The glory days
Again, a little late on this post, but we’ll get there!
I went back home for Labor Day. Some wonderful friends decided that we needed to get our college friends together for a little reunion. Oh yeah, we were all in a sorority together. Let the ‘drunk’, I mean ‘good’, times roll! 
We were quite the group of chicks in college. We could flip cup the basketball team under the table, inhale a buffet table of snacks and goodies and still look gorgeous and fantastic. And on top of that, these are some of the most intelligent, driven women I have ever met in my life.
So, being a year (some 2) years out of school, we have accountants, a girl with a national magazine, one with the Lt. Governor of IL, law school students, world traveler/teacher (oh yeah, she’s that good) and several other ladies that have gone on to lead successful, important careers and make amazing life choices.
But man, can these girls drink.
Since I’m from the city we went to school in, I had some family to visit and thought I would plan effectively so that I would make it through the weekend. We had:
drinking/fish fry on Friday night
booze cruise Saturday morning
out/drinking Saturday evening
brunch/drinking Sunday
I thought I would be smart. I bowed out of the booze cruise that was scheduled for Saturday AM to visit some family and cruise the city (I had my mom’s car which offers a freedom I haven’t felt in NYC.) I just wanted to reminisce a bit and ’save’ myself for the evening ahead. Nothing prepares you properly for a drunk, sorority girl reunion. Nothing.
Friday was sort of the ‘mellow’ night. We still got pretty happy on drink, but it was more of a controlled imbibing than the free for all we would feel on Saturday. As I drove around Saturday AM, I was pretty sure I needed a nap. Damn, I can feel the ‘getting older’ sinking into my bones. It is sucking the life force out of me. No nap was in store for me, though, as I had made a hair appointment for Saturday afternoon so that I would avoid the trés expensive NYC haircut. I felt so smart. When I called for the appointment, she said that cuts were from $35 on up. I made the appointment and asked what that stylist charged. $40. I asked for a $35 stylist. Cheap does not pay off, my friends.
I cringed as she lobbed off the first chunk of hair, but went along because I didn’t want to make her skittish and unsure of herself. It was like trying to befriend a squirrel.,”I just want to be friends. Please don’t give me rabies. Help me, help you.” So I went along with it. I was a bit tired and trusted her professionalism. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Remember in the Brady Bunch movie how the dad always designed houses that looked exactly like their house? I had that chick. Except it was with hair. And her hair was mullet in nature. I had watched her pick it out as I was waiting (yes, a pick. I know, I know, the screaming alarms going off that I mildly shrugged off) It was sort of the trendy sorta hipster mullet that doesn’t quite have the double wide trailer, truck up on blocks in the yard look to it, but the mechanics are still sheer mullet.
But she tried to pull it off in that way that stylists often do. The ‘length’ assurance. As she patted my new layers down (I told her layers didn’t work on me, but like the non-English speaking stylist I had that one time, these sorts of statements don’t translate so well. Apparently it’s not a language barrier, it’s a layer-doesn’t-work vs. stylist barrier) she yanked on the bottom layer, illustrating to me ‘See? You still have your length!’ Right. Just because what used to be the full length of my entire head of hair has now been reduced to a handful of strands that pop out from underneath ‘the party in the back’, does NOT mean you have maintained the former integrity of the length I had.
So I walk my urban mullet out the door and tell myself not to cry. We’ll drink soon to forget. I meet up with the girls, fresh from the booze cruise, with some pitchers and burgers on a patio. Nice. I went in for a pitcher (of Miller Lite, I might add. Can I get a woot-woot! They don’t have good old Lite here in the city. This is Bud town) and the bartender only wanted $6 from me for it! I was floored. Six bucks will get you ‘A’ beer here. Maybe.
We hit up our old stomping grounds that night, already a bit warmed up and ready to go. It was a little harder to organize flip cup this time around. Was the get drunk quick novelty gone? The goofy tables the bar had ‘upgraded’ to didn’t help, but we put forth a good effort and managed to make it til bar time!
We cuted it up for Sunday brunch. We were hurting a bit, but played it off reasonably well. Sort of. Once the waiter brought our friend a carafe of water with foot long straws in it, everyone knew we had some hydration issues. But the rest of us made it through a couple of cocktails, then dragged our feet all the way back to my friends place where we proceeded to lay around on various pieces of furniture and areas of the floor. The only attention we afforded Pirates of the Caribbean and Goonies, was keeping our eyes open. A little bit.
It was an amazing weekend. My friends are wonderful, incredible individuals. The flight home was interesting. As we descended on NYC, I tugged on my urban mullet and felt sad. I miss how I called my mom on Saturday afternoon and went over to her place. Just like that. To have a random all nighter, watch movies and reminisce.
I miss home…
But more on that to come!
pizza, tour guides and disposable cameras
(NOTE: I began writing this several weeks ago. Who says procrastination dies after college?)
I haven’t written lately, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed, clutching your computers, refreshing, refreshing, refreshing, ‘WHEN??!?’ you scream into the wan evening air, yearning for a new post. My mom was here and then I left town and they keep expecting me to work for some reason. Anyway, here is the first in a few…
So, my mom came into town for a visit. Bear in mind many things as we get into this: 1) she has never been to NYC. 2) This is her first flight in a good 10 years. 3) All things outside of a Midwest suburb, ie: grass (my astroturf on the balcony did NOT count), chatty, friendly neighbors (our neighbor threatened us and our tikki torches with a garden hose) and bodega free neighborhoods (ours is downstairs and specializes in Mexican goods), are to be considered a ‘ghetto.’ Right. And we’re off.
I couldn’t get out of work quite when I wanted, so that I could be there at the airport to greet her. Her darling, angelic, only child. Instead, her realistic, spastic, basketcase of a kid, made a frantic call on her way to the bank, before getting on the subway to begin the trek out to her place in Queens. (Yeah. Not Manhattan. Screw you too.) And this is all after her plane had landed.
I explained to her that she needed to get in line at the taxi stand, tell them where she was going and sit back and relax. Thank god I had a demented, speed freak, train conductor cause we tore through the underbelly of Manhattan and shot out into Queens in record time. I called to check in on her and let her know I was minutes away. I asked where they were and she said they were going too fast for her to see the street signs. Awesome. And super. I asked if the driver knew where he was going based on the address she had given him. She mumbled that she wasn’t sure. I asked what happened when she gave him the address and she said she wasn’t sure because he was speakin something she couldn’t decipher (my folk are suited quite fine to the non-descrept midwestern accent and not much else) and, out of fear of looking silly, didn’t want to inquire further. Aww. In’t she sweet?
From a block away, I see her step out, line up her bags on the sidewalk and spin around in a tight, slow circle. Hmm. I couldn’t get a read on that. So, I rush up, hug her, sniffle at the sheer joy of having her here on my turf and drag her luggage upstairs.
Now, anyone who has lived in NYC understands a ‘nice’ apartment versus a god-forsaken, rat infested, shithole is a pretty fine line to teeter on. It may, to the eye seem not so quite as pristine as in Sex in the City, but I have a great apartment. You can live in a closet (many do) but if it’s clean, and your closest bug/rat neighbors are not hanging out, eating dinner with you, then you get a couple big thumbs up and may even get laid in there. Now my place is large, 3 bedrooms, a kitchen I can spin around with my arms open in, view of Manhattan (Empire State AND Chrylser buildings), great balcony (not just a fire escape. I have my chairs, grill and turf out there) and completely rat and mostly bug free (I’ve seen 1 bug in the year I’ve been here. It took me a week to get over it and we had to throw the rug away that we had killed the bug on, but I feel pretty good about it now.)
Apparently I should have written this post before she got here. Mom’s did not so much agree with the ‘awesomeness’ I had told her my apartment exuded. She said it was ‘nice,’ but it was said in that slow, sort of, ‘I feel like this is what I should say so you don’t cry, but I’m really puttin on my acting skills with this one. And not very well.’ It was the way we used to refer to less than desirable girls in my sorority when you wanted to be diplomatic but clearly wanted everyone to know you totally mean the opposite.
It was a rough start to say the least. But, we walked, ate and did the requisite touristy things. I took her on ‘The Beast’ (if you ever some to NYC, go on it!) It’s a huge speed boat with green eyes and sharp teeth painted on the side. We bought the tickets and stood on line waiting as she told me over and over how she wasn’t getting on that thing. But she did. And we did. And it was fantastic! Whipping down the river at 40 mph, music blasting, and our illustrious guides threatening anyone who might be a Red Sox fan on the boat. (baseball is taken very, very seriously here. Very.)
We did a more tame tour that evening to see the city all lit up. We cruised under the Manhattan, Brooklyn and Williamsburg bridges. We had dive pizza and classy pizza. We talked and I think she wasn’t so much in awe of the city as she was with my place in it. I had to distill the idea that Sex and the City is totally realistic. You have to bust your ass to have just a fraction of what those chicks had. But, I did take her on the Sex and the City bus tour, which was fun (even though I don’t really know much about the show) but they gave us cupcakes and that was good. And some guy proposed to some girl on the steps of Carrie’s brownstone and we all pretended to care (maybe everyone else did care, but I couldn’t get over the newly proposed to girl’s choice to wear tiny short white shorts, in the rain, and these hideous strappy, white, 3 inchers to go hoofing around the city in. You can call me a bitch. I call myself a Fug Girl in training. Check my side bar. We’ll all get there one day.)
On Monday evening, I picked up a copy of NY TimeOut magazine to find something worthwhile to do. We decided stand up comedy was in order for the evening. We set off to find the bar and when we got there were told that it was a bit early for us to go in, so we stepped out, grabbed some nosh and came back a little later. We wanted good seats, dammit! We came back, and were told that the show had to be cancelled. Grr. BUT, silver lining! They have Monday night bingo! woot-woot! So we headed into that, took a seat and the real fun began.
The host was a slick haired chap with full on mustache and a circa 70’s suit. It was all very classic game show host. Then host spoke. Oh. Why that’s not a boy at all. Uh, mom, just so you know, that’s a girl up there. Don’t freak. But she was distracted by the girl that was coming around selling bingo cards. Oh, not a girl. Right. I see what’s going on here. “Um, mom, that’s a girl and that’s a boy. No. The other way around. Ok. You’re ok? Yes, please bring her another beer.”
All joking aside, we had a blast! She loved the all of it! She may have been disappointed if the hosts were the actual gender they were portraying. They were great and even gave me mom a shout out for being the Midwest Mom in the house. Aw. We ate a block of deep fried mac and cheese and fought feverishly battled for the burger bank prize. We didn’t get it. Damn. Anyway, if in NYC, go to Mo Pitkins over on Second Ave. on Monday nights for bingo. All the money they collect from the bingo cards goes to the grand prize. (We didn’t win that either. Oh well.) Super gay bingo night was mom’s favorite part of the trip.
My favorite part of the visit was on our evening cruise. A guy behind my mom stood up to take pictures with his monster telephoto lens, digital camera and my mom stood up right in front of him and clicked a picture with her disposable camera. Not only was that part great, but it was the last pic on the camera, so it went ‘click’, and then she kept thumbing the little plastic wheel in that oh so distinctive, ‘disposable camera out of pics now,’ sound. God I love her and her casual, midwestiness.
At least she didn’t wear a fanny pack.
I wouldn’t exactly call it ’singing’ in the rain
So, I have been wanting to write about street meat (we’ll get to it. Waiiiit for it.) here in the city, but then I got distracted by ‘The Impossible Quiz’ (http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/365143. Try it. It will make you insane, which is oh, so fun) for the past several days and with all the recent hoo-hah going on in the city, I’ve decided to talk about it instead.
So, the city was in chaos and turmoil yesterday. Was it a terrorist threat? Was security and welfare compromised? Fire, explosion, crazed Britney sighting? No. It rained. Granted, it did rain a lot, nonetheless, the insanity that ensued necessitates a ‘but still…’
It kicked off at about 4 in the AM with some serious thunder and lightning action. Now we have no AC, so I have a pretty complicated set of fannery going on in my boudoir. I have the double fan, window unit which can both suck and blow (do what you will with that) in one window and a small, rickety table fan in the other window. The thought that went into this set up was arduous and the effect (in my mind) is that if the one by my bed sucks air in, while the rickety one pulls air out, I will get a nice circulation thing happening. As I said, ‘in my mind’, which is filled with all sorts of fanciful imaginitive things. Like my relationship with Vincent D’Onofrio.
So, I slumbered in my little self-actualized wind tunnel until the cracks of thunder and lightning roused me. Now, I’m barely conscious at 9am, when I’ve been up for 3 hours already, so the 4am wake up call left me a wee bit muddled. Convinced that lighting was plotting to specifically strike the metal cage surrounding the blades of the rickety fan, I tottered over to it, turned it off and removed it from the window, barely recognizing the water pouring onto the sill and my wood floors. Also note that I turned off the fan in the window furthest from me, as opposed to the one directly above my head. Genius. Pure genius.
The storm came down hard and fast for a couple of hours but had ended by 7:30 when I left for the train. I was way early heading out, but it was already 90˚and my shower was starting to wear off.
Waiting for a train can be a lot like sitting at home on a Saturday night, desperately longing for the phone to ring with some fabulous party invite and pathetically vamping ‘what about me?’ It hurts. It feels personal. It offers ample time for the sweat to hike all the way down from your neck to your butt crack. Oh joy. But wait!! There it is! And as everyone ponies up to dash on the moment the doors open, you realize the train is empty and it’s not going to stop.
When a train finally does stop and graciously lets us on, it’s so jam packed that I wind up getting more action in two train stops than I’ve gotten in the past year. (‘How YOU doin?’ wink, wink) So, I stand on the train, some guys face at my crotch level, listening to the grunts and groans of the poor bastards by the doors as people try to bum rush and force a spot for themselves onboard at each stop. And I hadn’t had any coffee since I had run out at home so I was super pleasant. *sigh*
It took us an hour to go the distance it normally takes 15 minutes to travel. Then I had to switch trains, sit in it while it didn’t move for about 20 minutes (PS-it had no AC either, so we were pretty ripe at this point.) Finally, the train moved one stop, then kicked us out of the train the train station, basically everywhere underground. Oh darn. Since it had rained, there was water on the tracks of all the downtown trains, so they weren’t running anymore. A modern city thwarted by H2O. Goodie.
I had to walk the rest of the way to work. Not that big of a deal, but once I got there I literally had to go into the bathroom, peel my dress off, and mop off my schweaty bod. Yeah. You all want a date with me now, dontcha?
Since our trains are distinguished by letters and numbers, the MTA service update read like a bad trip down Sesame Street. I could just picture The Count (the 1 train is not running, mwuhaha, the 2 train is not running, mwahaha) and the creepy, furry puppets dancing around like they’re auditioning for The Labyrinth musical. The trip home was just as bad and involved a whole lot more shoving, pushing, wriggling, swearing, shouting, jabbing, sighing, eyerolling and ‘intellectual’ dialogue on where the money for MTA projects actually goes. One suggestion was: ‘Right down the god-damn toilet!’ I think they’re onto something there.
Through all this I learned several things:
1) your boss is so happy when everyone manages to make it in on a day like that, that she springs for lunch. (the Four Seasons does NOT deliver, btw)
2) wear a skirt with about 2 days growth on them legs when there’s the possibility of a train ride like that. It helps fend people off.
3) leave the fans and all other potential lighting hazards on. Even if it just blows out your power strip, your ‘apartment being struck by lighting’ is a pretty rock solid excuse for calling in.
all you Potter-Heads
Alright, alright. I get it. You LOVE the whole Harry Potter thing.
Every little aspect of it, from googeling Daniel Radcliffe’s wang to so eagerly anticipating the arrival of the FedEx truck with the latest volume that shorten you throw yourself dangerously into ‘in desperate need of meds territory’ every time a vehicle rumbles past (you know who you are). There are the midnight parties, the costumes, the spoilers across the internet, the fake books, the lead up to the release, the release, that guy who had JK Rowlings autograph tattooed onto his arm, aaagh!
(I really want to know if the tattoo guy was severely beat after he paid the bill. Seriously. How do you ask for that with a straight face?)
There are worse things one could be addicted to, I supppose, but this spawning of the new generation of Potter-heads makes me a teeny bit sad. I yearn for the good old days. When a ‘pot head’ meant something. When they were real honest to goodness hippie types. They caravaned around in VW buses, a perma joint grasped between their fingers condemning ‘the man’ with winsome talk of peace, love and harmony.
Sure the pachouli baths, incessant need for all things munchies , and the ever present loafingof this ’special’ race did nothing to propagate their species, but is this the fate they deserve? To have the sophisticated 2 finger handling of some rockin cigaweed replaced by the sweaty fists of the wand grippers? Daisy crowns lose their territory to eyeliner fashioned lightning bolts. Instead of lofty goals for the world, frantic discussions are regarding the fate of muggles and magic everywhere are held! Mwhahahaha!
And I admit, I read the first 4 books and thought I was maintaining a pretty high level of hip for that. (that was yeras ago now, wasn’t it?) But I wonder, if, caught up in the madness of that world, if we’ve lost sight of what’s important. The real news. Does anyone even realize that Lindsay Lohan was arrested again this morning? Britney Spears made a big old ass of herself with the OK! folks in London, using Chanel dresses to wipe up her dog’s poo. And we really must stay vigilant since the next Paris shenanigan could happen any moment! These ladies need us! They may not use track 9 3/4 for their public transport, or keep their fat wads of cash in the Gringotts Wizards Bank, but hey, if we’re going to revamp the hippie, let it be with couture, gossip and snark instead.
**it is important to note that all Harry Potter references were discovered through careful research. I know nothing of this Potter world. At all.
The Law of the Land from Ol’ Man River
For all who have feared the fate of that Ol’ Man River, (I always referred to him as ‘Old’, but Wikipedia has bested me again as it smacks me on the hand, wags it’s finger in my face and tells me that when referring to the song from the musical Show Boat, it is in fact, Ol’. Blast you Wiki and your boundless intellect! You win this time. But I did learn that there is a dribble of water in Canada named ‘Oldman River.’ Gee. How original. Just smoosh the 2 words together and it looks like you came up with it all by yerselves, eh. And back to the story…) fear no more!! He is alive and well, kickin it here in Astoria. And while, yes, I do realize that my ol’ man bears real no resemblance to the true nature of the song, the musical, it’s context or content, it is nonetheless…well, fun to call him that.
Here’s how we met him: our apartment boasts a fabulous balcony as well as roof access which affords us a most beautimous view of the NYC skyline. Naturally, good balcony + great roof + gorgeous view = BBQ Sunday’s. So, on one fine afternoon, I dragged some folks to the top of my world and we leaned against the low wall, chatting, sipping some beverage and checking out the folks on the street below.
And then we were introduced to him. Ah, what a glorious introduction it was. Him: two stories below, sputtering out sentence fragments, 1/3 English, 1/3 Italian (was our best guess) and the rest pure gibberish as he was sportin’ more gaps along that jaw line than actual teeth. He hollared, gestured and spit for a bit and after several cups of the ears, ‘what was that’s’ and conferencing, we sort of picked up on his particular dialect and realized that he was informing us of several items that were of some importance to him. 1) IT IS ILLEGAL FOR US TO BE ON THE ROOF! 2) DO NOT GO ON HIS ROOF (which, as alluring of a temptation as his roof is, with it’s lovely view of the school across the street, and a protective wall that just barely tickles the ankles, we didn’t have a chimney sweep handy, so alas, rooftop cavorting was not to be had that day.) 3) HE IS GOING TO CALL THE COPS CAUSE IT IS ILLEGAL FOR US TO BE ON THE ROOF!
Right. So, we simply stepped away from the wall, twirled out fingers around our ears (which is a gesture that simply makes no sense. I’ve seen a lot of crazy in this city, and never has one of them ever sat around, holding their arm upright, while drawing imaginary circles next to their ear. There’s just no time. There are imaginary people to talk to. Imaginary guitars to play, etc.) and proceeded to head down to the balcony to check on the food status.
Now, those of you who know me, know that I love to entertain. So for this festive summer season, I decked our balcony out with astro turf, tables, cushions and tiki torches that I lashed to our railing for that Survivor ambiance that’s so necessary of a BBQ. Well, ambiance be damned! Because as it got dark, as we fired up the torches and basked in the glow, lo and behold, who should pop up on his roof? You got it! Ol’ Man River. As the first level of his roof is lined up with our balcony, we were granted the opportunity to bask in his gummy, spitty glory as he now took up issues with the torches that were hell bent on burning his house down. He smacked the little wooden fence that protects us from him…er, that he erected to keep us OFF OF HIS ROOF and now informed us that the fire department was going to be called in to settle this matter. I chuckled and scoffed (I was distracted by the empty beer can in my hand. Where HAD it all gone?)
But Ol’ Man is clearly more bark than he is bite…um, gum, or he lives in the duplicitous world where he is both subjucated neighbor and policeman/fireman/rescue/savior because his next step was to stomp off, only to hoof himself back up on his roof moments later (which I reminded him was illegal for him to be on) armed with his garden hose in order to snuff out the villainous torches. I gotta say, for a guy who appears to be a hundred and thirty years old, he was quite spry, hopping up and down that roof.
So, he threatened and waved his hose around (he so could have gotten us good too, cause he had one of those super duper serious gardener, 12 different spray option nozzles) while everyone ducked and covered, but once one of the downstairs neighbors chimed in with a string of obscenities of his own, well, it was past Ol’ Man’s bedtime anyway, and he packed it in and slithered down to rewrap his hose, brush his tooth, and call it a night. He’s even said hi to me on the street a couple of times since then. I’m not sure he’s all that plugged in to the here and now, if you get what I’m sayin.
I encourage one and all to attend the next BBQ, cause I can’t make this stuff up. Maybe we should just toss a chicken bone at him and avoid the whole thing next time. What? It would be just been cruel to give him one with meat on it, now wouldn’t it? I think you’re picken up what I’m puttin down.
A weekend in the life
So, you reach a point when you just live in a city and some of the glamour wears off. Laundry, grocery shopping, and the need to be lazy, not leave the apartment and have breakfast, lunch and dinner delivered right to your door, sorta gets in the way of the red carpets, 5 am club outings and celebrity spotting.
Now I have happened upon a couple of celebs (had dinner next to Rosanna Arquette and some euro-trash dude, grocery shopped with Jennifer Garner in WholeFoods and ran into Wallace Shawn – the ‘Inconceivable’ dude from Princess Bride – a couple of times.) but other than that, you just become a NYer, put your head down, your hand out in front of you, Heisman trophy style, and plunge through sidewalk traffic as best you can. It all comes down to just getting there.
But, there are those experiences that are so uniquely NY that a visitor, sadly, may never get to experience. I spent Saturday morning on my roof, having a beer, chatting on the phone and absorbing the sun along with the culture that roams the streets past my apartment. When I got a hankerin for some nash, I hit up my bodega. On the weekends they sell homemade tamales for a buck. Can’t beat that. It was a perfect afternoon.
This afternoon I’m going to visit an ex co-worker of mine whose mother just passed. She’s sitting shiva for the next few days and I’ve been scouring the internet for info on shiva sitting so I don’t make an ass out of myself when I show up.
There’s another side to this city to see if you come to town. Take the time to absorb some of the true culture, not just the overpriced touristy crap. Hit up a pub. Make some friends and find out what we really do here. That way, the next time a steam pipe explodes under the street, you won’t simply have the tourist inclination to pack your bags and scamper home, leaving us to deal with our problems. Instead, you’ll be more emotionally invested in us, fear with us, and that will make you a NYer, not just a person who treads our streets for a few days.
For now, I have to watch the rest of Corky Romano so I can go finish up that laundry. Tune in next time for some subway stories. You wouldn’t believe what goes on there…
