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vicks27
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Name: Victoria
Country: United States
State: Pennsylvania
Birthday: 2/7/1983
Interests: I'm a city girl, but I look sexy in a cowboy hat. I'm a movie goer and a concert lover, and I can be caught with a bag of chocolate covered raisins at just about any time. And the only thing I love cradling more than a new pair of shoes is my kitten, Manhattan.
Expertise: I'm a writer. I swear, it's in my blood. It's up to you to decide if I'm any good. Be gentle. This is my passion.
Occupation: Other
Industry: Media
Message: message me
Member Since:
12/5/2002
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| I wondered, on the way home, how it would all play out. What I knew was bound to happen. Again. And then, like divine intervention-- it just did.
I'm outside of the door to my apartment, raking through my purse for my keys. With freshly manicured nails, I cringe every time they knick or click against something in my bag. I picked the color entirely based on the name. Like New York was bleeding. Like I was bleeding for it.
The keys aren't there.
I dump the pursestuff onto the sidewalk. No keys. J_____ has already driven away. Manny is sitting in the window, and I can see her mouth open in "meow."
I call my landlord, whose phone was off. And my property company, which was closed. Then I called him. I'm locked out. I don't know what to do.
What do you want me to do, he asks, and I don't know why I'm surprised.
I want you to come get me and take me home with you so I'm not stranded here all night.
Why didn't you call J______?
That was all he needed to say. Tears start dribbling down my cheek. Because I wanted you.
Five-hundred-something sidewalk, streetlight lit paces later, I'm a single girl again.
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It's a snowy, blowy day in Pittsburgh, but I'm sporting a deep-dimple smile. A dimple-deep smile and thigh-high boots. My birthday is my sexiest day of the year.
There was a parade in the city for me followed by fireworks that dazzled midday. Neither of these have anything to do with my Steelers winning the Superbowl. Though I did invite them to be in my parade since they're heroes and all. Only the best for my big day.
Tonight the Capones will rally at Buca to help me celebrate before escorting me to the movies so that I can scratch another Oscar nominee off of my list.
Last year, my silk skirt and feather earrings and croc pumps made an appearance in an audience of 18 at Carrabba's. Next year, I'm opting for Christian Louboutins and an audience of one.
I am ready for the best year of my life to begin. I am ready to move to New York. I am ready to publish my best writing. I am ready to travel to Europe and learn ballroom dance and beat my best kiss ever. I am ready to get into best shape I've ever been. I am ready to make more mistakes and overcome more regrets and surprise myself, once again, with the amount of strength I am capable of. I am ready to fall in love again.
Twenty-three is slated to be amazing. Look out.
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| - Goodbye My Lover My Last Blog with Dean
I have some unconventional relationships with inaniment objects. Taylor, my iPod sings to be daily. My shoes get talked into dates all the time. My office chair cradles me better than a boyfriend ever did. And then there's Dean. But a writer's bond with her computer has always been a special one...
Especially if you've clocked the hours we've spent together. Many a nights have been passed away pounding out another thousand words of some journalistic nonsense. Dean knows more of my secrets than anyone. A trusted muse. And always playing the right song off of a random playlist. And have you met him? He's gorgeous. All 17 inches of his flat-panel facade. Easy to fall in love with. Head over heels. Has merited every "hello baby..." he evokes upon my return home in the evenings.
So it's with no small amount of sadness I say goodbye to him. The final settlement in that big, bad break-up of mine. C'est la vie...
And shut up. You name your cars.
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| My Kind of Town
Chicago was everything I needed it to be. I arrived beaten, without a fight left in me. The trip that was supposed to be a fun little flaunt of my freedom was actually a restoration of my independence. Ready or not, I was on my own again. And I couldn't have picked a better kick off. The sound of my heels over on the street screamed the empowerment I was desperate for. I took long looks at the placid rivers that reflected the blue lights of the city. The cold was biting, and my heart was broken. But I would make it.
Frank Sinatra floated on the thin air as I made my way back to the hotel. "Let the record show... I took all the blows... and did it My Way..."
And of course, Hanson was there. : ) Girl couldn't ask for a better pick-me-up.
Moving On
And I'm not the only one. Thanksgiving was happily distracted by grandma's big move. The whole of it has been very entertaining. Yesterday, when Victor and I were ready to throw in the towel, I pointed to one more basement cabinet that had not been packed.
"Let's save it for tomorrow," he said.
"More guns?" I half-joked to my Capone descendent uncle.
"No, they're Pap-pap's nazi helmets."
"Oh where did he get those?"
"...Off of dead nazis."
Derailed
I was giving Jenny Aniston one more chance, and she pulled through. It's a thrilling little movie. Worth a night out at the Cheesecake factory and witty banter afterward at Caribou Coffee. Moreover, Clive was his bruting, wonderful self and worth the price of admission alone. How does crazy, violent somehow translate to mysterious, sexy?
MySpace
Yes, I'm one of those people now...
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| Trick or Treat: We went to the Halloween party yesterday even after he said we wouldn't. Munched on carrots posing as finger numbs and chips dipping into what my uncle deemed monster vomit.
The most fun was the mummy wrap when Jer and I coiled little Jamie in toilet paper. Don't move, Jamie. Not even a little. You'll rip the paper, and we'll lose the game.
This would be a lot easier if I were paralyzed, he said.
Mari-ohh! My cover story has hit the stands, and I'm already fielding phone calls about it. The whole of it fills me with so much adrenaline I feel as though I could walk to Manhattan. Drink a bottle of champagne on those streets, parading the magazine above my head. See here, my admissions ticket. Look what I can do to get to you.
Speaking of Manhattan: She's stir crazy today. Always gets this way on the weekends when she sees so much more of me. We read and reread Colson Whitehead on Saturday and Sunday mornings. She purrs under my chin. Stops me from turning the page too soon.
I've decided we'll send out a holiday card together. Cliche and who cares. It's nice to belong to someone again.
The Wild, Wild West: Four days. Five Planes. Two Buses. Twenty-four hours. One couch. One futon. Four girls. Two boots. One bride. | | |
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