A Yankee in Memphis

Greg & the favorite child

So a lot of my blog is about introducing a Southerner to Northern culture. But just as interesting is taking a Yankee and plopping them down in the South, even if just for the weekend. That's exactly what I did with Greg. In July, Greg came down to Memphis, Tennessee for a visit to see my parents and attend the wedding of a dear friend of mine.

We had to pack a lot into 48 hours! From introducing Greg to the family dog (and favorite child) Martin to eating any Southern food we could get our hands on, we were very busy! Since it's a requirement (a state law, I presume) to introduce any new-comer to Memphis barbecue, we first headed to Central BBQ for lunch with my family and our closest family friends. Greg ordered "Ribs for Two" for one. He claims it was an accident, but we were just proud he knew he should try both wet and dry ribs. During lunch Greg tried to convince the group of his southern-ness by stating that a small portion of New Jersey lies below the Mason-Dixon line. The whole table burst out into laughter! Southerners can be quite territorial about what is considered Southern. Some say Virginia isn't really southern. Others claim Texas is really its own thing, rather than a part of the south. Most agree that the vast majority of Florida is not southern, and even that Miami is the southern most city in New Jersey. However, regardless of who you ask, New Jersey is not southern. Good try, Greg!

24 hours in Memphis, and he broke the scale

Following lunch, we spent the afternoon by the pool, which does not seem like a uniquely southern activity, and perhaps it is not. What may make it a Southern thing though, is the heat and humidity involved in a day by the pool in Memphis. It was July, so the temperature inched towards the triple digits and if the humidity was being graded, its score would likely be in the B+ range. Luckily, Greg doesn't mind the heat much and the pool kept us cool enough. 

Later, we headed downtown for the wedding. The wedding was not one of those 16 bridesmaids, giant church, drippingly southern weddings, but it was southern nonetheless. From the southern accent of the officiant to the view of the Mississippi River from the venue, Greg certainly knew he wasn't in New Jersey any more! After the ceremony, I introduced Greg to friends and acquaintances, who already knew a bit about him including his northern roots. After all, word spreads like wild fire in a small town (and with a population of nearly a million people, Memphis has been referred to as the country's biggest small town). Greg was soon inundated with questions: "Is this your first time to the South?" "Do you like Memphis?" "Have you tried barbecue yet?" "Did you like it?" "Are you going to the Bass Pro Shop in the Memphis Pyramid?" and so on and so forth! Greg was a very good sport! He even got bonus points with one friend's father when he was correctly able to identify the material the father was wearing. The material, you ask? Seersucker! 

Greg & Dad having fun!

The southern-ness of the evening continued with the food. For one thing, it was a buffet rather than a seated dinner, which can shock some yankees to their core, but for southerns, a seated dinner just wastes time that could be spent partying at a reception! Besides the different dinner format, the food itself was uniquely southern. Greg was excited to try shrimp and grits at a special food station at the wedding. He loved it, and then proceeded to eat all of my shrimp and grits! We danced the night away and Greg fit right in singing along to Sweet Home Alabama! We ended the night by having a drink on Memphis' famous Beale Street. 

At the end of the trip, when asked if he had a nice visit and if he liked Memphis, he responded, "Yes! Everyone is SO nice here!" Of course everyone is nice here that's why southern and hospitality are two words that always seem to go together. So whether you're a born and bred southern or a yankee just stopping by, you'll fit right in!

New City: New Man Part 2

It's been months since my original "New City: New Man" post was published, and I am sure each of you has been biting your fingernails in recent months wondering, "Did Emily ever find someone?" "Has she abandoned hope completely and adopted a litter of kittens?" "What is happening!?!?" Don't fret, my readers, I'm here with an update.

I joined the dating app "Hinge" last fall at the encouragement of friends and a desire to meet someone before prime snuggling season (AKA winter) set in. The app promises "a modern twist on the classic way to meet," which basically boils down to an app that introduces you to friends of friends via Facebook. It seemed safer and more likely to work than meeting complete strangers, and it provided more information about potential matches than some of the other dating apps. It also claimed to be intended to match people for dating rather than for hookups. That was a plus for me.

So I set up the app and started combing through my daily batch of 15 guys each day. If I click the little heart and so does he, then we match and can start a conversation. The start of a modern day romance. As the days marched on, my small pile of matches grew. I was surprised how many matches never started a conversation. I may be a modern enough woman to be on a dating app in New York City, but I'm not modern enough to initiate the conversation. That's hipster nonsense ;) Of the conversations that did start, the first guy quickly and unabashedly let his aim for sex and only that be known. Delete and move on. Other conversations fizzled quickly.

Celebrating the amazing Farley!

Then I went to Atlanta, Georgia to celebrate my sister Farley's 25th birthday. What fun we had!! She had friends flock to the ATL from all over the country! Francesca from Memphis, Kaitlyn from Maryland, and me from New York, to name a few. During the pregame, my phone was charging in the guest room as I was preparing for a late night on the town. I slipped into the room to check for texts at one point and then let out a squeal that was possibly more porcine than human. Francesca came running. I had a message from a cute guy on Hinge! A group of at least three girls helped me craft a response to his first message. He started with "Hey! Whats up?" and I'm sure I responded with something equally creative. Throughout the evening our conversation turned to SEC football and other topics. All along, I'm proofing everything I say through my team of dating experts. At some point, the birthday girl was fired from this team. I believe the conversation went something like this, "Was there even texting when you and Ed were dating? I think you've been married too long to help craft responses!" Luckily she took my playful ribbing in good spirit!

After a wonderful weekend together, I was back on a plane and back to real life in New York City. You might be thinking that I met up with my match immediately upon returning to the City, but you would be wrong. As soon as I hit the ground in New York, I was inundated with heaps of work in advance of Carnegie Hall's Opening Night Gala. The week of my return I was working at least twelve hours a day, which made for difficult conversation flow. He'd text me at 6am when he woke up. I'd respond at 9am when I woke up. Four hours later he'd reply during his lunch. I would reply five and half hours later while eating dinner at my desk. He'd send me a text a bit later when he was off from work and I'd send my final text around 12am when I got home, but after he was asleep. Moral of the story - it was hard to get a real conversation going. As luck would have it, he didn't give up on me. I assured him that I was just working all the time and was not playing games.

"Does this top say relationship material?"

The following Monday we had plans to get after work drinks. My roommates weren't home so I had to get dressed by myself. The horror!! Thank goodness for iPhones and cross-country outfit advice. I walked into the incredibly crowded bar on 18th and Irving and looked around for my date. Our eyes met across the room and after a quick hello and greeting hug, we quickly agreed to blow that popsicle stand. We headed down the block to the Ainsworth Park. The bar there was also packed, but we snagged a table for two among the outdoor tables, and our first date began.

Perhaps I should back up a bit. Who is this mystery man? you ask. His name is Greg Gianis. We were connected on Hinge via Margot Gianis. She was a senior at Trinity when I was a freshman, and she was good people. I figured anyone who shared a last name (and presumably DNA) with her had to be good people too. Not to toot my own horn, but I was right. It's hard to sum someone up in a sentence or two, but here's the quick introduction: He's a 6'4" New Jersey native currently living in Manhattan and working in finance. He's an avid sports enthusiast ("Roll Tide", as he would say); he loves golf; and enjoys a good steak.

Greg and me before the Taylor Swift concert

Our first date lasted three drinks and more than that many hours. We never ran out of things to say, and he held my hand and walked me home that first night. We said goodnight on the front steps of my apartment, and he didn't try any funny business! On our second date I found out he is Presbyterian, and the rest is history.

Today in the Subway 3

This post series is "Not in Service"

I write this post with my head hanging in shame. When I moved to New York I espoused the delights of people watching. I promised posts of all the interesting, funny, bizarre, and touching things that I might see during my daily commutes. At the same time, I judged those commuters for sleeping, jamming to music, and mostly for playing silly games on their phones. I should have jumped off my high horse immediately, knowing that someday soon I would be one of those zombie commuters.

I am not sure how long it took, but at some point during my transition from wide-eyed and bushy-tailed Memphian to staid and underslept New Yorker, I became a play-on-your-phone commuter. It started innocently enough. With a little solitaire when the train was delayed or with a glance through my inbox. Then it took a turn for the worse when my roommate introduced me to 2048, a very addictive number puzzle game. It did not take long for my commutes to be consumed with 2048. A donkey could have gotten on the subway and I wouldn't have noticed. A celebrity could have gotten on the subway (and maybe did), but my eyes were glued to the screen.

Yep, that's a 4096 tile

So here I am, confessing my addiction to you, and letting you know that this post as two purposes. 1) To let you know where all the "Today in the Subway" posts have gone and 2) to brag about my new high score. :)

A Wintery Break from New York City

A photo lovingly known as, "Baking Day with My Bitches"

Warning: This post does not occur in New York City, was not written in New York City, and may not even mention New York City after this sentence. You may say, "But, Emily, isn't the whole point of this blog to share your thoughts and experiences in New York City?" To that I reply, this is my blog, and I'm in charge here, so just sit back, relax, and read on.

Thanks to my "cushy" non-profit job, I get 8 days off at Christmas, add two vacation days to that and it means I have two full weeks off from work and away from the City. The first week was spent at home in Memphis, full of delightful activities including Baking Day, Christmas with the Gattusos, Christmas with the Canons, a burger from Huey's, Christmas Eve with Fondue and The Grinch, and Christmas morning full of wonder, bacon, and presents.

Arriving in Utah

A couple days later the children hopped on a plane and headed West. After a long day and a couple snafus, we arrived at the Black Diamond Lodge at Deer Valley, Utah. It's been our spot for some time now, eleven years by my count, though perhaps plus or minus one. We settled into our usual rooms, and were asleep within moments of pulling the covers over our shoulders.

The next morning we sent Davis along to Ski School. In case you did not know, skiing with his family is beneath him. He is an expert skier who cannot fathom skiing less than 90% Black Diamonds a day. With Davis gone into the trees, the chutes, and other crazy slopes, the rest of us were ready for an easier, albeit challenging day. We met Spike, our trusty instructor over the past three years, in the locker room. He was surprised to see us downstairs before 10:00am (for the record, it was 9:50am).

Spike introduced us to our second instructor, a woman named Sam. It is important, perhaps, to give a brief description of Spike. By the name you may be picturing some young gun with tattoos and a facial piercing. You'd be wrong. He's a gentle seventy-one year old man who loves his boat and is a career teacher with the University of Utah (now teaching online courses so he can travel the world). Despite his age, he is game to do almost anything on the mountain and sometimes even tires us youngins out! Mom loves skiing with him though, and he is more than happy to ski the gentler runs and let the other instructor take the kids into wilder terrain. So we would like to request a younger, more adventurous instructor to balance out Spike. Sam is not that instructor.

Sam makes Spike look young. She reminds Farley of the kind, old rocks/trolls from the movie Frozen. She has been instructing for quite some time, perhaps since skis were made of wood and helmets weren't a thing. She was not rehired at her last job because she had her knee replaced and was basically deemed a liability, so she came to Deer Valley to work. That was twelve years ago. She was too old to work somewhere over a decade ago! So the long and short of it is that we are skiing with the senior citizens brigade. And before too long we are quickly outpacing our instructors' energy. Ed and I request a challenging black. Sam suggests three blues. We counter with a bowl, she "believes" the bowl is closed. We settle on a blue run.

On the first day of skiing while my comrades needed to have their boots checked, Spike and I went off to ski a black mogul run. After a few turns he stopped to give me direction. He started by saying, "You are almost impossible to teach" so I blush and start feeling really bad about my poor learning skills, when he continues, "Because you already do everything right." Wapow! Insult suddenly turned to compliment! After that I was very willing to take instruction, and have since been working on keeping my weight even during my turns in moguls (which is harder than it seems, I promise).

Practicing some Pee-Your-Pants Skiing

On the second day of skiing, I am craving something more difficult. I think to myself, I want pee-your-pants skiing. I, of course, do not literally want to pee my pants. But that is how I describe a certain level of skiing. I have heard no one else, instructor or lay person, describe it in this manner, so I may be embarrassing myself right now. Let me explain. Pee-Your-Pants skiing is when you are skiing something so difficult that your legs are working so hard that you are no longer cold. Your inner thigh muscles are working fiercely and there is a brief moment when you think, "Oh goodness, I've peed my pants. I'm an adult human who is working so hard on the slopes that I accidentally peed myself." Within moments (that may feel much longer) you realize that your continence is indeed in check, and that your leg muscles are just seriously working. That is the kind of difficulty I am looking for on the slopes. Believe it or not, that is not the level of difficulty that the Senior Citizens Brigade prefers.

On the third day of skiing, the temperature slipped below zero degree, which means that the group's enthusiasm slipped a bit as well. Though we usually do not like to eat lunch at 11:30 in the morning, we were very excited to get indoors and warm up after less than two hours on the mountain. Hot beverages were had by all at the Goldener Hirsch- our favorite German restaurant in Deer Valley (Okay, the only German restaurant in Deer Valley, but it is great nonetheless). The younger generation requested required new accessories before braving the cold again for the afternoon.

We battled the cold for the remainder of the week, and only complained about what seemed like the onset of frostbite once. We missed Mom greatly, and our lunchtime and lift time conversations surely suffered. At the end of the week we left Deer Valley with all bones intact and new memories made!

This post is dedicated to William Edward Farley (1929-2014) who encouraged me to write.

New City: New Man

If you are reading this and you are my mother, you are wondering about the hubby-potential of NYC. If you are reading this and you are not my mother, you may also be wondering about the guys up North. I'm happy to enlighten you.

I'll be honest and say I did not have the best dating luck during my few short months living in Atlanta. Apparently, cooking healthy and elaborate dinners at home, going for runs during the midday, and going home every other week are not the best way to meet guys. Who knew? Although an orthodontia student with no dance skills and even less game once told me I was beautiful, so we'll put that in the "win" pile. Anyways, upon moving to New York, I vowed, New City: New Man. Seems like a simple enough mantra. There are millions of guys in this city. Millions. And I'm awesome. So what could possibly go wrong?

A sneak peak of my Match profile

I started the same way any desperate middle-aged woman hip flirty twenty-something would- I signed up for Match.com. We have all seen the commercials. That adorable blonde Kindergarten teacher falls in love with some sweet guy. The commercial assures us that 1 in 5 relationships now start online. "It's totally normal and modern" I can spout off to my friends. Making a profile was easy enough. Put up a picture. Fill out a questionnaire. Describe who you are and who you want to be with. Easy peasy and now I'm one step closer to my Prince Charming.

It starts off like an explosion. Lots of likes, winks, personal messages, page views. I almost order all new hats... but then I take a closer look at who is providing all of this attention. Let me be honest, a lot of weirdos. I spent a good long while just sorting passed guys that were 19 or 40, guys that lived in New Jersey, guys that listed "World of Warcraft" under interests, guys who considered themselves atheists, and so on. That left me with a much smaller pool to work with. Blerg.

No worries. I pressed onward towards true love. I responded to a few guys via the Match.com personal messaging system to see if there were any sparks. After some vetting I took two conversations "off line." I met Tim (he called himself Timmy, but since he was 25, I refused to indulge him in the nickname). He picked me up from work and then asked where we should go. I thought to myself, "So you invite me out for drinks with absolutely no plan. Good God." So we wander into a nearby bar. I order wine and he orders beer. We both get carded. Come on, I think, but then I think a little more, and boy does he look young. We get to talking, and the conversation is fine. I learn he is close with his family. Like super close. Like still lives at home, has no plans or desire to move out, and hopes to settle in Connecticut forever. Hmm, considering I just moved half way across the country to live in a giant bustling city, this guy and I may have different ideas for the future. I escape after one drink with a forced hug and an awkward kiss on the cheek. Okay, so first "frog" of NYC - check.

Don't worry, I had another Match.com date days later. And it went much better. We talked for hours over coffee (hot chocolate for me, actually) and agreed to see each other again. We had great conversations and enjoyed each other's company. We even went out on Valentine's Day. I think we went out a total of seven times, but I kept anticipating a "click" that never happened. We made sense on paper and didn't not like each other. My sister might have told you I ended it because he was "too nice" for me. I would argue it was because we didn't quite click. But the truth may actually be that I couldn't be with a guy that tried to order a veggie burger. How completely offensive!

Since cooling on Match.com, there was a bit of a lull in my dating life. That all changed one afternoon in a taxi. It was summer in the city, also known as boiling hot. I jumped in a cab on my way across town. The windows were all down but the traffic was so slow there was no breeze to be felt. Moments later the driver rolled up the windows and blasted the AC.  What a welcome relief! Then he explained himself. "I turned on the AC because I want you to be cool, but also because you smell so nice I wanted to roll the windows up." ... And that's when I decided to join Hinge.

The Horrifying Roommate Experience

I've already mentioned how much I adore my roommates. They're kind, funny, smart, and put up with me! What more could a girl ask for! So the title of the post may seem odd, even shocking. I should first point out the difference between a "horrifying roommate" and a "horrifying roommate experience." This post is about a particular moment in our lives as roommates, which honestly says more about me than anyone else. If you know me, you will understand exactly how this made me crazy.

Ellie, Lindsay, and I coexist quite well. Despite few square feet, only semi-opaque glass doors, and a solitary bathroom, we make it work. It'd even say we thrive. This particular post relates to the bathroom. We love our glass tiles and rain shower. We love our three separate medicine cabinets. We love the corner nook that provides a little extra storage space. And while we may not love it, we are very good at sharing the bathroom. We have dissimilar shower schedules, and we all leave for work at slightly different times, meaning there's rarely a line to use the bathroom.

So sharing is not the issue. What I should say, is that a lack of sharing is not the issue. In this case, sharing is exactly the issue.

I should mention that Ellie has been away for two weeks for work. The apartment was rather quiet without her, but that's a separate story. She finally returned late Saturday night. After catching up for a while she announced that she needed a shower. A feeling I can completely identify with; no one wants to go to sleep smelling like airplane. So she disappeared into the bathroom while I continued to Pinterest (not one of my wilder NYC Saturday nights).

She emerged some time later with a confession. She had taken her toothbrush into the shower before realizing she had grabbed mine by mistake. Ellie assured me that she realized her mistake and switched toothbrushes before it was too late, but mine was wet. Okay, I thought, this is fine. It’s just wet. It has not been in her mouth. So I brushed my teeth as if everything were normal, and then I went to bed.

Fast forward to the next morning. I wake up, bright-eyed and ready for bagels! Of course before we head to Essa for our Sunday bagel tradition, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I notice my toothbrush in the opposite side of the toothbrush holder. Oh good gracious, what is happening, I think with panic. “Ellie,” I say with temerity while peaking my head out of the bathroom. “Which toothbrush is yours?”

Yes, I am sure you’ve guessed it by now. Ellie and I have been using the same toothbrush. And we have no idea for how long. My heart is racing. Oh dear God, why do bad things happen to good people?! I am very good (okay, mostly good) at sharing. You are welcome to borrow just about anything from me. Phone charger? Sure! Little black dress? Why not! Cab fare? Of course! But I draw the line at personal products. Please keep your hands off of my deodorant, razor, and especially my toothbrush!

But it gets worse.

I come to the realization that not only have I been sharing a toothbrush with my roommate, but Ellie’s boy friend shares a toothbrush with Ellie. So by the transitive property, I’ve been sharing a toothbrush with a strange man! I tried to play it cool. Just keep breathing, Emily; you can do this, I thought. Just laugh it off.

But we all know that at the very first opportunity, I ran across the street to the Walgreens and bought a two pack of the ugliest toothbrushes I could find. No chance we will mix our toothbrushes up now!

Is this the biggest size you have?

While the title of this post may imply a trip to Bloomingdale's, in which I, in all sincerity, ask the saleswoman, "Where are the clothes made for people who are familiar with carbs and who don't shy away from butter?" However, this post is about another kind of shopping in New York - grocery shopping.

I love to cook. Okay, I love to eat, so I have learned to love to cook. As you may already know, the first step to cooking is usually creating a list and going to the grocery store. You might think this would be a pretty universal errand across the country. After all, how different can grocery shopping be from one place to another - it is just going to a store, picking up food, and checking out. Right? Wrong.

From the moment my first trip to the grocery began in New York, I knew it would be different. I was used to driving to the grocery, grabbing my reusable bags from the trunk, retrieving a cart, and wandering the expanse of Publix with a grocery list as long as a short essay that contained everything I would need to cook all week long. In New York, you have to be savvier.

First of all, I do not have a car, so I have to be prepared to carry what I buy home. I find myself eying a twelve pack of Diet Coke, and then thinking, "No way will I carry that! I guess I am drinking tap water again this week." I am also more likely to go to the store multiple times in one week, so that I spread out what I have to carry. It only took one walk home during which I thought both arms would be ripped out of the sockets and an unfeminine bead of sweat developed on my brow despite the frigid temperature to convince me that multiple trips to the store are best.

Secondly, New York grocery stores are constructed so that you buy less at a time. When I first walked into the store I looked around for a cart like a birdwatcher might look for an ivory-billed woodpecker. In other words, I looked and I looked but was pretty convinced carts had gone extinct, at least up North. I grabbed a basket instead, which may be to force customers to only buy what they can carry. I have eventually found a cart in a grocery store, although it's not a full sized cart like I would expect.

It fits in my palm. My palm!!

Lastly, on top of the smallness of the store itself and the carts, even the food in New York City's grocery stores is smaller! I came across sizes of food staples that I had no idea existed! Did you know they still sell Coke in six packs up here? And they sell Aunt Jemima's syrup in a size that can only be described as travel-sized. Not to mention mayonnaise the size of a can of baby food, which would not get my family through one meal of BLTs in the summer. The true kicker though, was when I scanned the store for Velveeta. The delicious and truly American pasteurized cheese product was not displayed proudly like at the grocery in Memphis, but rather placed unlovingly in a corner of the dairy section. Did the Manhattan grocer even realize that this cheddar-y gift does not need to be refrigerated? I sought to rescue the Velveeta from the dairy case, and was flabbergasted by the teeny-tiny specimen I held in my hand. I was accustomed to Velveeta that was three times the size of this one! I shook my head at the tragedy of tiny Velveeta but left the store and happily dumped the whole thing into my chicken casserole. Boy, was it delicious!


As I get used to grocery shopping in New York City, I am also embracing a different kind of Manhattan grocery shopping, known as delivery. For what this city lacks in American-sized groceries, it makes up for in the fact that nearly every restaurant on the island delivers anything and at anytime, and that is something I can get on board with!