Comfortable Couch! – $50 (Upper East Side)

Date: 2011-08-28, 6:16PM EDT
Reply to: sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}

Lightly used, olive green/brown couch. We’re moving and no longer have room to bring it along. The couch is available Monday Aug 29th for pick up on the Upper East Side between 2 and 4pm, or in the East Village after 6pm. Must pick it up.

• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 2570654800

From: “Cindy Renyolds” <cindyrenyolds@yahoo.com>
Date: Aug 28, 2011 8:11 PM
Subject: couch

To: “sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org” <sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org>

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This couch looks kind of crusty. I’ll give you $28 and you must deliver. I live in Westchester. Cool?

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From: “Cindy Renyolds” <cindyrenyolds@yahoo.com>
Date: Aug 28, 2011 9:34 PM
Subject: couch

To: “sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org” <sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org>

Couch? I live in new roschelle. I need to know asap. Would b cool if I warranted a response, bitch.  

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 From: Kristen Dwyer-O’Connor <kristendoc@gmail.com>

Date: Aug 28, 2011 9:37 PM
Subject: couch

To: “sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org” <sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org>

This message was remailed to you via: sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org

From: “Cindy Renyolds” <cindyrenyolds@yahoo.com>
Date: Aug 28, 2011 9:58 PM
Subject: Re: Couch
To: “Kristen Dwyer-O&apos;Connor” <kristendoc@gmail.com>

This message was remailed to you via: sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org

 From: Kristen Dwyer-O’Connor <kristendoc@gmail.com>

Date: Aug 28, 2011 10:02 PM
Subject: couch

To: “sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org” <sale-zg7nz-2570654800@craigslist.org>

Have you ever spent the whole day hiking, finally reached the peak/waterfall/valley, and found that your reward meal tasted like a bite of heaven? Even if it’s in the form of summer sausage on a Costco bagel?

As a champion eater, I can tell you that the best meals are improved by environmental factors; like the feeling that you really earned it, being surrounded by beauty, or experiencing heightened emotions. (It’s ok if you’re currently having flashbacks to the last time we had dinner together.)

Recently, I spent a day on the open sea off the coast of Kenya, vigilantly scouting for Somali pirates (you’re welcome America), and soaking in the equatorial son. My family and I went snorkeling off our wooden dhow as Jamil & Omar grilled white snapper on the hibachi.

Bri, in particular, was extremely helpful.

The food was plated at midday, the sun already high above us, and my first, salty bite tasted like nothing less than sweet satisfaction. Despite the heat, I dug into that marriage of fish, salad, chapati and fresh mango like my life depended on it…..

Let me tell you, it was truly tasty.

But every ying has its yang, every action its consequence, and every pale white, Irish girl who sits too long in the sun – suffers from heat stroke. Despite my best laid plans and blind belief that this time it would be different (it never has once been different); I fell deeply into my sunshine sickness. You see, I never drink enough water or wear enough sunscreen or find enough shade, and before I know it I’m lying in fetal position moaning weakly for 48 hours. 

But sometimes, the aftermath of tasty, even when excruciating, is still worth it. 

I know what you’re thinking, “wow, those lady lions are ferocious,” “your family is a bunch of wimps,” and “I didn’t know it rained in Africa!”

Well said.

Despite this triumph, packing alluded me and I had to tie up my loose ends from the Turkish Airlines gate: telling my bank where I’m going, downloading a washed up celebrity or 3′s memoirs (Steven – why can’t you stay clean like Rob did??), and ordering 12 bottles of wine from my Wine Insiders “phone special” pamphlet that had just arrived in the post. Oh, and Chris, if you drink my wine I will literally let Meryl in your room for a nice little day of punishments…

The real struggle came on flight. My plan worked, I was nicely zombie-ing into a dead sleep when I saw something I hadn’t counted on – a bazillion free movies. Have you read Bush’s “Decision Points”? Lets just say this choice certainly ranked as a chapter in my life story. I could watch “Inception,” or “Black Swan,” the more likely “Just Wright,” or even “Ramona and Beezus”!

Fortunately, much like Bush deciding to stop drinking and therefore ultimately realizing his destiny as a two-term President of this great nation, the decision was made for me, and I woke up – like after any good nap – in Turkey.

Now I contemplate the safari ahead of me and the coffee I must down to readjust my clock for our early start time. Of course by ‘contemplate’ I mean wonder broadly which animals I’ll see. I haven’t quite gotten to the heavy Kenya book nestled at the bottom of my bag.

Most of all, I’m eying the Turkish Delights at the duty free shop, and thinking “mmmmm… chipwiches!” There will be none of those where I’m going, but I’m confident when I get there I’ll find something new and equally as sweet.

Perhaps, if I’m very lucky, my very own wildebeest! (edited to include intentional and unapologetic foreshadowing – watch my movie damnit)

I scurry out of my 23rd floor apartment ten minutes late. The unseasonably warm breeze leads me into the subway and lingers to dry the remaining ice from the street corners. I wait impatiently, 6 people deep. The doors open and I beeline all the way to the back, where I know I will find room for me and my kindle. A smartly dressed woman balances on red heels, guarding her stroller. She sees a former co-worker and my ears are filled with stories of the old days at Conde Nast. We stop 5 times, and during each I shift as one more commuter expertly places themselves into our jig saw puzzle. Released, the wind still at my back, I follow the spring evening wear dancing across the Madison Ave windows toward my office….

We met her on a gorgeous morning back in April, the kind that sings “seize the day” through the song of early rising birds. Chris and I set out with a hop in our steps and one destination in mind: the Harlem Animal “Kill” Shelter.  Previously we’d wandered over, heard the heartbreak in the abandoned feline’s cries, and joined in. We were obsessed, and like a video montage of soldiers returning from war to visit their families set to adult contemporary music, we couldn’t stop watching.

The cat corral at the Kill Shelter is a lengthy room filled with 6 dozen tightly packed cages lining both walls. There are orange cats, mean cats, kitty cats, and fat cats. That particular morning I was overwhelmed by compassion, and Chris was sweating. As we turned to leave the volunteers asked us to stop being so creepy, I was drawn back by the sweet purr of a timid calico from the second to last row. We were magnets and she was an old rusty razor blade, racing toward impact.  Without a doubt, we’d found our cat.

Our love bloomed in early May as Meryl, named after the most famous actress of all time, delighted us with her curiosity and bountiful charm. We took turns feeding pretty little lady from a syringe to bring up her weight, even consulting cat blogs and our local vet for opinions on wet versus dry food. Then we bought wet food, even though it is more expensive. That’s love.

As the days passed from spring to summer, her curiosity grew with her appetite. Her size doubled, and then tripled, her eyes hardened and begin to glow in pale yellow light. “She loves to play,” I said as Chris covered his ankles in bandages, “she’ll grow out of it.”

My patience for our angel waned when she choose my feet for her midnight playground. I tried locking and then unlocking her in the bathroom. It seemed so cruel, but yet, not cruel enough. The first time Chris suggested that adopting our little lady was a mistake I berated him and covered her ears, but within days we’d stopped calling her a little lady at all.  The truth washed over me as slowly as the trickles of blood on my toes, “my cat hates me.”

Meryl planned her attacks innocently. She began to appear at inopportune moments, slithering across the floor just in time for my bare feet to bump into her torso. “What’s her endgame?” I wondered. I didn’t wonder long.

Late one September night, the moon shining brightly above us, Meryl made her move. Crawling into my room like she often does, she ignored her normal playground, and stood tall above my head on the windowsill. Watching…. Waiting….. then, with a loud thud she directed the full force of her four legged body backward toward the window. My full length mirror teetered but held, before gradually inching forward to an upright position. It stood there, a stone statue in purgatory. I was asleep, dreaming of Inception and Leonardo DiCaprio, unaware of the danger ahead, but soon enough the decision was made. The mirror found its gravity and cascaded down, crashing into my sleeping body like a kick from a dream within a dream (for the record, I think the spinning top stops at the end). I sprung awake amongst pieces of jagged glass and remained flat, breathing heavily, swimming in cold sweat.

Meryl caught my stare and I felt her displeasure. “Where’s the blood?” her eyes screamed, as she took off in a huff.

She had miscalculated. The mirror wasn’t high enought to shatter into me, just to break into large dull pieces. “Victory!” I smiled in short-lived relief, as I removed the pieces and walked to the kitchen to grab a garbage bag.

To this day it never crossed my mind that Meryl would be waiting for me…..

I don’t have much more to say. It’s too fresh, I’m not ready. All I know is that Meryl won the battle that day, and I’ve since relinquished all power to her. “She’s just a cat,” guests sometimes say. I nod and smile, but know better.

This morning I woke up to find Meryl at my feet like clockwork. I acknowledged her, she gave a short meow, and I nodded back in respect. She’ll continue to remind me of her power for the rest of my life, but I don’t think she’ll ever try to kill me again.

Besides, she has new enemies to pursue.

You wouldn’t think so, as most people do it to let off steam, not add to it. But for me it’s stressful because I am a blog perfectionist. Go ahead and laugh. Ha ha HA. If you know me, and you do know me if you actually read this, you know that I’m really not a perfectionist. Have you kicked your way into my bedroom lately? Perhaps you’ve glanced at the cleanliness of Meryl’s litter box? Or maybe you’ve recently noticed my ill-manicured fingers? My friend LG bites hers too and last weekend all she had to say was, “wow, at least mine aren’t that short.” I think you get the point. I’m a messy, scattered, anxious person who will let most of her life stand in freefall for an impromptu beach day. Why can’t I parlay this whimsical insane mindset to my blog? This just in, I can.

And I will. Consider me imperfect. Unperfect? I’m not sure (ok, I am, it’s imperfect), but the fact remains that accepting that I’m unsure (insure? I’m kidding) actually adds to my enjoyment of the writing process. I hope it adds to yours as a reader.

But I don’t care if it does. Not really. I’m going to blog whether I think I’m being funny or not. I’m going to blog as an exercise in catharsis. But I do hope you still tune in.

The point is, I’m going to start blogging again.

Enough about being crazy on my own time, I want to address how being crazy at work, keeps me sane.

My sister has put seeds of “Buddhism” in my mind occasionally over the last few years. (I just placed a very vaild religion in quotes because it’s the sort of thing I make fun of, but secretly wish I could take part in.) My only real experience came one Friday night when, on a whim, I created a new-age-y story about Mother Earth for my friends. One of them (you know who you are, demon) started laughing and cracked our shared focus into a million little pieces. Still, I think the concept of meditation, and more specifically, mindfulness, is extremely helpful when surviving a day of work in a city full of attitudes. 

My approach, which may or may not have anything to do with mindfulness, is to become a dog. More like a young prairie dog. Follow me on this one.  I’m choosing to “be” in every moment, and only that moment. When I approach a project I zone in on one thing with intense focus, not unlike a pup digging for trash in your alley, except I don’t leave a mess. I put a shit eating grin on my face and replace emotion with cold efficiency. I will find the ham bone underneath the dirty Kleenex and three broken wine glasses from that time clumsy Aunt Sue came over after pre-gaming Shabbat dinner. I will find it and devour it. You don’t want to mess with me.

The only side effect of my canine/buddhist strategy: easy distraction.

This morning as I was trotting right a long, updating an asset allocation and various other potentially important things, my boss sauntered over and started talking at me.

“Good morning, Kristen. Blahahhahaa! Blah? Blablalbla?!”

I nod at her, and respond in normal, short, action based phrases like, “I’ll get right on it,” and “You can count on me to do it right the first time!” I try to meet her eyes, but I  immediately focus just to the right of her head on a bright silver, shiny object. The hard lines of my mouth soften and my fingers stop tapping. I tilt my head 5 degrees and stare.

Two panes of glass and 50 yards of plain air away hangs a vessel from the Metro Scaffolding Company filled with two men busy washing windows. The man with the orange gloves taps his fingers and speaks vigorously to the man in grey. He could be saying anything. I decide their names are Jim and Sal, and that today is their last day working the high rise shift. Sal is retiring, while Jim is moving on to corporate.

“What an iconic day in their lives,” I think, shaking my head. “Perhaps Sal is thanking Jim for the memories.”

“You’ve been an inspiration to me, pal,” he offers, a tear in his eye for the first time in 25 years on the job. Jim looks away and keeps washing the 24^th floor window as they move down to 23. The scaffolding lowers. Sal shifts his feet and Jim starts humming. I can tell they will never forget this awkwardly perfect moment for the rest of their lives; the putter of the descent concretes their lifelong bond. They drop another floor and out of sight.

“Don’t leave,” I think, “Puhhhlease, stay!!!”

The distraction disappears. I whimper and I focus on my boss’ face. Wrinkles spread out from the corners of her frown like a spider’s web. Except, I think the spider died on her face and manifested into a bad attitude.  

“You better get that all done by Friday!” She warns.

“I’ll get right on it,” I smile in detached euphoria, “You can count on me to do it right the first time!”

I love the thrill of a gold medal run. Especially an American gold medal run. I love that it takes only one ski for Lindsey Vonn to dominate downhill and that Shaun White makes up the sport of Snowboarding as he goes along. I even love that he names tricks after the McDonalds menu. I love how I talk openly to strangers about Lindsey, Bodie, Evan, and Shaun, “our national heros.” I don’t mind that this often makes me hungry for a BigMac.

I love when winter athletes fall and I love that my heart breaks afterward. If they’re American, I love that I experience unreasonable and prolonged disappointment. I love that Bob Costas and Maria Carillo are always ready with a shoulder to lean on. Generally, I’m just happy they’re back in my life for two weeks every two years. I really love when Maria Carillo does pieces on polar bears. You love it too.

I love Johnny Weir. Especially his reality show on the Sundance Channel. I love it when he wears fur and talks in Russian. You’re not Russian Johnny, you live in New Jersey. I still love how it makes me chuckle. I love the words that come out of Johnny’s mouth, “There are some things I keep sacred: my middle name, who I sleep with, and what kind of hand moisturizer I use.” I do not love that he finished 6th. Takahashi fell, which I loved, but the judges didn’t reward Johnny’s winged artistry. I loved Johnny’s winged artistry.

I love Apolo Anton Ohno. I love that Bonnie Blair, Michael Phelps, and Evan Lysacek were there to watch him make history winning 7 medals. I love that he’s going on vacation with Shani Davis in March to celebrate. Famous people hanging out with famous people and becoming more famous, I love that too. I’m looking at you Evan and Olympic Gold Medal Gymnast Nastia Liukin. Seriously though, I love Apolo Anton Ohno. I love that Bob Costas has dropped the “Anton” and I haven’t. I love that at the age of 15 my friends and I took a bus downtown to welcome our hero home from Salt Lake City. I love that my sign probably read, “Ohno, OH YES!” I love that he won Dancing With The Stars, and I love that I still don’t, and never will watch that show.

I love America’s dominance. I love it everyday, but I specifically love it in relation to the winter Olympics. I love that we haven’t won the medal count since Lake Placid in the 1930’s but we’re killing it in Vancouver, 2010. I love winning in general. Therefore I love Bode Miller. You’re a star Bodie, party hard all you want. I love all our Alpine skiers. Are we Norway? I love how good we are this year at Alpine Skiing. I love how good we are at life.

Finally, I love that I have to stop writing this. Mary Carillo is doing a piece on training to be Mountie, and I love that.

Or I like to say that I am, and occasionally act in such a manner. The other day my good friend posted this about a solo trip to the movies. I was a little surprised. I personally savor alone time at Regal Cinemas. Am I the only one? How many of you would have joined me at the 11am Sunday showing of the Hangover last July? In hindsight, you’re very welcome for the non-invitation.

Today, after diligent research I discovered that 75% of my friends are unwilling or unable to attend the movies alone (survey size: 4). Like Dear Mr. Postman, do they find it lonely? Or like me, will they learn to appreciate the stolen moments of Vegas mayhem, fat pants, and large popcorn? I find myself, ultimately, uninterested. Movies are expensive, watch them online.

The real test of fierce independence I believe, is in a live performance. No, not a play, I don’t like to pay for my naps, I’m referring to a concert. When I was 20 I passed a pleasing evening with Carrie Underwood, Kenny Chesney, and Madison Square Garden. You’d be surprised how much hotter it gets when the sun goes down. Wednesday, it was just me and Lady Gaga.

Now, it’s no secret I think her music is awesome and find her skill as a performer, song-writer and fashion icon to be unmatched in pop music. I don’t know for sure where the inspiration for her creepy fingers in the Bad Romance video came from, but my thumb has been double-jointed since long before 2009. I’m not saying she picked it up from me at her NYE 2008 concert, but then again, I’m not saying she didn’t.

Full disclosure, I tried to get 6 tickets to her show at Radio City, but tweens, queens, and Donald Trump took over the Tickemaster site. It was a digital frenzy, like New England over-compensating dads before a Taylor Swift show. So, I grabbed one of the last single tickets, and sang Ga Ga Ooh La La, all the way to grand entrance.

As Dear Mr. Postman urges, “There is power in the knowing that it can be done.” I say, more power by making it super fun. If I know anything, it’s that poptastic stimulation is best complimented by, well, liquid stimulation. I prepped for Gaga with a few of my good friends Liz, Margarata #1, Amanda, and Margarita #2. Nothing like happy hour with the girls! I then waded through bleached blond, unitard wearing hipsters, and trashed high school seniors to my seat. The house lights went off, Dancing in the Dark, went on, and I was not just seeing a concert all by myself, I was enjoying it. Like, 14 year old Kristen screaming at ‘Nsync’s No Strings Attached Tour, enjoying it.

I danced, I sang, I danced and I danced some more. I looked like 30 Rock’s Liz Lemon meets Britney Spears meets French Stewart. I looked magnificent. A co-worker who recently went to the Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Fame concert by herself gushed that it was such a freeing experience. She danced, she admitted, like no one was watching. Alone in a crowd of 6,000, I did the same. But, then again… I always do.

In the words of the incomparable Gaga, “I’m a free bitch, baby.”