The Sweet Factory

Penny candy has to have been a thing since at least the turn of the century, right?

MaryJanes must be as old as butter at least.


I think it's fair to say The Goldilocks Complex starts at The Sweet Factory.  In my case, it really started at the Red Cross Pharmacy where my folks used to fill prescriptions when we were growing up.  That's the first place I remember being able to buy an assortment of candy for under a dollar.

Remember the simple joy of filling a bag with a few swedish fish, more than a few sour patch kids, some tootsie rolls, a mini reeces or two, a couple cry babies, a lemon head or fireball if you were feeling daring, and a licorice wheel to round out your lot?

But let's assume these days pharmacies other than CVS's and Walgreens, general stores and video stores (I also remember One Stop Video having penny candy for a while) have entirely gone by the wayside.  So kids' first exposure to all there is to consume in the world comes when they accompany first their moms and dads and aunts and uncles on trips to the mall and then when they're lucky enough to get to walk the mall with friends in middle school.

BOOM: ALL. THE. OPTIONS.  And now it's not just candy separated by brand and by genre, it's fun dip packs you fill yourself, and M&M's and Jelly Belly's broken out by color ahead of time.



How can a goldilocks complex not set in at the sight?  Who the heck knows which choice is juuuust right?

City living

Yesterday at my bambina sorella's college graduation dinner, my grandmother asked me if I miss Los Angeles or Manhattan.  I had an answer for her immediately because one of my ACK Roomies asked me the very same question very recently.

I miss living amidst a myriad of delusional dreamers in LaLa Land.  There's nothing more comforting than knowing your neighbors are as confident their big break is only an audition, a meeting, a networking night, a new connection, a chance encounter or recognition a long time coming away as you are yours is.

And I miss the palpable energy of the big apple.  Although, now that I live in a borough of it (essentially, in my opinion anyway), I feel lucky to be able to dip in and out of it on a whim/whenever I need new highlights, a therapy appointment, or to just recharge my batteries with a long walk up Broadway from Times Square to the Upper Upper West Side.

But here, I have access to pure joy, something I hadn't found a source of in either of the major metropolises I called home in the past seven years.  And there is literally nothing NYC or LA could have offered me that compares.

This little dude took 5 whole steps to me three days ago and I think I can honestly say I was more excited by that accomplishment than I've been about any of my own accomplishments in the past ten years.  

It's not fair of course, that nature's done this to me.  But who am I to challenge the she-beast that is biology?  

I also got a great response from a literary agent last week and happened to be at my parents' house when the email came.  My mother saw me do the little victory dance I do whenever someone requests chapters or my full manuscript for their perusal upon having received and read my query.  

So I'm very much still in it for the long haul.  And very sure the cities will harken to me whenever they have happy opportunities for me to be in them for.  I just don't miss them.  Because in the mean time, joy trumps glamour, fanfare, hustle bustle, excitement, temptation, indulgence and grit.  

The big 4-0 or how having 39 roommates has made me ready for a life partner

If you count my four siblings, who, with my parents, were my first official housemates, I have had 39 roommates in my 31 years of life.  I had to jot down a list before I sat to write this, because I had been pretty sure the tally was somewhere around 26, but I was wrong. I had forgotten a handful of the Walker St roommates in Cambridge, and I hadn’t counted the sub-letters who joined the mix at my places on 101^st and Broadway and in West New York, New Jersey.

Michelle would leave the TV on even when she was out for the day.  Jen would make macaroni and leave it on the stove for a week.  Lori would leave post-it notes on the fridge reminding us to fill the Britta before putting it back.

The way Katherine Heigl’s character in the romantic comedy, 27 Dresses accrued bridesmaid frocks, I’ve collected a football team worth of former roommates in the span of three decades.

I would always be spooked when I heard Matt head out for long distance runs at 4:30am.  I would always be offended when I heard how rudely Todd talked to the deliverymen who couldn’t find our street.  I would always blush when I heard Helen's boisterous sex with her newest boyfriend at the most bizarre hours of the day.  

My number from college is within normal range.  I went from having one direct roommate freshman year to eleven suitemates senior year.   Par for the course, and a pretty important part of the education I received as an undergrad.  Actually, I feel that way about having grown up in a house with five kids – and one bathroom – as well.  You learn a lot of social skills from sharing a space and forming interpersonal relationships with that many individuals during your developmental years.  You’re introduced to a broad range of communication styles.  You’re taught how to interpret cues, how to approach and resolve confrontation, how to simply co-exist when you can’t particularly stand someone at a given point.   You’re exposed to different comfort levels and different cleanliness levels.  You are just constantly reminded that the world does not in fact revolve around you.  Ego?  Who can have one of those when you’re spinning a chore wheel or stuck in a shower schedule?

Kim was the American personification of the Italian word chiacchierona, which means chatter-box.  Aaron blasted house music whenever he did laundry.  Taylor shamelessly consumed marathons of mindnumbing Kardashian themed television.

Of the 39, there are nineteen I affectionately call “Roomie” in cards, facebook posts, text messages and emails – only one of whom I physically live with today.  “Roomie” is a timeless title.  It’s like “Auntie” but less often authentic or “BFF” but less often elusive.  My roomies are some of my favorite people on the planet, forever friends, who I probably could have gone on living with far longer than I actually did.

My nomadic lifestyle feels less abnormal amongst my artist friends in NY and LA.  Gypsies of the theatrical nature, for example, take month or season long bookings out of state for jobs they auditioned for while burning through roommates back in Astoria or Brooklyn or on the Upper West Side.  Rent hikes in these cities make it nearly impossible to stay in a place for more than a year or two, max.  Roommate shuffling and recycling is rather commonplace.  Perhaps my habit of subletting my rooms out while I spent summers in cities like Nantucket and Cambridge contributed to my count rising as high as it has. 

I think David and I might have hooked up had I lived on Martel longer.  I’m glad my crush on Dan had subsided before we went in on the Nantucket house together.   I feel like I actually know what it would be like to be married to Marco.

39 roommates!  The big 4-0 I have big plans for.  High hopes.  Steep standards.  You see, before I agree to share my living space with one more person that person will have to have put a proverbial ring on it.   I’m tired of learning the ins and outs of living with others only to uproot before long.   At this point, I can live with anyone.  No quirk of theirs is too quirky, no peeve of mine easy enough to be pet.  But I want what Katherine Heigl’s character gets at the end of the romcom.  My happy ending will be the one who feels like home.

The Goldilocks Complex

I’m baaaaaaaack!  Wait, but why?

Because when the president of the (NNHS) senior class (of 1999) advised James (from Dublin) to simply write if he wants to become a better writer, (student government) secretary (of yore) that I am, I took note.

So with the renaming, I intend to have a clearer purpose here on the ol' blog.  I realize in the past, I've alluded to but never quite explained what a Goldilocks Complex is, and I am excited to say I have come so crazy close to finding a bed, a chair and a bowl of porridge that’s juuuuuuust right, honestly.

I also have a feeling there are boatloads of Golidilock Girls and Guys out there wandering what feels like aimlessly through their early twenties, swimming blindly through life in the big cities and tasting porridges that are simply too cold or too hot for their liking night after night, week after week.  So I'm writing for them (and of course, my couple handfuls of regular readers).

I'll break it down for the blogosphere once and for all as I build my platform.  And I'll do so...hmmm... let's see. Not daily.  But bi-weekly maybe?  I think I can commit to that.  I still can't commit to a nail polish color for more than a week at a time, but I am getting better about commitments, in general, so sure... Bi-weekly posts, here we come!

Sundays and Wednesdays till I live happily ever after.