Happy Friday! Except to my practicing Catholic friends; who are inevitably kicking off their weekend slightly protein deprived as they hit chapter three of the 40 day Lenten saga.
Balloons may have replaced doves as the sign of peace in St. Peter’s Square following the seagull and crow double team attack of 2014, but Matthew, Mark, and John are still calling for the resurrection and I’m pretty sure Luke added the bunny, so hide the eggs and get ready for that April 5th ham.
Since my last post #ManhattanProjectRedux has been at full throttle. I have been front row for a subway serenade about Jihad John and Barack Obama, spent a night drinking IPA’s by the pitcher that had me seriously considering a juice cleanse the next morning, and a had a shopaholic relapse in H&M where I convinced myself I found happiness in a salmon colored blazer.
And in the meantime I have waged a war.
The first attack came near midnight this past Wednesday. Neither of us anticipated the other.
As I sat at my desk, finalizing a paper before bed I saw him out of the corner of my eye. Hardly bigger than a matchbox car, the brown mouse sat fidgeting at the corner of my closet.
We locked eyes, stared each other down, and I’m certain he cued fighter music from beneath his fur as the strength of the silent gaze grew stronger, neither willing to break.
My contacts dried and I was the first to blink. In my moment of weakness he scurried into my closet around my bins of underwear. Upon which I immediately decided I would cash in my free Victoria’s Secret panty coupon first thing in the morning.
With clear intention to destroy my impromptu shopping plans he darted from my closet and stopped to catch my eye one more time to claim his victory.
Mouse 1 Molly 0.
He may have won the battle but I will win the war. Traps have been set and before long the incinerator down the hall will be his entrance into Hell.
Needless to say #ManhattanProjectRedux has brought me to abandon any expectations of ever having a normal day. But aside from my rodent rants, the truth is I have dreamed of living in Manhattan since before I was allowed to cross Main St. in my hometown without holding my dad’s hand.
Even after I discovered that my parents had lied to me most of my childhood and FAO Swartz was not actually a toy museum and they could have bought me that life-sized giraffe I always believed was an exhibit, I still had a passion for this city.
In December 2001, two months after the terrorist attacks, I signed the firemen blankets at Ground Zero and felt the despair left in the rubble of my future home.
Not only is New York the city that banded together to rebuild itself after the greatest tragedy to have struck my generation, but I’ve also found it’s the city that rural and urban dwellers alike find any reason to visit.
Watch out- March posts will have their fill of guest appearances.
To kickoff the month and fill my fridge my parents came into town last weekend.
So naturally, Friday night was spent in parent-prepping my apartment and destroying my latest manicure with cleaning products.
By now I’m sure everyone is well aware of the recent #dressgate scandal that swept the web last week and left even the biggest Crayola fanatics questioning their color identification abilities.
Forget your expansion box with the sharpener conveniently located on the back all of you yellow-green, green-yellow decipherers; cyber space just ruined every coloring book you’ve ever made a scribble in.
However, the lesser-known story is that my dad, a naturally black man named Jamarcus, is the living example of this optical illusion.
Although the full data has not been collected, what we can tell, thanks to #dressgate, is viewers that see a white and gold dress see white man while those viewers that see a black and blue dress see a black man.
Until #dressgate informed the world last week of optical illusions, whenever I tried to explain to those, who I now know as “white dress viewers”, that my dad, Jamarcus, is black I was almost always met with the question: “Than why are you so white?”
Yes, I’ll admit I’ve had some varying responses to this question.
While the most accurate description of my skin tone is actually porcelain, in the aftermath of the University of Minnesota’s move to remove race descriptions I’ll decline to comment on that further.