The Why Not Me? File

I have worked in New York for the past (2016 - 2012 = 4) 4 years, and I have yet to see a celebrity casually hanging out with his kids, on an awkward first date, buying shoes, or pushing my mom out of the way in an airport because his friend was pregnant and my mom was "crowding her space."

Yes, all of those sightings have happened... for my friends and family members. But not me. Why not me?

I have purposefully chosen the title of this blog because it's the title of Mindy Kaling's new book, "Why Not Me?" (I guess including the title there was unnecessary.) I feel a kinship with Mindy; we're so alike. Except for in minor ways, like our race, age, fame, career, net worth, height, and the fact that she gets to cast a suite of beautiful men to star alongside her in "The Mindy Project." But other than that, we're basically the same. I mean, we both posted on Instagram about ice skating last week, and I hardly ever go on Instagram. If you don't think that's a telling sign, then you better put on your glasses or stop driving.

My friends tell me it's a good thing I haven't seen a celebrity out in New York because I would only embarrass myself. First of all, I ask Nick Lachey to sign my name tag ONE TIME because I was the only girl not to bring a poster of him to "Good Morning America," and I'm labeled as embarrassing to all celebrities. I mean, I was 12, and quite frankly, I was trying to play it cool. That's what my older cousins' magazines told me to do, after all. Secondly, I would not embarrass myself; I don't even sweat! It just doesn’t happen. Ok, it happens when I play tennis. And when I play soccer. And when I bowl. And sometimes when I sleep. Ok, fine, I sweat a lot.

Not only am I without celebrity sightings, they seem to actually go out of their way to avoid me. My cousin saw Adam Levine and Ryan Gosling outside of her store, and after she called, I couldn't get there in time to see them. Carson Daily lives down the street from me with his family, and whenever I look inside his windows, he's not there. Mindy was in my co-working space, on the same floor as me - let me reiterate for emphasis: on the same floor as me - and I had no idea. How could that be? She is not a quiet womn...

She also showed up at my cousin's store, the Intermix in SoHo, and Daniellah saw her! Mindy purchased a pair of shoes, and Daniellah purposefully left one out of the box so Mindy would have to come back. She didn't come back which means she's rather hobble around with one shoe then see Daniellah again, and now I can never even achieve my dream of inviting Mindy to Shabbat dinner.

I suspect this all started when I was 8 years old. I ordered two autographs from Johnny Depp and Chad Michael Murray online (I must've somehow known to set the bar low), and two autographs arrived at my door in the same pen color... and in the same handwriting. The seller told me that Johnny and Chad were at the same celebrity convention, and I was desperate enough to believe him. Now knowing my luck in this category, I'm starting to have doubts...

To make myself feel better, after getting back from California, I would tell people I saw Cher's dog-walker (a.k.a a random woman walking a dog) and Tom Cruise's son (does he even have a son?).

In fact, the closest I got to a celebrity sighting was last night, when the Madison Square Garden Jumbotron announced that Liam Neeson was somewhere here, watching the Rangers game.

See him? Me neither.

Moral of the story? I won't feel validated until I meet a celebrity. Good thing there's one in my family: the famous international architect, Alex Tehranian. (Although how famous could he be if he's asking for a shoutout on my blog?) (Love you, Alex!)

The "Ice Skating Is Not All It's Cracked Up To Be - Pun Intended" File

Everyone needs an outlet to blow off steam after work. At work, I'm always focused: except maybe when I go to the bathroom to look in the mirror, watch the security footage with building staff, make coffee then throw it out and get Starbucks... what was I saying? Oh right: I'm always focused. But sometimes I need to just unwind after work, and take my mind off of a rough week. Which is why Mike and I decided to go ice skating this past Friday: we thought it was going to be super romantic...

It was not. But I won't decide that for you: instead, I'll paint you a picture of our date. We made our way to the ice skating rink, and waited on a 20-minute line. I know what you're thinking: 20 minutes to star gaze or stare into each other's eyes - how romantic. First off, it's NYC: there are no stars. And 20 minutes is entirely too long to stare into someone's eyes - or else they start to look like an alien.

After getting inside, we rented our boots and the staff suggested we put our shoes in a locker for an extra $8.00. We're not allowed to hold them while we ice skate (I asked), so we didn't have much of a choice. If you're thinking this is a ripoff, it's not! You can save that money if you simply bring your own lock. To our utter embarrassment, we did not bring our own locks - and I'll never forgive myself for that miss.

One of my ice skates was missing a hook to weave my shoelace around. Worried about my ankle, I look over and see that Mike's ice skate was missing all of the hooks except two. He didn't even need a shoelace. I made a mental note for next time: personal locks and ice skates needed.

We smiled, knowing we were both facing danger together, held hands and wobbled over to the ice. It was in the midst of being cleaned, so we waited another half hour. I used this time to try to jump over the seats with my boots like I saw other people doing: to make sure I would be up to par on the ice. I also used this time to eavesdrop on the pair behind us and try to figure out if they were a couple. Unfortunately, I couldn't crack the case. But if I were to guess, they were on a first date. Aw, they were basking in the same romance as us!

We got onto the ice, and let me just warn you right now: ice skating is NOT like riding a bicycle. Well, maybe it would be, if one of your wheels didn't have shoelaces. Our boots were really loose, and to balance, I held my hands out like I was flying. The ice was packed, so needless to say, I accidentally hit a few people. But, as I've always said, it's every man for himself in the rink.

But it wasn't the people who couldn't skate that got in my way. It was the people who could. You couldn't believe how many people were showing off on that ice. There were people twirling, people zigzagging, people doing flips... And they would just zip by you, like you weren't even there with your hands out, flying. To get a break, Mike and I would stop every so often at the wall, so we could try to recapture the romance of it all. The romance was hard to recapture when you had ice guards yelling at you to keep skating and ice viewers sitting next to the ice, awkwardly staring at you like you were part of a play. Well, I was not playing. This was serious business.

After four times around (I counted), Mike asked if my ankle was hurting and I used that as an excuse to fly out of there. In the end, I had a great time looking inadequate if front of my boyfriend - and he's still with me. I guess it is romantic, after all.

*Blogger's Note: Writing this was truly cathartic, and I'm considering re-naming my blog to, "Because this is cheaper than therapy."

Other names I'm considering are:

• Attempting the think before you speak fad
• "They say" is not a credible source, mom
• I may look confident, but I have no idea where I'm going
• Friends tell you the truth. Better friends lie
• My phone auto-corrects "I am" to "BMW," and other reasons I know I'm Persian
• The Hangover, Part 4

The Grey File

Wow, I haven't come across this blog in a while. Why return? In hopes to further my career. I won't lie to my loyal fans. On that note, my second motivation to return: after checking in here to reminisce on my college days, I found this blog has received almost 4K views. Who - in the world - is reading about my adventures to Burger King or about me getting yelled at by a 4'5" girl? Seriously, one post is solely about me getting bulled by a 4'5" girl...

To catch you up on the important aspects of my life (in no significant order):

1. I'm a Sr. Copywriter and Content Manager at a company I'm a partner in: [L]earned Media. (I also accept freelance work.) (Who put that there?)

2. I am still very close to my family, and now that number is even bigger. My cousin, Delilah, is married, and the rest of us almost all have significant others. Which brings me to number 3:

3.  I have a significant other. I know what you're thinking: after reading my past blog posts, how did this happen? Well first of all, you're a jerk for thinking that! Secondly, his name is Mike Martorella, he's great and blah blah, I've told you all about him, mom.

This is us. (I certainly did not choose the most flattering picture of the both of us, and how dare you for implying that.)

4. Mike and I have a dog together. And if you're one of the (too) many people who say that Mike has a dog that he let's me play with, I resent that! This is our clown:

And, you guessed it, this post is mainly going to be about Chompers! (Her actual name is Grey, but maybe if enough people start calling her Chompers, Mike will let me name her that.) At first, I was super into the idea. I wanted a dog ever since Tootsie, my adored previous dog, passed away. Many people think Mike got a dog for me - but after I see the way he acts with Grey, I'm fairly certain that is not true. I understand what a third wheel is now.

But after we rescued Grey from the North Shore Animal Shelter, I started having rescuer's remorse. If you're like me and are thinking, but how romantic is it to have a puppy with your boyfriend?!, get ready for a big surprise: this 5-month-old 28-pound puppy is a lot of responsibility. No - a lot. If you're a young couple thinking about getting a dog, let me enlighten you: it is work. 

After a full 12 hours of "getting used to her," I started resenting this puppy. She was getting a lot of attention from Mike. No - a lot. I mean, how dare she. You are not the only one that likes to snuggle, Grey. I started thinking that she tricked me at the Shelter because she wouldn't get off of my lap, pretending she was interested in me. Well, she's smart - I'll give her that. And what if we wanted to go to dinner? Grey just had to come. What a little whiner. I was not jealous. I was just fiercely protective of my relationship with Mike that she was clearly infringing upon.

(Evidence of her trickery.)

But now, after watching her pick fights with Great Danes, chase down pigeons, jump on every stranger she meets, and her admirable unwavering love of construction tape, I absolutely adore here.

She's adorable,

playful,

strong-willed,

and she craves human contact. When she is chewing one of her toys, she has to play with it in our laps. And when she spends a lot of time in one of our laps, she will switch to the other to give us equal attention.

In sum, it probably isn't the best idea to get a dog if you have been dating someone for 6 months (at the time). But if you do, you may end up with a lovable nut like this...

The Where Oh Where in the World is BK? File

Hi all! (If the number is even plural.)


I haven't blogged in a while, but I had extra motivation this time. Not only do I love blogging, but the only form of interaction Nicole Ciabocci and I have is when I blog - she won't communicate with me otherwise. So here's to you, Ciabocci. 

Well kids (projecting what I wish was true of me right now), the inevitable has happened: I am out in the real world. I currently hold an entry-level position with JWT, one of the biggest marketing agencies in NYC, and my #1 choice in agencies. I mean it's cool, but not as awesome as school was.
Down to the point of this post: 

There is no Burger King near my office. A sad truth I'm still trying to come to terms with. Aside from Chipotle, Burger King's my ketchup (get it? my jam- but ketchup is on a burger? Well there you go: if you were wondering if I've gotten funnier, the answer is no.)

I had a lunch break at work today, and used iPhone Maps to find the nearest BK. Maps said it was a 13-minute walk, located on 50th and 5th. Except although that's what it said, the map showed 50th and 6th (for the non-New Yorkers, this means 6th Avenue and 50th Street). I was confused, and checked out both locations, wobbling nearly a mile in my heels (no, not my orthopedic platforms that girls always make fun of me for wearing, telling me I look like a mom. Well, news for you guys- you're right. My mom owns them, too).

Back to the point; I was truly, truly disappointed when there was no such BK. All I wanted was a Whopper, Fries and a Diet Coke. And all I still want right now is a Whopper, Fries and a Diet Coke. The silver lining of my 2-mile adventure? Walking up and down the same two avenues brought entertainment and amused giggles from the Falafel stand men. A few too many giggles, if you ask me.

So what now? I guess I'm sticking to Subway, Chipotle and Potbellies. If this changes, I'll be sure to let you know.

The Investigation File

On Saturday night, my cell phone, keys, wallet, credit cards, insurance card, driver's license and blood donor card were stolen at a bar (needless to say the most important of which was the blood donor card). To comfort myself later that night, Alyssa and I went to get PDR Pizza - she paid. (I had an urge to put an @ in front of Alyssa just now. Thanks, Twitter.)

The next morning, I got up at 8 a.m. (this never happens) because I was so nervous. I called my credit card companies, and they informed me that my credit cards were used at Qdoba, Taco Shop and Badger Cab around 3 a.m. the night it was stolen. I learned three important pieces of information regarding the crooks.

1. They were hungry.

2. They were not classy.

3. They were stupid.

Sure, you look at me and think, "who is this fragile, delicate, sweet little girl?" (I'm kidding. Unless you do, then thank you.) But the fools messed with the wrong girl - a Persian girl whose dad is in the Persian Mafia. Ok, not really; but he did give me tips on how to investigate on my own, racing against the police.

Of course, this was after Benny drove me to the police station to file a report. We went into the first building that housed the central police station and tried to figure out how to get to the Sheriff's office. Apparently, the Sheriff is not the person you go to. We got directed to Building No. 2: The City Council building. It was locked, but the homeless men told us how to get through a side door. We went in to see that everything was shut down and gated. I spotted a man, in ordinary clothes, walking through the deserted building. Assuming from the way he walked, with swagger, that he worked in this building, I told him of my dilemma. Turns out, he did work in that building - I know, I should give the CSI a hand ;). (I'm not sure who I'm flirting with when I wink at a mass audience.)

He told us to call the non-emergency line. I took his suggestion, and filed a report. Well, Benny did, and he asked for my number so the police could call me with questions regarding my stolen phone. Smooth, Benjamin. I learned another three important lessons...

1. Homeless people can be very helpful.

2. Don't let Benny talk to the police.

3. Judging by the vacancy of both buildings, crime stops on weekends.

Now I called my dad and started my own investigation...

The first thing I did was track my phone through iCloud and found out that it was on Johnson Street. It looked like it was right on the corner of the Lucky Building - in the Administration Center. Well, it couldn't be in there, so it was either in an apartment in that building or outside on the sidewalk. Naturally, I dragged Alyssa along (she was pretty excited to be in an episode of Cops), and we searched the entire sidewalk, bushes, and the garbage can. Yes, we looked in the garbage can and yes, we garnered a few stares. My phone meant a lot to me. We didn't find it.

The second thing we did is go to the Taco Shop and explained the situation to the manager, who happened to know exactly who we were talking about - he thought it was fishy two guys were using a girl's credit card. Apparently, the perp said I was his girlfriend. I learned two very important lessons..

1. Signing the credit card means nothing.

2. I have a boyfriend.

Luckily, when I asked if they had security footage, the manager said yes and offered to send me a screenshot. My next move was calling Badger Cab. I explained the situation and asked if I gave them my credit card info, would they be able to track the cab that used it and disclose where they dropped off the perps? The Badger Cabbie said yes, but only to the police.

So, what's my next move going to be? Well, I'm going to call the police, give them the screenshot, have them call Badger Cab, relay my cc info, and then get the address of my, um, boyfriend.

Picture and address. The criminals are going to do a dime. (Ok, probably not. But that expression really fits in with my Cops theme.)

Shout-Outs:

Alyssa: For sharing her keys, phone and wallet with me the past couple of days, and for cooking me dinner while I pretended to help.

Erica: For coming with me to the bank. And for somehow knowing how to read gas code in the car manual so we could figure out how to fill Benny's car up.

Benny: For lending me his car, and for trying to help me track down the Po-Po.

My parents: For not disowning me.

Two last lessons:

1. Not having a phone is actually refreshing, albeit inconvenient.

2. I'm dumping my boyfriend.

Meeting the Cast File

So, a few days ago (ok, four months ago), I said I'd write a blog post about abroad, including pictures and funny stories (but drawing from past experiences, I'm probably the only one that thinks they're funny). Let me first introduce you to some of the errrday gang. (Side note: I may be using this post as an excuse to relive abroad since I'm missing it at the moment). (Yes I like parentheses - sue me, this isn't one of my Journalism classes.)

Key Players:

The Guidos (and Calvin: Honorary Guido)

Following (in the post and literally throughout Rome): The Guido Groupies

My closest friends:

Lily: My travel partner through Israel, London, Venice, Naples, Pompeii, Florence and Rome. What she learned?

"Alex you snore like a freight train and move around all night like you're doing gymnastics. I'm moving into the other room. AND GIVE ME YOUR BLACKBERRY! I can't deal with your constant typing all night!"

Claudia: "Just sending you my daily text...I drooled on JP's arm while napping with him the other day...oops."

Jackie, a.k.a "Nugget": "What should we get for dinner? Chicken nuggets from the guy down the street who gives us free wine and fish tempora? Or how about burgers? Paninis?"

#AmericanizedAndProud

Our broader group of friends was a bit larger...

My roommates: You won't see a collective picture of us: all six of us were not always in agreement with one another.

ALESSANDRO, my beloved Italian teacher.
Alessandro: "Do you ever stop laughing, Alexandra? Is there an off switch?"

And this is where we hung out every night before going out: "Catari 11 Unidinci".

"Undici" means "11" in Italian, but Tyler always said "11 Undici" when stating his address because he thought they were both part of the name of his street, making him repetitive and redundant.

I never really knew what went on here...

Ever...

Ok,  I'll spare you and cut it off here. Stay tuned for some entertaining stories in my next post.

The America... 'Nuff said file

Hey kidlets (a new cute phrase I think we should start saying). I know it's probably not cute to you because my taste seems to vary from everyone else's. I'm reminded of this by my "friends" every time I put on an outfit. I mean, why people have a problem with snakeskin jeggings, acid wash jeans and Ed Hardy shoes is beyond me.

Anywho, right now, I am back from Roma, Puerto Rico and Atlantic city, settled down at my internship in New York City. Before I started (which happened to be yesterday), I tried to explain to people what the company did. After my cousins made countless fun of me because all I was doing was quoting the website verbatim, I decided a new way to let people know: Opensky.com. Boom.

It was great seeing my family after so long. They came over for Shabbat dinner and my cousin, Alex, brought to our attention that they found a new sign and now everyone's sign is changed. So, I'm no longer a Gemini, but a Taurus. I'm not big in Astrology, but this piece of information caused mayhem amongst us.

"Does this mean my personality changed?" I asked.

His brother Raffi declared, "Thats why I never won the lottery! I was picking the wrong numbers every time." And then followed up with, "No wonder I never pick the right girl." Which reminds us of our second cousin, Michelle, who only dates people with her sign. I wonder if this means that she will break up with her fiance.

Then all of us played a game of Clue in the kitchen. And by all of us, I mean all of my cousins except me. They discounted me because I was on the phone for five minutes and wouldn't let me jump back in. I don’t mean to point any fingers, but Zac Miller, this is your fault. To say I wasn't jealous just wouldn't be true. The game was taking forever and, finally, Raffi said, "I think it was Raffi in the kitchen with a pen." We all start cracking up. "Who did he kill?" I asked. "Himself" he said. 

I have to say, it feels so good to be back in America, where people aren't laughing at my Italian and where I am not living in an apartment decorated for the Powderpuff girls. I actually have a shower sans butterflies on the floor - and I can move around in it. 

I have to run. As my Italian friend, Dario, says, “Ciao Ciao for now!” In my next blog post, I will post some pictures from abroad: mainly so I can relive my experience. Ciao!