So I've been interning at a magazine in which I have a building pass, and even though I presented them my drivers license, for some reason they printed out my first name as 'Ingrid'.
Which is funny as is ...
But possibly funnier with the context that it's a long running joke that my father allegedly wanted to name me Ingrid.
My last name already sounds really Swedish (but the farthest it's been traced is to some now non-existent English hamlet), so the first-last name coupling with 'Ingrid' sounds really silly and sing-song-y.
But alas, whenever we're watching the Olympics and there's some Scandinavian dominatrix named Ingrid on, my parents always point at me saying, "Ooh, there you are!" and things like that... haha.
I feel like I should really own this, or at least make it my 'restaurant name'... stay tuned.
So, I email a photo of the pass to the parents, and my dad replies, "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it."
I don't think I'll ever know if he is serious or jesting (and that applies to anything and everything else, I suppose!). I guess I have him to thank for my keen sarcasm radar, because he's the only one I know who stumps everyone on occasion.
Is spotting my Spain roommate/discoteca dancing partner in crime, Sarah (who's married to numero 13, Brock).
I replayed this for maybe five minutes, laughing my face off, remembering how we used to quote Mean Girls i.e. "Four for you, Glen Coco. You go Glen Coco!"
Ohh the Spain memories. Ohh las discotecas- an integral part of the cultural experience. If we started heading out before midnight, our host madre would literally gasp, interrogating us as to why we were leaving "so early!"
(The discotecas don't reach full swing until about 4 am).
Here we are being all-around Eurotrash in Bar-the-lona (having gained a good amount of soft Spanish olive oil weight. hhaaha).
And with our other compadre besties, Kendal, Liz and Lauren in Portugal. OBRIGADA.
Ohhh my gosh, I forgot about GARRETT:
(This kid in our program whose preferred resting position was Squatting (naturally), never took off his headphones or his beanie, and thought he was cool for incorporating "eh" into conversation due to time spent in Canada on an LDS mission.)
People are often curious how people live in New York. It's an interesting place, a challenge of sorts: Washer/dryers are status symbols, everyone is a foodie yet also obsessed with achieving the 'heroin-chic' look (hilarious Wikipedia has an entry for that), I'm constantly strategizing how to do errands, mapping out routes in my head adding in the logistical factor of my 2-arm carrying capacity.
And because I live in a very central location of the city, virtually everything I need lies in a walkable radius. Transportation usually has me contemplating taking the train 1 stop or a cab about 9 blocks. I scoff at each option, and soldier on foot.
So what it all boils down to is walking. Lots of it.
I'm already 6 feet tall, which is far above average anywhere in the world. It seems like here in Little Ireland/Little Italy/Little Israel, this feature is especially pronounced. I swear I saw a little old granny today who was pushing 4 feet.
It's why I have so many (5?) pairs of (flat) boots. They can fancy up an outfit just like heels, but they're as comfy as walking shoes and I don't have to be as Amazon. Success.
But for some stroke of stupidity in judgment today, I reasoned I could walk my route in heels. They are maaaybe 2 inches. And I walked 1.6 miles in them (just Google Direction'ed it, you're welcome).
I could feel blisters building with each step, when I wasn't gawking at every other woman wondering how they were all traipsing along with such heeled ease.
I got home, threw them in my closet. Lest I forget the error of my ways, I don't see them as part of my sartorial repertoire anytime soon (ever again?!).
Then immediately I performed necessary surgery on myself. 'Normal' blister rules (read: leaving them alone) does not bode well for this city, wherein your feet are your lifeline, so to speed up 'recovery' time, I cleaned off the tip of a safety pin with rubbing alcohol, pierced the nickel sized blisters and affixed special blister bandaids, allowing me to resume GO mode.