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Falltime Snippets.

October 19, 2012

The Prose of Krose [.com] is ready to blow her first candle out! One year ago today, I graduated to my very own domain and have felt tres, tres official ever since. And how lucky for my “creative project” to share a birthday with one of my oldest friends, Chris, the yellow haired gentleman who was a part of the Madonna Menagerie back in September (By the way, please note the definition of “menagerie.” It’s just such a fitting description of our Motley Crew that evening!). Our friendship goes way, way back: back to the halls of Stratford Ave. Elementary and to the shores of Jamesport, Long Island. Chris is 24 years older than this here domain, and I’m so thankful that ringing in his 25th year will involve a truly optimal combination this evening: Fleetwood Mac and karaoke.


But enough about birthdays and The Mac! I want to talk about my other favorite topics: cider and Stonehill! This week was New York’s “Cider Week,” so to kick things off, I enjoyed last Sunday down at the New Amsterdam Market with my pals Diana, Sara, and Lisa. We spent our Sabbath sampling ciders from all over the Northeast, and the experience was nothing short of religious. Our favorite tastes included Bellweather’s black currant variety and Slyboro’s wonder of an ice wine. The Market is a staple down at the South Street Seaport, so I suggest you New Yorkers check it out. It’s a fantastic space to peruse on a brisk fall afternoon.


And finally, my dear alma mater played in its first nationally televised football game last night. So, in true Skyhawk fashion, the NYC alumni gathered together to celebrate the milestone. Our boys fought hard, and the spectators added to the energy. The game was a close one, and while the win on the field wasn’t in our favor, the viewing party was victory enough for me!

Happy Friday from me to you.


Ladies is Pimps Too.

October 18, 2012

Before I mixed my prints and color-blocked my way down the west coast (I’m serious – I donned some crazy duds while in Cali), I experienced another musical moment that’s on par with only Madonna. Trading my colorful frocks for a black leather jacket and a flat-brim hat, I trekked back to my dear borough of Brooklyn to ball so hard during Jay-Z’s third night in the new Barclays Center. Paying homage to his home, H to the izz OVA entertained the packed house with the hits that earned him his Godly nickname. With fellow gangsta pal Meg at my side, we brushed dirt off our shoulders like the lady pimps that we is. Needless to say, it was the perfect night to be in an Empire State of Mind.


California Dreaming.

October 17, 2012

I couldn’t make this up if I tried: “California Dreamin’” by The Mamas and the Papas literally came on the radio right as Heather and I (well, just Heather) ignited the little silver bullet that took us down the Pacific Coast Highway on our final day of gallivanting around NoCal. Our five-day trip was a delight, and we left with memories that will have us dreaming of sunny California as New York nights turn crisp. So, while the visions of hills, beaches, and bridges are still vivid, let’s venture west, to the nooks of my noggin still swarming with sunshine.

Despite a rather rushed journey to JFK and a dinner of Chex Mix, cashews, and pretzel M&Ms (plane meal of champions, I think), my dear travel pal and I made it onto our San Francisco-bound Virgin America flight with time to spare, and after watching the presidential debate from a mile-high, we were in a cab bound for the city’s Marina area, a yuppie little neighborhood that boasts beautiful views of the Golden Gate Bridge. There to greet us was an old college pal, George—our “hostess with the brostess.” After a quick catch up, Heather and I tucked ourselves into our comfy couches, bound for preparatory slumber for the active vacation to come. On Day 1, fueled by Nutella lattes and an indescribably good breakfast from Mama’s in North Beach, we took off for Fisherman’s Wharf, a kitchy little tourist trap, from which you can spy Alcatraz in the distance. But prison venture did we not! Primed from months of spinning, we graduated from stationary bikes and hopped onto the real deal on two wheels. With our balance in check and our booties sufficiently cushioned (sufficiently!), we took off for the Golden Gate Bridge, traversing into Sausalito, through the Redwoods in Mill Valley, and, twenty-five miles of beauty later, into Tiburon. Needless to say, we slept well that night after indulging in a bottle of red wine and scrumptious seafood salads.

Day 2 marked our pedestrian take of San Francisco. Weaving in and out of the boutiques on Chestnut and Union Streets, we kept our shopping to a minimum as we made an uphill trek to Nob Hill, stopping to chat with some British tourists as we took in the sites around Grace Cathedral. From there, we checked out Union Square, the city’s “5th Ave.” equivalent, and after an accidental wrong turn and sprint through the Tenderloin Projects, made our way to Alamo Square, were we lived out our inner Michelle Tanners, taking touristy shots in front of the famous “Painted Ladies.” From there, we embraced our inner hippies in Haight-Ashbury, stopped for some lunch in a Mexican café, and ended our excursion in Golden Gate Park. Seven miles of walking didn’t stop up, though, from making it out of San Fran and into San Jose for the night, where a crew of familiar faces greeted us for a Stonehill reunion, resplendent with dance moves to the tune of techno beats. In true Stonehill tradition, there was lots of hugging, lots of bonding, and lots and lots of cheers-ing.

The following morning, after a miraculously early rise and quick ride back to the city, we took in an air show while atop a roof. The Blue Angels flew overhead, and it was one of the coolest sites I’ve ever seen. As the planes weaved in and around the Golden Gate Bridge, I really felt like pinching myself. Heather and I had no idea such a spectacle would be in store during our trip, so it was a great surprise. Like the icing on a yummy cupcake, a USA chant ended the afternoon. And yall know how much I love those!

Day 4 was another jaunt from San Fran, this time, to the wine countries of Napa and Sonoma. We saw, swirled, smelled, sipped, and swallowed countless tastes of California reds and whites, which fueled us for our final day… The day when we fired up our little silver Chevvy, and took off down Highway 1, with The Mamas and the Papas blaring in the background. From the shores of Santa Cruz to the golf course greens of the Monteray Peninsula, the drive along California’s famous cliff was one this perpetual shotgun-sitter will remember forever.

After five days on the other side, I’ve learned first-hand of the west coast’s wonders, and am already itching for a return trip. Who wants to come?! Until next time…


“Don’t try to run, I can keep up with you.”

September 7, 2012

At about 4:59 PM yesterday, a flood of anxiety washed over me: I was about to hail the Queen of Pop—Her Madgesty herself!—but could not think of anything wardrobe-worthy for my visit to Yankee Stadium. I toyed with color-blocking neon, but reminded myself that my roommate’s the one into electronic dance music; I thought about rocking a tiered pink frock that’s never failed me, but opted away from it. For my very first Madonna concert was entirely deserving of a bold—and I mean BOLD!–ensemble.

And then it hit me! Two years ago, while perusing the clearance rack of Free People, I came across a garment that was too cheap to not buy…but also too “out there” to ever really wear in a serious setting. Unless that serious setting is a Madonna concert. And let me tell you: there was no more perfect occasion than yesterday evening to debut my pink tutu. Yes. My neon pink tulle tutu.


After an apartment-style dance party with Clenny, in which we strutted and sashayed to an ‘80s-heavy mix of new and old Madonna favorites (mine: Material Girl. his: Human Nature.), we cabbed to the Bronx with fellow fan and friend Chris in tow. Waiting for us in J.Lo’s borough, with both tickets and drinks in hand, was the closet Madonna fan I’ve mentioned before—though our evening muploads have since outed dear KTD as the Like-a-Prayer-loving man he is. But honestly… real men listen to Madonna with pride, so I couldn’t have been more thrilled about my concert company. When the show began, we spurted out of our seats, and sat back down only during the slightly bizarre rendition of Like A Virgin.


Madonna pledged us to Open our Hearts; she told to Express Ourselves; she pleaded for the Papas to not Preach; and she closed with a gospel choir in what was Like the most wonderful Prayer I’ve ever prayed. We danced, we jumped, we sang, and we sweat. We didn’t care that she started at 10:30. We were just four fans, Getting Into the Groove, and loving every minute of it.

“’cause they will not last forever.”

August 31, 2012

“Stop everything!!! Precious Pink is missing!!!” –Me, Spring 2009. Quincy B, Room 4. 320 Washington St. North Easton, MA.Friends, family, readers… It’s with a heavy heart that I report some sad news: Precious Pink has sung her last song. She met her match within the confines of my gym bag, where the contents of my Thomson Reuters-branded bottle drowned the little gal in H2O, and washed away her song-spewing skills. Once upon a Boston-bound packing sesh yesterday evening, Precious Pink was, as per usual, missing in action. I hunted under my (newly built!) bed, inside a plethora of purses, and finally, within the slate-colored Longchamp I tote to Equinox. But I shouldn’t have looked; the watery massacre was too much for my croon-craving ears! 

PP and I have had countless good times, which ironically began back in 2009, when in a masterful move of friendship, Justine and I welcomed a third roomie into our debaucherous dorm room for a whole week. Phil hailed from the British Isle by way of a world-wide backpacking trip, and when Friday came, we were all ready to P-A-R-T-Y! Case in point:

But then Saturday morning hit, and Precious  Pink was MISSING! We searched high and low, even inside the human-sized bag worn on the Brit’s back, but PP was still nowhere to be found—and she was majorly needed to bump tunes for Saturday’s festivities. I had no hope… Until fridge-filling began. Low and behold, behind Justine’s black rectangle filled with Firefly Vodka, Busch Light, and Sloe Gin, was my girl! Precious Pink lived! And, damn, did she show us a good time that night. No one could fill our Quincy house better with blasts of Billy Joel than PP, and those tunes continued through our remaining semesters, through runs around the quad, to Cape Week, to the Queens Palace, to the Brooklyn Bachelorette Pad, and finally, to my Manhattan Mecca.


But, alas, the time has come to bid an official farewell to Precious Pink and her masterful mixes of oldies, bubblegum pop, and gangsta rap. I’ll miss you, girl. Thanks for the good times. RIP, PP.

“I stumbled upon you and gratefully basked in your rays.”

August 22, 2012

As I prepare for my upcoming Friday morning, which not only involves the New Jersey Transit, but also a dreaded train transfer on said transit line, I can’t help but reflect on the fact that, at the ripe and precocious age of just 20, I spent an evening wedged within a nap pod at London’s Gatwick airport before flying solo—quite literally—to Italy early the next morning. And then, for five days, I made my way around the European country shaped like my favorite form of fall footwear sans company. I dined on the best cuisine that had (and still has) ever graced my digestive tract; I slugged down [occasionally complimentary] sips of limoncello and red wine; and I feared not when a craving for pizza struck at 9:30 AM. Traveling solo has its advantages when you want to embrace gluttony and gallivanting on your own schedule, but I’m thrilled that this summer involved very few instances of alone time. For our twenties are a time for good times, with friends and family along for the ride… especially when aboard a Belmar-bound train!

Last we spoke, I was fresh off a fabulous long weekend on Cape Cod, and since then, my weekend jaunts and city staycations have kept a-coming…unlike any rhymes, alliterations, and social snippets on this here blog. Today, though, is the time for Krose to get back into her prose. Summer 2012 was a memorable one! July marked the homecoming of my—okay, I’ll admit it—favorite relatives, and together, we toasted our skin as much as we did our drinks. From pointing our weekend compass straight for Point Lookout beach, to looking out for each other at our annual family pub crawl, it was nothing but a pleasure to have the Texans in town.  

Peppered in August were two fun weekends on the opposite end of the “other” island I call home: one spent hobnobbing with Hamptons elite, and the other dedicated to poolside wining and dining in another south shore vacation community. Needless to say, my Monday mornings have involved lots of lotioning my sun-scarred nose.


As summer winds down, I welcome breezy fall nights that won’t involve melting myself to sleep—but still, I’m not completely ready to say so long to what was such a sweet summer. So, what better way to embrace the flip flop farewell than with a trip to the Jersey Shore?! I’ll be sure to follow Ronnie’s advice and not fall in love—but considering what I‘ve heard about the Parker House, I can’t make any promises. You know how I feel about preppy boys in pastel shorts… 😉

Until next time, this your big-haired, bump-it rocking blogstress signing off. xo

“If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air, Quaint little villages here and there…”

July 12, 2012

Last week was a true testament to the fact that, on Cape Cod, time stops. You never really know when to eat, or when to sleep, or when it’s time to make yourself presentable—so instead, you just stay in your bathing suit and live like it’s forever 5 o’clock. And I think that’s the recipe for a perfect vacation! After a pleasantly abbreviated week, I embarked on Tuesday afternoon for my longest stretch away from work or school since my infamous Bahamian cruise circa 2010. While that trip’s cast of characters was an army of college coeds hungry for a good time, this vacation’s attendees were just as famished for fun. Lucky am I to have befriended a family so wonderfully hospitable to open their Cape Compound to a wild and crazy gal such as myself! My extended 4th of July week was a total dream, and I think my heart is still in Harwich Port. Here are some highlights—and pictures to prove it!

  • While I’m perpetually perky, I’m not a morning person. However, there’s no better way to begin a day on the Cape than with Cumby’s coffee at 8 AM. I spent each breezy morning perched on the porch in an Adirondack chair, caffeinating myself for a day of sunning–because vegging for vitamin D clearly necessitates some serious energy expulsion!
  • When a conversation travels to the topic of weather, you know all is lost—but I’d be remiss to dismiss mentioning the PERFECT temps we had. I arrived in Harwich Port freshly spray tanned to a shade my alabaster complexion had yet to boast in its 24 years, and left looking blissfully–and a bit more naturally–sun-kissed, thanks to constant lounge chair rotation and dips into the pool.
  • My happy memories on the Cape are 110% due to the wonderful families and friends down there who call it their summer home. Among the things I look forward to most when making the schlep is the comfort of seeing the smiling faces of old friends—and the promise of making new ones.
  • And finally… Jim Plunkett Happy Hour! For those of you unaware of the phenomenon, Jimmy Boy is a recovering hippie who strums his guitar along with classic and current favorites every Saturday afternoon at Dennis Port’s Improper Bostonian. Only Plunnkett could play Piano Man and Call Me Maybe back-to-back and make the transition the perfect opening to what was a blissfully blurry afternoon spent jumping around like a manic.