Me 1, Friends 0

So for the big ole birthday celebration, I wanted to do something "old New York". Plus, I didn't want to be bothered by extreme crowds or ridiculous bouncers. So I chose the King Cole Bar at The St. Regis Hotel on 5th Avenue.

The Chef had arrived first and graciously commandeered several corner booths. That ensured our comfort for the night - especially since many of us were wearing shoes only fit for sitting down! All the usual suspects arrived in their late night New York finery - the Little Nolita Lady and her beau Abs, the West Side Beauty, T-Rex and the Platinum Bombshell.  We enjoyed our $15 drinks cool bar snacks delivered to us with somber professionalism by our tuxedoed waiter.

While everyone enjoyed the frivolity, I had a plan. There were bets about how long I would last given I usually was close to passing out after just one drink. But not tonight. Oh no way. I was prepared. I ate a full bagel and peanut butter for breakfast, both halves of a curried chicken salad sandwich and Fritos (yes, Chef, I know they aren't natural and full of chemicals, but they were a necessary evil.) For dinner I inhaled an extra large slice, and downed it with a can of Red Bull. I was on FIRE! 

So three martini's (yes, count them, three!) and half a beer later - I was still going strong. I made it past the under/over time of 11 pm easily. Even made it to a second bar. So all if have to say is Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. 

Chicks Flick

Set out with my girlfriends on Friday night for the 11:30 showing of Sex and the City, the movie. Full of anticipation, we dined at Citrus before we headed to the theatre at Lincoln Center. Women were dressed to the nines - including one who had a feathered bird in her hair -  for the chick flick of the year. 

Little did we know that chicks would actually be flicking, and shoving, and cutting, and cursing, and running to get into the theatre. 

After waiting in a line as long as Samantha's list of sexual conquests, we began moving forward amicably. But then all hell broke loose and large hordes of women began pushing their way forward as if Manolo Blahnik himself was crafting customized pairs of shoes just beyond the double door entrance.

It was a low point in womendom.  And, because of all the craziness ad ruckus, I didn't even dare venture out for popcorn, MnMs and a cherry coke, my movie staple.

Fortunately, the movie itself provided that salty and sweet combination. I just wish there had been a little more sweet and a little less salt within the movie viewing public.

Girls Gone Mild!

I'm not embarrassed to tell you that I can be a little shallow. I like a nice bag and hot shoes. I adore my diamond wedding ring. And I love reading about celebrity exploits at all the cool clubs around town. Between that and Sex and the City reruns showcasing the breathy excitement of what's inside, I decided it would be a neat idea to have a club night with all my gal pals.

The key to club night is actually getting into the club. I have heard countless stories of cranky and demented doorment who execute a perplexing decision-making process to determine who gets in. I abhor waiting in lines. I was willing to pay a little to get on a list or have some assurance of VIP treatment.

We first made some calls to the Pink Elephant, but it was going to cost us something like $300 a person. I wasn't sure if I actually wanted to pay that much. Fortunately the Little Nolita Lady had some connections, and we were able to secure our names on a VIP list for the opening of a new club called The Mansion.

Club night started at about midnight (gasp). The line to get in the door wasn't really a line at all, but a mob scene. Exasperated club staff hulked up and down the sidewalk yelling at all the frivolity seekers to form one single line. Which they didn't. For awhile, we couldn't even find anyone in charge to confirm our VIP status. Then it seemed like EVERYONE in the line around us thought they were a VIP too. We thought our whole plan had gone down the tubes. But a few recon missions later, and we were in, baby. And while it was good to be in, it wasn't what I expected. The idea of it was much better than the reality. Nevertheless, we had a fun night dancing and getting wired on vodka and Red Bull.

At around 4 am, we tried to change the scenery a bit. But after waiting in another line - one in which there was no VIP pass waiting for us at the end - we decided to hit the road. Our Sex and the City night was a blast. But I'd rather cuddle up with my greatest accessory - The Boy.

Flying through the air with the greatest of . . . please.

So I had another Sex in the City moment recently. An acquaintance asked me if I wanted to accompany several folks to the trapeze school that Carrie immortalized in one of the episodes.

I was so excited to go, but didn't know quite what to expect. I had visions of gracefully catapulting through the air looking both athletic and relaxed.

What I got was quite different. Turns out I'm afraid of heights. Very afraid of heights.

First I wouldn't jump off the platform (even though I was protected by a harness and a very forgiving net). Absolutely refused. It was starting to get embarrassing. Finally I aquiesced (mainly because I didn't relish the prospect of disembarking the platform via the rickety ladder.). Then, once I made the leap, I wouldn't let go of the bar. No way. Not gonna do it. I was just hanging there, eyes closed, refusing to let go, while all of the other students looked on. They had to manually lower the bar down toward the net before I felt comfortable. Did I mention this was in front of a few people that I work with? I'm still embarrassed, but relieved I never have to do that again.

My sister, the Dainty Drug Dealer, wants to try it when she comes into town next month. I'm doing her and the rest of the class a favor. I'll be taking photos on the sidelines.

Perpetuating Myths

I have a bone to pick with Carrie Bradshaw and the rest of the fashionistas on Sex and the City. My gripe with them has to do with shoes.

The ladies on the show are constantly seen in beautiful, strappy footware, traipsing the city as if on air. I've tried this, people, and it DOES NOT feel like walking on air. It feels more like sticking your feet into a meat slicer over and over.

Not to mention that it is COLD! At least for this sunbelt chick.

So, based on the realities of walking several miles each day, I've had to do the unthinkable. Yes. I've bought several pairs of "Commuter Shoes."

Now, before you judge me, please note that I have purchased enough pairs so that I can at least match my work outfit. And also note that my warmer weather choice is something more akin to Converse than convent.

But then, of course, the cold weather is rolling in. And lest my feet freeze up and break off like the tips of candy canes, I have purchased some waterproof, polartech boots with faux fur on the inside for added comfort.

Now, these boots may smell a little like the petroleum and chemicals used to make them, but my feet don't have nostrils. And after the first snow, the smell will likely morph anyway into something more urban.

Meanwhile, if anyone asks, tell them i wear Manolo Blahniks every day. And any photos of me should be from the knees up.