We are so back, bitches

…and still classy, as you can see.

And yes, it is true.  I have finally left the motherland am currently living (attempting to at least) in NYC.  It’s been a big change for me, and while there definitely was an adjustment period, I’m thinking NYC suits me just fine.  Lots of good coffee, gin establishments, and friends (minus my eternal partner in crime, Fritas).  Also, know what NYC has a lot of that I never found in Miami?  Asian markets.  Like the really awesome ones with tons of unrecognizable foods and an absurdly large selection of Pocky.  And it’s the real stuff – the ones that my college roommate would bring me back from Hong Kong.  Anyway, this is totally not a post about my obsession with Asian chocolate snacks, although it could very quickly devolve into that.

This is a post about how, regardless (or irregardless) of the fact that I am no longer living in Miami, nor do I have any plans to return, there are certain inalienable rights that come along with being from Miami.  And those things pretty much never leave.  An example?  Some things are small, like the fact that I could never leave the house without a pair of earrings on.    I’ve walked outside, realized that I’m not wearing earrings, and turned right back around to put some on.  Side note: maybe I should carry a back up pair in my wallet, just in case?  Anyway, all real Miami girls know that you are not fully dressed if you are not wearing earrings.  You’re just not.  You wouldn’t want to run into your future husband on the street and not be wearing earrings.  Just imagine the horror.

Another thing that I’ve noticed is that I wasn’t that girl in Miami who was super proud of the fact that I was from Miami.  I mean, it was just a fact of my life.  But for whatever reason, whenever I have lived outside of Miami, I become so pro-Miami.  Like during the NBA finals this season, I was the first to rail on anyone who hated on the Heat.  You don’t like Lebron? Sorry I’m not sorry he took his talents to South Beach.  You think Chris Bosh looks like a raptor?  He totally does, but he crushed it.  Ray Allen is a traitor to Boston?  Kind of, but at least in Miami he can get a ring.  So I saw this picture after we won the championship last year (2014 – year of the threepeat baby!), but I think it totally sums up the Miami way of thinking about all the haters:

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Also, apparently in New York, I have an accent.  Wha??? Moi? An accent? I guess there are some Miami-isms and speech inflections that I can’t get rid of, regardless of years of education. (Side note: one of the most embarrassing days of my life was when a writing tutor in college asked me if English was my second language. OMG.  According to her, my writing style betrays my Romance language roots; not totally sure I agree with her on that.  Like how good is my English?)  I wish I knew what my accent sounded like to other people.  If it sounds anything like this, I will literally crawl into a hole and die.  But literally bro.  I am very honestly making a concerted effort to stop calling random people “bro”.  I know, it’s hard, but  I’m working on it.

Anyway, sorry for the rambling, but these are just some things I’ve been thinking about ever since leaving the 305 (but obviously haven’t taken the time to write out).  Caro + I are going to be writing on here more.  We promise.  For real. 

-cams

Fauxdulting

def. fauxdulting (v.) – the act of feigning responsibility while still maintaining adult age and subsequent grace .

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So, a few weeks ago, we had a little chat about my desire to become a more responsible human being, and I have some updates.

After reading Apartment Therapy’s post on the beneifits on bed making, I decided to suck it up and try it.

I started making my bed. Every day. Seriously.

However, there’s still the folding situation. My adult habit of doing laundry every day means it’s all clean, but my fauxdult habit of not ironing anything until right before I put it on,  means everything is in piles. (This really kind of counteracts the making-the-bed-every day habit, because my bed may be neatly made, hospital-corners and all, but it is covered in clumps of clothing). Despite my room devovling into a laundry battle ground, a well-made bed has provided a very decent first (very small, extremely light) step towards whole-home organization. I can honestly say it makes a big difference. I come home to a little square of zen, and even if the chaos continues to rule supreme elsewhere, it’s beginning to feel more manageable.

I do have two options for dealing with this clothing situation: I can give some of it away, or I can accept donations of hangars from my best friend and try to cram them all into my minuscule closet. As you might guess, I went for the second option.

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I originally drafted this post a year ago and it turns out, my battle with fauxdulting was actually plagued by a lack of follow through, because not only did I never finish this post, I also stopped making my bed every day a few months later despite all the positive ramifications it had on my life (turns out life gets messy and other things get in the way).

However, in the immortal words of Aaliyah:

I’ll make it today.

Maybe I’ll even make it tomorrow, too.

– Caro

Post Script: I did, however, undergo at least three rounds of closet flushing and have since finally parted ways with a significant portion of my wardrobe. I also purchased a massive amount of container store boxes to organize all of my shoes. So, half-win? Three-quarters win? The organized closet thing was huge, guys. Huge.

Post Post Script: A friend of a friend just launched this project on kickstarter which intends to drastically diminish the effort required to make your bed every morning (bringing the task closer to lifehacking than adulting). I’m not entirely sold on the absence of hospital corners, but it is a neat idea worth checking out: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/marshallhaas/smart-bedding-never-make-your-bed-again

A return to writing

My father always told me that a [wo]man should do the following three things before they die: (1) raise a child, (2) plant a tree and (3) write a book.

I am nowhere near ready to rear a child, and have limited-if any-success raising herbs (this bodes poorly for the future of any green-life under my care) and unlike my father do not believe my Master’s Thesis should be my seminal and authoritative life-defining text – I am more than my degree, you know? Frankly, I do not want my written legacy to be based solely on printed-circuit board development and the accommodative response of the eye – if anything just because it’s really not that cool, and I am much more dimensional than my research alone. (Although I should mention my research is important, interesting and siginificant in its’ own right)

To this end, I’ve decided (over and over again for the past few months) to give this blog some new life, and hopefully stick with it this time. Even if my (our?) legacy is drowned among the endless noise of the internet, at least it’s out there, I guess. If anything, I can create a permanent record of my quarter-life crisis so that if I ever find myself again in a moment of crisis, self-discovery and self-imposed panic, I can find a version of myself that got through it (assuming, of course, I make it out alive).

 – Caro

P.S. I’m not going to all-out blame my quarter-life crisis on Cams for moving to New York, but I will say it didn’t help.

P.P.S. Just kidding

P.P.P.S. Sort of.

P.P.P.P.S. She said she’d start writing again too! go team!