I think I’m perfectly capable of cooking a 7 course meal if I so chose; but I have a case of the “instant gratifications” and when I’m hungry, I want to eat, not cook. I also have this amazing and unfortunate indifference when it comes to variety…. I have no problem eating an omelette for dinner every.single.day.  I really don’t care if my food looks appetizing, hence, my “refrigerator stew,” where leftovers get thrown together in a pot to die. 

Usually, I just lie and say I’m a great cook when I’m trying to impress a date. Pretending to be cute and domestic works 90% percent of the time because no one really ever calls me out on it. This last time, I backed myself into a corner that I could only cook my way out of.  No ordering take-out and pretending I made it. This was the real deal and I needed help. 

I called my favorite guy friend (Hey Tom) known for being brutally honest asked what he would want if a girl was making dinner. “Steak and naked”. Yea ok. Thanks, Tom. I guess I’ll make steak. 

Then I called my brother, who actually can cook and asked for his favorite steak and potato recipe. I don’t really eat steak, I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like, but apparently men really love steak, so basically I had no choice.

I bought all the ingredients. I studied the recipe, I knew when and what temperature to preheat the oven to. I made a background music play list, I bought wine. I was overly prepared. 

What if it’s a disaster? What if he gets sick? What if he realizes I’m a phony and never calls again? What if I burn the apartment building down and I lose my favorite shoes?

All of these scenarios are smashing together in my head. Then I hear Tom’s voice say, “Steak and naked” and everything becomes so simple. I take off my pants.

I’m not sure if it was knowing that my date was distracted, or if maybe my adrenaline kicked in, but somehow cooking in my underwear was much easier than cooking in my clothes. 

I don’t think he really cared about the food. I’m also pretty sure he thinks I’m a complete lunatic. I’m not sure whether it was because I really am a good cook, or if I get super-powers from prancing around in my underwear; but I do know that the steak turned out to be delicious, and from now on, anything important will be done without pants.

So… that was Monday.

I’m back in the world of a waking up early, wearing a suit, working all day and going to happy hour. I love a steady paycheck and health insurance. I hate the florescent lighting and waking up early and wearing a suit and working all day.

I’ve been there long enough now that my co-workers are comfortable telling me how they really feel and I’m comfortable enough to make them feel that way, apparently. 

Monday’s are tough. Wednesday’s are tough. Friday’s are tough. I can deal with Tuesday and Thursday, but that’s about it. 

I’ve also realized that I don’t seem to get sick unless I’m working in an office all day, so it’s all really just an evil cycle. Funny how that works. 

This morning at the corner bodega, while I was picking out an orange for breakfast, the homeless guy next to me was stealing peaches. He would pick up two at a time, shove them into his plastic bag, and make the sign of the cross. He did this contradictory ritual 4 or 5 times, making sure to finish his invisible cross before moving on to the next two peaches. For some reason, I found this fascinating at 8am and just stood there and watched him. 

My first thought was, “Peaches… good choice, lots of vitamins.” You normally don’t see homeless people eating fruit. This guy wants to be healthy. If I was homeless, I’d probably want peaches too. Then I thought, “Obviously this guy doesn’t want to have to steal if he is so concerned with making crosses.”

Just then, Mr. Peach got caught, the bodega owner starts chasing him and he is hobbling as fast as he can down the sidewalk and I turn away to go and find some coffee because this is just too much action so early in the morning. I don’t know if he had to give his peaches back or not. I want to think he got away. 

For some reason I’ve been thinking about this episode all day. Even though you’re not supposed to steal, you’re also supposed to feed your neighbor or something like that. The homeless man apologized with his little crosses after his “sin”, did the bodega owner do any signs of the cross for not loving his neighbor? Probably not. So who’s really in the wrong here? Hmmm…..

I’m all settled into my new place and it feels a lot more like home than my last home ever did. So far, I wouldn’t say it’s been exactly easy, but it’s been amazing. I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve only been here a week. 

Most of my neighbors are old-head Jamaican gentlemen which I love. I feel like I gained a whole new set of grandfathers who sit on the stoop and spit wisdom on sunny afternoons…I’m lucky that they share some of their life lessons with me. After telling them my story and that I just moved here from Philly, my favorite new grandpa says;

“Sweetheart, the thing about living in New York is that you’ve got to learn to be in charge of your own breaks. The city won’t give them to you. You can never out-do anything here. You can try to outparty, outwork, outsmart New York, but the city will always win. Always.”

I feel like that’s some damn good wisdom for a girl that tends to go, go, go. If I’m gonna take advice from anyone, I’m thinking it should be from someone who knows a thing or two about a thing or two, and who better than a grandfather? Even if he isn’t really mine.