Confessions of a Girl who Never Sleeps: Snail Mail

I am a little bit of a grandma. I subscribe to Better Homes & Garden. That resulted in mail from AARP and a catalog to Cold Water Creek. I have a robe and slippers and drink tea before I go to bed. I enjoy classics such as Some Like it Hot and Cool Hand Luke.

And I LOVE receiving snail mail.

There is nothing like coming home from a long, discouraging day of school, walking through the front door and seeing those letters begging to be ripped open. The envelope will be a shape different from those that contain bills. My address will be hand-written. Sometimes, the envelope will even be in color.

Birthday cards. Valentine’s Day cards. Letters from friends in different countries. Christmas is the best time of the year. Every day you walk in and there is a present from the mailman.

There must be others like me out there who love receiving real mail. I try my darndest to send out birthday cards and holiday cards and hope-life-is-getting-better cards. I don’t always make it and for that I apologize.

But to those reading this: mail more letters and cards. You never know whose day you are going to make.

Confessions of a Girl who Never Sleeps: Dreams

I’m running through a forest of trees, the predator not far behind my steps. I get into the square metal building just in time. I’m breathing heavy, leaning against the steal door. The velociraptor breaks through the window and is working through the blinds as I open the door. He (or she — I really can’t be sure) reaches to bite my leg.

I wake up.

I’ve had that dream every time I watch Jurassic Park and have since the first time I’ve seen it.

I don’t really understand dreams. I don’t mean that I’m attempting to analyze them — because I  think that’s a bunch of bull. What I don’t understand is why my brain makes things up as I’m trying to get a good night’s sleep.

Dreams occur most often during the REM cycle, according to Psychology Today. That may explain why there are certain periods in my life where I’ll dream for months at a time. I’m assuming that’s when life gives me more time to sleep.

But then why can’t I remember all of it when I wake up? Dr. William Dement said there are no proven answers to that question. However, his best guess is that we have evolved to the point that our body won’t let us remember our dreams because then we wouldn’t be able to differentiate a dream from a memory.

I’m lucky in the fact that I rarely have nightmares. But I think sometimes good dreams can turn out to be bad dreams. What if I dream about the job I want to get and I get it — but then I wake up? What if I’m trying to forget something good that’s happened in the past that I know will never happen again? I’m already trying to block it out; why is my brain bringing it back to me when I was just beginning to forget?

Craig Hamilton-Parker believes that once a person understands the interpretation of the dream, it “can solve many of life’s problems and bring about internal harmony and well being.”

What if I don’t want harmony? What if I just want to forget? Or I don’t end up getting that job? That’s definitely not solving my problem.

Confessions of a Girl that Never Sleeps: I’m a Big Girl Now

A couple of days after I got my driver’s license, my dad made me go to nearby restaurants and clothing stores and fill out applications.

One week later I had my very first job.

Two months later, I got my very first truck. It was a 72 Ford pick up truck with no engine or air conditioning, but it was free. My dad bought the incredibly cheap engine. I called her Blue….because she was blue.

Freedom.

I paid for the gas. I paid for the insurance. I’ve done my own taxes since after that first year (with the help of TurboTax). I’ve done my own laundry since I was a teenager. I knew how to vacuum and do the dishes (without a dishwasher!) and dust the crevices before I left the nest.

I’m thankful for my parents everyday. I wouldn’t have been able to buy my first car at the age 19. I wouldn’t have been able to buy groceries in college. I wouldn’t have moved straight to New York City without knowing a soul and with very little money right after graduating from undergrad.

When I see the spoiled young children that come into my work and are given whatever they want, I feel sorry for them. Well, that and I want to teach them some manners. But they’ll depend on someone until the day that they die because no one is going to teach them how to be truly independent.

Sometimes I call my mom to ask her where in the grocery store do they keep chicken bouillon. Sometimes I call my dad and ask if my birthday present can be that plane ticket for when I come home. But I’ve been able to make it on my own with minimal help from others because my parents knew that I would have to enter the real world eventually. And I wouldn’t change a second of my upbringing.

Except for when I chopped my Barbie’s hair off. Lesson learned.

Fashion’s Night Out

On a regular Thursday evening, you’ll find the fashion industry locking up and the bars getting busier. But once a year, at Fashion’s Night Out, it’s the clothes that get to stay out past curfew. Stores stay open until 11 p.m. and have a variety of attractions. Men and women dress up to go out for discounts, free cocktails, celebrity and fashion designer sightings and music.

On the streets of Soho, there was a young blonde woman clad in her fashionable black blazer, mini-skirt and tights on a business stoop changing out of her flats into peep toe wedges. Around the corner, there was another young woman with thick, curly black hair standing in line for the bathroom at Starbucks in a black and white blazer and black tights sporting an eccentric bracelet made of gold spikes and diamonds.

Over at Ted Baker London in the Meatpacking District, the store was turned into a bar and concert venue. As it began to fill – some for the liquor, some for the discounts, some for the music – the eclectic crowd mingled over the free cocktails with only a few venturing out to look at the clothes lined up for display. There was a short, lavender, princess-cut dress, a beige trench coat with a high neckline, teal, ruffled cocktail dresses, fur coats and black, knit sweaters all waiting for customers to pick them up for fall.

An older man in a black suit, white button-up shirt and deep red tie pushed up his glasses as he observed the crowd, possibly looking for a familiar face. An employee with her hair held in a ponytail wore a black blazer, grey skinny jeans and five-inch, muted gold heels shuffling merchandise to and fro as she made small talk with customers and friends.

Different languages could be heard throughout the room. Two young French women conversed in their foreign dialect holding free cocktails, one wearing lavender Converse and a simple striped pink and white t-shirt and the other wearing olive green Pumas and a floral blouse.

The wait staff stood behind the bar and walked around with black trays, identifiable in black slacks, white, long-sleeved button-ups with purple ties. The drinks were served at two, rectangular tables with black tablecloths lined with wine and martini glasses. There were mint leaves piled in wine glasses standing next to the alcohol and mixers in the rear.

The members of the pop-rock band, The Postelles, arrived an hour behind schedule and went to their places behind the microphones. The drummer sat in his jeans with a purple, plaid, long-sleeve button-up. The acoustic and bass guitarists strummed in jeans, plaid collared shirts and black blazers. The lead singer sang in a purple tunic with the sleeves rolled up while his guitar strap rocked a colorful, tribal design. All articles of clothing above the waist on the band were from Ted Baker London.

The crowd whipped out their smart phones, taking amateur photos, possibly to post on the walls of their Facebook or Twitter updates. As the audience members began shuffling side to side and swaying their hips, they abandoned the need to shop and listened to the music – even if just for five songs. The night transformed from being about fashion into a mixture of all the enticements the night was about.

 

Confessions of a Girl that Never Sleeps: Chivalry is not dead.

Dear SmartFem readers: Chivalry is not dead.  The above is just one example of the sweet things I’ve seen men [and women!] do for people who need their help. Whether it’s giving money to the performers and homeless who make their way from subway car to subway car or giving up a seat, kindness is still recognized and chivalry has not died.

It’s subway rush hour and one woman has her shopping bags on the last seat instead of setting them between her legs or in her lap, like a normal New Yorker. There’s an older man that seems to have a hard time standing, let alone hanging on to the pole as the subway flies through the tunnels. After enough glares and a few verbal suggestions, the woman finally moves her bags and – like is was HER idea – tells the older man that she moved her bags so he could sit. This older man, bless is chivalrous soul, looks surprised and then tells a young woman standing next to him that she can have the seat. I almost started crying right there on the spot on how genuine and humble his gesture was.

Chivalry is very much alive.

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