have any money?” Totally unaware that she had already asked me this.

I scrounge around for some spare change and placed the coins in her fingerless gloved hands.

“Thank you,” she said, and continued to walk down Victory. 

I drove home as fast as I could and called 911.  A very disinterested 911 dispatcher answered my call and listened to my story.  The dispatcher told me there was really nothing they could do.  I finished with, “can you at least send a patrol car down Victory I am afraid she is going to overdose or walk into oncoming traffic and kill herself”. 

The dispatcher said she would ask…and that was it.  I have no idea if they did.

I am praying I do not see this girl’s face splattered on the Staten Island Advance today or tomorrow.  This was someone’s daughter that was totally smashed out on drugs.  I still feel awful about the whole scenario.  I wish my phone wasn’t dead, or that I was with Frank to ease my “I am about to be the victim of a serial killer” mindset.  I wanted to drive her to the hospital, but I was also afraid of this infamous Keith finding me there with her.  I did feel good about getting her onto a main road, where at least there were pedestrians and occasional police cars driving past and street lights instead of where she was previously walking.    

This experience scared the heck out of me.  She acted and spoke like a schizophrenic.  Jessica was so young, and looked so innocent, and was babbling like a crazy person, strung out on mind bending drugs.

Not to get all preachy on the obvious, but this whole pill epidemic is getting way too out of control in Staten Island.  It was Thursday at 8:30pm for God’s sake.  It’s not attractive and it’s not having a good time.  Who knows how all these pills are going to mess up your brains chemistry later on in life.  How can you raise children in a world so utterly out of control? 

So, wherever she is, I hope she’s OK and that she finds the help she needs.  Life is hard enough without having to suffer from personal addictions like drugs and alcohol.  You only have one life, spend your time here wisely.  And DON’T pick up hitch hikers because that’s just way too damn risky.