I am not good at goodbyes. I don’t mean saying goodbye at the end of a conversation, or at the end of a lunch date. I’m talking about goodbye, I’m not going to see you for a long time types of goodbyes.

I think this stems from my mother and paternal grandmother. Ever since we were young, every time we’d visit my grandma she would get all teary eyed at saying goodbye to us at the end of the trip, as if it were the last time she would be seeing us.

My mother on the other hand, showed us she was sad we were leaving by provoking fights so that we’d be yelling at each other as I drove down the driveway, headed off to college. (she’s gotten better about this, we’ve had words) The tension making the goodbye that much easier to bear–we couldn’t wait to get away from each other!

Unfortunately I’ve inherited both these traits of saying goodbye. With The Ex I would often get upset at the end of long weekends together, despite knowing I’d probably seeing him the next weekend or the weekend after that. The tears would flow or we’d start fighting. It was a vicious cycle.

More often than not, its the waterworks that occur. You would think after so many moves, so many goodbyes, I’d be hardened to it by now. But every time I have to say goodbye to someone, my eyes start welling up and I have to end it quickly before I break down and cause a scene.

I said my first goodbye last night, and it wasn’t even to anyone major. It was my coworkers boyfriend, whom I’ve hung out with on several occasions while we are all out socially. I didn’t get upset, per se, but ever since the selection of a new roommate has begun and the whole process has gotten more real, I’ve begun to realize that I’m leaving. I’m going to have to say goodbyes to all of my nearest and dearest friends.

Everyone keeps mentioning my going away party, asking me when its going to be, where I’m going to have it. I don’t even want to think about it! I just know I’m going to have to sneak out when no ones looking, to keep myself from crying all over everyone because I’m leaving and have to say goodbyes (or see you laters) and I’m horrible at them.

Last night after saying goodbye to my friends, I went out with D for farewell drinks. We went to a bar he knew, had wine, cheese and assorted meats and talked about my life plans and where I was going. It was going fine until the threesome next to us asked if we were on a date, to which both of us responded no we’re just friends (he threw in good friends for added effect, maybe) and found out one of the guys wanted to hit on me, despite having a girlfriend.

Then D got quiet and started looking at me. Immediately I sensed something was coming, I thought don’t you dare, you bastard.

He started talking how upset he had been when he found out I was leaving, how he didn’t realize how much he cared about me until he got that email. I didn’t know what to say, I just kind of stared at him and eventually the conversation veered elsewhere. When we got into the car though and he parked in front of my apartment, it really came out then.

He pulled me into a hug and told me that he really didn’t want me to go, that he will miss me so much and that he cares so much for me. (Oh yeah? Where was that a year ago?!) That he didn’t want to say goodbye.

And then he kissed me. I’m not going to lie, I enjoyed the make-out session we had but my head is spinning and I’m like wtf why does he fuck with my head so much? There’s obviously something that keeps us rotating in orbit around each other in this constant like and dislike pattern. I don’t understand why we are so drawn to each other, even when we hurt each other so badly. But it is what it is and nothing will come of it because I’m smarter now (and am also leaving). So what does  kissing hurt?

I just know that saying goodbye is going to be that much harder.

What a weekend.

I even had pictures of said weekend but like the idiot that I am, I left my camera at home and therefore cannot share them with you.

So. Friday Jess, Wifey and I spent a day at the museum, going to the American Museum of Natural History. We pondered where they got the animals from (then learned that they use molds and put their skins over them. I don’t know which is more disturbing…stuffed real animals, or this…), realized tigers–even while snarling–are so adorable and make you want to pinch their fluffy little cheeks, decided we were going to redesign the ocean life exhibit, played among the dinosaurs and just overall had a good time. We ended our afternoon walking down fifth avenue after going to lunch at a pub where we basically served ourselves. Jess totally deserved a cut of the tips since our waiter stayed behind the counter THE ENTIRE TIME and we had to go to him to get our water refilled, to get our check and to get him to take away our plates.

What happened to good service???

Saturday and Sunday were a blur. I got to meet the hilariously fun Maxie and Cavy for massive amounts of drinks (after drinking Margaritas with P$ and Wifey at the Bone Lick. Personally, I think it should be called Bone Licker) before finding myself roaming the streets with a to-go container full of raspberry beer and stumbling drunkenly into my apartment.

We can all say that was a goooood night.

I then followed up that evening with a pile of grease to cure my hangover from Ellen’s Stardust Cafe, my favorite diner in NYC that I have been going to since back in high school with my parents. The waiters sing broadway hits so its like dinner and a show. Went out for drinks last night with Max, got angry with him for inviting his entourage to my going away party (the two guy friends of his that I’ve hooked up with. Awkward!) and drank my weight in vodka sodas.

You would think I’d learn my lesson.

Despite being tipsy, I stayed up late to finish Memoirs of a Geisha. Project Finish All My Books is going along nicely, however I still have 12 more to go. Fuck me.

Next up? The Jane Austen Book Club.

Now I must return to the extraordinairily dull task of looking at my computer screen blankly and hope my building doesn’t fall down. (at least, not while i’m in it) The construction next door is blowing up the foundation and the closer it gets to my building, the more my building shakes, sways and feels on the verge of collapsing. Its especially fun when your chair gets air during one particularly bad blast.

In between holding on to the desk for dear life when the alarm sounds pre-blast, I’m looking at pet adoption websites because Ashley wants a puppy. Three million things need to happen before I get a puppy though, such as move, get a job, get a house, furnish said house, save some money….oh its too much to think about. Can everything just fall into my lap when I get back from Europe? That’d be greatly appreciated.

Another bit of random news? I’m wearing a mostly white dress, with dark blue underwear. I’m pretty sure you can see through my dress. I’m all sorts of FAIL today aren’t I?

And with that, I wish you a happy monday.

I don’t remember the first time I heard a Michael Jackson song, but I do remember my brothers first time seeing him. It was the super bowl that he performed Heal the World and everyone held up their seats with the artwork on the background. My fathers company had sponsored this apparently. Anyway, my brother saw MJ, with his long hair, and said in front of the whole Super Bowl party currently going on in my parents living room, “Michael is a funny name for a girl.”

I don’t remember the first time I heard his music, but I know his music was part of my growing up, part of my teenage years and his music always makes its way into my iPod playlists. The man was so so talented and while his personal life was a little more than fucked up, Michael Jackson, the entertainer, was a genius with music and with dance and his sudden death is pretty sad.

But I don’t know him, nor do I know Farrah Fawcett, who also passed away yesterday. While it is sad that I will never see MJ in concert, its not like I’d be seeing the MJ from the 80s, when he was on top of the world. The thing that gets me weepy though, was watching the 20/20 special on Farrah Fawcett.

Listening to Ryan O’Neill talk about her and how much in love he was with her, how he would visit her every single day and it didn’t matter if she woke up or not, just being with her was all that mattered. That kind of love and devotion is heartbreaking. I’m never good with seeing other people suffer, with seeing people so in love with someone they lost that they just can’t bear the pain. That? Breaks my own heart. (You should see me during movies. Crying. Like. A. Baby.)

We lost two icons yesterday, and one icon at the beginning of the week. I guess what they say is true–these kind of things come in threes. RIP Ed, Farrah and Michael.

For your enjoyment, my personal favorite MJ song from when I was younger:

I’m over at the wonderful Lily’s today writing about my impending trip and how I got there. I highly suggest adding Lily to your reader, after reading my post of course

Now I’m going to sulk about missing yet ANOTHER awesome blogger meetup (this one being the 20SB Meetup.) NEXT YEAR I will be attending all of them, cross my heart!

I’m having to really downsize on all my things now that I’m taking off for foreign countries and getting rid of my NYC ties. In some ways this is a good thing, means a fresh start and a simplification of my pretty cluttered life.

It also means that I have to say goodbye to many things that have meaning to me. Clothes are one thing, those can be replaced and some are out of season, a lot just don’t fit me and I’m clinging to them hoping I’ll once again fit in them. I have a feeling I won’t be too sad to go shopping for a new wardrobe once I get a paycheck to start doing so. (Although I better hope I move somewhere that doesn’t have a winter because I gave away that season’s wardrobe like I was going to the Sahara) Then there are the shoes, a little bit of a harder sell for me, along with my purses. Again, all seemingly materialistic and replaceable.

I’m abandoning my furniture, my artwork, my printer, my TV and other bits and pieces of what I have accumulated over the years.

One thing thats harder for me to part with are the books. I have countless books–fiction, non-fiction, interior design and architecture books, cookbooks and technical books I gained throughout my years at FIT. The design books are heavy, expensive things filled with either pretty pictures or helpful hints or technical information I hold onto hoping that I’ll one day be able to use the information between the hard covers. I don’t want to get rid of these, they are my source of inspiration and the last remaining flame in my burnt out passion for interior design.

Then there are the twelve books on my bookshelf that I have yet to read, that I know I won’t be able to finish in the next 6 weeks because I am the slowest effing reader EVER. There are the books I have read, some of which are my favorites. I can’t possibly part with those can I?

These books are in competition though with my keepsakes–my photograph books, my pictures in pretty frames, the cards that I’ve saved that people have sent me, the little odds and ends like concert ticket stubs and postcards people have sent me. The framed pictures my parents got me of NYC when I first moved down here.

All competing for space in a few small boxes and two suitcases.

I always get asked what are three things you couldn’t live without. I always answer either friends, family and chocolate, or laptop, camera and my iPod. Luckily these are all portable and small enough to fit in my bags going to Europe with me.

What are three things you couldn’t live without?

When I was younger I was a troublemaker. (Shocking!) More than that, I was a brat. I would scream, shout and pitch a fit whenever I thought it necessary, which was apparently all the time. I don’t know how my mother dealt with me, especially in the teenage years.

At first punishment was being put in the corner in a “time out.” My brother and I would both be positioned at opposite corners of the dining room, facing into the corner away from each other. It rarely was ever just me, or just my brother, who were in trouble and the entire time we were in time out we were either sulking, throwing things at each other or giggling. Time outs rarely worked for us. Ironically, I can only remember the punishments; I never remember what I actually did.

One thing about my father is that he is very handy around the house; he’s redone bathrooms, finished basements, rewired rooms to put in ceiling fans and new lights, and built us swing sets without following directions. When we got older, I was probably at least 10 or so, he started a new trend in punishment. Instead of getting put in a chair facing the corner, we would get sent to our rooms, which would seem fine since I had a bajillion books and toys to play with, except he would take the door off.

Thats right, he would take the door completely off its hinge. This meant no privacy, no hiding behind doors so that the parents couldn’t see what we were up to. He would take it off for DAYS, depending on how bad we had been and how loudly we had slammed the door behind us on our way upstairs to serve our punishment.

Let me tell ya, when you are a preteen girl this punishment is the worst. (And not only because my posters of JTT and Devon Sawa were on the back of my door and i’d have to go without them for days) My brother could freely wander in, I didn’t feel like my diaries were well protected anymore-that my mom could just walk in and read them. (Not that she couldn’t anyway) My life was on display with that door gone.

It only worked in one house though and luckily, we moved away from that house when I was 13. From then on I lived in rooms that had hallways, or doors with antique hinges my father wouldn’t dare touch for fear of breaking. Ever since, I have valued my privacy, valued what a door can do to keep me seperated from other people. In college I loved having my door open so that my friends could wander in and out, so that new people walking down the hallway could say hi. But when I wanted to be alone, I could shut the door and people would have to knock before entering, I didn’t have to be bothered if I didn’t want to.

This is one of those random memories I had, unsure of what triggered it but for some reason I just remember watching my father in complete anger take down my door, saying something about how a lesson needed to be learned and it was going to be accomplished without a door.

I’m going to need to learn how to unhinge doors so that I can pull this punishment trick on my kids.

What kinds of creative punishment did you have to go through when you were a kid?

We’re having a big NYC/East Coast meet up, one that will rival Chicago’s fabulous meet ups (teehee)  at some point in July or August.  If you are not or do not want to be part of the NYC meetup, then just ignore this This poll is to help us figure out what weekend works best, since we have about 20 million emails going around, and like someone said–its like herding cats.

Not that we’re cats. Just sayin’.

So vote below as to which you think it should be, and only vote for one date please. I can’t figure out how to lock it to not be multiple choice.

I decided to participate in this months  20SB’s Looking Back Blog Carnival, a) it was so fun to do this and b) Ben & Jerry’s is awarding free ice cream to lucky bloggers and readers!

We were asked, in short, to go back to the first two months of our blogs and pull out a post to share with everyone. I had so much fun looking through the early archives, before anyone actually read my blog, especially because those were the last two months of my stint at Hotel Hell. Below is the blog post I chose, originally posted on August 13, 2007.

“Le Freak Out”

To set the scene….the latin lover and me were lying in bed after a rather fun session watching Die Hard With a Vengeance realizing that this was probably one of, if not the, last night we’d be in such a compromising position without being caught. Things were going well, i was enjoying the fact that he actually was cuddling with me rather than running out the door and making me feel alittle slutty.

Suddenly out of NOWHERE he starts asking me my view on prochoice and abortion! And to top it off he goes to me: “If you ever were, you know, pregnant, call me. I may be a jerk and be like what the fuck are we going to do?! but i mean call me.”

Where the hell did that come from?!

Theres a variety of options as to why he could have possibly thought of this:

-While Bruce and Samuel L Jackson were beating the shit out of the guys on the boat he must have mistaken the bad guys as baby fetuses.

-He thought Bruce was looking a little preggo.

-This was his way of confirming the fact that yes, i’ve gained weight this summer off of fried shit and soda.

Other than that I can’t really explain why, after having sex, you would talk about pregnancy!? ESPECIALLY with the fling ending in a week and a half. Talk about freaaaaaky.

So that led me to get very drunk at the bar, flirt with another guy while listening to Winston and Tim jam and ended up kissing said guy. Talk about slutty. Luckily I was in the dark of the yard in the back of the restaurant when said kiss happened so rumors aren’t circulating. Sadly, he wasn’t as good of a kisser as the latin lover. Which is too bad because hes cute and actually lives in Manhattan.

Not that that would stop me from seeing him again.

I’m so getting myself into trouble this summer. We were discussing at the bar my lush tendencies, which is quite ironic seeing how i was sitting in a bar when we were having this conversation. We reminisced over my exorcism of room 128 (i do work at Hotel Hell) after having way too many glasses of heroin–i mean heron–and my nights of baileys, the crack (yes we name our wine after drugs) and martinis. And how i live at that friggin bar.

Hi, my name is Ashley, and I lived in Montauk all summer.

If you follow me on Twitter, you’ve probably unfollowed me by now due to my incessant complaining about the weather in NYC. (PS You should totally follow me at @Ashley54)

If you live in a cave and/or have been ignoring my tweets, the weather in NYC has driven my fellow New Yorkers and I into a state of “Rain Rage.” For most of the month of June it has rained, even on days they promised sun the clouds opened up and unleashed their fury. On June 20th the weather man said that it had rained 16 out of the 20 days. WTF, Mother Nature. That’s only FOUR DAYS of sun.

I wake up in the morning and snarl at the gray clouds, the constant drip drip drip of the rain against my window doesn’t sooth my already frazzled nerves, it just agitates them more. By the time I break out my umbrella, which is constantly in my bag, I’m already in a foul disposition and no one better stand in my way.

How is this any different than a typical New Yorker’s usual disposition? Well for starters, New Yorkers are usually pretty pleasant in the summer, we need the sun to grow our friendliness. Without it, we become human sized Swamp Things eager for our next victim.

I wouldn’t want to mess with us either.

Its making my last couple months in NYC a living hell. Every morning I walk to work (as long as its not monsooning out. Last time it monsooned on me, Mother Nature had a good long laugh at my umbrella while soaking me to the bone. I was wet for 6 hours afterwards at work and that is not as comfortable as it sounds.) and  by the time I get to work I will inevitably have mud streaked up the backs of my legs. I’ve mastered the art of jumping over the lakes that have appeared (and haven’t left) the corners of all roads, however I am still in denial that I need rain boots.

Side note on the rain boots: Mine get stuck to my feet. As in, they suction cup themselves there and getting them off requires great feats of strength. My old roommate, Upstate, used to have to remove them for me. Once, he pulled me straight off the couch and didn’t even get the shoe off. Needless to say, I avoid my beautiful, houndstooth fabric and rubber rainboots like the plague.

I’m really ready to ditch the umbrella, stop wearing little camis and really dig into my summer dresses and enjoy a real, true summer. I’ll even take the humidity, just so I can soak up some sunshine.

A rep came in today to show us some of her products and was like “Its gorgeous out!” We got all excited that maybe it was sunny and we just missed it. “I mean its cloudy, but at least its not raining!”

Its sad that cloudy constitutes gorgeous at this point.

Where are you, summer?

Apparently I haven’t mentioned this on my blog before, but I feel it should–no, needs–to be touched upon.

I was talking to Peter before about how much I want some ice cream and since I’m doing a little graphic work for him, he should bring me some. He said I had to finish the work for him first (the nerve some people have!) and then he would spoon feed me ice cream, grapes, whatever I wanted, all while rubbing my feet.

I’m not gonna lie, Peter, but that may have made my skin crawl.

You see, These?

Digust me.

Not only other peoples feet–and you better believe I will have a beat down should you even come NEAR me with your feet–but my own as well. I’ve only gotten a pedicure done once and that was for a wedding I was in where I wore open toed shoes. I squirmed for half an hour before, the entire time I was getting my manicure, and then I practically flopped off the seat, so uncomfortable was I with this lady touching my feet.

That was the last time anyone has touched my feet and that was….a year ago.

The Ex used to chase me around the house trying to torture me by either sticking his feet in my face or touching my own feet. I can guarantee you I will hate it more than if you raked me across the coals. I would screech like a little girl and run away each time he tried it.

Its not like my feet are disgusting, they’re  clean and my toe nails are normal, and I don’t have any weird…growths or whatever. They look like your average feet. I just think feet, in general, are dirty, disgusting, things. They are the closest things to the ground, which is dirty and germy and just…ew. There’s dog shit down there, people!

I’m not sure where this hatred for feet came from; I can’t pinpoint a specific time, or age, where I decided I loathed the foot. There were no instances on any playgrounds with some mean little boy or girl shoving their feet in my face for extended periods of time. There was no taunting of my own feet. I even adore shoes!

 The problem I have with my own feet is that they are terribly sensitive. They tend to blister very easily, even with the most comfortable shoes I’ve worn for years and years. I joke that I need to break my feet into my shoes, instead of the other way around.

So yes, my feet can be a little gross because of that. But that doesn’t explain why I hate everyone elses’ feet.

What peeves you out?