Field Notes 6.9.26

Today I woke up a mouth breather. I’m off work and off a Zyrtec, which I believe to be a false placebo of a drug. It seems my allergies actually heighten after taking one. Irregardless, I planned to enjoy my entire Friday outside, sniffling next to the girl reading her book and eventually losing my voice when I get to ordering a seasonal white later. Allergies are the final taxes I must pay to the cold, disappearing winter I suppose.

Last weekend I let my texts go unread and unanswered while I ran around town with my brother. We had the biggest weekend ever, supporting the arts and drinking like fish and talking shit. I find it hard to focus on anything other than the things in front of me. That sounds more “i’m so different” than I’d like it to. Really all it means is I operate extremely inefficiently and am always catching up, and maybe that I don’t have ADHD. I’m out of touch unless you’re in arm’s reach, that is until it all falls down. A terrible way to be for a person with a lot of long distance connections. To the tune of my best Steve Lacy impression… I look up at the ceiling as I draft my “I’m so sorry” text.

Pivoting back to what’s in front of me, last night I got recognized in the basement club by my hair cut. Earlier in the night my friend texted a Hinge guy saying she was hanging out with me. He sent her back a quote of my writing so fast it was as if he already had it pulled up. I had to read it twice to recognize it as my own. That was the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me, even if he was just trying to get closer to her.

Cooler even, while I waited for said friend, I sat with the Knicks game playing on my phone on the red checkered tablecloths of Fanelli Cafe whilst finishing the chapter I was on in Wuthering Heights. La di da da… what’s cooler than being cool? I’m starting to think I might actually live in New York now — busy, broke, recognized, and quoted. This must be what it feels like to be goated… Field Notes:

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Flight Risk

I just lost myself in a humiliating situation where I scanned my plane ticket to Miami to find that I was sitting in the wrong gate for the wrong flight to Miami, if one of its kind even exists. My flight had already left 30 minutes ago and it completely passed me by as I worked on a playlist under the assumption that I am always where I’m supposed to be. I haven’t gotten on a plane in 3 months, and dare I say I’m a little rusty at the airport.

The gate agent asked me to step to the side and before I could even conjure up a worst case scenario, she handed me a ticket onto the flight in front of me. As if my type B isn’t already showing, I walked on the plane with my printed ticket between my lips and schlepped my bag into an overhead bin with my underwear hanging out of my jeans. Residual hi-hats sung out from my new dumb and cheap JBL (gasp!) headphones while everyone in the vicinity turned their heads to look.

In a series of lucky girl events, however, I found myself in a full empty row with free WiFi, snapping a Biscoff cookie in half and bobbing my head on my laptop as if nothing ever happened. I am on the right flight, thank you very much.

The Best Boss In The World

While I tend to block out the imaginary audience who is reading my writing, I’m going to assume that some of you don’t know who Pep Guardiola is. Skipping over many a hyphenate and history, Pep was the manager of Manchester City for the last ten years. He’s credited with a huge impact on how we think about modern soccer. It’s real tactical shit for someone else’s blog, but the guy is a really big deal.

I bring him up because he just announced that he will not be returning to Man City after this Premier League season and it was all over my performative soccer fan feed. I spent some time reading about his career one day to discover that, brace yourselves, I see a twin in him. He’s from Spain, half-serious half-playful, a huge family guy, once a player and now a coach, the best boss in the world and… a Capricorn.

I read Erling Haaland’s (please don’t make me mansplain another athlete today) caption and had to note it down, almost like a manifestation. This is basically word for word how I expect my direct reports to write about me as I announce my eventual “stepping away” from corporate America. And then, rather than retire, I’ll come back even harder in a different league with a bigger bag, a book deal, and a Palace Skateboards collaboration.

If I’ve been here six years and am following his Man City formula… I’ve only got another… four? Can I make greatness feel normal in that timeframe and change the way my players see the game? I’m fired up.

Have I lost you yet? Name one genius that ain’t crazy. Name one girl that posts on the internet as much as me that isn’t just a little delusional.

Don’t Quit Your Day Job

In a mysteriously connected way as I was just pondering work, career, and retirement in the previous note, I took Monday off from work to travel back to the city from Miami. I was able to squeeze in a morning nail appointment with my mom before leaving, and my loyal readers will know I can’t write anything without mentioning her anyway.

We perused the hanging shelves of polish colors hunting for our big three: Cajun Shrimp, Funny Bunny, and Big Apple Red. Every once in a while, though, you have to go off script.

The bottom of a nail polish bottle is like a fortune cookie or tea bag. Some days the words resonate deep within your soul, changing trajectories and such, and others you’re like, “is this the english language?”

I pulled a bright pink bottle that read “I Quit My Day Job” and stared down at it for a bit. I hate this color, I thought, but is this supposed to be something more than a regretful choice? Who would I be if I didn’t dip my toe into an omen? I handed my fate over to the technician and watched her paint away with the magic potion.

Afterwards, my left big toe was unknowingly smudged into the roof of my ballet flats as I walked around Brickell, leaving a loud dent in the otherwise perfect pedicure. I didn’t have the heart to tell my mom, hanging my heavy head around the apartment while packing up my suitcase.

Not even two days later I was back home staring at my botched toe over my laptop, laying with my feet up writing an email for My Day Job. I wish this wasn’t symbolic to me. As it goes, the only two week notice I’m giving is the one for my next nail appointment.

Very Good For What It Is

I went on a movie spree recently watching American Hustle, Blue Velvet, and Pretty Woman three nights in a row. All great movies! One of my favorite things to do after watching a movie at home is inundate my loving, patient roommate with all the Letterboxd reviews I think are good, which must be like listening to someone read Tweets aloud.

While Pretty Woman did not age particularly well in Bechdel Test terms, shit, neither do my group chats. A review had perfectly described the movie as so: “This is very good. For what it is. Which is why you can’t judge it for what it’s not.”

Perhaps because it was sandwiched between film nerd dissertations about why this movie shouldn’t exist at all, it struck a nerve in me (read: triggered my Screenshot reflex) — the simplicity of knowing what something is and is not. What a generous insult! A forgotten phrase from my personal lexicon of indifference and battle-picking.

Not everything requires outrage, offense, or critique. Like a side salad or a window seat in the last row, more things should be thought of as good for what they are. From there we can, via forgiving judgments, keep calm and carry on. Imagine that!

Currently Listening

As the seasons made an abrupt change, something happened inside of me to make me want to listen to exclusively R&B music on repeat the past few days. This is kind of a big deal knowing a new Lucki album and 42 new Drake songs are not even a month old, but the heart wants what it wants.

I must put you, dear reader, on to this incredible album from 1998 called No Doubt by the girl group 702. There are no skips to be found in its 10 tracks and 45 minutes. Perhaps you are familiar with the most popular songs, Steelo (the key sample in Diplo’s hit On My Mind) and Get It Together, but every single song has struck a chord in me that makes me want to be a really good cook so that I can put this record on and make my nonexistent boyfriend a marry me chicken recipe.

I would never steer you wrong ‘cause I like your steelo.

If this conclusion feels rushed, it’s because it is. My to-do list is so long. I have to go. Picture me running out the door.

Un beso.