The 10 Most Un-Grownup Things I’ve Done This Week

Occasionally, I have been known to do some pretty grownup things. I show up to my full-time job five days a week, for instance. On the second day of every month, I make my student loan payments. I call my parents for reasons other than to ask for money. I keep myself decently fed, have purchased pieces of furniture I didn’t have to assemble myself, and hang out with other people who also do things like have full-time jobs and call their parents. If 16-year-old me could see 26-year-old me today, I think she would be impressed by my overall autonomy (but only for like a second, and then she would go back to prepping her speech and debate original oratory, because 16-year-old me was impossibly serious and didn’t have time to think about anything outside of her immediate five year plan).

More often than not, I have also been known to do some pretty un-grownup things and, well, that’s where it all gets a little messy. I was talking to my dad today on the phone in the dark (my kitchen light bulb blew out like, a week ago — I just haven’t gotten around to replacing it), and he was threatening to take me off our family cell phone plan after I accidentally mentioned I had shattered my iPhone screen when I tripped on the sidewalk in my new booties the other day and, um, smashed it (it still works though, so chill out, OK?). Then he asked me if I was even listening to him and I had to admit that I was only kind of listening to him, because my friend had just tweeted that Kylie Jenner dyed her hair gray and, I don’t know, some things are just more interesting to think about than others. Then I hung up, scrolled through Kylie Jenner’s Instagram page for a few minutes, wondered if I should dye my hair gray, and heated up some easy mac since the only items in my refrigerator were a half-empty bottle of screw-top rosé, a jar of pickles, and a bottle of salad dressing from like maybe two years ago. But then the cogs in my brain started doing this kind of weird thing where they sort of align a little bit, and as I was checking the expiration date on my old bottle of salad dressing, I had an interesting moment of self-realization — when it comes to being a grownup, I’m kind of a poser.

Which isn’t the worst thing ever, or anything, but it is an interesting truth to come to terms with, especially after you thought you were doing really great and all what with the full-time job and loan paying and everything. So then I thought the mature thing to do while waiting for my easy mac to cook was to pause for three and a half minutes and reflect on this new self discovery.

Unfortunately, the microwave timer went off before I was able to come to any real conclusions about what it means to be a fake grownup in a grownup world or anything like that. But I was able to come up with a pretty solid list of other things that make me a fake grownup, which I think was a very productive use of three minutes, because you have to be able to diagnose a problem* before you can correct it. That is basic medicine.

*Fake adulthood is not really a problem. It’s really just more of a state of being that may or may not make your life more difficult than it needs to be at times, like when you go to clean up the wine glass you dropped in the kitchen three days ago and realize you don’t own basic household items like dustpans.

In the spirit of self-improvement, here are 10 ways I failed at being a grownup this week:

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In defense of Carrie Bradshaw

sjp1Alright, Internet. We get it. You hate Carrie Bradshaw.

I’ve been coming across a lot of posts lately that seem to resonate with this article someone sent to me last week, which was a version of this one before that, which wasn’t so different from this blog post I whipped up two years ago, where I cried and cried about how ill-prepared I was for life in the big city no thanks to Carrie and her friends and her men and her shoes and honestly, television, how DARE you fool your simple-minded, well-meaning viewers into believing a shiny, cosmopolitan-fueled existence complete with a walk-in closet is more than just the ideal way to live in Manhattan, it’s the norm?!?!?

Because let’s be real for a minute. Back in those blissful, early days when HBO had us all believing we could navigate the Meatpacking District’s trendy cobblestone streets in heels, back when we thought the cupcake bubble would never pop (RIP Crumbs) and no one cared about Brooklyn (ohmygod remember when Miranda moved there with Steve and it was the WORST) and the likes of Hannah Horvath was still but a blessed seed germinating in the fruitful young mind of an overly ambitious millennial, the world was a simple, beautiful, easy-to-understand place: There were the Carrie girls, and there were all the other girls. And if you were a Carrie girl, life was pretty darn good.

Armed with a few good girlfriends, the occasional champagne-based brunch cocktail and an open heart, you could accomplish anything … on a freelancer’s salary, no less.

Except, did we ever really believe that? Did we ever really think we could score that rent-controlled apartment of our dreams simply because we shared Carrie’s passion for Manolo Blahniks and belief in the power of good sex? Sitting in my impossibly box-like, over-priced studio apartment which, for the record, still plays host to the occasional mouse, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was “Sex and the City” fooling us all along, or were we just fooling ourselves?

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In memoriam: Dollar Pizza Place Down the Street

RIP Dollar Pizza Place Down the Street #nofilter

RIP Dollar Pizza Place Down the Street #nofilter

It all started when Dollar Pizza Place Down the Street suddenly closed.

It was a Tuesday night and I was ordering two slices of plain to go, digging out the quarters from the bottom of my wallet whilst nodding my head sympathetically as Pizza Guy behind the counter told me how his wife’s back was still troubling her. The fluorescent lights in the teeny tiny take-out restaurant blinked maybe more than they should have and I doubt Pizza Guy could even hear my vague yes-I’m-still-listening mmhmms over the buzz of the ENORMOUS refrigerator rattling in the corner, but I was enveloped by the aroma of possibly fake, impossibly delicious cheese and by the warm knowledge that this man, this slightly balding discount pizza connoisseur with crinkly eyes and a wife whose back was still troubling her, was the only person who had consistently been there for me since I first moved to the city, doling out happiness for the mere price of 99 cents a slice. I found peace in knowing that at least I would never starve so long as I had him as my ally.

And then, two nights later – TWO NIGHTS LATER — looking to bury my burdens under a mound of grease and cheese, I made the two-block jaunt to Dollar Pizza Place Down the Street only to find out it was CLOSED. For good. Completely shuttered. Game over. The gate was down across the door. The warm light that once served as a beacon for the drunk and the hungry was out, the red awning gone. Pizza Guy had packed up and left without even the tiniest hint of a goodbye. Zero warning. Total devastation. You think you know a person, I thought. You FINALLY LET YOUR GUARD DOWN, I thought. And then all these memories I forgot I ever had came flooding back: the way PG would wink at me on Saturday nights when I asked for two sets of utensils to make it seem like I wasn’t about to eat 4 pieces of pepperoni by myself. The time I had to explain to him I wasn’t dead, I had just been at home visiting my parents for six days. Dollar Pizza Place Down the Street was my lifeline, my provider, and now it was gone. I had no one. Hangry and hopeless, I felt the sadness settle over me, sticky and unshakable, as that one line from that one Robert Frost poem I was forced to memorize in high school foggily crept to mind: “So dawn goes down to day / Nothing gold can stay.” I had been abandoned. I was alone.

…….

When I’m hungry I get a little melodramatic ok?

Look, I have a point. Life’s a doozy and even the tiniest of upsets can suddenly send you spiraling toward the darkest, most shadowy recesses of your mind that you didn’t even know existed. I’m not saying that the great Dollar Pizza Disaster of ’14 is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but it did make me realize that I’ve been, well, stuck in something of a rut these last few months, dependent on routine and un-open to change because I couldn’t, in my head, imagine life looking any other way.

It’s like one of those allergy pill commercials where they show you a shot of a flower-dotted field under a blue sky and everything LOOKS normal and you might even think to yourself “wow, what a nice looking patch of grass” and then – THEN – some magical TV force peels away this previously invisible filmy filter to reveal that, no, that’s NOT just a nice looking patch of grass, it’s the most beautiful TV meadow you’ve ever seen, practically PULSING with color, as a voice explains to you “there’s clear, and then there’s Claritin clear.”

It’s time to rip off the film.

Anyway, wherever you are, Pizza Guy, I hope your wife’s back is feeling better.

Lolololol remember when I used to write about clothes and stuff?

Whatever. Pizza is ALWAYS in fashion.

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Hot child in the city

It’s that time of year where I dramatically wipe my brow and say, “Have you ever even been this hot in your life??!” and then you say “Phew it’s a scorcher” and then we collectively try to remember if temperatures ever climbed higher than 95 degrees last summer (they did).

I figured I had three options today: I could melt. I could curl up in an air conditioned Zara somewhere or I could go to Starbucks and watch the city slump while I slurped iced beverages. My darling mamma, constantly monitoring my caffeine levels, surprised me with a *$’s card in the mail and seeing as how I’m practically living in poverty after handing over all my money to Rebecca Minkoff last weekend, my decision was pretty much made for me (noregretsmostamazingbagever).

YIKES have you ever even been this hot in your life?

Spent the 4th of July in a Brooklyn backyard that had just as many puppies as it did hipsters but honestly, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I decided to celebrate the occasion by whipping out my favorite razor blade necklace. A friend told me it was very “emo chic” but please, have you ever seen an emo kid with such a standout neon belt? My friend Ryan opted for more traditional patriotism with his red, white and blue and did you know? He’s a top notch grill master. Just check out those shrimp skewers.

Beach escapes to the Hamptons, seashell hunts and human cattle herds around Prince Street. See? Summer isn’t so bad.

A trip to the High Line proved to be very handsy — and also impossibly crowded. I blame the amazing mango chili popsicles to be found every few feet. And the fantastic views of the city, though none as great as what you can find street-level. Some friends and I were romping around midtown last night when we stumbled across the Empire State Building and pleasantly remembered we live in New York City. It’s easy to forget sometimes.

The couture shows in Paris held my attention for a hot minute this week but then I realized it’s impossible to lust after clothing when your only sartorial goal is to have as little fabric touching your body as possible. But oh, that red coat dress with the pockets. Welcome to Dior, Mr. Simons.

 

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Words to live by: Elsa Schiaparelli

Photograph of Elsa Schiaparelli wearing a &quo...

One of these days, I’ll go to the Met Gala. Until then, I’ll sit at home and eat leftover pizza and teddy grahams and refresh Twitter every five seconds waiting for Rachel Zoe to post another twitpic.

Today I threw it out there that maybe last night’s red carpet wasn’t as amazing as it has been in years past (a side effect of hype, no doubt), and you all FREAKED OUT. But because I’m not about to gush about *gasp* gold sequins or 90s lipstick, I decided to focus on the one lady that actually piqued my interest: Elsa Schiaparelli.

Ok so I’m slightly embarrassed that I only knew her for that one lobster dress prior to “fashion prom” fever, but that’s more than most of the models partying down the street could say last night. Anyway, because I’m a serious investigative journalist I did a little poking around on the Internet and I found THIS AMAZING THING that Racked posted earlier. Not only was Elsa Schiaparelli “that Italian artist who makes clothes,” she was also the world’s smartest woman. Behold, her 12 commandments for women:

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I’ve been thinking a lot about princesses

So I’ve been thinking a lot about princesses lately. As in, how to become one. In theory, this shouldn’t be that difficult. I’m practically a Royal Wedding expert — I was on that beat HARD last year — and if there’s anyone to turn to for princess lessons, it’s obviously Kate Middleton, who’s not so much a princess as she is the world’s most perfect person with a penchant for high street fashion and cocker spaniels.** And, lest we forget, her parents were merely millionaires trying to put their daughter through college when she cleverly used her girl-next-door charms to win over a man who just so happened to hit it big at the gene pool, premature balding aside, of course. Really, he’s the lucky one, right? Kate did all the work. So maybe the moral of this story is to go to school and play field hockey and wear nude pantyhose and shop at Zara and be your best self and eventually, someday, the man of your dreams will take notice and before you know it, bam, you’re a princess and everyone wins. If you know what you’re doing, how hard can it be?

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Is this the cutest dog you’ve ever seen?

In the event that the last seven days of your life have been as messy and mind blowing as mine, I give you this. Somewhere, this fluffy brute not only actually exists, he’s been given the fitting title of “world’s cutest dog” (like seriously, it’s official). And then, because Urban Outfitters has been jonesing for some positive PR, they decided to jump on the adorable pomeranian bandwagon and bring us this incredible stuffed likeness.

Spent this rainy Sunday doing a little sole searching a la literally looking for shoes. I’m in desperate need of sensible black ballet flats but my last shopping trip resulted in a pair of sky-high wedges and pink (really pink) trousers. C’est la vie, no?

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