I did it!

Thanks to Kelly for helping me figure out how to add links to my sidebar! Not that anyone really reads my blog, but now people can also easily access my wine reviews and see some other blogs that I like.

Yay!

Today is a good day. I'm fairly busy at work, and tonight I'm using a restaurant gift certificate that I've been hanging on to for a while to take Mom and Lefty out to dinner to thank them for replacing my bike.

I really am a lucky person. (It makes me sad that I have to constantly remind myself that, but, oh well.)

Go to your happy place

"But I'm already here...", I thought with a little sigh of content.

The owner of the wine store where I work part time had told me to "Go to my happy place" during a jovial conversation we were having. What he doesn't know is that his little store has become a haven for me in the last year and a half. Nothing relaxes me more than walking through the aisles, running my hands over the brightly colored labels, fantasizing about the treasures inside the bottles. Not just the wine, but the culture behind it. I think about the workers who picked the grapes, the idyllic vineyard sites, the fun the staff must have coming up with their marketing schemes, and the fantastic meals the people involved share when enjoying the fruits of their labor.

I enjoy chatting with my regular customers about their lives, and recommending new wines that I think they will like. Nothing gets me more excited than when someone comes in and tells me that they loved the last bottle that I put in their hand. It's very satisfying to introduce someone to a new wine - kinda like the pride you get when you introduce two of your oldest friends and they end up getting along famously.

Whenever anyone asks me the question, "What would you do if you won the lottery?" I always know my answer. I would buy the wine store. I'd spend all day piddling around inside, chatting with customers and vendors, writing monthly newsletters, planning tastings and organizing classes.

Alas, this dream is far from being realized. In my mind I am way too practical to throw myself into the inevitable hell of owning small business. But I can still fantasize about my wine life, right?

Passion

Last night I watched Before Sunrise and its sequel Before Sunset. Those movies are amazing. If ever you are wondering if the person that you are with is the right person for you, watch those movies. They are inspiring, and really fuel your desire to find the one person who you are that passionate for.

Sometimes I regret ending relationships. I think to myself, "Oh, he was so nice, such a good guy, if I was still dating him think of the things I could have..." And then I almost convince myself that I should have just stayed and made it work. Or, even worse, that there is something wrong with me for not feeling a spark, like I have been actively pushing away happiness or something.

But then I realize that the world is FULL of people who settle. Settle for some one who is so nice, such a good guy, would give them everything that they wanted, even though there is no extreme passion. The weird thing is that I think that some people are completely happy to have done that. Some people don't know any better, don't dream of anything more. Sometimes I think that life would be so much more simple if I was one of those people.

But then I get inspired by something, whether it's a movie, or a song, or a second where I observe a beautiful moment between two people, and I realize that I am doing the right thing by holding out. I deserve someone who thinks the sun sets around me, who loves my quirks and doesn't make me feel guilty for them, and who I can talk to all night.

Here are two lines from the movies that really spoke to me:

"It's better to be alone than feel lonely when you're with someone."

"Why do we get so obsessed with people that we don't even like that much?"

PS- Today I am wearing fun shoes. (See above.)

Whirlwind

Well, the tornado has quieted. After a very successful bachelorette party this weekend, and a relative marathon of drinking, eating, and catching up with friends, I am back home. Last night it felt GREAT to be back in my big, soft bed. Today, even though I'm still tired, it feels nice to be back among the friendly faces of my office.

By the end of the weekend, my skirmish to move back to NYC had calmed down. I no longer feel the need to pick up my life again to escape from current problems. However, that being said, I have not entirely ruled out the option, either. The interesting thing that happened this weekend was that for the first time I actually allowed myself to open up to the fact that there are aspects of that life that I miss. Like the people. Like the energy. Like the excitement.

So the conclusion is that I'm still confused, but at least this time I have opened myself up to the possibility that one day I may want to move back. Maybe I'm not as finished with New York as I once thought I was. Maybe I still have things to do there.

Some day.

Take Me Back to Manhattan

I woke up this morning with an insatiable desire to be back in NYC. On the entire trip up I was impatient, excited, and straining my neck like a little girl trying to get a glimpse of the skyline.

I've been gone for a year and a half, almost to the day, and for the absolute first time I felt the pang of missing it.

Am I running away from my problems by shifting my focus back to the city? Or is my mission in Richmond acomplished, and now I'm ready to throw myself back into the challenges of something bigger?

Who's to say?

Bull's Eye

Jaw - dropped.
Garbage bag - dropped.
Heart - dropped.

I looked at the stark empty space outside of the back door of my apartment where my bike used to be in disbelief. There was absolutely no trace of it, like it had never even been there. No cast aside cover, no broken link to the chain, nothing.

This is the second act of theft I have experienced in three weeks. The first time, the burgular broke into my apartment and scooped up the few valuables that I had - my laptop, DVD's, and Nana's earrings. It took me a few days, but I convinced myself that, despite what the cops, locksmith, and friends and family thought, it was a random act and that I was still safe in my building. No big deal.

This time is different. I feel defeated and confused. I don't know whether I'm still safe in my building, in my neighborhood, in my life. Everyone seems to think the same thing - that this was done by the same person, who probably lives in the building. So what am I supposed to do with that theory? Ignore it and hope they leave me alone? Play Nancy Drew and try to figure out who it was? Live in constant paranoia and suspicion of everyone who crosses my path?

Here are some splices of advice that I've been given so far:

Mom: Pass out a flier to your neighbors making them aware of what's been going on, and fucking move when your lease is up. (But I don't want to move. My dumb ass still likes it here.)
Leah: Pass out a flier, it will give you back a sense of control over your life. (I am woman, hear me roar. Mew?)
Heather: Talk to your landlord, and be ultra aware of the people around you.
Vaughan: Pass out a flier and don't keep things on your porch anymore. (Duh.)
Boos: Maybe you should move out of the city and into the West End. (And into suburbia hell? My Bohemian side won't stand for it!)

The worst part of all of this is that it dregs up every negative emotion that I have been pushing aside for months. Usually I am so good about being "Strong Single Woman" that I even manage to convince myself that I don't need a man. GRRRR... I can do it myself! But in the last few weeks, these events have plunged me into realizing my lonlieness. I want a man to take care of me, to help me when bad things happen, or to just be around so that I'm not such a sitting duck. And then I feel ungrateful, because I have a ridiculously supportive family and a great network of friends - why isn't that enough?

I am sad. I don't know what to do. So I'm going into therapy. Just for the fun of it.

OH, and I'm going to take the insurance money that I get from my bike and buying myself a Seatbelt Bag. I'll get more use out of that anyway.

NYC & Me

I have a love/hate relationship with this city.

Things I love:
Excitement
Seeing famous people
How cool it sounds to say "I live in New York."
The diversity
The amount of reading you can get done on the subway


Things I hate:
Claustrophobia (which I don't usually have a problem with)
Feeling completely inadequate if I don't look hot at all times
Being crammed onto the subway like a sardine
No malls
People who are too career-obsessed to have a life

The reason that all of this is coming up right now is that I am going to NY this weekend for a bachelorette extravaganza for my best friend. I'm completely torn between being very excited for the festivities that I orchestrated, and being nervous about being back in the city. The expense, the HEAT, the competition... it all seems too much for me right now.

When I was 23, I was psyched for it all. Bring it on! Now, at the ripe old age of 26, it just seems exhausting. Why should one be forced to be "on" all of the time? Why is relaxing such a bad thing?

*Sigh* Sometimes I long for the kinetic energy of the city, for the feeling of intense power that I had when I felt like I really BELONGED there, like I really owned it. But most of the time, I am completely content to be back down South, where I still meet interesting people, where I can sit on a porch and enjoy a beautiful day, and where I can wear a simple cotton skirt all summer long.

I wonder, am I growing apathetic and lazy, morphing into one of those people that I always swore against and resented? Or am I simply growing up, and realizing that it's OK to slow down a little bit and not feel the need to be cool all of the time?

The Story of Rees

To begin my Blog with the beginning of my Blog, I'll first tell about why I chose the name. Rees has been my moniker for a long time, the only real nickname I've ever had (friends calling me "Martin" doesn't count, since I hate it). It started when I was very young. I always used to make up nonsense nicknames for my father, usually just random silly syllables. At one point I called him Zees, moved onto Boos (the one that has really stuck), and somewhere in between I called him Raas (pronounced with a short a). When I made up this one, he started calling me Rees (pronounced Reez) in return. He still calls me Rees, mainly when he is proud of me, or missing me, or just to tell me that he loves me. Most phone calls end with the exchange "Love my Rees", "Love my Raas".

So there you go. A simple story of a girl who loved her Raas, and 20 years later, still does.