And it Begins...

I always hated blogs. I resented the wanna-be journalists who thought just because they had the capacity to maneuver their way around a web page, they felt the need to share with the world the dauntingly boring escapades of what they ate for breakfast and which park they took their dogs too. What gave them the right to have published thoughts when I’m up to my chin in student loans paying for a piece of paper that says I can do the same thing. But after four futile months of failed attempts at being a grown-up, a blog seems to be a solid way to get my foot into the door of an industry within which I’ve always known I wanted to live and breathe.

My passion for writing transpired in middle school. I learned that I just don't understand science. Chemical compounds and oxygenated ions never really registered in my brain. I detested math. The quadratic equation and exponential numbers seemed like a foreign language I would never understand. Art—for only the truly talented—didn’t strike my fancy; my final sculpting project resembled an awkward looking dog rather than a pot.

The lone subject area that didn’t bore me to mild unconsciousness or challenge my inability to distinguish different paint swatches had to be writing. As my schooling progressed I learned how to master the written word, craft flawless metaphors, perfect allegories and anecdotes, and skillfully create sensory imagery that would knock your socks off. 

I know at first, this blog may seem like mental diarrhea (a common illness plaguing many writers), but it has a purpose, I swear.

After internships and journalism classes intended to hone my craft and focus my fascinations, I realized my interests lie within travel, health, and food. I feel as if I have an innate thirst to experience the world even though I haven’t been to many places outside the tri-state area. After an internship with Fitness Magazine, I find myself constantly searching for the healthiest chip that still tastes like the greasy real kind and the quick fix to flabby triceps. It is so interesting to me that the things you consume can cure aliments or prevent diseases. And despite the fact that I can’t tell a spatula from a mixing spoon, I love new and interesting food. Okay so now what? I’m a homebody that wants to travel, I count calories and my cooking skills are an embarrassment to my Italian upbringing. I am unemployed and constantly racking my brain as to how I can change my life, change the world through words? I'm desperately trying to find a topic that makes me different, a brilliant idea that makes me unique. My answer came from my first big-girl interview in NYC. 

After a trekking two and half hours next to crying babies on the LIRR and trotting through blistering August heat down Lexington Ave, I sat down to a very pleasant interview with the editor of a prestigious magazine in Manhattan. After looking over my resume, the blonde and fabulously chic woman who spent the entirety of her life in magazine publishing and happened to owned a house in Bridgehampton, noticed my humble abode as Remsenburg, NY aka "The Hamptons." Taking a different path from the typical "tell me about yourself" questions, she asked me what it is like to live in a resort town.

Remsenburg is a small town full of old money and, well, more old money. It's about three and half miles from Westhampton Beach. The second syllable of this location has always been a central topic for discussion, usually me trying to convince others that “No, the Hamptons is not just one town” and “No, I don’t live in a mansion or have a butler and my parents did not buy me a brand new BMW when I received my license.”

From an outsider’s perspective I can see where this assumption emerges. The Hamptons are simply fabulous. The eastern part of Long Island is decorated with beautiful beaches (one of which, Cooper’s Beach in Southampton was named #1 beach in the country, yeah over Hawaii I know), unreal houses, great shopping, and delicious food, but it becomes an absolute dead zone after Labor Day.

So as I make my way through the 103-degree subway station and tried to avoid eye contact with a very creepy old man, I think about the paradise I live in and how I haven’t inhabited this place after August in the past four years. I am now a young woman with a fancy journalism degree, the plastic legality proving I am able to drink alcohol, and no real obligations (except to Sallie Mae). What better to do then share with the world a different perspective of this luxurious location, through the eyes of someone who sees it after the glitz and glamour have faded with the Labor Day festivities. What it’s like to actually get a table when you walk into a restaurant, what it's like to live in a place where the population triples from Memorial Day until Labor Day, then drops…severely. However, when the “citidiots” leave they take all the hustle and bustle with them, including my tips as a waitress, 80-degree beach days, and Sundays at the Boardy Barn. 

So from the outlook of a unemployed, recently graduated Hamptonite, I am hoping to provide you with an often dysfunctional yet usually entertaining glimpse into my interests and my life as a local... and how to survive it.