I swear to you, this happened.

I'm very sick.

It happened very quickly, over the course of a few hours yesterday. I woke up with a dry throat, and then it just got progressively worse as the day went on. At one point, I assumed I had finally developed allergies, but I'm pretty sure this is just your run-of-the-mill, want-to-kill-yourself cold.

So at one point in the "I think this is allergies" stage of yesterday, I went to the Duane Reade to get medicine. I pop out a few minutes later, walking to school from work along a path that I don't usually take.

I"m fiddling with my Claritin box when I feel a sneeze coming. And it's a big one. Devon, you know the type I mean.

I stop.
I look to the sky.
I do that face you do when you can't sneeze and want to.

I feel it coming.... and...

(let it be known that I went off in search of a sneeze video at this point. I didn't find one, but I instead spent 45 minutes on buzzfeed)

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH-CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

It was the largest, snottiest sneeze I have ever let fly. I doubled over from the force of it. Then, and I need you to pay attention here, this happened:

I stood up to see this face:

You may have seen it in Bridesmaids. 

Chris O'Dowd was standing in front of me, snazzed up, looking supah-fly. He looked at me. 

"Bless you," he said. 

"Thank you," I said, doing that is that really you? face. 

He then got into a car and drove out of my life forever. If I had taken a Claritin I would have written it off as a hallucination, but the box was still unopened in my hand. That's how strange it was.

This is the first famous person I have seen since moving to New York, and I sneezed all over him. 

A Very Merry UnBirthday To Me

I began writing this post in a Starbucks off Times Square with blistered feet, no cell phone, and a cup that was labeled "Tyler." It was not a good day.

When I woke up this morning, I had a plan: I had an appointment at 10:00 am, after which I would go to GameStop and get BioShock Infinite, a video game I'd been wanting for some time, and then I would go play the Newsies lottery. In honor of the show's one year anniversary, they were giving away free tickets to the winners of the lottery and I intended to be one of them. If I won, fantastic! Free show! If I lost, well, there was some Xbox to be played.

Immediately the day was thrown off. I woke up to a voicemail saying that my appointment was cancelled. I rejoiced at the extra sleep. Mia lovingly cuddled me awake later. I walked in the sunshine to the corner store, bought milk (in Spanish... thank you very much), and strolled home for some milk and Double Stuff Oreos. It was the Breakfast of Champions, and I was a champion today.

I had not yet ripped into this sugary feast when there was a knock on my door, a couple of Mr. Fix It's finally showing up to fix the leak in the bathroom ceiling I complained about over a month ago. I noticed that one of them was bilingual, as he spoke to me in perfect English but muttered in Spanish to his colleague, presumably about the state of my messy apartment. His buddy clearly spoke Spanish and a broken, heavily accented Spanglish. Now, while my Spanish skills are adequate for buying milk, they're useless for any conversation more substantial. But for some reason, Mr. Bilingual kept pretty much to himself, leaving me to communicate with Roberto the Builder through a series of hand gestures, facial expressions, and excessive pointing as I attempted to describe the nature of the leak.

In fact, the only time Bilingual Man did speak up was to lecture me on how I should have been more vocal about the leak, to which I became very vocal about my numerous emails, phone calls, and schedule changes to accommodate a crew that never showed up.

Please keep in mind that the entire conversation is occurring in my bathroom which is barely large enough to hold one person. Mia is waiting impatiently just outside the bathroom door, ready to attack whichever of the three of us is unlucky enough to emerge first. When she decided that none of us were ever coming out, she promptly went to the litterbox to excrete the most foul smelling waste that has ever been produced from a living thing.

Bob Villa and Tim the Toolman Taylor finally leave and I realize that my strict schedule has now been jackknifed. I quickly got ready for the day and rushed out of my apartment, knowing that I was cutting it dangerously close to missing the lottery. I decided to take the ferry, literally sprinting the four blocks, 8 flights of stairs, train station, and yet another block to the ferry terminal. It's kind of a long journey. A special shout out goes to the construction crew who cheered me on yelling, "You're gonna make it!" Thanks, guys.

I arrived at the ferry very out of breath, very sweaty, and very determined to make that lottery. When I got into Manhattan, I realized that the only way I was going to get to the theater fast enough was by cab, a mode of transportation I never take. Like, ever. I plopped down into the seat, and, no joke, said:

"41st and 8th... and step on it."

It was so empowering until I looked up and realized that the oldest man alive was driving my cab.

How it was even legal for him to drive, I'll never know. He slowly put the car in drive, checked both ways three or four times on a one way street, and pulled into traffic. He then proceeded to hit every patch of construction within the three block radius. I swear, he went out of his way. Finally, it got to a point where I told him I would walk the rest of the way. I was a block away and had two minutes. And I ran. 

Perhaps this is appropriate again: Listen if you'd like, but it doesn't mesh quite as well as last time. Why am I always running?

I rounded the corner and sprinted. I could see the crowd ahead. I pumped my arms like Mr. Krestar taught me in cross country practice. When I neared the group of people and heard "The lottery is now closed!" the group cheered and I collapsed in exhaustion and despair.

I walked past the theater, where the first winners were already lining up by the doors. I hated them. I hated them all.

I reached into my bag to find my cell phone. I could at least still pick up BioShock and get lunch. I pulled out my wallet. A notebook. My keys. My Nexus. My other wallet. A book. Makeup. Two chargers. I stopped, rested my bag on my thigh, and hopped on one foot while I dug around in the contents. Ladies, you know exactly the pose I mean. Finally, I came to the inevitable conclusion: I had left my cell phone in Father Time's taxicab.

While we all know that my phone is one of the glitchiest pieces of junk that Verizon has ever created and hardly worth stealing, I immediately realized that my eBay, Amazon, Facebook, Twitter, and email were open for business from the next person who came in contact with my phone. Fortunately, I was in New York City, which meant that a Starbucks couldn't be more than a block away.

I know you think this is where you come in, with me sitting at a Starbucks, phone-less and alone. You're wrong.

I immediately started changing my passwords one by one on my Nexus (which may have been my smartest purchase in history) when I got a Facebook message from Eric:

Eric: You left your phone in a cab.
Me: THANK GOD! I know!
Eric: This woman called me. Where are you?
Me: Times Square.
Eric: No shit.
Me: Fine. Starbucks on Broadway near Office Depot.

The woman and I, using Eric as a sort of translator, arranged a suitable meeting place (Schnippers... of course) and time (1:00 pm). I began to realize that difficult conversations were becoming a theme for me today.

At ten till one, I took my place outside Schnippers.

An hour and two very awkward conversations with random women who happened to be standing outside of Schnippers later, I gave up. My feet were now bloody stumps from the uncomfortable flats I had worn in an attempt to look spring-y. I was cold. I had spent the last hour being judged by the patrons of Schnippers. I had been in the city two hours and had nothing to show for it. And I still had no phone.

I walked back to the Starbucks, passing the Newsies theater, where excited theatergoers were lining up to go inside. I cast them all loathsome glances and tried to resist the urge to scream at them or kick them or something equally unacceptable. I finally ordered my Passion tea lemonade from Starbucks, thinking that at least this bit of joy could be mine today, but the name the barrista called out was "Tyler." I waited a full minute before I realized she meant me. Sigh.

This is where you found me. Frozen. Bloodied. Drinking an iced tea lemonade made for a person named "Tyler."

I sat down and checked my email. I had one from Mom saying that this woman--Jennifer--who had found my phone had also called Paige. Unable to get ahold of me, Mum and Paige decided that the woman should just mail the phone to my home--in Pennsylvania. I was resigning myself to the extreme inconvenience of this plan when I remembered that my Nexus has the ability to text using the Text+ app. Remember when I said it was the smartest purchase ever? It is. It truly is.

In the five minute text message conversation I had with Jennifer, I found out that not only had she taken my phone with her back to New Jersey, where she lived, but that her apartment was only ten blocks from mine. We set up yet another rendezvous point. I ran to Port Authority and got on a bus.

I feel at this point I should point out that I have now traveled by ferry, taxi, and bus and have accomplished nothing more than standing outside and getting a drink from Starbucks.

However, an hour later, I was two blocks from my apartment, phone in hand, waving goodbye to Jennifer as she drove away.

I had thought that the day had reached the peak of its excitement. I thought that I was beyond the point of shock. I was wrong.

I had a voicemail. You all know how I feel about voicemails. I hate them. I despise them so much that seeing the icon makes me angry. There are those among you (you know who you are) who think that you are somehow more special than the rest of the world, that you can leave me voicemails where others cannot. You're wrong. Don't do it. I hate it. Please stop. I may pretend to like it but I assure you that I'm only being nice. I enjoy one out of every million voicemails I receive.

This voicemail was one in a million.

Hey birthday girl! It's Devon! I just wanted to call and say that I love you and I hope you have an amazing day! I'll see you next weekend! Muah! Bye! 

I listened to it twice. I looked at the date. March 27.

My birthday is May 27.

Long story short, Devon is crazy. But we found it so funny that she kept the joke going by writing on my Facebook wall. Her best friend Lauren did as well. I made a traditional Facebook birthday status, tagging Devon. I assumed that most people would know that it was a joke.

I've now had at least 20 people wish me a Happy Birthday, including some--and I'm looking right at you, Tyler Williams--who should have known better.

Kudos to Uncle Craig, Frankie DiLoreto, and Zach Pilot for knowing the real date of my birthday before posting. Also Kudos to Paige, Devon, Lauren, and I'm assuming Haleigh for knowing, not caring, and wishing me a Happy Birthday anyways.

And I apologize to those who wished me a Happy Birthday and who now might feel duped. You're all wonderfully kind people and I appreciate the sentiment. If you want to ignore my birthday in May, I understand completely.

I guess I've learned a few things:
1. When your apartment breaks, complain a lot.
2. Call your best friends, and call 'em often (Wilford Brimley reference... diabeetus). You never know when you're going to lose your phone and they'll have to help you get it back.
3. Carry spare gadgets. When you lose a gadget, your other gadgets will help you find it.
4. Every day should feel like it's your birthday. If it's not your birthday, just pretend it is and people will make you feel better.

And just like that... I'm married.

I had this conversation with a creepy man in my building yesterday:

Creepy Man: Did you leave your bike under the stairs the other day?
Me: Yeah, since it was raining, I didn't want all the mud in my apartment... So I just left it there overnight.
Creepy Man: Don't do that. I do that sometimes, but I'm Hispanic. You? People will take it. I saw some guy eyeing it up and I told him not to touch it cause it was my sister's. Don't do that.
Me: Well, yeah, it was a one time thing... Thank you, though. (I also made a mental note to move as soon as possible.)
Creepy Man: You look very nice now, but I saw you when you were moving your car the other day... and uh.... (he trails off here, implying that I did not look very nice then).
Me: Yeah... uh... thanks.
Creepy Man: Your husband seems very nice, too.
I paused and cocked my head to the side. You know how I do.
Me: Ah... what?
Creepy Man: Your husband. I saw him jogging the other day. Nice man.
Me: (not wanting to tell this man that I live alone) ...yes. Thank you. He is a nice man.
Creepy Man: You have a good night, ok?
Me: You, too.

The man managed to scare me, confuse me, insult me, warn me, and compliment me in one very brief conversation and I didn't even have time to register these emotions until I walked away, since I spent most of our chat trying to stop his dog from sniffing my crotch.

And I still have no idea who my fake brother thinks my supposed husband is. What is happening to my life?

Sisters in the City: The Finale

The day of the interview dawned cold and clear.

I dressed in my interview outfit, almost all of which was courtesy of Devon:

I looked damn good. 

Those heels you see me wearing didn't last long. I had a pair of booties tucked in that bag in the lower left. Devon, of course, was wearing insensible shoes: ballet flats and otherwise bare feet. To her everlasting credit, though, she took it like a champ all day. Didn't complain at all, just asked to move inside when her Peter feet became frozen stumps. (For those of you that don't live in the Casti household, Peter is an adjective used to describe a part of the body that is unusually small, unsightly, or strange. We pretty much have our own language.) She even ventured off on her own while I was at my interview and managed to find a TJMaxx. Now that's a true Maxonista. 

The day was uneventful after the interview, which went very well. We got gelato at Grom NYC... 

ate at Bouchon Bakery, 

...saw the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center. 

On a side note, I've noticed that every time I go to that rink, or any rink for that matter but Rockefeller in particular, there is always one man (it's always a man) who is taking the ice skating way too seriously. Couples are clinging to one another, children are falling and laughing, and then there's this one guy doing triple axels in the middle like it's his own private Olympic routine. 

Guess who? 

We played The Book of Mormon lottery, were big losers, and then decided to call it a day and head home. We stopped for only for wine and Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Truly a killer combo. 

Now, I realize that your head was probably clouded with the loveliness of "Paperman," but remember that in the last post, I told you that we had bought an overnight parking pass to leave Devon's car parked on the street. So, I needed to run up to Parking Authority again to get another overnight pass so that we didn't get a ticket. So I got Devon settled in with a glass of wine and an episode of Girls and rode my bike up to 60th street. 

Pass in hand, I went in search of the car. I remembered that, even though we had driven around for quite some time before finding a spot, Devon and I had eventually parked on my street. So I rode up and down the four blocks between Bergenline Avenue and Broadway. There was no gold Intrepid in sight. I did it again, thinking I must've missed the car. No such luck. 

I called Devon: 

Me: Dev, I can't find the car. 

Devon: (uninterested) Check the other street. 

Me: What other street? 

Devon: I don't know. All of them. 

Clearly, Devon was not going to be a lot of help. 

So I expanded the search, assuming that I must have been mistaken. I rode up and down the streets on either side of my apartment. I checked two, three, four blocks away in every direction. At this point I am both panicked and frozen. So I checked my street one more time. 

Halfway down the street, I stopped. I was certain that the car had been parked somewhere close by and I couldn't put my finger on why. 

Pause. Maybe you remember a prior post I did, where I outlined what I had learned in NY thus far. In that list, I had one item that some of you weren't happy with (coughcoughcoughJoshDevettcoughcough): Follow the signs. 

And, like Ace of Base, I just saw the sign. 

Muffles. 

It was on the sign for a mechanic's garage: Muffles, brakes, tires. A very recognizable misspelling. This was the spot. The car had been parked right here, and now it was gone. 

I had no idea what to tell Devon. You know how I handle stressful situations: I just start giggling uncontrollably. It took all the self control I have to not audibly laugh when I called her to tell her that the car had either been towed or stolen. She also seemed very controlled when she told me to just come back to the apartment. 

I walked in the door, expecting a fury. Devon was still on the couch, glass of wine in hand, still watching Girls. She looked at me blankly. 

"I Googled how much it costs when your car is towed. I think it's going to be about a hundred bucks." She didn't even bother to pause the show. She just turned back to the screen and kept watching. I again realized that Devon was not going to be much help. 

"You're taking this much better than I thought you would." I said. 

"I've completely shut down." Looking at her, it was very obvious that this was, indeed, the case. 

The first call I made was to the police station. When I told him I thought my car had been towed, he asked the license plate number. I asked Devon. Devon stared blankly at me. 

"I don't know the number," I said. "It's a gold Dodge Intrepid." At this point, Devon had begun to half remember the last four numbers and was trying to tell me them, as if the policeman would somehow be able to use that information. 

He asked who the car was registered under. I asked Devon. Blank stare. "Try Robert Casti," I said. Bingo. 

He told me that we would need a license, proof of insurance, and registration to get a release from the police station and only then would we be able to get the car back. 

I told this to Devon and a new look dawned on her face: panic. "I don't think my registration is up to date." 

"Devon, we can't tell Mom and Dad about this. They'll kill us." 

"I know, Taylor, but I don't think it's up to date." 

"Why did we bring your car on this trip!?" 

"I know!" Back to Girls. She really had shut down. 

I call the impound. Tell him that we need to get the proper documents out of the car. He says he will leave his house right now (it's a 24 hour impound.. why is he home?) and be there for 15 minutes. I tell him not to bother because I won't be there for at least 45 minutes, since I need to call someone to drive me. He says that he'll leave now and stay at the impound for 50 minutes. I don't even bother telling him how ridiculous this statement is, since at this point, if he's not there, I will probably just freak out and steal the car. 

So. Things start moving quickly: Brandon picks us up. We drive to the impound. Search for documents. Find documents. Documents are up to date. Celebration. Drive to ATM. Withdraw cash to get car back. Cry. Drive to police station. Talk to cop. Try to joke with cop. Feel awkward when cop doesn't joke back. Sit in police station. Consider taking pictures of us in police station. Decide that's a bad idea. Get release. Get ticket. 

Wait. What? Oh, yeah, we got a parking ticket on top of getting our car towed. West New York doesn't joke around when it comes to parking violations. 

 So, back to the whirlwind. Drive to impound. Bitch about ticket. Take pictures: 

Laugh at pictures. Complain about how bad we look (remember, it's been a long day). Wonder where impound guy is. Realize impound guy is here. 

Finally, after some paper signing, we get the car back. We give our thank yous to Brandon (who deserves millions and millions of Thank Yous), and finally get back to the apartment, find a parking spot (a suitable one this time), and put the parking pass in the car. 

Needless to say, I gorged myself on Ben and Jerry's ice cream immediately and slipped into an ice cream induced coma. 

Now, there is a happy ending. 

The next morning, I was typing my thank you email for the previous day's interview and a new email popped up in my inbox. It was from the supervisor from the first internship I interviewed for. I didn't need to read past the second sentence to see that they had selected another candidate. Bummer, but after a month with no word from them, I had kind of figured. 

I went back to my email. A second message pops up. It's from the supervisor of the second internship that I interviewed for, at Random House Digital. This was the internship that I had really wanted, so I finished typing my thank you email before reading my rejection letter. I wasn't really ready to see the words yet. 

Then I opened the email. 

Devon managed to snap a picture... Don't I look pretty?

It wasn't a rejection. I had been chosen for the internship. 

A great celebration ensued! For the whole day! 

...We got gelato (plus: That's the Random House building behind me)

...We did an excessive amount of shopping and danced our way through Mamma Mia. We also giggled at a series of dumb "had to be there" jokes about my cat, Mia, and how I was, in fact, her Mamma. 

So, (Mom) the important thing to remember here is that everything all worked out, and the gypsy curse seems to have lifted. ...for now. 

Something old, something new, something beautiful.

Yesterday, my Mom emailed me about a Disney short that she found at iwastesomuchtime.com (someone was obviously very busy at work). She said it was something I might want to put on my blog, because it was so cute. And it's the strangest thing, because I watched the video on Thursday at work and thought the same thing. Like Mother, like Daughter.

If you haven't seen the short, it's called Paperman and was at the beginning of Wreck-It Ralph. It was released online on Thursday. Believe me that, as Gizmodo says, "It's easily the best six-and-a-half minutes you'll spend today."

Even more beautiful than the heartwarming story is the technology behind it. The short is the first time CGI and hand-drawn animation have ever been combined. The image is CGI created with a layer of the old fashioned, by hand animation that made movies like Aladdin and The Lion King so special. The result is a picture that pops like CGI while retaining that unique character that only comes from an artist's hand. 

In a field like publishing, where everyone is panicking about technology bring the end of our world, it's encouraging to see that other industries are finding ways to blend the old and the new in a very beautiful way. 

Use the link below to access the video, and enjoy. 

http://www2.macleans.ca/2013/02/01/paperman-bringing-back-drawing-in-a-rube-goldberg-way/

Sisters in the City, pt 2

So when I left you, we had survived another run in with the gypsy woman, Devon was whining like a terrier, and we were waiting for Brandon to get off of work so we could have dinner.

Having narrowed down all the restaurants in Englewood to three choices, Devon and I left it up to Brandon to pick the restaurant. At this point, Devon needed a glass of wine; the restaurant that supplied it was inconsequential to her. So Brandon chooses this swanky place called The Kitchen.

Almost immediately, things start to go sour.

Waiter: Did anyone bring wine?
Devon: Oh, yes, please. I'd like a glass. What do you have?
Waiter: Oh... it's BYOB. There's a liquor store across the street, but I think it's closing now.

I looked into Devon's eyes and saw the last of her hopes and dreams crumble. She took it like a champ, though, and instead ordered an ice water.

Now, somewhere around the screaming in the car, shoplifting accusations, and potential curses I lost my appetite. Those of you who know me know that I almost never don't order in a restaurant. I mean, I relish the beauty of the To Go container. Buy now, eat later. But for one reason or another, I just didn't want to tonight. So when Devon and Brandon ordered delicious entrees that were sure to be enormous, I chose to just get a salad and the appetizer special. It was something with duck and I was intrigued.

Again, things go awry. Because when I tell the waiter what I order, he says that I will miss out on the hors d'oeuvres if I don't order an entree. I mean... c'mon. They don't have wine, but they serve hors d'oeuvres? Well, I opted out anyway and, to quote Julia Roberts, "Big mistake. Big. Huge." I spent the whole first half of dinner ignoring the delicious treats being served to Dev and B every. five. seconds. When the main course finally came, the duck tasted of jealousy and bad choices.

Now, pay attention to what happens next, as it is vitally important.

Devon and I take our leave of Brandon. We drive to WNY. We stop at the Parking Authority to buy an overnight parking pass, where I hit the curb parallel parking, prompting a fresh screaming fit from Devon. Before we can head back to my apartment, my phone buzzes.

Remember the last blog post? This is that fight I was talking about. I get a series of text messages from a close friend from home who is upset with me.

Let's recap. I've spent six hours in the car with a whining/screaming sister, who I then took shopping for another hour or so. I spent an hour and a half sitting in Starbucks, waiting to have dinner, after having a rather upsetting experience with a psychic crystal healer whatever and then I didn't eat dinner because I am, admittedly, a dumbass. I have an interview in less than 24 hours for an internship that I'm stressing over. I am tired. I am hungry. I am worn down from hours of comforting, yelling at, and stressing with Devon. I am just ready for bed. And now, minutes before I am going to just park my car and finally settle in at my apartment, one of my friends is mad at me.

Let's just say I was in no state to park a car. But we didn't realize that until it was too late. In the blind rage I was undoubtedly in, the only memory I have of parking the car is one single word: Muffles. 

After some pretty intense back and forth texting and one angry voicemail, I cleared up (I hope) the situation from back home. We had headed back to the apartment and I went to bed to read the encyclopedia's worth of information on job interviews that my mother sent with me. Devon was tucked in the couch watching her new obsession, Girls, and all was well.

Or so we thought.

A Note on Blogging...

There's a little issue I need to clear up.

While I have a wealth of embarrassing run ins with strangers to amuse you with, sometimes ridiculous things happen that involve those I know and love. The problem with this is that I am no Carrie Bradshaw. My friends and family would probably not like it if I started airing their personal secrets for all the Internet to read. Funny as they may be, there are boundaries to this blogging thing that I must respect. Know that I will never say anything on this blog that references an ongoing argument, personal secret, or that I think will upset anyone in any way.

That being said, this blog is about my life. And you all are a part of my life that occasionally comes into play in these stories that I tell. You are wonderful, intelligent, lovely, fascinating people that I love to have around, but on a very rare occasion, one of you pisses me off or upsets me or makes me very annoyed. And that's totally OK! I'm sure I piss you off all the time! Don't get offended. You're not offended, right? Cause if you are, I want you to pause at this point, work past that offense emotionally, and then continue reading. Or close out of this post, whichever you prefer.

Now that we're all on the same page (because you should not be reading this part if you're still upset), I want you to return to this little dilemma I'm facing when it comes to my blogging. In the next post (coming soon!) of Devon and I's adventure in New York, there are two such occasions that I didn't think really should be told in the blog. The first is a disagreement I had with a very close friend of mine, which has since been resolved, regarding another very close friend. You both know who you are and know that we're good and all is well in the world. While I will not be including this in the post, I will be referencing it because it comes at a vital part in the story.

The second occasion will be told. And I'll tell you why:

Sometimes I do stupid things. You all know this because I let you read about them sometimes. Sometimes I don't tell you all the stupid things I do because my Mom reads this. And my grandma reads this. And old professors from college read this. And Linda Coyle reads this (hi, Linda!). And I want them to think well of me.

But the story is good so I'm going to tell you anyway.

Mom, don't be mad at me and Devon when you read about what happened. And don't call me tomorrow asking me what I'm going to say. We didn't kill anyone or go to prison or anything like that, I promise. You're always encouraging me to write more blog posts. : )

I'll leave you to mull over this while I finish the next post. It'll be up in a day or two!