I have a new friend. She's from the Congo and plays the guitar. She's also Canadian and says "eh" from time to time.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
So Long Astoria
This morning I woke up in Harlem to the sound of pouring rain. I went running in Central Park, anyway. And returned to my host home on West 122nd Street soaked in and through.
For the second day in a row I spent several hours in my temporary office space on 34th street, down a few avenues from where I use to work at the Empire State Building. The location comes with free wifi, free parking, and today, because of national coffee day - free coffee. Yes, today I'm thankful for Mc Donald's.
Later in the afternoon, after finding a parking space in Chelsea, I walked over to Union Square to meet up with one of my former students. We then ventured down to Washington Square where a guy by the name of Justin approached us with a guitar. He wanted to serenade us - and had a list of songs we could choose from.
Typically I avoid these money making scams, but when I saw the song "So Long Astoria" by the Ataris on his play list, I decided he couldn't be all that bad of a guy, and why not be serenaded in the middle of New York City.
And so Justin got on one knee and played So Long Astoria. And somehow I gave him $5 to go towards some cause I didn't catch the name of because he told me it as I was reviewing his play list.
Justin told me I'm now in the running to win $500 and tickets to Saturday Night Live. Supposedly he plays bass for Saturday Night Live's house band and is volunteering his time to raise money for this great cause.
Anyway, my student Kendra, Justin, and I got talking for a while. And we heard the fabulous tale of how Justin met his fiance, and how they had known of each other for 14 years, but it wasn't until a year ago that they hung out. And when they did, they just both knew it was right, and 9 days later Justin proposed.
I have to admit, I'm a bit envious of Justin's tale. I'm still hoping for a story of my own someday - because right now, all of my romance stories are stories of the almost maybes.
For the second day in a row I spent several hours in my temporary office space on 34th street, down a few avenues from where I use to work at the Empire State Building. The location comes with free wifi, free parking, and today, because of national coffee day - free coffee. Yes, today I'm thankful for Mc Donald's.
Later in the afternoon, after finding a parking space in Chelsea, I walked over to Union Square to meet up with one of my former students. We then ventured down to Washington Square where a guy by the name of Justin approached us with a guitar. He wanted to serenade us - and had a list of songs we could choose from.
Typically I avoid these money making scams, but when I saw the song "So Long Astoria" by the Ataris on his play list, I decided he couldn't be all that bad of a guy, and why not be serenaded in the middle of New York City.
 |
| Justin serenading a couple of other gals after singing for us. |
And so Justin got on one knee and played So Long Astoria. And somehow I gave him $5 to go towards some cause I didn't catch the name of because he told me it as I was reviewing his play list.
Justin told me I'm now in the running to win $500 and tickets to Saturday Night Live. Supposedly he plays bass for Saturday Night Live's house band and is volunteering his time to raise money for this great cause.
Anyway, my student Kendra, Justin, and I got talking for a while. And we heard the fabulous tale of how Justin met his fiance, and how they had known of each other for 14 years, but it wasn't until a year ago that they hung out. And when they did, they just both knew it was right, and 9 days later Justin proposed.
I have to admit, I'm a bit envious of Justin's tale. I'm still hoping for a story of my own someday - because right now, all of my romance stories are stories of the almost maybes.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Resting Heart
I recently learned I have the resting heart rate of an Olypmic Athlete. I thought this was a rather fun fact, and so after sitting on it for a few days, I proudly shared it with someone I met last night.
And he replied, "Oh, is it somewhere between 40 and 50?"
"Yeah, actually. My doctor told me last week it is 45." But I was rather surprised this guy knew anything about resting heart rates. I didn't think it was something people know much about. I mean, I've been talking for over 3 decades now, and to my knowledge, I've never had a conversation about resting heart rates.
The guy picked up on my surprise, and explained, "Yeah, the only reason I know is because I tried out for the Olympics."
That's when I felt less than cool with my fun fact. I was in the presence of a near Olympic Athlete. He admitted to not making it, and I admitted to never trying out. But wow, so fabulous that he went after the dream. Leave it to New York to be surrounded by some of the most ambitious and driven people in the world.
But currently, rather than embracing my natural inclination towards the ambitious life, I'm in survival mode. It's 8:30 PM in the evening, and I still don't know where I'm sleeping tonight.
And he replied, "Oh, is it somewhere between 40 and 50?"
"Yeah, actually. My doctor told me last week it is 45." But I was rather surprised this guy knew anything about resting heart rates. I didn't think it was something people know much about. I mean, I've been talking for over 3 decades now, and to my knowledge, I've never had a conversation about resting heart rates.
The guy picked up on my surprise, and explained, "Yeah, the only reason I know is because I tried out for the Olympics."
That's when I felt less than cool with my fun fact. I was in the presence of a near Olympic Athlete. He admitted to not making it, and I admitted to never trying out. But wow, so fabulous that he went after the dream. Leave it to New York to be surrounded by some of the most ambitious and driven people in the world.
But currently, rather than embracing my natural inclination towards the ambitious life, I'm in survival mode. It's 8:30 PM in the evening, and I still don't know where I'm sleeping tonight.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Funny
Guys, in general, tend to be funnier than women.
This is one of my theories, except I really don't think it is a theory. I think it's true.
Today I drove from Michigan to Manhattan and arrived just in time to help co lead my coed small group. It was our 2nd week meeting and the ratio of men to women is up to 1 to 3 from last week's 1 to 4. And with the increase in men in our group, there was a significant increase in witty comments and laughter at tonight's meeting.
To think, I almost nixed the idea of doing a coed group - so glad I didn't.
In other news, I'm still homeless. The place I'm supposed to be staying at for Oct. and Nov. has no running water, which means, well, I'm not sure what this means for me yet, but I do know this isn't a good thing.
I've stayed at a literally a dozen different places this past month. I'm soooooo craving a place I can call home. Because being homeless, unlike witty men, is not so funny.
This is one of my theories, except I really don't think it is a theory. I think it's true.
Today I drove from Michigan to Manhattan and arrived just in time to help co lead my coed small group. It was our 2nd week meeting and the ratio of men to women is up to 1 to 3 from last week's 1 to 4. And with the increase in men in our group, there was a significant increase in witty comments and laughter at tonight's meeting.
To think, I almost nixed the idea of doing a coed group - so glad I didn't.
In other news, I'm still homeless. The place I'm supposed to be staying at for Oct. and Nov. has no running water, which means, well, I'm not sure what this means for me yet, but I do know this isn't a good thing.
I've stayed at a literally a dozen different places this past month. I'm soooooo craving a place I can call home. Because being homeless, unlike witty men, is not so funny.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Tales of Italy
Last night I took a walk along the shore to visit the guy from down the shore. With the cottages now closed for the fall and coming winter, the only light to help guide my way was the dim light of the half moon, half hidden behind the towering trees along the south shore.
As I walked through the darkness, I recalled the 6'8" football player, who insisted I hold his hand as we walked the same shore. He claimed to be scared. He wasn't, but I held his hand anyway. That was when I was in high school - 8 years before another guy used the same line on me.
It was much darker out than I had anticipated, and wondered if I should have brought a flashlight with me. But as I walked, I grew in confidence. I knew the shore well. I had walked and jogged the same route so many times before that such assistance wasn't necessary.
About a quarter mile down, I finally came to a lit cottage. I walked up the stairs to the yellow and white cottage. The guy from the down the shore welcomed me in and I joined him for conversation in front of the fire place.
I felt like I was in a book. Because his cottage should be in a book - with its wicker furniture, and cottage smell, and fireplace. And he and I would make for good characters - except the book would want some sort of romance to evolve between us, but he and I aren't romantically compatible. Not because he isn't attractive, because he is, but rather, because we view life too differently.
As he smoked his cigarettes and told me tales of Italy, I envied his approach to life. Because he seemed so carefree and content. Nothing really seemed to get to him. And I considered how wonderful it must be to not care, but rather to simply enjoy life and to be. The problem is, I can't - at least not for extended periods of time. Because with the faith I hold I have to care about the world and the people around me.
As I walked through the darkness, I recalled the 6'8" football player, who insisted I hold his hand as we walked the same shore. He claimed to be scared. He wasn't, but I held his hand anyway. That was when I was in high school - 8 years before another guy used the same line on me.
It was much darker out than I had anticipated, and wondered if I should have brought a flashlight with me. But as I walked, I grew in confidence. I knew the shore well. I had walked and jogged the same route so many times before that such assistance wasn't necessary.
About a quarter mile down, I finally came to a lit cottage. I walked up the stairs to the yellow and white cottage. The guy from the down the shore welcomed me in and I joined him for conversation in front of the fire place.
I felt like I was in a book. Because his cottage should be in a book - with its wicker furniture, and cottage smell, and fireplace. And he and I would make for good characters - except the book would want some sort of romance to evolve between us, but he and I aren't romantically compatible. Not because he isn't attractive, because he is, but rather, because we view life too differently.
As he smoked his cigarettes and told me tales of Italy, I envied his approach to life. Because he seemed so carefree and content. Nothing really seemed to get to him. And I considered how wonderful it must be to not care, but rather to simply enjoy life and to be. The problem is, I can't - at least not for extended periods of time. Because with the faith I hold I have to care about the world and the people around me.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Ping Pong Payout
This evening my dad excitedly showed me the surpise he received in the mail today - a check from Greenwich Street in New York City. It was a royalty check, actually, for the International use of music he recorded in the 1960s. He was thrilled to learn that his music is circulating throughout the world. I think it's rather fabulous too.
I also collected money from my Dad's talent this evening, but it was from his ping pong talent, not musical talent. I hung out for a bit with the guy from down the shore, and mid conversation I remembered he still hadn't payed up from the ping pong bet we made earlier this summer.
The guy from down the shore pulled his his wallet down from on top of the fire place and pulled out a $20 bill.
See http://katrinablank.blogspot.com/2012/07/ping-pong.html for the full story of how I won the mulah.
I also collected money from my Dad's talent this evening, but it was from his ping pong talent, not musical talent. I hung out for a bit with the guy from down the shore, and mid conversation I remembered he still hadn't payed up from the ping pong bet we made earlier this summer.
The guy from down the shore pulled his his wallet down from on top of the fire place and pulled out a $20 bill.
See http://katrinablank.blogspot.com/2012/07/ping-pong.html for the full story of how I won the mulah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
