Place Your BID For a Night On The Town

Happy Anniversary to me. Today is the date that marks the first birthday of The A Train! 

In honor of this occasion, I feel I must return to the roots of this blog. When I first started out, I wasn't sure what this writing space would turn into and I've definitely been feeling it out week to week. But one of my original intentions was to share my New York experiences (the best things to see and do) with all of you. As you know, I keep my schedule tight here in the Big Apple. 

This past week, I managed to squeeze in some new finds!

In celebration of last week's short 2.5 work days, I felt it only appropriate to treat every night like I didn't have to show up at the office the next day. Monday night I trained down to Christopher Street to see my friend Liam Forde's show We're Having a Dinner Party at The Duplex. A bar that looks more like a giant Dollar Store with light-up letters spelling D-U-P-L-E-X in its six arched windows, I ventured inside this Village haunt after walking by it approximately 63 times. (I made that number up.)

The Duplex has a cozy little cabaret theater on the upper floor, just around the corner from the televisions blasting Ru Paul's Drag Race All Stars. It's one large in-your-face dose of theatrical love.

The theater seats about 70. The audience scrunched around those tiny wheel-like dinner theater tables, rubbing knees with strangers, just like in all of those episodes of Seinfeld and Sex and the City. Anywho, Liam and I grew up in West Hartford doing shows together and he has always been an incredible talent. I hadn't yet been able to make it to one of his shows. "No time like the present," I thought and marched in by myself to a front row nook.

Liam and his co-host of Dinner Party, Babs Rubenstein, brought down the house. Seriously, there is a reason this girl is headed off on the first national tour of Priscilla Queen of the Desert. Diva. (In a good way.) Not only did Liam sing, he accompanied Babs...and played while he sang...and arranged all the music in the show...and composed three of the original songs. I feel so unproductive. 

As much as I love theater on the Great White Way, I beg of you to go to a small little 'nothing' show of no-name emerging artists, in the tight cabaret space of a dingy cheesy bar. That ten dollar cover will buy you a night of sheer enjoyment and quality entertainment.

On the flip side, you can do what I did last night and listen to slightly established groups play their music for free as part of a festival. I went to Winter's Eve at Lincoln Square—a night of free jazz, food tastings and holiday glee. My friend Adam and I listened to the Hot Sardines play some New Orleans jazz, until it got too cold to stand still outside in November. 

Luckily, Adam had heard about the event in advance so we actually planned to go (unlike many of the neighborhood passersby who just stopped in for a few minutes).
But these sorts of events happen all the time in neighborhoods like yours! The easiest way to find out about them is to go to your hood's BID website (Business Improvement District). BIDs are the organizations that actively work to bring people traffic to specific  city communities in order to boost the economy of local businesses. One of the most famous is the Times Square Alliance. 

Check out the BID website where you live. You never know what might be going on. Or, if you live in the most uncool place and nothing is going on there, pick some of your favorite areas and visit their BID's site for a calendar of events. There is so much going on, there's no need to miss out—even if you do have to work 5 days this week.

The Cleanse

It's holiday time again, everyone! I am so stoked, I'm not even going to hide the fact that I already listened to some Glee Christmas Radio on Pandora last week.

One thing the holidays are good for aside from the obvious cheer and merriment: treats & eating. BUT, too much of a good thing is never a good thing.

For the past ten days, I've actually been on a cleanse. It started out just as a nutritional cleanse, using the Isagenix system, and has actually become a life cleanse (if that's even an expression).

Now before you all think that I've been fasting for ten days, or only drinking juices I've made from pounding fresh fruit to a pulp, or drinking molasses or something, calm down. I did a lot of research before taking the plunge and I chose a system that focuses on healthy eating and bulking up nutrition. In fact, my eating schedule has been so intense that I'm not sure I've consumed so often in a single day before this. Just check out my eating schedule here.

I decided to do this not so that I could lose weight (although I did lose a few extra pounds slash inches that did not need to reside on my mid-section), but rather for my digestive and overall health. Lately, I've been feeling lethargic and my mind has been bogged down—basically, I've been in a funk. Having completed ten days of my eleven day adventure, I can honestly say that I feel energized, lighter and healthier. In fact, if you're looking for something like this feel free to talk to me about it.

Yet, Thanksgiving is just two days away and there is no denying that I am gearing up for some delicious annual goodies. While I am for sure going to squeeze my way into the buffet line at dinner and grab a hunk of meat and a side of pie, I know that I feel better when I have a little bit of a good thing, rather than stuffing myself like a suitcase I'm taking on a three-month vacation.

I've written once before about taking care of your body, but holiday time is a precarious balance of allowing yourself to indulge without overdoing it. Eat sweets, but pay attention. You don't have to tie your hands to a chair in self-restraint, just watch your own choices. Thanksgiving is actually a great time to revamp habits—not just the eating kind.

Equally as important as treating your body nicely at this time of year: disencumbering your mind. Just get rid of all the mental baggage. For me, that meant unloading years of emotions that I had thought of, analyzed, processed, but had not said out loud to the person I needed to have hear them.

Say that things you have not yet said this year. If someone has hurt you, tell them. Don't lecture them or berate them, just confess it. If someone has helped you, tell them. Thank them for the support they have given you.

Ridding yourself of the emotions that pile up and feel like physical weight will make room for your thoughts. It will free up the energy you usually spend dwelling.

Speaking of revamping habits, I am actively revising the way I socialize in New York. Many of you know that I consider myself a Manhattanite through and through. I love this borough and I'm not sure that I could live in any of the other four. However, I've been here for (going on) seven years. Life is starting to feel routine and I want to jazz things up.

Just over a year ago, I had been living in Chelsea. Although I love that neighborhood and still use any excuse to go there, I felt isolated. I had no sense of community down there, no go-to group of friends. Every Thursday I scrambled from Friday night Shabbat dinner plans. Every Saturday afternoon, I had to work hard to invent a plan for that night.

Now, on the Upper West Side, I feel a sense of belonging. I have friends in my building and friends two blocks away, three blocks away, five blocks away. Basically, I live in a circumference of friends. There is almost always an invitation for a Friday night dinner and I have my girls who I can call regularly to ask, "What are we doing tonight?" This year, I am thankful for that. As amazing as it is to be able to depend on this, trust me I do NOT take this for granted, I do feel like I see the same people at the same type of parties week after week.

So in the interest of changing it up, I visited one of my closest friends down in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn over the weekend. My Brooklyn-dwelling friends seem to faint when I make it across the bridge.

The truth is, I have no problem going in to Brooklyn if a) I have a destination and b) if it's not going to cause me to get home ridiculously late on a school night. But, knowing that it's far, my Brooklynite friends often volunteer to meet in the middle of our two places, namely downtown Manhattan.

Well this weekend, I had time and ambition to venture out. I'm not averse to the subway system. So I offered to come to Brooklyn, and I ate the most delicious meal at Milk Bar. The Citrus Salad with grapefruit, onion and feta was tangy and refreshing and my bowl of homemade granola, Greek yogurt and poached pears dripped with flavor. Totally worth the extra travel time. But most importantly, it was a departure from my usual hangouts. Variety is the spice of life and I'm looking to turn up the heat.

After all, I started this blog as a way to help all of you experience the A+ things in life and of what this city has to offer. Milk Bar goes on that list this week.

This Thanksgiving marks the continuation of cleansing for me: cleansing my body, cleansing my brain, and cleansing my life of humdrum routine. 

So this holiday season, watch yourself and make choices that lead you down the A+ path.

Ar-GO: Where we are and where we go

Thinking back on this past week, it’s been tough to think about how to follow up last week’s post.

Do I rave about the unbelievable concert fundraiser at Lincoln Center I attended to hear a close friend perform? Do I tell you how I had an awesome time at my first trip to the Garden? (Yay tennis!) Do I confess that on Saturday I took a breather from racing from activity to activity and laid in my sweats watching movies for eight hours...and I’m proud of it?

While I could easily go on about how I now have Patrick Rafter and Pete Sampras’ signatures resting on my bookshelf, I’ll refrain.

Because Sunday night, I went to see Argo. Going to the movies—groundbreaking, I know. I had been excited to see the film since Ben’s bearded, stoic face hit previews everywhere. When he puts his name on something, I take it seriously. So, it was no surprise when everyone I knew was raving about the box office hit.

The movie itself is an incredible piece of drama, a showcase of subtly brilliant acting (thank you Ben Affleck, Bryan Cranston, Victor Garber, Alan Arkin, John Goodman, Scoot McNairy). But more importantly, it unearthed a story that desperately needs to be told.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel like people think our problems with Iran are new. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think the American population at large knows about the hostage situation of 1980 the way that every American should know. Or maybe I just don’t think people my age know about this cataclysmic event the way we should. 

I was never taught it in school. I was taught about the Soviets, World War II, Korea, Vietnam. Until this year when I read Lesley Stahl’s autobiography, Reporting Live, I had no clue that hundreds of American ambassadors had been held hostage for over a year in the Middle East. 

This is a MAJOR historical event and I had no idea prior to April of this year. If you knew prior to Argo, kudos to you. 

There are times when Hollywood leverages its mass appeal and reach in order to send a poignant message. In this case, GK Films educated the movie-going world about an international crisis that had been forgotten about (if it was ever remembered in the first place).

The scenes of Iranians bubbling with heated passion, rioting and protesting in the streets, the dangling bodies, the civilians clutching machine guns, caused terror to rise up within me. These Iranians hated Americans for being American. The pure loathing struck a fear that I felt in the pit of my stomach. What did we ever do? I really want to know. Why does that outspoken majority of that country hate us so much? Is it because they consider us immodest? Is it because of our diversity and (inadequate) attempt to create tolerance for this diversity?

I don't know the answer. But what’s more frightening than the question about our past is that not so much has changed in thirty years. There is more uncertainty and unrest than ever in the Middle East as the wave of the Arab Spring floods the region. There is still hate in the hearts of many. There is chanting. There is rioting.

At the end of the movie, I sat there crying in my seat. 

[SPOILER ALERT] 

It’s not a sad ending, by the way. I was crying because I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the ordeal that so many endured. Overwhelmed by the hate and the violence. Overwhelmed by the depth of anger so many Iranians felt and continue to feel. Overwhelmed by the fact that I grew up not knowing this story. Overwhelmed wondering how many more people do not know?

I knew that the hostages made it out. I knew because I knew the history. Or, as my friend put it, “You know they make it out because no one would make a movie about an impossible operation that did, in fact, fail.” More important than whether the hostages made it out alive or not, or whether CIA Agent Tony Mendez’s crazy idea actually worked, is the history. 

We forget our history. Consequentially, it repeats itself. 

We must pay closer attention. We cannot let ourselves off the hook. 

In the wake of the election, my grandfather asked if I was happy with the result. I told him, I’m happy with the dialogue the election created. I’m happy with how tuned in and aware the country seemed to be. 

I explained, “Just like people used to ask me if I was in favor of a Hitler-like dictator, Ahmadinejad, coming to speak on my campus during my undergrad, my response was: I do not support him in the slightest, but his presence created a dialogue. Before he was invited to come, I had no clue what was going on in Iran. Suddenly, I knew.”

Now that the election is over, we cannot just go back to existing as sleeper-citizens with regard to politics, or current events, or the past that has led us to where we are and where we go.

We must stay tuned in. We must pay attention to the world. 

While the sold-out crowd spilled out of the theater, I lingered in my seat. I felt like I couldn't leave the story behind and just walk out and go home and do laundry or something. I wanted to do something. I don't know what.

Perhaps uncovering more buried history is a good start.

New York Moment: The Aftermath

Think about your house...your apartment...your car.

Now think about every little thing that could possibly be inside. The cushiony couches (the things between those couch cushions). Your new giant-screen TV that you saved up for. Your laptop and the external harddrive you back up on for times like these. Your bills. Your bank records. Your passport. The photos sitting in boxes on the floor that you meant to put in albums. The button-down you wore to work yesterday. The dress that you wore last year. Your favorite pair of leather boots that have gone way past their prime, but you just can't give them up. The slippers worn so flat their memories are more warming than the nonexistent faux fur. Everything you have ever owned or touched.

Now throw it all out. To the curb.

Unsalvageable.

And while you're at it, you're going to have to rip up the flooring of wherever it is you live because salt and natural sewage have soaked it—that smell of fishy lake seeping into the place that used to be your oasis from the outside world. This used to be home, but now it's just a fetid shell. 

Welcome to Oceanside, Long Island, where I volunteered on Sunday with an organization know as JCorps. 

The aftermath of Superstorm Sandy. The only thing you could be more sick of hearing about is the election.

While the polls have closed and the decision is final, the suffering from Sandy lingers and the fate of its victims remains uncertain. 

The first broadcast showing houses smoldering knocked the wind out of me. Mother Nature's missiles had rained down on the Rockaways and the ground seethed in defeat. I think everyone watching was in shock.

I live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. So many people reached out to me in this past week to make sure I am ok, and I thank you all. But truth be told, I may as well have been in Colorado. My neighborhood survived virtually untouched as I watched the footage of damage in Hoboken, Tribeca, and Breezy Point. Extremely lucky.

You've all seen the pictures. And if you haven't, it's only because you're still in a power outage (because I refuse to believe that anyone with power and access to the outside world hasn't seen at least one photo).

You know the iconic images of 'our Katrina': The security camera photo of the PATH train in Hoboken; the bird's eye view of uptown Manhattan with power and downtown in blackness; the charred remains of Queens; the crushed neighborhoods of Staten Island.

But what you don't see are communities like Oceanside. Because the situation in Oceanside is not even one of the worst; and when you think of all that is going on there, and how it doesn't come close to these other apocalyptic visuals, you wonder how many other people fall outside of the ranks of "most devastated" yet still feel like their world is ending?

At the start of my volunteer day, I walked from house to house on Byrd Street asking residents what they needed needed. Supplies? Help emptying their teetering houses?

That's how I met Frannie*. She perched on her neighbor's front step, staring at her life now heaped on the front lawn. She sat frozen in her pilling sweater and stained Uggs and cried. Her husband is a diabetic. He only has a few days left of his medications. She lost her only son to cancer in January and now this storm smacked her down as water drowned his childhood bedroom. Not only does she have little left of her life, she has little left of his. Frannie needed someone to listen. She needed to know someone cared.

Since it was Sunday and the storm had exited stage left by Tuesday night, most residents already cleared out their houses. They had taken down decaying basement walls, disposed of their children's art projects. Standing on their porches, exhausted and grimy, they looked around glassy-eyed. No power. No heat. FEMA not coming fast enough. Their hands dangled at their sides as if to say Now what?

Now what?

Now we bear witness. We find the nooks and crannies of the east coast that were hit, but have not been helped. We send aid to them. We volunteer our time for them. We gather supplies. We clean out our closets to replace a fraction of what they have lost. If there is anything we can learn from our Noah's Ark, it is that we must be kind to each other.

We also must remember that this is a situation that will not clean up in a few days or a even a few weeks. Our efforts must remain strong over the long haul in order for New Yorkers to earn the label "resilient."

Seeing New York in the shape that it was last week...I was simply sad. I looked around at a city I have loved and admired all of my life—where I have lived for six years—and could not believe the state of ruin. The untouchable center of the universe had been knocked down. I just wanted to cry.

Five days later at the end of my volunteer day, I could not feel anything. I didn't feel like crying or smiling. I wasn't proud or guilty. I was spent. 

Both humbling and devastating, Sandy was a tour de force that readjusted our perspectives as she reminded us all that we are not invincible. I hope we can maintain this adjusted perspective while recuperating from the storm. 

Today I think of the New York Moments during Sandy: The way time stopped when the subways halted; the way uptowners hosted downtowners to keep them warm (and hurricane-partying); the way people gathered to help each other. The damage will take a long time to repair, but if we work to lift each other up we will rebound unlike any other city.

To volunteer:
nycservice.org
JCorps.org
Feel free to add websites and notices for other opportunities in the comments below.

Fear of Missing Out

More often referred to nowadays as FOMO (bulldozing language along with YOLO), the fear of missing out seems to possess my friends. And, if we’re being honest, it was my second greatest fear until about eight weeks ago. (My first greatest fear was making a mistake, which led to a huge void in decision-making skills.) Moving on.

I remember as a kid, I eavesdropped on all of my mother’s phone calls—not wanting to miss a single detail.

As a teenager, I fought the weights of my eyelids to stay awake until my parents’ nocturnal friends finally called it a night. College: I pushed myself to go out, stay up and watch the group movie, rage at the after-party, just so I wouldn’t miss anything. I would be present for all of the important stuff, damnit. All of the fun.

So what changed eight weeks ago? If you remember, eight weeks ago it was still summer time. My summer was packed to the brim with weekends away. If you've been reading, many of those weekends away were not spontaneous summer getaways. They were weekends in CT for family events, trips to New Hampshire to see a show. Obligations. Weekends that started as duties, but turned out to be total pleasures.

My first weekend away, I was sad to miss a night out in the city with my friends. But by the last weekend, I looked back and realized how many amazing memories I had made this summer. From Father’s Day and a bridal shower to the subsequent wedding and the production of Hairspray in Connecticut; from the family weekend on Lake Winnipesaukee for All Shook Up to the solo weekend in New Hampshire for the Broadway triumph A Chorus Line; I had a singularly incredibly summer. So who knows what I missed here? And quite frankly, if I was having fun where I was...who cares?

That’s the thing. If you are doing what YOU want and what pleases YOU, you cannot regret what you are missing that EVERYONE ELSE is doing. 

Over Simchat Torah (the Jewish holiday I spent on the UWS), I was unable to go downtown to my good friend’s party. I do not take the subway in observance of the holiday, and it was just too far a walk. So I missed her party. Of course, I was bummed not to be celebrating with my good friends. 

But later on in the night (that I would have been downtown) I bumped into someone, “Hey, why aren’t you downtown? You’re missing the party!” Without hesitation I responded, “The party is wherever I am.”

That reads really cocky when I type it. All I mean to say is, I can no longer worry about the fun other people are having. I'm done with the pressure and the stress over fun. It's supposed to be fun. 

Choose the place you think you’ll have the most fun. If that means staying in and watching a movie, instead of going to a bar with seven girlfriends, then that is where YOUR party is. 

I do my best to live by this new theory, but sometimes curiosity kills the night.

Another night of that same holiday, I ended up in a group of about eight girls. We were all excited for the evening, but naturally each of us had at least one stop we wanted to make in the night. The night was a string of entrances and exits. “Checking out places.” We never truly settled anywhere. We were so afraid of missing out and finding the fun, we didn’t make our own fun. 

FOMO is just that...a fear. Conquer your fear not by forcing yourself to go out when you want to stay in or trying to please everyone by going to three parties in one night. Make a decision about where you want to be. What will be fun for YOU tonight? 

Make your decision. Sit with it. Enjoy it. After all, you will always be missing out on something. Best not to worry about the fun you're not a part of and make the most of where you are.

Ditch the FOMO. After all, YOLO.

The Happiness Box

It’s been a little while since I’ve written. Two weeks to be exact. But it has been an important and eventful two weeks. For starters I am officially in my mid-twenties now. Older, yes. Wiser, hopefully.

The actual date of my birth this year happened to land on a Jewish holiday known as Sukkot. 

I know, I know. The holidays. The Jewishness. I promise that even though I’m about to jack yet another lesson from a rabbi, this is actually not about Judaism. 

It’s about a children’s book.

For back story purposes: Sukkot is a holiday that lasts a week and comes after Yom Kippur. It’s the occasion for all of those random huts popping up all over Brooklyn and Forest Hills, Queens. It is supposed to be a week of celebration for the harvest after the reflection (also known as harrowing hunger and thirst) that is Kippur. So...happiness. Got it.

Well on my birthday, a gifted young rabbi at Beth Torah in Flatbush, Brooklyn—I know, it can’t get much more Jewish—talked to us about the children’s story The Happiness Box. [Note: I have not been able to locate said book, but this is how the sermon was told.] 

As the story goes there is a little boy who is pessimistic and cynical and has a terrible outlook on life. (They grow up so fast these days.) Everyone else gets presents, everyone else has what he does not. And when his dad buys his mom a washing machine, that is the last straw (in my uncle’s retelling of this sermon the gift was a washing machine...I don’t remember if this is accurate or not. Nevertheless...). The boy’s father says “But I did get you a gift. The gift is the box and inside of it you will be happy.” Well the boy starts to play inside the box and he loves the box. He is always happy when he is in the box. It’s his happy place. But when he packs for summer camp, the happiness box will not fit in his duffel. How will he ever be happy?

Somehow (through some rabbi-editing) the boy realizes that the happiness was in his mind all the time.

On Sukkot, we live our lives for seven days in our happiness boxes—those huts I mentioned that line Ocean Parkway. But after the holiday ends, it is our job to hold on to the happiness. Happiness is a mindset. It is not a place. It is not a thing. It is an active state of being.

During the service, Rabbi Tobias revealed the first three of seven steps to happiness—he reserved the next four for his after-shul class in hopes that people would stay later. Unfortunately, it appears that food makes people happier than the other four secrets to happiness. Anywho, the first three:

1. Happiness is a mindset. See above.
2. Learn to accept criticism. You will never become a better person if all you can do is accept praise. We must learn to accept and internalize criticism to become better people. Better versions of ourselves.
3. Be patient. Slow down. Don’t be that jerk that honks the horn at the car in front of you when the light has not yet turned green, just because you saw the light of the perpendicular traffic turn red. But more importantly, absorb life. Do not rush through it. Even the seemingly miserable parts have something to teach us.

Number two really hit home for me. I am terrible at accepting criticism. I admitted this out loud to myself for the first time on October 1. I think I’m good at it, but I’m not. I like being liked. I like being told that my work is good/valuable. I like being told I have a nice singing voice or my boots are “so cool, where did you get them?” 

For the record, I also work hard. I worked my butt off in school from the age of 5 through my college graduation. And I firmly believe that hard work does deserve praise—be it my own work or someone else’s. I am a people-pleaser by birth, and I labor to meet expectations. It’s hard when I fall short. 

I silently took note from my seat in the balcony to be better at this.

Well, I think G-d wanted to know if I was serious about that because not one week went by and my friend delivered some heavy criticism. 

We were in a cab together from the Lower East Side to the Upper West Side. Clearly, we had some time to kill. The topic of my blog (yes, this one you are reading) came up.

“So...what’s the goal of your blog, really?” he asked.

I went on to describe how my blog was born, that its intentions are loose, but basically: I want to answer questions for 20-somethings like myself that I encounter or struggle with, whether that question is “where should I go out to eat” or “what cool random thing is there to do in New York” or “why is being 20-something SO HARD?”

“Ok. Ok. I get it. But listen...I read it sometimes. And it’s like “oh I did this thing today” or whatever but....I want it to be better. I just...I think you can do better. I mean, are you really sitting down and taking the time or are you just like slapping it together?”

At first, I was taken aback. It was definitely jolting to be told hey I’m reading your stuff and it’s just not that good. In fact, it sounds lazy and slapdash. But instead of dismissing him or running out of the cab to go cry myself to sleep, I asked him “in what way?”

I really tried to listen hard to what he was saying. What was it that wasn’t speaking to him? How many others have tuned out? Have I been lazy?

And this is part of the reason for my hiatus. 

My #1 priority when I began this blog was to write and put out a solid post once a week. As the weeks continued on this goal evolved into just putting out a post once a week. 

But after hearing his criticism and accepting it, I believe I am better—and, slowly, my blog will be better—for having truly heard his feedback.

Being told you’re not good enough (or your work isn’t its best) is tough to take. But the alternative, not being told despite this being an issue, is worse.

Think about a time when you received criticism (aka definitively negative feedback). What was it? How did you handle it? Tell your story in the comments. 

After all, only by making yourself better will you earn your seat in the happiness box.

Keep young and musical

I'm starting to understand what people say when they tell you to enjoy being young. I think it's because I'm feeling young. Yes. On the eve of my 24th birthday, it occurs to me that I have learned in the past year how to keep young.

Yesterday I went to—what I would call—my second real concert ever, my seventh overall. Spice girls was my first concert ever at the Meadows in fourth grade. Backstreet boys came next in middle school. My then-boyfriend took me to Dave Matthews Band junior year; I was so freaked in the midst of all the drunk high schoolers on the lawn I didn't  even realize I was at a concert. (This I consider the real concert, because it was outdoors on a lawn full of music fans high as kites.) I saw Frankie Valli and the four seasons once and Billy Joel twice. So concert-going experience level = novice. 

But I was invited to go to the Global Citizen Concert in Central Park sponsored by the Global Poverty Project. On the bill: The Black Keys, Foo Fighters, and Neil Young. 

A few of my friends won tickets through the online lotto, and we all went as a big group. Now I know why people love to go to concerts. 

I had such a blast. There I was, in Central Park with tens of thousands of music fans, dancing on the Great Lawn and jiving to some of the best bands in the world. 

Can I also just say that guitar players are sexy? The lead singer of The Black Keys was just too nice to look at. It's something about the crisp white tee and middle finger ring that just makes a girl sigh. 

But aside from admiring the band members, I also realized that rock and roll is kind of awesome. It turns out, this Broadway girl just loves good music of any genre. I could totally see myself rocking out to some Black Keyes at home. In fact, I think I'll buy a CD of theirs. 

But I digress. As I stood in the crowd, I noticed that a lot of my fellow groovers were parents who brought their kids with them. One guy—it was the cutest thing—bobbed his head to the beat in time with his toe-headed three-year-old. This guy, a dad and all, was still working it out at a concert and teaching his kid to love music. 

That's when it hit me: music keeps you young. There is something about it that feeds the soul. People have wedding songs and prom songs and "first kiss" songs because music holds a power to bring us back to the moment. Music is presence and nostalgia all in one. 

As further proof of this: I went to see Pitch Perfect as an early birthday treat with my friends Elena (who I sang with in college) and Rebecca. 

Go see this movie. It is hysterical and l laughed out loud at Rebel Wilson the full hour-and-a-half. While Elena and I cracked up at how all the a ca-politics were just childishly silly and terribly accurate, we were taken back to our college days. As a perk, the a capella arrangements had me jamming in my movie theater seat to song damn good music. Nostaligic and present.

Music. You feel it. You live it while it plays, but it also brings you back. Yesterday, jumping around at the Global Citizen Concert (whether to keep warm in the chilled night's air or to enjoy the music is anyone's guess) I thought to myself this is what it means to be young. This is what it is to enjoy New York and life. Then at the movie, I just sat there and swayed and grooved. I had nowhere to be but enjoying myself.

I was always a stressed out kid and my parents would say "Ruthie, just relax and have fun." It may have taken me 24 years, but I think I've learned how. 

Change is comin'

Last week I was home for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year. On day two, one of our former rabbis delivered the sermon.

Rabbi Lazowski taught that shanah does not only mean “year” in Hebrew, (rosh being head, so head of the year) shanah also means “change.”

In what has been almost a year of writing this blog, I've done a lot of reflecting. I've done a lot of exploring. And now, I look back at the extensive life research I've done and work to draw some conclusions about where to go from here. As the new year kicks off, I’ve begun to truly think about what I want to change in myself, hopefully for the better.

Listening to the Rabbi speak, he spoke of change as a journey, "If we are not changing, we are not growing. And if we are not growing, we are not living." The old adage says that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but according to the thickly-accented words of this Holocaust survivor...sure you can. You can teach any dog who is willing; anyone who is still living.

Of course, you have to train this dog. Change does not happen over night. Rabbi urged us to set manageable goals—a philosophy my yoga instructor, Amanda, echoed in my Saturday night class. Don't expect yourself to go full throttle from the start. If you want to become more educated in religion, aim to study five minutes a day, not to read the Bible in a week. If you want to become more fit and focused, aim to come to yoga once a week for three months, not three times a week for one week. Ease into change.

Rabbi also warned that change is not always for the better. Sometimes you make a detour down the wrong path. He told the story of a married couple: A husband and wife got into an argument, screaming at each other, unable to compromise. The husband quipped, "You should have married a better man." The wife answered, "I did." 

Not all change is good change; it is up to each of us to choose our course wisely.

The most important thing I can change is to be more open-minded. If you know me, you know I've got opinions and I'm stubborn. Writers tend to be this way; we always have something to say. But more important than hearing the opinions of others, I hope to be more open-minded in situations.

I often have difficulty adjusting my mindset once I enter a situation. I remember in high school, I was in my AP Psych class—which was deemed the "easy AP." The kids in the class ran the gamut of intelligence. My peers who asked dumb questions (because dumb questions do exist) drove me insane. And if you asked a dumb question, the next time I spoke to you, I was bound to just think you were dumb and probably keep the conversation super short. Rather than give the benefit of the doubt that my classmate just "had a moment" or that she could be smart in other areas of life, but lack common sense, I judged her. I would not amend that judgement. I reacted based on that judgment.

That's pretty horrible. To be so inflexible in my impressions of people AND to behave towards them based on that stiff opinion? This is what I need to change.

As Yom Kippur approaches with each click of the clock, I ready myself to delve into deep reflection and to emerge ready to take on a path towards change. 

I don't care if you're Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Sikh, atheist, agnostic, or what the hell you believe. Introspection is always difficult, but always important, and always worth it.

So while the Jews of the world prepare to fast, atone, reflect, apologize, forgive, and ultimately, change, I hope that you will also gradually aim to be better.

New York Moment: Odd Jobs

New York City is home to the greatest eclectic array of people in the world. I feel comfortable stating that as fact. It’s more than the size of New York—the city of 8 million people. After all, you never hear anyone ramble on about how much they love Shanghai even though it holds the largest population in the world—clocking in at over 23 million.  

It's more than the skyline, or even the food.

There is a reason why everyone comes here and immediately considers which I <3 NY shirt to buy. 

I’m convinced that it has something to do with the crazy spectrum of person New Yorkers lie on. There are bums buried beneath bags of Coke cans; actors working three jobs (sometimes none of which are acting); recent college grads wandering the streets trying to find purpose; high-power executives jabbering to themselves on their Bluetooths; random celebrities blending in. We all use the same subway. We all walk the same streets. It’s insane how such different people exist in the same environment.

Thanks to the these harrowing gaps in New York society, there is a strange surplus of odd jobs and a city's population of people to fill them. It’s not that there aren’t odd jobs in other cities. What feels different about New York is the variation in the type of task and the elevated demand for people to fill these stints. My grandpa used to joke that I would never be poor, because I could always find a random way to make a buck. 

But this isn't just about the extra dough. The unique aspect of a New York odd job is the opportunity to make connections.  After all, I do know someone who ended up as a runway model in Isaac Mizrahi's Fashion Week 2011 show just because he tended bar at the right person's swank apartment.

Well last week, I achieved a new high of fitting odd jobs into spare time. While working my daily 9-5ish awesome day-gig, after work I filled my week waitressing a private dinner party, a freelance writing project, and babysitting.

I never worked for a caterer. I never held a job at a bar or in a restaurant. But the colleague of a friend of mine was hosting a Tuesday night dinner party at her schmancy apartment and needed some young blood to do the heavy lifting (or in this case the light lifting of wine bottles and the heavy washing of a seemingly endless parade of dishes). While some extra cash is always handy, I actually signed up to be cocktail-waitress-for-a-night because there were bound to be some pretty important media moguls in the room and I wanted to meet them.

The guest list is what made this party so New York. You might get asked to bartend some couple’s 50th wedding anniversary in Massachusetts, but I highly doubt that one dozen CEOs of notable companies like HBO and the like will be in attendance. So, as the upper echelon discussed the upcoming election and the fate of our nation, I served gazpacho and refilled their wine. 

I didn’t get a formal introduction, as the hostess had intended, but at least I tried (and I hope I made a positive impression on the hostess herself).

After that night, I definitely needed to recuperate. Warning: if you spend five hours on your feet serving food, worrying about spilling said food, and then drying dishes that held that food you will be absolutely exhausted. Don’t make big plans afterwards.

Wednesday evening (post cocktail-waitressing) I had packed with two events, both work-related, though not work. I attended a Campbell's event at the Met on behalf of Parents. There is a special Andy Warhol exhibition that just opened and I was invited to preview the art and taste new Campbell’s products. What goes better with Andy Warhol than tomato soup? 

My makeshift dinner-by-tasting was the precursor to my make-up’s night out at Fresh for an Urban Girl Squad event—the organization I blog for. I dabbled in face creams and lip gloss before spending my hard-earned cash (and more) at Loehmann's! With the Jewish holidays in full swing, I needed a wardrobe to match. And therein lies of the beauty of making extra money: no extra guilt.

Before heading home for Rosh Hashannah on Friday, I squeezed in another odd job Thursday night by visiting my second family. By visited, I mean babysat. I’ve been babysitting for the same family since my freshman year of college and they truly are family at this point. I hadn’t seen them in four months and I think I squeezed little Ellington for five minutes before I let go. 

The beauty of New York is that there are odd jobs galore. In fact, you could make a career of odd jobs and live a surprising, spontaneous life if you wanted. But more important than the money, are the opportunities and the people you meet. You never know if the woman whose child you tuck in at night will turn out to be your second mom and confidante. You never know if that woman you poured wine for will want you to star in her upcoming television series (I can dream, right?). 

You just never know.

The Dog Days Are Over

The weather cooled significantly this morning. All the little children are back to school. Rosh Hashannah (the Jewish New Year) hits in just one week. It seems that autumn is upon us and summer is making an exit.

Fall Fashion Week is here, all the New York publications have released their Fall Previews. It’s time we’ve face the inevitable and realize that the dog days of summer are over. I certainly lived it up this past weekend, in what seems like the final bout of summer warmth. At the same time, just because the weather is breezier doesn’t mean that our carefree, relaxed, fun-chasing attitudes should float away with the season.

This past weekend kicked off on Thursday—as all good weekends should. My friend Wesley and I went to see the new Channing Tatum movie 10 Years after I won the Urban Girl Squad contest for some free tickets. A cute little film about a ten-year high school reunion, the movie was nothing brilliant, but it was so fun! Wesley and I went to high school together. Although we were not really friends until undergrad, we had the best time laughing about who each character matched up to in our class and reminiscing over the shit-show that was our five-year reunion last Thanksgiving. Sometimes a movie is just more fun when you see it with the right person.

Friday night I went to a farewell Shabbat dinner for one of my friends who returned to Boston for her final year of law school yesterday—you may recall said friend from another recent post. The dinner was awesome. The food was incredible and we had a blast chatting around the dinner table of 12, in no rush to go anywhere. Some of my favorite times are meals in which you just sit at the table when you have nowhere else to be. The lack of pressure feels incredible and I can truly devote my time and attention to the people I am with. I call these instances, Morrie moments because in Tuesdays with Morrie, the title character emphasizes the importance of being fully present while you spend time with others.

For all you Jews out there, have a Shabbat meal with friends. If you’ve been on Birthright you can even host your meal for free through NEXT Shabbat. For those of you who aren’t Jewish, a meal is a meal. Go out to dinner and make no plans afterwards so that you can linger at your table. Host a home-cooked meal for you and some close friends.

The next day, Super Saturday began at 12pm. For those of you thinking, "Ummm there is nothing political that happens on a Saturday," you are right. Super Saturday is the day of the US Open when the tournament airs back-to-back Men’s Singles semifinals and top it off with the Women’s Singles Championship in primetime. I parked myself on the couch and watched an amazing match between Andy Murray and Tomas Berdych, before the second semifinal match and women’s final were tornado-ed out. That’s one I never thought I’d hear in New York. I mean, there is a reason why I don’t live in Nebraska. (Well, there are many.)

So instead of cozying up to watch my boy David Ferrer, I warmed up at yoga before getting ready for a night out. Mayanot Birthright (the trip organizer for my July Israel trip) hosted a reunion for all Mayanot trips at Lexicon. While I was hoping that a bunch of people from my trip would go, I ended up heading over by myself. My fellow birthrighter, Craig, met up with me later on. The DJ was playing great music, but no one likes to dance alone on the floor. So I walked up to this girl that was dancing in a group and asked if I could join. She was totally cool about it and I ended meeting some fun people at the party. The one thing I will say about the impending temperature decline: I do NOT look forward to coat checks and freezing my butt off on my way to a club before actually getting inside the always sweaty and overheated scene. I relished one of my last nights sans jacket.

But Sunday was the cherry on top. My girlfriends and I ventured to Atlantic Beach for MATCHBOOK’s Summer Olympics day on the water. The beach (as in all beaches) is amazing—and I won’t be back to one for a while. We dove into the water, which was so warm after a full summer of sun-heating, and jumped waves for hours. We started up an epic game of beach volleyball. I learned to throw a football. General romping around in the sand and smores roasting made for a phenomenal day. There were plenty of people at the event who sat on their beach chair, in clothes, and didn’t do much of anything. This is what separates the fun people from the not fun people.

Even though beach weather will bid us adieu quite soon, there is no reason to become one of the not fun people. There are still plenty of things to see and do even in a season that is not summer. Autumn brings apple-picking and pumpkin decorating, foliage hikes and mulled cider. Football season is back—I know how excited most of you are about that. Go to a game! Plan a weekend away in the woods!

If there is one thing I learned this summer, it’s that weekends away are so worthwhile. I used to fear missing out on activities in the city when I was gone. The truth is: if you had fun away, you didn’t miss anything.

I plan to live my year the way I lived my summer. After all, now that I’m not in school, one day pretty much looks the same as the next in terms of daily routine and scheduling. Why not live autumn as if it were summer? The dog days might be over, but there is certainly much to look forward to.