Tonight… December 31, 2007

…there are polished nails, fire engine red, to match the lips.

…there’s an outfit, sexy, hanging on the back of the closet, for no other reason than I like to admire it from afar.

…there are heels, too - new. Because no one should ring in the new year in last year’s shoes.

…there is the Jon and Kate Plus 8 marathon I’m watching right now; it both enhances and lessens my babylust.

…there was Perspepolis earlier this afternoon; I recommend. Highly. First the books, then the movie, as it should be.

…there is a reservation. “Guacamole” was my only request. From January to July, there will be very little guacamole; time to stock up before the diet begins.

…there is red wine sitting on the counter and white whine chilling in the fridge, because I couldn’t decide.

…there were smiles in the liquor store, anticipation. Champagne quickly selling out.

…there was the Greek woman in the shoe repair shop where I picked up my boots, newly heeled. She wished me a happy new year in Greek and it brought tears to my eyes for no particular reason.

…there are barricades outside of my apartment, and policemen on every corner.

…there is Time Square, just down the road. Busy now, unimaginably busy in just a short while.

…there are hats and sparkly 2008 glasses being sold for eight dollars, because New Yorkers know nothing if not how to make a buck.

…there is the roof of our apartment building, and the view that makes us forget the rent. The view of the entire city - electric, pulsing - greeting the new year with a roar.

…there will be M and me, greeting the new year with a kiss and a smile.

There is nothing better.

Happy New Year.

Last night. December 16, 2007

It’s almost 3am. We’re in the booth in the back of a pub that reminds me of London; they even have Magner’s on tap.

An ice storm rages outside. Already I have received a few texts from M: he misses me, he wants me to be careful, he is going to bed but asks that I wake him when I get home.

I feel bad, but only for a moment. I have been going to bed without him almost every evening for two weeks; he will survive just one night.

We are a few shots and quite a few drinks in. The men in the bar - having witnessed our rebuff of a few brave souls who attempted to crash the party - know to leave us alone. We are in that zone when you’re drunk, but not too. Just enough to be honest and yet still articulate.

“I think I love him.” She’s tall and blonde and stunning and sleeping with her boss. Her married boss. Her married boss with five kids, 23 years older.

It’s hard for me not to side immediately with the wife. To cringe at the thought of him pulling out the “I have to work late, honey” card, spending a raucous evening with my friend and then crawling into bed with the Mrs. After a shower, because women can always smell other women. Perhaps he even kisses her forehead, tells her that he loves her, lets her initiate sex. I bet he asks about the kids, and makes plans for the weekend, and acts as if everything is normal because he’s learned to compartmentalize so, in his mind, it is normal.

And she’s none the wiser. She has no idea that he has demonized her to my friend so that my friend feels less guilty about sleeping with a married man. Isn’t that how it always goes?

“She’s awful. He wants to divorce her. He hasn’t been happy for a while,” says the tall blonde.

I want to say: “of course he tells you she’s awful! All men tell the mistress that the wife is awful! Would you continue to sleep with him if he said that she was the most amazing woman he has ever met? Making you think she’s awful is the spoonful of sugar that helps the guilt go down!”

I don’t say anything at all. I take another sip of cider instead.

The other one, the pretty brunette, plays with the straw in her Skinny Bitch (vodka and diet) and bemoans her recent quasi-break up.

“I thought he moved back from Paris for me,” she admits. It’s clear now that he didn’t. He was an ex. She had gone to visit. Feelings were reignited. They discussed getting back together. He made the announcement he was coming back.

And, a mere week after setting foot on American soil, he told her she wasn’t the one.

“I know he loves me,” she says and we all know it’s true. We all know that their different religions and backgrounds have always loomed in the background, threatening to disrupt. Until, one week in, they did.

I feel slightly superior, in my drunkeness. Because M and I are of different religions and backgrounds and we’ve had tough talks about it - heated talks, even - and yet we realized that being together is worth it. It was never really a question.

I suddenly experience the need to throw my own angst into the ring. I don’t want to be the Smug Engaged, judging the Singletons from my happy, fairytale corner of the world.

“I’ve been having dreams about my ex-boyfriend. Almost every night for the past few weeks.”

It’s not sleeping with a boss or nursing a broken heart but, hey, it’s something. In fact, it’s something that has been on my mind for a while. I’m sick of waking up and feeling confused and guilty.

“I hear that’s normal,” says the blonde. “A friend of mine who got married had a dream about an ex the night before her wedding.“

A guy who looks like he’s about nineteen years old sidles up next to the brunette, says that he noticed her drink was getting low and could he buy her another?

And just like that, the spell is broken. We realize we’re drunk and there’s an ice storm and sitting around a table in the back booth of a bar that reminds me of London is no longer appealing. It’s certainly not getting us anywhere, except drunker.

“No thanks,” the blonde answers for the brunette. “We’re actually heading out.”

And so we do, arm in arm, baby steps across the sidewalk to hail a cab, our heels threatening to give out any second on the ice.

In the backseat of the cab, watching the east side fly by, I think to myself if my largest problem is the fact that I’m having dreams about my ex, I’m in pretty damn good shape.

Once home, I crawl into bed with M, inhale his scent for a moment before gently kissing him on the cheek and telling him the obvious - that I’m home.

He rolls over and throws an arm around my waist, nuzzling my neck. “I love you,” he murmurs.

And yeah, it is confirmed. Pretty damn good shape.

Damn you, Hooters. October 4, 2007

I don’t know if I’ve told you because, you know, I’m not very vocal about these things (snicker, snort) but I’ve been working a lot lately.
 
To be specific, I’ve worked 40 hours in the past three days.
 
Can I give a little shout out to Starbucks? Because Starbucks has held my hand the entire time, guiding me through on a wing and an espresso. Starbucks, I think I’ve officially forgiven you for that time I figured out that an iced lemon loaf slice has something like 1,500 calories (also, crack). You and I? We made it through. The end is in sight and I couldn’t have done it without you. Props, Starbucks. Props, indeed.
 
The only thing (other than, you know, a shitload of coffee) getting me through yesterday’s 12 hour workday, which came on the heels of a 16 hour workday, was the knowledge that I’d be going to Hooters. Yeah, yeah, wings, boobs, friends, whatever. In my mind, Hooters = grilled cheese sandwiches. And grilled cheese sandwiches = reason for living. (Seriously, hi, have you tried their grilled cheese sandwich? And have you ever thought of maybe dipping it in the hot sauce they keep on the tables? You can thank me later. Cash is preferred but baked goods will do.)
 
So a few of my old co-workers and I showed up at Hooters with huge smiles and huge appetites and huge “we’re hotter than any of the girls in here anyway, whatEVAH” attitudes.
 
Tangent: Have I told you my theory about New York City Hooters? I can’t recall, so I will just repeat it. Essentially, if you’re a beautiful, well-endowed (by nature or doctor, I don’t judge) woman in Manhattan looking to make a living off of your looks alone, you are a stripper at an elite club. Or an actress/model. Or at the very least, a waitress at a high class establishment. The beautiful cream rises to the top here, just like any other city, except the top far exceeds Hooters, leaving the Hooters waitresses in Manhattan to be relatively average looking(’relative’ being the operative word here.) However, in Smalltown, USA, Hooters may be the only place for beautiful women to make decent money off their good looks so the waitresses there are probably more beautiful than the ones in Hooters NYC. Omigod, does that theory even make sense? Don’t throw stones at me. It makes sense in my head, but my head is a very jumbled mess at the moment.
 
So what was I saying? Oh, right. Grilled cheese. So we rolled up to Hooters all “yay!” and then we walked in the door and WHADDYA KNOW. It was Calendar Girl Night. And there were exactly no women (other than said calendar girls) in sight. Also, it didn’t appear that they were serving very much food because WHO NEEDS FOOD WHEN THERE ARE CALENDAR GIRLS? Also, it was crowded. And we felt like shit about ourselves because the freaking calendar girls? They are freaking hot.
 
And what do women do when they feel like shit about themselves? Why, they eat pizza. And drink lots of wine. And maybe get a chocolate souffle with nutella and vanilla ice cream for dessert.
 
So even though there was no grilled cheese (*shakes fist at Hooters), it was the perfect way to cap off a hellish three days.
 
And then I got to crawl into bed with M and choose from a vast array of DVR deliciousness (Gossip Girl? Fashionista Diaries? ANTM? Top Chef? Biggest Loser?) I went with the Top Chef finale and I won’t spoil it here for anyone who hasn’t seen it but I was actually very pleased with the outcome.
 
Even if the episode didn’t feature my crush, Anthony Bourdain. Shut up, there’s something about him. Something I LURV.
 
Ok, I need some more coffee. And I probably need to stop writing (You: Um, yeah.)Also, I need Friday. Friday needs to get here immediately.

Update, courtesy of Julybug: Gawker was apparently at Hooter’s last night.
 

Six years. September 11, 2007

I cried on the treadmill again this morning, but this time it was not over a music video.
 
The hovering clouds are apt; it’s the most depressing day of the year, especially around these parts.
 
While walking back from the gym this morning I saw a group of policemen and firefighters, one of them holding a flag, crossing through Columbus Circle. All of us at the corner, even though we had a walk signal, stopped in our tracks. I wanted to salute. Or say “thank you.” Instead I just gave a small smile and lowered my head slightly and proceeded.
 
In the office this morning we played the “where were you game,” because that’s what ties us. We each bring our own sorrow, our own tale to the tragic potluck. Sharing makes it easier.
 
Me? I was in college, a junior. I woke up before my roommates and went into the living room. I sat down with a bowl of cereal – Special K, skim milk, why do I remember that detail? – and turned on the television. The first plane had just hit. It was the beginning, back when everyone thought it was an accident.
 
I called my dad at his office, just to talk to someone. I was a fearful flyer even then and anything remotely related to an air disaster sent me into an emotional frenzy.
 
Then the second plane.
 
Then the world changed.
 
I wasn’t in New York when it happened. Like all of us, I knew people who were. Knew people who knew people who died. One of those names this morning that I listened to while eating breakfast, while brushing my teeth, while getting dressed. I only made it to the D’s before I had to leave for work.
 
New York is New York today. People go about their business, nothing seems all too different. A bit more somber, yes. Just a bit.
 
Many blocks south, however, I’m sure things are a lot different: the gathering of people at Ground Zero, people who lost. Not people who knew people; people who are the people that people knew.
 
Six years seems like a lifetime. I can’t even remember when terror wasn’t a part of our daily lives. When every time I went through the Lincoln Tunnel or over the George Washington Bridge or down into the subway it didn’t cross my mind: are they going to blow this up next?
 
My children, your children – they will never have known life before 9/11. It’s hard to comprehend.
 
I don’t want to get lost in the depression, so I’m going to stop there.
 
It comes down to the fact that I’m proud to be a part of this city. Today more than usual.
 
Feel free to share your “where I was” story. On the surface it’s selfish, I know, because none of us were actually in the buildings so who cares where we were? But it’s cathartic. It binds us. And in the face of all of this, being brought together is the silver lining on a dark, dark cloud.

File Under: Sometimes, I really love New York. July 26, 2007

Last night, I walked 3.6 miles downtown to meet a friend for dinner. 
 
Quick tangent: Can you believe the lengths I will go to avoid actually working out? I wanted to work off some calories from yesterday but I did NOT want to set foot in the gym. So instead I walked 3.6 miles in flip flops and a dress. The sores on my feet are still oozing. 
 
Anyway. I was walking past the Fuse Network, across from Penn Station, when I noticed a small crowd of people surrounding a man in a cowboy hat.
  
Being, well, a New Yorker, I immediately thought it was the Naked Cowboy. Until I got closer and realized, oh hey, it’s only my FAVORITE REALITY STAR EVER (and also, former rock star or something.) 
 
He of the botox and eyeliner and ever-present bandana to conceal what we can only assume is a receding hairline.  
 
Ladies and gentleman, I present to you…Bret Fucking Michaels:

   

 
I marched right up to him and introduced myself. 
 
Clink: “Hey, I’m Clink and I love your show.”  
 
Bret Fucking Michaels: “Aww, thanks baby, thanks baby.” 
 
As I took a few camera phone pictures of him, I said, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Bret.” (Y’all should get that reference, because you do watch the show right? HOW CAN YOU NOT WATCH THIS SHOW? It is God’s gift to us, people. Do not refuse it.) 
 
He cracked up. A woman next to me made a slurping sound and pronounced Bret “delicious,” which was my cue to leave and call M who was, in all sincerity, totally jealous.  
 
Sigh. Sometimes I really love New York.