Availably present balance

Perhaps it's the incessant ways of New York city, but today I felt superbly flustered during an errand at Saks 5th Avenue. While browsing for a good mechanical eye-liner, I was bombarded by the plasticities that the free albeit ignorant world likes to call "cosmetic counter women". Someone better think of a scarier name. And quick. These lunatics will spritz their $400 Chanel No. 4, 5, 78, in absolutely any direction. I could have been coughing up my inner organs and I still would have received a fetid squirt of whatever those women were selling. The problem is, with the bat of their false eyelashes, and their rather silly amounts of bronzer, they are almost impossible to both ignore or deny. I let a small Filipino woman spritz the new Issey Miyake on my arm, a cute and very effeminate man massage my temples with cooling sandalwood gel, and a 6-foot tall stiletto clad tween spray my pinkie finger with Juicy Couture's newest scent (which is actually and truly delicious.)


I left Saks with a brown eyeliner and a new sense of personal odor.

And we're back

Upon entering my humble cubicle, I realized that I hadn't posted an entry in peachycreme for about, well, a year. "It's time to re-kick peachycreme!", I pronounced--finger tips a-twitchin'. To which I got a roll of the eyes, and a maniacal chuckle from Raquel. Sarcasm aside, it is time to resuscitate this compendium of rants. Time to re-establish my standing in the blogosphere.

I think I've been spending too many hours in this office. So many, in fact, that I have formed some sort of strange bond with a specific bathroom stall in the ladies room. Now, I know women are "known" to flock together to the lavatories. To travel in groups (what? we're close. we catch up in there.) But I think I've finally hit the wall and taken a strange step. I've befriended a toilet. A clean, immaculate, no bull-shit new friend. However, a couple of minutes ago, I was shocked and appalled to find a stranger, spread-legged over my new friend. My new ceramic friend. I was forced to enter the third-from-the-left stall. The one with the very sad, very bad, wiggly door. My seven minutes in heaven. Ruined.

It's the whole damn world turned inside out

When I was in 5th grade I won a goldfish at a local carnival . It obviously wasn't very important to me because I neither named it nor kept it alive for very long. I watched it swim around and around the small glass bowl all day long, and I wondered how horrid and dizzy a lifestyle that must be. So, I reached into the lukewarm water, pulled out the fish, and decapitated it with a pair of ridged arts and crafts scissors. This may be a metaphor, or I may have been a blood-thirsty elementary school kid--but the point is--we were all braver when we were younger.

Now, at eighteen, I find myself feeling more insecure, more unsure about myself, my friends, love, and the whole entire world, than ever. Not in a melodramatic way, earth combusts and shatters sort of way, but in a way that makes me nostalgic for the days when I didn't second guess every move, motive, or word that I produced. Maybe we just don't remember all the anxiety that once existed in our little bodies, and a few years from now, I'll long to be eighteen again.

Times are hard for dreamers

Coming home to what seems like a deserted wasteland has taken a toll (or rather, toke) on me. I'm used to returning home from vacations, and prancing into the open arms of friends. I arrived home from Alaska today, and Emily was the only one left. We self medicated for what seemed like several hours, got terrible "you're so stoned and pathetic"-stares in Turriellos. In fact, I nibbled on my slice in a state of total paranoia and fright. We drove halfway to Cathy's only to turn a street or two before. I didn't think it'd be so painful to watch the masses drop like flies. Pack their respected tastes in granola bars, their preferred booze and pot, pencils, pens, and IKEA-ware, and up and go. Embark on their next four years of collegiate bliss--whilst I sit out the next 7-weeks. In lonesome agony.

What to do

List of things to do:

(but really...)

1. Stop crushing on boys I will never see again. Ever.

2. Haircut! 

3. Stop shopping. At least until paycheck arrives in September.

4. Make time to not feel so tired and actually blog some decent reads. 

I'm sorry. I am a royal letdown. 

You're hiding underneath the smoke in the room

I visited Baltimore for my first time this weekend. Strange to say that it has taken me this long to do so. First of all, my best friend lives in Baltimore and it is certainly inherent that my lack of making the 4 and a 1/2 hour leap through Jersey and Delaware to Maryland, has taken somewhat of a toll on our friendship. And secondly, because my two adorable little cousins, aunt, and uncle moved there three years ago.

We arrived mid-afternoon on Saturday to a warm welcome from my aunt. No cousins in sight though. The house smelled incredible (my aunt is both a fabulous cook and food columnist.) "Something citrusy", Arel cleverly stated. We took a tour of their amazing house. Aside from the house being old and beautiful and full of character, I spent the whole weekend admiring their life-size paintings of popsicles and chinese takeout boxes--all simply expressing my family's love for good food. They also had a great collection of B&W photographs. Soon after the tour, my uncle, holding a giant carrier of various wines and beers, came home, tots-in-tow, and everyone suddenly became very aware of the rumblings within our stomachs.

Late lunch ensued. And much to my surprise, it consisted of nothing citrusy at all. Open face garlic aioli, avocado, and yellow tomato sandwiches. Stumped, we were. "Aunt Leah, where is the lemony smell coming from?", I asked. Kind of hoping that one of her famous and clever desserts were bubbling in the oven or on the stove. "Oh, I'm boiling lemons!", she exclaimed. She walked back into the kitchen and came out with a tray of bacon. I was puzzled. She set two pieces of bacon on her plate, my uncle's plate, and both Hanna and Noah's plates. She explained that, seeing as my family does not consume pork products, it'd be improper for her to have us enter a house smelling like crispy pig. I laughed and lent her a warm smile. I thought it was a sweet gesture.

The rest of the day was very pleasant. I had a 2-hour shopping excursion with my 11-year old cousin, Hanna. I bought her a pair of jeans at Nordstrom, and she helped me pick out a sale top at Anthropologie (someone needs to keep an eye on me when it comes to that store.)

We returned home, ate handfuls of chocolate covered coffee beans (for some reason I morbidly hate drinking coffee but really enjoy raw coffee beans.) I'm a strange character. We then headed off to Lebanese Taverna for dinner. A restaurant, which Benji explained as "yuppie Lebanese food". He was right. It was neither impressive nor authentic. And the restaurant certainly gave off a "holier than thou" vibe. Ranking high on the ostentatious spectrum.

Benji and Adam rolled around the house at around 1 AM, and I was overjoyed to spend time with my insomniac counterparts. Sleep came around 3--after a good video chat with Cathy.

Today, I slept in--possibly to Hanna's dismay (she gave me the cold shoulder for most of the day.) Benji and Adam picked me up later on and we went for lunch and gelato at Fells Point--which can only be described as the Soho of Baltimore. Except, it's on the water. And less expensive. Not much like Soho at all, save the cobblestone.

It was a nice weekend.

In the wise words of Raquel Marlena Gruber:
"youve abandoned your blog
july 22nd..
thats just neglect, tawya."

So, here I am, sixteen days later, updating all of you on the goings on.

Raquel and I have been chronic nymag.com fanatics over the past few days. We like to read the "Sex Diaries" section that Ben introduced me to a week or so ago. It really is amusing. So, rather than going into a whole long process of reacquainting you with the past few weeks of my life, I will use the Sex Diaries numerical format. Only, you know, without quite as much raunchy stuff.

Total: One grave disappointment, two consecutive acts of intercourse, a good deal of sushi, one non-date, one encounter with a real psychic, one act of hand-holding, two finished books, six horror movies, one encounter with a celebrity, three bites of Mochi (round II wasn't any better than round I), four train rides, one bus ride, two trips to Westchester, one act of sleeping on a rug, one act of staying up 'til 5, one pregnancy test (with, of course, "NOT PREGNANT" results), one act of swimmer's ear, five acts of swimming, one screaming phone brawl, one act of semi-stealing, several job applications, two acts of backing out on jobs, one act of real job, one new/overpriced/Ella Moss tank top.