On The Boardwalk

Completed the Brooklyn Half Marathon last week with my friend Hot Brooklyn Mama. The race began on Coney Island on the boardwalk. It was cold and overcast - not good picture weather - so I just took a photo of my feet on the boardwalk. Hot Brooklyn Mama and I ran all the way from Coney Island to Prospect Park - 13.1 miles. What a blast! Afterward, The Boy picked me up in the car. Yes, we still have one car in the city. I was relieved not to have to truck the subway home. Especially after a crazy early morning bus ride out to Coney Island in a ghetto school bus with no shocks!

Seen on the commute home

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.

Adventures in Powerlessness

The universe had something to say today. Time can't be controlled, it said - not by me and not by the chick with the jingly hair who shared the subway with me from 125th street. This was after the subway we were on passed up the stop we were supposed to make. Instead of stopping at 96th street, it went on, passing 103rd street, 110th street, 116th street, finally stopping at 125th. The jingly-haired girl and I were both relieved. We weren't any more in control of our destiny at that point. But as we waited assuredly for the next train downtown, we pretended we were.

Lessons Learned

Sometimes, the city surprises you. Whether it's a blowup doll sitting prone in the window of an apartment building you pass everyday, or the delivery of a brother in arms who sets you on the path to rightousness.

I joined a writing group to meet other writers and hopefully, find more writing discipline. At the first event, I found the bottom of two martini glasses. Since I had an almost empty stomach, it wasn't really a good scene. Is it a coincidence that no one I talked to at the last event made it to this one? I don't think so.

Anyway, at this evening's event, I met Mr. Corporate Whore, who toils away for an insurance company in Tarrytown. When I shared my challenges getting into a writing regimen, Mr. Corporate Whore took me to task. He urged me to write not because I felt like I should, but because I enjoy it. A good lesson.

In Search of The Real

The Boy and I went to see Passing Strange on Broadway Saturday night. I totally love love loved it, but The Boy was a little more non-plussed. Nevertheless, the real show was on the subway after. A homeless guy who deconstructed a meat on a stick, then threw the hunks of meat onto the seat next to him, and then picked at them as if they were a bowl of peanuts at a cocktail party. Then there were the hispanic teenagers who kept bending over and inadvertantly showing off their purple and orange grany panties hanging out the top of their low slung jeans. Finallly there was a pimp wannabe in a gray suit, red shirt and aviator sunglasses primping his reflection in the subway car windows, who, ultimately, gave us a little dancing with the stars action, tripping the light fantastic to his own personal soundtrack. Or perhaps just tripping.

Saturday Sightings

Set out for my weekly long run with The Little Nolita Lady, armed with camaraphone, should we see any interesting sights. We were almost home after an uneventuful run when we spied the actor Ron Rifkin of Alias fame at a restuarant on Madison Ave. We chose not to take a photo of him - too cheesy.

It's Official

It's official. I am tired of winter. Of wearing heavy coats and dark colored tights. My hands are desparate to be free of claustorphobic gloves. Spring! Release me!

Sunday In The Park

Did an early morning run with The Little Nolita Lady this morning. Here's what we saw:

1. A jogger juggling 3 red balls
2. A high school orchestra rehearsing in a small outdoor ampitheatre in the park
3. A priest handing out palm fronds for Palm Sunday
4. A woman leading a donkey in a Palm Sunday procession
5. A choir and bell ringers in same procession

Snow Day

Snowing out my window.

Spotted on the Lower East Side

Spotted on the Lower East Side Friday night - Leerone giving one of her few New York performances - at The Living Room. Later in the night saw her canoodling in the corner with a rep from Epic Records. Go Leerone! Rock that shit!

The Zoo

I saw a model in her native habitat today. She was tall, willowy and blond, and doing her time behind the register at Anthropologie unti she gets her big break, I guess. I really knew I was experiencing something unique when she turned to her associate and asked, "What is $19.90 divided by two?" Then she stared at the person, bored, and annoyed that her head had to do anything other than sprout golden locks of hair. I looked around for the cameras, but they weren't there. I was going to help her, but on all the nature shows, they say the first rule is not to intervene and just let the scenes play themselves out naturally. It was truly moving. I felt almost like Jane Goodall.

Old Dogs

Overheard in the Starbucks down the street from our apt.

Scene 1: Two older gentlemen at adjoining tables are enjoying their coffee and a lively early morning debate. One man is tall, with a head of thick, silvery hair, and smartly dressed. The other man is short and slovenly, with an old ratty t-shirt hanging out the bottom of a too-small hoodie. His hair is wirey and attempting to allight off his head.

Mr. Slovenly
I believe that men and women can talk and be friends without it being all about sex.

Mr. Smart
Yes.

Mr. Slovenly
I mean, I don't know what that writer was talking about. I don't think about sex 100% percent of the time. I can be talking to a woman about politics or books or the weather or whatever, and I'm not also thinking about sex.

Mr. Smart
Well, maybe subconciously.

Mr. Slovenly
Well, subconsciously! That's a completely different issue. That is for Sigmund Freud to work out.

Footwear Phenom

You may be familiar with the Morton Salt image of the young girl walking in the rain spilling salt as she goes. She has an umbrella and a cute yellow dress, but no galoshes. Well, I can tell you that I'm one step ahead of her! I am certain that the backs of her legs are getting splattered with mud, and her shoes will be worse for the wear - soaking wet and miserable on her feet. Cold feet and wet trouser bottoms are no fun. That's why on rainy days I've got my Hunter Galoshes (http://www.wellie-boots.com/) - or wellies, if you want to get British about it. I'm quite dashing in my hunter green wellies and my green raincoat. I certainly never needed anything like galoshes in Houston - I was never out in the rain for more than minutes at a time. But I spend at least 40 minutes walking outside each day - 20 minutes each way. So my galoshes keep my feet dry and my heart warm.

Safe Sex

On the way home tonight on the subway, The Boy and I spotted a condom jammed under the seat in front of us. I tried to get a photo, but some people sat down, and I felt kind of like a jackass to ask them to move so I could take a picture of a condom. So I didn't. Then I was going to "reenact the scene" once we got home, but as old married people, we don't have ready access to condoms. So you'll just have to take my word for it. We saw an unleashed condom on the subway. Made me wonder - how did it get there? Did someone think it was funny to leave the little guy behind, or was someone (two someone's I guess) getting it on during a late night Risky Business reenactment of their own? The Boy posited that it hitched a ride into the subway car stuck to someone's shoe. Whatever the reason, I've got just one word for it. Yucky.

Dogged Optimism

While out in the nabe the other day, I came across an interesting site - a trio of dog walkers wrangling their charges. The dogs were in groups - big dogs, medium dogs, and small and geriatric dogs. Each dog walker was responsible for a passal of at least 6 or 7 dogs. The dogs were all quite well-behaved - no infighting and no unscheduled stops. It was quite a spectacle watching three such large groups of canines galloping down 3rd avenue! I got tsk-tsk-ed by an old couple when I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to take a photo. Bad form. But the dogs brought a smile to my face. It's just not the kind of thing you see in downtown Houston.

What A Drag

After the West Side Beauty's Birthday dinner, we did a little monkeying around of her own at The Randolph at Broome http://newyork.citysearch.com/review/45697379. We went down to the basement, where the "cool people in the know" go. Guess what we found? A basement reminiscent of "That 70s Show." And - SMOKING! I guess it's some sort of modern-day speakeasy for smokers. But there was no ventilation, and drippy pipes. Gross!

On the positive side, we did get to meet Fast Fingers Yang's Dallas-based girl-no-space-friend. Cute as a hiccup!

Monkey Shines

Attended the official celebration of the West Side Beauty's birthday Saturday night. We started the evening with an ill-fated dinner at Monkey Bar. Intrigued as we were by the coat-check guy's boast of a $3 million renovation in the dining room, we were still hard-pressed to get service at the almost empty bar. But it was a night of celebration! We let it slide when we finally received our wine, traditional martinis and lychee martinis. The West Side Beauty (with two friends in tow - one real and one imaginary), the Little Nolita Lady, and another newcomer to our girlie foursome - Ms K 2 U - all toasted with The Boy and I.

Later, we were shown into the cavernous - and empty - dining room. Sometimes when a restaurant isn't busy, you are lucky enough to get that extra bit of care and attention that makes an evening memorable. This was not one of those nights. While the food was good, it was promoted as "family style." The only way that food could have been conceived as family style is if you defined family as a couple of thumbless vegetarians. Seriously, I could have shoveled through the majority of the plates myself and only been mildly full. As it was, we ordered 3 appetizers and 4 entrees for 6 people, that left me dreaming wistfully about the delicate bouquet of a sidewalk cart hotdog.

We waited about 25 minutes for our appetizers, and about the same time for our entrees. (This was what made us begin to wonder if there honestly were monkeys in the back slinging hash for this joint.) Honestly, the service was so lacking and the food so small I just wanted to leave. So when the dessert menu came, we decided to skip it. (Note: even though there were only 2 or 3 other tables in the restaurant, they didn't have enough dessert menus for the six of us at our table. I was denied a menu of my own because it was "dirty". Hmmm.

So we decided just to pay the check.

Silly silly people.

The Boy and Ms K 2 U pored over the check and figured out the per person total. Six credit cards were offered, and the waiter and our credit cards disappeared behind the red curtain. We waited. We waited. We cracked jokes and waited some more. FINALLY the waiter reappeared.

He handed out each of the credit card receipts to be signed, and disappeared again. So we all went about signing our reciepts with the 2 pens. We had finished up and were gathering our belongings to leave when the waiter comes back and says, "Thanks and have a lovely evening. OH BY THE WAY, there is $97 that still remains unpaid on your bill." Wha?

Apparently we had inadvertently missed the bar tab on the bill. The imbecile (was he a monkey in a man suit? Perhaps.) didn't have the wherewithall to inform us of our error before he ran all of our credit cards or prior to all of us signing the receipts.

We were so pissed, whoever had cash just threw it in the pile, just so we could get out of there!

Monkey bar, indeed! The whole place is a zoo.

Youthful Indiscretions

Celebrated the West Side Beauty's triple decade last night at Ulysses in the Financial District. Then it was off to Brass Monkey in Chelsea. My assessment of the night? Another clear indicator that people over 37 shouldn't be allowed to drink to excess in public.