Babies, you can have the attention. I’ll take my health.

It’s true, your growing presence on Facebook once made me jealous. I spend hours on a blog post to grab a couple likes. You shit in your pants and go viral.

Life isn’t fair and you’re living proof, but today I offer a truce.

A story sounds more fun than a truce? Well, let me tell you one.

There’s this season called winter. You know it. You wear hats and mittens and people like it. Well, it’s funny because when I moved here from Florida I had all of these friends who were like no don’t go it’s so cold up there you’re going to die. And I was like oh no it will be completely fine because my pale skin has been dying in Florida since I was born. And of course they were all like well, you know, there’s snow there! And I was like, hey, I think snow is pretty awesome. Well, they kept trying. They were like well, you know there’s also slush and it’s gross and awful. And I was like I really don’t care because I can’t go sit on a beach for eight hours and act like I’m enjoying it anymore.

But you know what they never told me about? Ice.

No one ever said hey sometimes in the winter it will rain after it snows and walking on it is like going on a date with a rapist. No one ever said that.

There was slipping. There was falling. And you know, my stories of these missteps were about the most popular thing I’ve done on Facebook since I purchased pajama jeans.

Both hurt my soul, just in different ways. The second date is yours babies.*

*Can we just act like I didn’t accidentally tell babies to go on dates with rapists? I have too many other things I want to write about.

I want to make this city seem small.

Loud words from a quiet girl, but after six months in this beautiful city, I know I don’t speak alone. Why else would you abandon the suburban comforts of dish washers, Wal-Mart and plentiful square footage?

Yes, if there’s a city for dreamers who kind of want it all, this is it.

The Email And The Move

My NYC move was confirmed by an email I never thought I’d get.

“Jenny, I’d like to offer you the position of Social Media Manager at MTV News…”

In a sentence, three years of manically refusing to accept the current as the future made sense. And tossed in with that refusal, the month-long quarter-life crisis Euro trip, the late-night blogging, the lunch breaks spent in the “what the hell am I doing with my life” section at B&N and the relentless belief that I should  wake up with excitement, not dread during my little stay on this planet. That sentence made them fact, not fiction, and it felt really fucking good to be right.

I read the offer at a hotel bar minutes before my brother’s wedding rehearsal dinner, giving my life update speech an immediate upgrade from “I quit my job and I’m moving home to Titusville to freelance for a while because if I have to write about dental insurance for one more day I may try to hire someone offshore to do it for 1/3 the price and cut my losses!” to “I’m moving to NYC to work at MTV, bitches!” Naturally, I spent the weekend drinking far too much beer and waltzing around with a shit-eating grin. But when I dropped off my date and began the three hour drive from Tampa to Boca, it all sunk in.

For the first time, I was arrested by joy. I spent those three hours crying, re-reading the offer email, wondering why I had a sudden onset of heart burn and listening to “Girl, I’m Tryin’” on repeat. The song made no sense but I just needed one steady variable to help me process reality at 70 miles per hour. I had given rational decision making the middle finger and just three weeks later I was accepting my dream gig.

And so, on highway 95, with J. Brazil blaring, I hopped on the steepest learning curve of my life.

The Lessons Learned

In my first week, I learned that my college beer pong besties always have an air mattress with my name on it, that it’s possible to find a great roommate on Twitter and that even at 25, (really) moving away from home will leave you with a lump in your throat.

In the following weeks, I learned that the subway isn’t that scary at night and that I’m capable of taking more than one train to get to my destination. I learned that bums don’t like pears and they get quite angry when you bring them up. I learned that it’s the Shuttle, not the S train and that you should listen to someone else pronounce Houston Street before you give it a try. And as many of you already know, I learned that it’s difficult to walk past the 4^th Ave Pub without stopping in.

I learned things that Jay-Z forgot to mention. Like, where New Jersey is located, how to not have hot water for three weeks and how to feel completely overwhelmed in his city of opportunity.

On late night strolls in the city, I learned that the Hilton on 42 Street will always be a very special place to me. It’s where I decided to make the concrete jungle my new home. It’s where I fangurled for life and opportunities despite learning a $400 lesson about which nights companies do and do not pay for when you go to a conference. And it’s where I stumbled into, at that time, the biggest interview of my life only to find out that even though the guy who created the KitKat jingle thinks this blog rocks, it was only an informational interview. I’m in business attire that may or may not have a beer pong stain from last night and you just want to chat? Weird.

Of course, I learned tons on the job. I learned who Drake is, that Justin Bieber runs the Internet and that Kanye West is a childish genius, not a dumbass. I also learned how to meet my celebrity crush without puking/passing out and that Madison Square Garden is only a few blocks away from our office.

But beyond follow and fan counts, I learned that sometimes you’re not having a breakdown; you’re having a breakthrough (thanks to Kelly Cutrone for that gem).  I learned that initiative is the best compensation for weaknesses. I learned that despite the crowds, you can still feel alone in this city and that sometimes on a Monday morning you decide you need to go home on Saturday and it’s worth every penny of the $400 last-minute fare.

Naturally, I learned  a few things during that and other transits in and out of the city. Like, Islip isn’t worth the saved cash. You really can’t catch a cab at the Jamaica stop, but if you’re lucky, a bus driver will think you look like his sister-in-law and let you ride for free until you’re at the stop near a service car company. And after all of it, you’ll still arrive early enough to catch a buzz before your flight. On return, I learned that your first LGA landing is terrifying if the misconception that your plane is landing in water unnerves you.

In my spare time, I learned that dogs shit on sidewalks a lot up here and if you make a Tumblr that showcases this it will absolutely make your day every time you capture a new canine defecating. Plus, it gives you a unique answer to potential mates’ “So, what do you do in your spare time?” question. I learned that it’s kind of amazing to wear an “I hate comedy shows” t-shirt in Times Square and that even if traffic dips while you abuse the “I’m 25 and live in NYC!” excuse on countless weeknights, your subscribers will wait it out.

Overall, I learned that there are plenty of people who really get it and that I’m fortunate to work with them on a daily basis. I’m surrounded by young, creative people who break the Internet with their hilarity, who interview the President, who make TV shows, who sing and dance and play the keyboard all at once and who write lines like “white-collar angst from blue-collar barflies.”

They make this city seem small. And really, that’s been the goal all along.

My name is Jenny. I am 24 years old and last weekend I brought sexy back in a $3 High School Musical swim suit.

You’re shocked, I know. Me too.

It only cost me $3 to bring sexy back. It cost Justin Timberlake about 2 years and $5 million.

So how did I become more awesome than Justin Timberlake?

Sit back and let me explain.

I’ll admit, I have never seen any of the High School Musicals 1-70 and barring some unforeseen hostage situation, (or a John Cusack cameo) I doubt I ever will.

But last weekend, faced with a beautiful day, good company, a beach invite and no bathing suit,  I brought sexy back with this little get up.

High School Musical bathing suit, first worn by Jenny, now for sale – starting bid $5,689

This was no small feat, but I’m a gracious winner. So here are six things I learned in my defeat of Justin Timberlake:

1. Wal-Marts in Florida do not carry bathing suits in November. Rather, they alter their wardrobe offering to match the needs of states with more than one season despite the presence of perfect beach days 340 out of 365 days each year in Florida.
2. Should you ask one of Wal-Mart’s finest “Where are the bathing suits?” in November, she/he (maybe both?) will respond, “Right ova derr.. $30.. one pieces fer granmas.. teh heh.. ehh hehh heh..” and you will be sent to a rack that contains waterproof smocks. Terror will ensue as you envision an 80-year-old version of yourself responding to this selection with sparkling eyes and a loose wallet.
3. I am an XL little girl.
4. Being an XL little girl at age 24 is both flattering (bottom) and embarrassing (top).
5. XL little girl bathing suits do not come with boob padding. So when you leave 70 degree water and embrace a cool breeze, you will need to cover your boobs with your hands and quickly warn your friends, “So, I’m kinda cold..”
6. Despite the childish frills on little girl bathing suits, onlookers (a.k.a. friends who want birthday presents) may comment, “It actually fits you (laughter). Doesn’t look that bad.” This may make you think it was wrong to retire that two piece American flag-inspired Speedo from 5th grade. But you will be wrong. There was a reason that pool fashion incident was brought up mercilessly from age 10 to 17.

[Writing setting: Sushi restaurant; listening to the violin solo version of "My Heart Will Go On," waiting to eat a roll that I will pay for with my credit card because so few of you assholes bought our first shirt. Please buy next week's shirt. Or get this one before we retire it on Sunday.]

This is the first post in a new series that will undoubtedly be both long and awkward. “That Just Happened” moments occur frequently when you project social awkwardness in near lethal doses.

That Just Happened, Episode 1: You’re Cute But You’re Totally Gay, Right?

It’s another crazy Friday night in Boca. I opt to drink four beers and G-Chat on my couch while my friends play putt-putt sober.

At 8:30 I catch a ride to part two of the evening, the bar. We arrive and I continue to blend wheat/water/barley/hops with stomach acid  at a rate that will ultimately lead me to a table for one with two slices of pizza and (another) beer in a styrofoam cup.

While waiting for beer #6, I am approached by one of the folks with the dangly things between their legs. Since I travel with six to seven couples, this altercation is witness by no fewer than four people who I socialize with on a weekly basis.

Guy says something witty and funny. I reply in similar fashion. We are now conversing.

Guy says something else witty and funny. I acknowledge that it was both witty and funny.

My beer arrives.

Guy really is witty and funny so we continue talking, however, I begin to lose focus.

You see, my GayDar is all aflutter from his posture, conversational skills and the carefully groomed chest hair that is peeking out of his slightly unbuttoned dress shirt.

With every word, it is becoming more and more clear, he is potential gay BFF, not potential mate.

Six beers in, I am in no condition to avoid brutal honesty.

“You’re cute, but you’re totally gay, right?” - I blurt out.

Guy stops talking. Smile transitions to scowl.

“What did you just say?” – He asks.

I pick up the social cue he just threw down by requesting repetition despite the lack of an audio barrier. It’s obvious at this point that he is both a) not gay and b) not happy that his attire and social vibes allowed me to successfully land this leap of judgment.

“I mean, I think you’re cool and all, but you’re gay right?” – I repeat, looking around for shelter. For help. For another beer.

“Why do you think I’m gay?” – He continues.

I sip on my beer and look up from the deep, dark hole I have created.

“Is it because I listen to you when you talk? Or because I..”

“Yah, maybe that’s it!”- I interrupt. Desperate for some salvation from the awkward social purgatory that separates me from both the bar and my friends.

“Oh, sorry.. let’s let YOU talk again. I’m all ears.”- He says, but then continues talking.

I realize it is highly unlikely that this conversation can be recovered enough for him to a) sponsor my next beer or b) participate in a Lady Gaga dance off. He realizes it’s highly unlikely a woman would ever date a man she once thought was gay. While I am heartbroken that he will not be able to give me hair advice and help me pick the right pair of earrings to match my heels, I wait for the first break in eye contact and shuffle back to home base, a place where I know both names and sexual preferences.

*The position for GayBFF is still available.