Ahhhh, Young Love.

She may live to regret it, but one of my 3 beautiful college roommates has just asked me to guest blog on her legitimate blog on her legitimate site.

I wonder if she knows that I chuckled Devilishly and rubbed my palms together before I replied with an enthusiastic “absolutely!”.

You see, she and her husband have a fantastic site (weddzilla.com) for blushing (red-faced) brides who are entering into, and/or find themselves buried in the thick of the wedding planning process.

Though I am almost 2 years removed (can you even believe that?), my recollection of this experience is tattooed into the forefront of my mind. No amount of drinking will ever kill or dilute my memories. I know this because I have tried. Truthfully, that’s OK – because in retrospect, my wedding planning stories (good, bad and ugly) are downright comical and extremely educational.

I implore you to tune in. But bear in mind that I have to be somewhat helpful, so it will not be solely a collection of stories all resulting in Chris sleeping on the sofa (though those are the best ones). I can’t dissuade brides from making it to the altar…not in good conscience, anyway.

But once a month (in fact the first Friday of every month) I will be the featured blogger, and I encourage you to visit and comment NICELY. Enough publishable comments about how brilliant and beautiful I am, and I get some extra blog publicity. And in this case, there IS such a thing as bad publicity – so visit, comment, and keep it clean, Folks (Hoff). Brides-to-be don’t need your wit, they need mine.

So write this on your hand: Christy “goes live” on Wedzilla at 8am on Friday. I expect all of you to be poised with bated breath for that very moment. And, of course, if you know anyone doomed to be in/around the wedding planning process, please tell him/her about the blog. I plan to shoot it straight - and who knows - maybe it'll keep him/her off the sofa.

See you Friday at: http://blog.weddzilla.com/

Mrs. Ewers out.

GERTIE SAYS:

Yesterday I was a dog. Today I'm a dog. Tomorrow I'll probably still be a dog. Sigh! There's so little hope for advancement.

Snoopy

Hiring: Do you want the job, or not?

We’re hiring at IRG (hiring!). As I have stumbled into the role of Director of Human Resources (please, stop giggling), all resumes go through me on their way to anyone else.

Its an odd sense of power. One that I thoroughly enjoy.

Posting an ad on Craigslist is the fastest way to be absolutely inundated with resumes. And in this day and age, its the fastest way to slow your company server, as what seems like billions of resumes come in not 45 seconds after I hit “post”.

How does one deal with the sorting, you ask?

Its simple. Add a little blurb to the bottom of the ad saying: “Please put your resume in the body of an email. No attachments will be opened.”

Guaranteed, a staggering 45% (at least) of the interested parties will send you nothing but a resume – as an attachment.

Guaranteed, you will have weeded out 45% of people who can’t follow directions.

If you’re interested in whittling it down even more, add to the blurb: “Please include cover letter.”

Guaranteed, of the 55% who put their resume into the body of an email, at least 20% will not include a cover letter, or even a “Hi, I’d like to be considered for this position.”

These people are either incapable of following instructions all the way through, or they’re lazy. Either way, they’re not getting a job, a call, or even a glance. Putting “laziness” under their list of qualifications would give them a better chance…because that, at least, would make me laugh.

Though this makes my life SO MUCH EASIER – it is a horrifying reality. Could it really be that at least 65% of all applicants are discarded simply for lack of following directions?

That’s like failing a test that you would have aced by being too lazy to put your name on it.

I’m trying not to let it get to me, but this also seems like a personal attack. Did they think I was kidding? Do they think they’re above my rules? Do they think they’re too qualified to even say Hi to me? Are they being blaze' because they think I’m not reading them? Well, I AM! I am reading them! And anyone worth even half their weight in cover letters is getting at least one foot in the door. Its just that simple.

Perhaps people think that their Craigslist job applications are falling into the black hole of Craigslist, never to be seen or heard from again. Perhaps they’re disgruntled and frustrated. Perhaps they’re defeated. Perhaps they think I won't notice.

And believe me, I’ve been there - I get it. Searching for a job is the hardest job I've ever had. What I don’t get is why people are not even trying - or worse, not reading the job post all the way to the end. And yeah - in that case, I’m happy to sit here like a black hole – with my trigger finger on delete.

Coney Island: Making me a better person.

Last week’s heat in New York City was unbearable to me. Feeling like I am cooking in a microwave, while breathing into a plastic bag is not what I signed up for.

Word on the street is that “Summer is finally here”. I say, WHO THE HELL INVITED SUMMER?!

So needless to say, by the time Saturday night rolled around (after a near homicidal melt-down on the sticky streets of SoHo), I was climbing the walls of my apartment, desperate for an ‘out’. New York was officially suffocating me.

Gertie, though the love of my life, is a giant, furry handcuff. Day trips, weekend trips, trips uptown, downtown, any town are pretty much out of the question if you’ve got a 60lb dog in tow. So I hit the Internet on a frantic search for a half-day adventure that would get Chris and I out of Manhattan – if only for a change of scenery, and the chance for a light breeze.

And what did I end up with? A day trip to Coney Island.

STOP LAUGHING. YOU STOP LAUGHING RIGHT NOW.

Fine, I know its ghetto, but once upon a long time ago, Coney Island was the place to be! Granted, that was in the late 1920’s (if then), but that’s neither here nor there. Also, websites can be very misleading, as the official Coney Island website makes it look comparable to the sandy beaches of Amity Island, minus the killer Great White, plus a rollercoaster or two. What’s better than that?

AND, there’s a Ferris Wheel. Ferris Wheels are my most favorite summertime activity – aside from eating mint chocolate chip ice cream.

So…despite my better judgment, I decided it was a-go, and Chris reluctantly agreed to be my escort. Coney Island, or bust.

12:15pm Sunday: Board the subway, Coney Island bound.

12:15 – 1:00pm: Notice that the people getting on and off the subway are getting less and less savory as we near our stop. Bury face in book, move closer to Chris.

1:05pm: Get off subway. Notice that the station is like that of European train platforms – I like it. Notice that EVERYTHING seems as though we’re in a foreign country – not sure if I like it.

1:10pm: Pass Nathan’s Hot Dog headquarters, where they have a giant countdown until next 4th of July’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. The pictures on the billboard of people double-fisting hot dogs make me dry heave.

1:11pm: Step foot on boardwalk, and begin to experience what I can only imagine an acid trip feels like.

Please, join me – and click the pic above for the full, trippy experience:

The first thing I notice is the boardwalk. The boardwalk, itself is slightly whimsical. It’s a stretch of wooden planks as far as the eye can see – and it makes that “dock-like” sound beneath the various shoes of the hundreds who walk along it.

If you close your eyes, and listen to the sound of feet on the boardwalk, waves and seagulls, its all very storybook.

Unfortunately, with open eyes, its not. Aside from the wooden planks of the boardwalk, Coney Islands’ whimsy is as dead as I would be, had I gone on the Ferris “Wheel of Wonder”.

I recently caught an episode of the History Channel series “Life After Man”, in which they chronicle what would happen to man’s creation if all of a sudden one day, man ceased to exist. This series is so compelling that we nearly missed a wedding because we wanted to see what would happen to Vegas.

In any case, being at Coney Island is like watching that show. Aside from the people who are there – its as if man no longer exists. Of the boardwalk buildings that still stand, none of them look as if they’ll survive the summer. Paint is chipping on every sign, every door and every structure. Lettering is crooked, and cracked. Merchandise appears sun-bleached and worn, as do the vendors selling it. Restaurant chairs are dirty, tables are rickety and the food comes with a lot of ketchup – as I can only assume to mask the taste.

Drink stations line the boardwalk, advertising “Free Refills”. They’ve got 3 drinks on the menu: Strawberry Daiquiris, Margaritas, and Pina Coladas – all of which are sitting in huge, plastic vats, boiling in the sun. All of which come from a spout that has probably never been cleaned by a woman who has never smiled.

There are little gazebos to the right – one of which has a karaoke machine in it. A woman is screeching “I Will Survive” to a small crowd – all of them woop and cheer.

In the distance, we can hear a man who sounds like Rodney Dangerfield on a mic. As we near, Chris and I look at each other – “Did he just say ‘Shoot the Freak?’”

And then we realize he did. Under a huge, makeshift sign reading “Shoot the Freak” is an empty lot. It looks as though any empty lot would – overturned garbage cans, cinder blocks and plywood haphazardly strewn about. But what makes this lot different, is that it’s a human hunting ground. People have crowded around because someone has just given this Rodney Dangerfield person $5 to hunt and shoot a human target with paint pellets. As the crowd draws in, so do we…this, we have to see.

Sure enough, there’s a little human target down there – a man in head-to-toe padding, looking hot and miserable. Oddly enough, “The Freak” is the least freaky looking person I’ve seen yet. When he’s done being pelted by a chubby marksman with plumber’s crack, he puts in his earphones, and returns to the shade. The announcer says “Thanks, Freak”, and the crowd disperses.

The beach is to our right, and looks mildly inviting, as the water is actually nice from afar. Unfortunately, its far from nice. As we look closer, we see signs lining all beach entrances – the water is “closed” due to “conditions”. We shudder to think of what conditions they’re referring to.

Eventually we walk down to the Ferris Wheel. One look, and I know its not an option after deciding that it was not a good day to die. The shrill screams of terror and loose steel pull my eyes to the right of the Ferris Wheel.

And there she was.

There was the “Cyclone” – the “rollercoaster” of Coney Island. She took her maiden voyage in 1927, and I’m guessing her last ride is right around the corner. From my vantage point on the boardwalk, I could actually SEE nails wiggling free on the track as each car passed over them. The structure rattled under the weight of the passengers, and something constantly clicked as if it was about to come unhinged. I was about to come unhinged!

Turning away from what I was certain would be the last Cyclone ride, ending in a tragic blood bath, we passed a man who had 2 live lizards hanging off the front of his shirt (“Does that man have live lizards hanging off his t-shirt?”, “Yes. Yes he does.”) With that, we decided we’d be safer on the beach.

We’d both worn flip-flops, predicting to have our feet in the sand. One step onto the beach, and I wished I’d worn galoshes. We stared at the sand in wonder – what WAS it? It wasn’t sand. It was…dirt. Fine, brown dirt – like the clay on a baseball field. In it, were finely ground pieces of plastic, Styrofoam, and paper, scattered with the occasional shard of glass. And no, I’m not referring to sea glass, I’m referring to jagged pieces of freshly broken glass, sitting slicing edge up in the ‘sand’. It was a minefield of serious hazards, yet directly to our right was a fake palm tree, shooting cold water into a fountain of refreshment to hoards of frolicking barefoot children beneath it. The water on the sand was making mud. The mud was full of plastic bits, shards of glass and children.

We proceeded on.

The beach was sprawling and only sparsely littered with people, so we had no trouble finding a quiet(er) spot. We laid our towels on the hard sand, and giggled about how we felt sorry for the underside of our towels. We then lay down, huddling to each other as though we were on a tiny raft, surrounded by the fins of circling sharks. “Sand” got on my arm at one point and I tried to brush it off. It smeared across my skin leaving a dirty smudge.

Despite the constant drone of the Cyclone rattling in the background and the occasional squawk from our tanned, drunken neighbors, we managed a few hours of relative relaxation. Chris napped and I read a book to keep me distracted from the sweltering heat. The sound of the waves was actually quite nice, and for a moment, I found the escape I was looking for. The peace - however nice - was fleeting, as a large park ranger literally kicked a man off the beach for swimming. He then proceeded to yell at everyone within earshot - us included. This woke Chris up, and it was time to go.

At this point, we were DISGUSTING. I, personally, had a layer of grit on me so thick that I could have scratched the word “dirty” into my forearm with my fingernail. Yet, there was nothing to be done! No way to rinse off! Chris battled the children for a moment under the palm tree, but came out with muddy shoes, wet with questionable water. I put clothes on over the filth and stuck to them from the inside.

I held my breath long enough to attempt the women’s room for at least a hand-washing, but returned defeated. No soap, no paper towel, no hot water.

Our only possible cure? Beer. Ice cold beer. So we saddled up at an outside hightop at ChaCha’s Bar, with a bird’s eye view of Shoot the Freak. Perfect!

To expect “ice cold” was like shooting for the stars with a BB gun. I got a warm Corona Light, Chris got a warm Blue Moon – and they were the best warm beers we’ve ever had.

Shortly after the Freak got one in the face, it started to drizzle, and I relished in it. I was more than happy to bathe in the acid rain.

If you’re ever so inclined to conduct a social experiment, or if you’re just in the mood to feel normal, go to Coney Island. “Normal” is the only different at this place. There were people from every walk of life around us – none of whom seemed to be firing on all cylinders. There was a man next to us at the bar who had portraits of “Daddy’s Treasures” tattooed on his bicep. All three of them looked like Chucky.

I imagine it is a flawless artists’ rendering.

We chugged our beers and headed for a hot dog.

I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for Nathan’s - they serve their fries with a fork. Otherwise, I’d have starved.

With our bellies full, and our skin toxic, we headed towards the platform and passed the Lizard King (by lizard, I mean "Bearded Dragons"), a completely toothless woman, and a bright-eyed tourist who was wearing a three piece suit, having seriously misjudged the weather. Exhausted and ripe, we boarded the train back to Manhattan.

I must admit, this was one of my favorite adventures, and by far the best homecoming I’ve had in years. The City seemed clean and shiny and new. The people appeared pretty and friendly and showered. The breeze along the river was crisp, the birds sang, the grasshoppers chirped and there were no sounds of metal-on-metal rollercoaster wheels. Mission accomplished: I left my suffocation in Coney Island, and once back in Manhattan, I could breathe again.

I came away from my adventure, sure of two things:

1) This would be #5 on my list of Most-Needed Showers (see below for #1-4)
2) Coney Island is the first stop on the Subway ride to Hell. Therefore, I am going to make a conscious effort to be a better person. An afternoon is one thing – an ETERNITY is quite another.



Christy’s Top Five Best (and most necessary) Showers of All Time:

1) Travel Lodge on Route 66 after hiking down - and back up the Grand Canyon.
2) Senior Year of college when Preakness was 40 degrees, raining, and after having lost my favorite yellow slicker, I spent the day in the mud with a cooler of Bug Light.
3) I spent the summer living on the far end of a greenhouse, and walked face-first in the pitch black into a giant spiderweb.
4) The morning I ran the Los Angeles Marathon.
5) After a day at Coney Island.

GERTIE SAYS:

After the game,
the king and the pawn go into the same box.

Italian Proverb

The End is Near

One minor breakdown, one delicious dinner, one sleepless night, two Gertie-peeing-in-the-apartment-after-drinking-too-much-water clean-ups, one GIANT work move, two slices of pizza, several rogue bruises, and 5 days later, my week from Hell is officially o.v.e.r.

Until Monday.

The radio silence from your favorite procrastination pastime (me) is deafening, I know. Please accept my most sincere apologies.

For now, I'm going to go dive into a jacuzzi-sized martini, and bathe off this whole disaster of a week, so that tomorrow I can wake refreshed, reeking of booze and ready to tackle the rest of August shoulder first.

And you, my Dears, will be the first to hear about it.

Meanwhile, to sweeten the sour of my absence, please enjoy these posted photos of my youth when a "week from Hell" meant that I lost at Butt's Up. The one shining moment of this week? My 1/2 hour with the Company scanner.

En-joy.

A Big Apple a Day: And I haven't even had my coffee yet.

While waiting for my apple-a-day this morning (among other fruits), I couldn’t help but notice that the line for my fruit guy was longer than usual. Maybe its because its offensively hot already and its 8:20am, maybe its because the weekend’s overindulgence has lead the masses to seek healthier breakfasts (not that I would know), or maybe its because this fruit is like morning candy – all I know is that the line was long, and I made myself late to work to stand on it.

While waiting for my order, I notice a little scuffle a few people behind me. I look back to see a woman, standing behind a man who appears to be British (not that I’m one for stereotypes, but this Dude’s suit + hair + teeth = British). The woman looks like she’s about to bite his head off, praying mantis-style. And then, seconds later, she lights into him…

“I’m not gonna go there this morning, because I don’t feel like it. BUT, if you think you can just insert yourself into line in front of me again, I’m gonna go there. If you walk up here and jump in front of me again, I’ll haul off and hit it you.”

Man, looking like he peed his pants: “I didn’t cut you.”

Woman: “You didn’t WHAT?! Yes you did! Yes. You. Did. And if you do it again, I swear, I will haul off and hit you!!”

At this point, everyone in line was pretending that they were invisible, or listening to music (earphones, or not). The people BEHIND these two – who probably knew exactly whether or not he had cut, had all diverted their eyes, and the woman behind me looked overly interested in her shoes. As for me, I couldn’t let it go. Call me crazy, but I couldn’t let that slide.

I mean, even if he DID cut her, who behaves that way? At 8:20am on a Tuesday wouldn’t you just say “Excuse me, the line begins back there” or something a little less aggro than “I’m going to haul off and hit you”?

Also, I think its worth noting that these people are business people. This wasn’t a tourist and an angry street vendor having it out. These were two people, freshly pressed, freshly showered, and on their respective ways to work.

I think its also worth noting that this woman was not dressed as if she worked at the DMV – which would have been the only valid excuse.

So I start audibly gasping and say buoyantly, “Well, Good Morning, Everyone!! God, its Tuesday morning - not even Monday. I’d expect this on a Monday. I tell ya, if I hadn’t ordered already, I would offer you my spot in line.”

And she says, pointing right at me “I don’t need nice, either.”

Me: “It sounds to me like you might.”

I paid my fruit guy, who probably understood 3 words of the exchange, but apparently didn’t need to – he was smiling and shaking his head.

“They’re fighting over your fruit, Dude!”, I said. He smiled bigger – by now, he knows who “Dude” is.

I then turned and went down the line, personally wishing everyone in it a “Good Morning”. In the end, I got one scowl, seven smiles, and a large tin of fruit salad. And I didn’t even have to haul off and hit anyone…

GERTIE SAYS:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

Revelation: Working at Work is Exhausting

I’m flattered, touched, and slightly creeped out by the fact that I have somewhat of a following of people aside from my Mother. As it turns out, she is my #1 fan, but not my ONLY fan, which is a shock to everyone’s system. Namely mine.

Happy to have you, nonetheless! And….hi.

In light of our current economic situation (I use the word “situation”, when I REALLY want to use the word “shithole”), I have bitten off more than I can chew. That cliché bugs me, too, but unfortunately, its true.

Work just isn’t what it used to be…what, with me having to work now, and all. As much as I long for the good ‘ole days of having my feet up on my desk, yelling “BUY. SELL!” to a dial tone on the other end of my phone, I fear those days are gone. For good. With the recent forced retirement of my Gopher, it looks as though the sunny days of blogging at work whilst someone fetches me a latte are gone as well. Hopefully this is not ‘for good’, because lattes don’t just fetch themselves.

Anyway.

Its not that these streets aren’t teeming with blog ammunition, its that I can’t be the gun I want to be. And although I have asked my version of God (repeatedly) for more hours in the day, he has chosen to make the days shorter, and has successfully tripled what I have to cram into them (typical God complex).

So, dear Friends, I may run dry for a day here and there - tumbleweeds, where there used to be a river of lush sarcasm and wit. But never fear. For I am not going anywhere. Except, perhaps, to go get myself a latte. Sigh.

Keep coming back, keep checking in, keep showering me with contradictory compliments a-plenty about how I’m a horribly great person with a surprisingly bleak, positive outlook. And definitely either tell your friends, or hit this site from different computers from all over the world, because when I reach my goal of visitors, I’m being treated to what every little girl dreams about: a hulluva lotta wurst and a vat of sauerkraut.

Prost! (That's German for "Boo-ya.")

GERTIE SAYS:

Fear makes strangers of people who would be friends.

~Shirley Maclaine

Bitches Be Crazy (sorry for the language, Mom...but its true!)

On Sunday, Chris and I walked Gertie along the Hudson River as usual. Like any other day, we were discussing one of two main topics of conversation – 1) the meaning of life, or 2) how cute Gertie is.

We rarely stray from those topics as neither has any limit.

Often, we catch words or sentences of other people’s conversations on these walks. Its not as if we are eavesdropping (yes we are), but we’re more overhearing (I realize there is no difference). In any case, between the two of us we’ve been privy to A LOT and its truly amazing what people will say when they don’t think anyone is listening.

Take for instance, these two broads on Sunday. I've heard a lot in my day and my jaw rarely hits the ground - but after overhearing these two, I dragged it for a good 50 yards.

The scene:

Two women, early 30’s, both mildly attractive, both blabbering loudly.

Woman #1: Men are so much better in New Orleans.
Woman #2: No kidding.
#1: New Orleans men are real men who like to go out and party and have a good time no matter what. New York men are just pussies who are all married and too afraid to leave their wives and girlfriends in order to have fun in life.
#2: So they stay in bad relationships, I know.
#1: Totally.

Chris and I must have walked in silence for a good 30 seconds before he said “Did you…” and I said “Yeah.”

Personally I think this is a new low in female reasoning. You see, what these two women were doing was convincing themselves that their issues with men in general stem from something other than themselves. In short, they were justifying why they’re still single. But it wasn’t the usual “He’s got Mother issues” or “He was too hurt by his last relationship” or “He just needs some time to figure out what HE needs” (please) – it was “All the men here are married and no fun”.

Oh, Ladies, Ladies, Ladies. If you think every man in New York City is married and - gasp – refuses to cheat, you are sorely mistaken! I personally know lots of delicious single guys and I see hundreds more every day. Methinks the answer you’re looking for is... wait for it… wait for it… YOU’RE PSYCHOPATHS.

Perhaps you’re not psychopaths (you are) but perhaps they (as in every male in New York) are smart and therefore tell you they’re married or have girlfriends (whether its true or not) just to dodge the bullet of crazy that is you. Or maybe they actually ARE married or have girlfriends and you missed the boat – because guys have been dodging your crazy bullet for years.

I’ve been to New Orleans and I’ve partied with “real men” – most of whom are from someplace else, pretending to be someone else so that girls will flash them for beads. Saying that those men are ‘real men’ is like saying that Vegas is teeming with marriage material who won’t pawn your ring for a buy-in. Its just….uneducated.

When we were blessed enough to overhear these two Beacons of Rationality (insert sarcasm here) we were around Chelsea Piers (23rd Street). To put my/our reaction into perspective, we didn’t stop talking about them until we were home and I was feeling defeated by yet another idiotic woman and her moronic friend who make it SO DIFFICULT for us females – as a gender – to survive outside of the Romantic Comedy. We live in Battery Park….

What do I mean by this? I mean the He’s Just Not That Into You Romantic Comedy genre and the 4 billion other books/movies about manic, neurotic women, who spend all of their tireless energy “trying to get the guy”.

YES, these women exist (these two for instance) and YES, we’re all a little neurotic every now and then (I personally lead the charge). But what is perhaps a more relevant and definitely more interesting fact about women is that we are awesome.

And complex.

And intelligent.

Perhaps superior (if only for the birthing thing).

So why is it that we paint ourselves (and men just follow suit) as crazy bitches? Because we actually say stupid shit like “New York men are just pussies who are married and too afraid to leave their wives and girlfriends in order to have fun in life” to make ourselves feel better about not having one. And then we get our girlfriends to agree.

Nothing irks me more.

And, interestingly enough, nothing irks Chris more either. Although men are a little more black and white than us (understatement), he appreciates the fact that there is a fine line between insanity and genius – and that we women, teeter on it. Thus, we are awesome - and should be painted as such!

So when numbskulls like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle VERY Dum say something so…profoundly horrifying…this makes ME look bad because I share a chromosome with them. How is that fair?

Because of these unfortunate few, are we seriously destined to be viewed as generic caricatures within crappy Romantic Comedies? I fear it. In an alarming capacity, we are bound to the pages of chick books, appearing as “the lunatic brides”, or “the shopoholics” or “the drama queens”. We’re “the girl in the office doling out dating advice to our unlucky-in-love female co-workers, all of whom fit into one of several stereotypes”. We’re “the guy’s best friend and confidant, hoping that he will soon realize that WE are the one he’s wanted all along.”

What’s possibly worse than being pigeon-holed like this, is that we are programmed and encouraged by the Romantic Comedy to think that that actually happens - so when it doesn't, girls say the darnedest things to justify why it didn’t.

Granted, I love Romantic Comedies and I’ve justified some ridiculous things in my day. Thinking of it makes me cringe (and giggle). I, too, have spent a little too much time trying to dissect the male psyche, even though I know it just comes back to mine.

But saying dumb stuff like those two girls on Sunday, makes me want to exile them from the island. Go to New Orleans! Find a good-time-guy! Leave the married, taken, and single ones here. Because usually, behind every great guy is a greater girl. And it seems the New York guys you’ve been chasing have been right all along…you’re just not that girl.

The Seven Mile Itch

Very few things in life prompt me to walk 7 miles. I’d walk 7 miles to win a bet. I’d walk 7 miles to make out with Ryan Gosling (approved by Chris). I’d walk 7 miles to see Robin (at least!) but I never thought I’d walk 7 miles just for the opportunity to look up in New York.

Until last August.

I’m convinced that the only time anyone looks up in New York is upon their first visit to Times Square. If you’ve never been, picture Disneyworld. If you’ve never been there, picture Six Flags. If you’ve never been to either, you should get out more. So picture that, add more Broadway show t-shirts, less sidewalk, more expressions of confusion, and more groups of people standing in a bad place to stand, looking up.

I am irked by slow-moving, gawking crowds more than I’m irked by the Queen song “Fat Bottom Girls”. So you can imagine how often I look up and gawk.

Its about as often as I listen to that song.

Its not that I don’t think its worthwhile and amazing to look up – I do! I just think its:

A) annoying to anyone who is not you.
B) dangerous.

Taking your eye off the ball in New York could very easily send you to the emergency room. Every time I leave my apartment, I run the gauntlet. Between construction, swinging purses, speeding cabs, rogue bikers, strollers, kids, dogs, dive-bombing pigeons, divots, potholes, lost tourists, opening doors, busses, trains and even planes – I literally have to be alert, aware, and able to dodge a run-away vendor cart in 3 inch heels. Needless to say, I’m generally looking anywhere but up. And if I am, its probably because I'm flat on my back, having been clotheslined by a group of drunken bachelorettes.

This is why I’ve been looking forward to Summer Streets since August last - because 7 miles is easy when its danger-free.

Summer Street Saturdays is something that began last year. For three Saturdays during the month of August, New York closes off a route from the Brooklyn Bridge to the entrance of Central Park at 72nd Street. Its 6.9 miles of open road for anything but cars, and its a whole new New York.

One surprise about Summer Streets is how wide the streets actually are. They usually seem so narrow and congested - which they are. But open? Car free? They're like a runway. The sky opens up above as though you're looking at it from a concrete field. Sure, there's still the occasional stampede of first-time roller-bladers (never safe), or Livestrong-from-head-to-toe bikers (never OK) - but mostly, the route is full runners, walkers and revelers like me. Few are tourists, most are considerate and all are looking up, loving the view.

Seeing New York City from the ground up during Summer Streets is literally like being in another city. Or - perhaps more accurately - watching a movie from a Treadmill (as during Summer Streets, there is little chance of walking knee-first into a fire hydrant, or face-first into the side of a bus).

I've walked those exact streets dozens of times, and have never noticed the buildings. Some are old, with character, some new with none. Some have voyeuristic windows, some have broken glass. There are enviable roofdecks, balconies, and ivy covered walls. Some buildings look as though they've housed eccentric painters, famous writers and old women with 50 cats. Some buildings look as though they house someone who's never home.

This is where I live. These are my neighbors, my eateries, my Post Offices. I've literally spent a year walking by New York - looking for something that I blindly pass.

In a city of 10 million, its hard to feel like you're a part of it. Sure, this is the smallest big city ever when you bump into an ex on the subway, or see the same strange stranger twice - but in all actuality, this place is huge. Its easy to feel little to no connection to your own neighborhood, or neighbors, let alone the City as a whole. You are one face in millions.

And perhaps, that's why they do this - because there's something about huffing it 7 miles, in the hot sun, up the center of major city arteries that gives a sense of community that only doing so can describe. For me, I saw my city, instead of obstacles. I looked up at it, instead of down at me. And therein was the connection I've been searching for.

When we reached Central Park, Gertie was delirious, Chris was grumpy, and I was just getting started. I couldn't stop looking up - taking it in - gawking. I noticed the trees in the park, saw a red balloon escaping its fate, and I saw birds that weren't pigeons. That said, I also walked into a couple, tripped over a dog leash, and stood in the worst possible place to stand, looking up.

Next stop, Times Square. Que "Fat Bottom Girls".

GERTIE SAYS:

Interestingly, according to modern astronomers, space is finite. This is a very comforting thought-- particularly for people who can never remember where they have left things.

Woody Allen

A Big Apple a Day: Tip This

Night before last, I met a friend on 51st and Park for a drink or two (or 4).

Its a little-known fact about me that I HATE walking in to places alone. Restaurants, mostly – bars, especially – snooty bars, so much so that I’d rather drink at home. I don’t know. I don’t struggle with self-esteem issues, I’m not self-conscious, and I am naturally awesome, but alas, I hate it.

To combat this, I either wait outside, or I take a deep breath, and walk in acting like I own the place – which I assure you, is just an act.

ANYWAY, I was early, and this place (an outdoor bar/restaurant) appeared to be super-snooty. Lucky, I had an incredibly cute dress on (fact) and my hair was cooperating due to the humidity (yes, you read that right). So I decided to go in, and get a table - as that day was not a day to wait sheepishly outside for my friend to arrive. I was workin’ it.

Surprisingly, the place wasn’t as snooty as it appeared from the outside. Cocktail tables were readily available, and the bar was blaring tunes from the early ‘90’s top 40 list (which is just about when everybody at the bar hit their peak in life), so I had a one-up on the place from the get go (as I peaked between ’97 and ’98).

Still, I had nothing to pretend to do while I waited (i.e. book reading, emailing, Facebook stalking) so I literally just sat there, probably looking like I was one lonely moment away from busting a move to “You Gotta Be” by Des’Ree.

And then, the world’s weirdest-in-the-coolest-way waitress came over to take my order, and my night got decidedly better. She was a strange bird, who made awkward jokes and obvious puns (which I don’t think she realized were puns – or obvious) but she made me instantly comfortable. She was friendly, and she smiled, and she made me think that my order (a margarita) was the best order she’d taken all night. She was – and I don’t use this word often – delightful.

I waitressed for a staggering 6 years. One thing I can say about those years, is that they provided me the most priceless tip ever: the key to success is to be friendly and courteous as much as humanly possible.

I’ve never witnessed such textbook examples of ‘give and take’ as I have in the service industry. Friendliness breeds friends. Rudeness breeds assholes. If you’re a waitperson, and you’re friendly and cheerful, you will not only have an easier time with the patron, but you’ll be rewarded (unless they’re French) with a terrific tip. If you’re rude and bitter, you will not only be greeted with that in return, but you’ll inevitably find yourself spitting into their food and/or drink, and then feeling bad about it later.

Sidenote: Yes, that really happens. So the next time you want to send something back, or you complain about the temperature in the restaurant, or you bitch about not being able to substitute a side dish, remember what I said about the spitting. More alarming fact? The nicer the restaurant, the more it happens.

In any case, the equation for a successful shift/life is not rocket science: give attitude, get attitude – whether its good or bad. This is why it never fails to surprise me how many ornery waiters/people exist. At this point, I expect my server to be rude and to act put out when I say that “tap is fine”. So much so, that when this girl was unpretentious, and borderline funny, I was taken aback - and grateful that there is at least one person out there who isn’t afraid to be...nice.

Maybe she was drunk, who knows. All I know is that she made my night, and soon, I was joined by a friend – and she made his night, too.

When we asked for the bill, she brought over the tab, and delivered it with a disclaimer. When I originally sat down, she took my order without asking for a card to keep with the tab. Therefore, she didn’t know my name, and had to name me something in order to keep my tab going in the computer.

She explained this to me, and I cringed. When I used to do this, I’d name people “Free bowl of soup hat”, or “Thong showing”, or “Spare Tire”. Therefore, I was afraid to look.

Turns out, she had named me “Glowing”.

Girlfriend got a great tip.

GERTIE SAYS:

Whatever you are, be a good one.

Abraham Lincoln

Two if by Sea

Last week, one of my oldest and dearest friends turned 29. This is alarming. I’m not alarmed at the number (wait – yes I am), but I’m mostly alarmed because while writing her birthday card, I did the math.

I met Marisa shortly before we started Kindergarten. Our Mothers thought it would be a good idea to introduce us, since we would be sharing a bus to school. She was cripplingly shy and I – as usual – didn’t feel as though I needed a new friend. So we stared at each other silently until our Mothers gave up and I went home.

That was the beginning of one of my most coveted friendships.

We were 5 years old. The math, is that we’ve been friends for 24 years.

Marisa’s favorite story about the fledgling years of our friendship is one that I vehemently deny, as it paints me as somewhat of an evil child. Well, maybe not “evil” but overly willing to laugh at others’ expense, which I am not proud to admit is so true.

Our Kindergarten bus driver was literally cut right out of the dictionary, where she could be found as the definition of “bus driver”.

This woman instilled the fear of God into every child who dared cross the yellow line. There was no standing, moving, talking, flirting, blinking, itching, smiling or – Heaven forbid – giggling allowed on her bus. If so much as a shirt sleeve became visible in the aisle through the rear mirror, to say she would go “apeshit” is a vast understatement. I swear, she would end a young life.

Marisa and I surprisingly enjoyed this, as it meant:

A) We didn’t have to talk to and/or make friends with other kids on the bus.
B) We still didn’t have to talk to each other.

Win/win.

As she still is today, Ris was the tiniest creature when we were 5. She was/is a little thing, with a small voice, and a sweet demeanor. It remains a mystery what she saw/sees in me. It also remains a mystery why (even though we were in Kindergarten), her backpack was the same size as she was, and certainly weighed more.

One morning, she boarded the bus, avoided the icy stare of the driver, and tried to slip into the aisle seat next to me. Its unconfirmed whether her back gave out under the weight, or her lifetime supply of My Little Ponys shifted inside her backpack, causing her to lose her balance, but Marisa did a cartoon back-flop into the middle of the aisle – backpack first.

She was lodged. Her backpack was immovable beneath her and she was attached to it. Panicked, she started flailing like an overturned beetle – unable to do anything to free herself except to desperately reach out – for my helping hand.

But my hand was occupied. It was pointing, and I was laughing.

In the end, Marisa’s life was spared and we became friends who actually talk. To this day, she loves to tell this story to people who think I’m a nice person.

This past Saturday, I celebrated Ris’ 29th from the middle of the Hudson River. When I wasn’t knocking into people, due to my poor choice of boat shoes, I was sipping (fine, guzzling) Greyhounds, and staring at the city.

Its amazing how perspective changes from the water - especially at night. I could literally close one eye, and crush Midtown Manhattan between my first finger and thumb, Godzilla-style. And I did, several times.

I was looking at land, thinking how ironic it was that from my perspective, it was like looking back at a sinking ship. The economy, the country and the world-at-large is going down.

Had I been given the wheel that night, I probably would have set course arbitrarily into the Atlantic and sailed until New York, the East Coast, and the entire country was nothing but a tiny spec of light on the dark horizon. And then, I'd probably keep going. Because when I wake up every morning on dry land, I feel like I am on the Titanic - and there are seriously not enough lifeboats.

I don’t see the need to outline the obvious comparisons, but I don’t know anyone who is standing on the bow of the boat of life, exclaiming that they are “The King of the World” anymore (well, aside from Chris, who - in the most literal sense - is incapable of being on any boat without doing so). Everyone knows we're going down, and people are clambering to save themselves - often, at the expense of others.

The way I see it is that rich will be spared, the poor will perish and those of us in the middle will have no choice but to fight, and struggle, and possibly survive.

So there I was Saturday night - drifting on the Hudson, feeling removed, isolated, and safer than I have in a long time. I had no interest in ever going home to the perils of our Country.

So I ordered another drink, and decided to enjoy it while I could. I then spent the rest of the night in the company of friends - telling old stories, making new ones, and toasting (several times) to another year of being in this together.

As we headed back to port, I realized that I really have nothing to fear - because I do have a lifeboat. I actually have several. One, I’ve had one for 24 years and counting.

And lucky for me, if I find myself flailing, Ris wouldn’t ever point and laugh.

Though, I’d probably deserve it.

The Freak Factor

There are very few similarities between New York and Los Angeles. The vast difference between the who cities is what provoked my move West in the first place, and what eventually caused me to move back.

It took me 4 years to realize that I cannot run from something that is innately me. And what is innately me is being grumpy in the Winter. Hence, my new, cold digs.

But there do exist a few parallels that I can now see, having lived in both places.

For example:

Sidewalk urination. I’ve witnessed it on both coasts. And no, it wasn’t me!

Diversity. LA is generally tanner, but its rare that you ever see two of a kind in either city.

Fashion. I have a friend (Hi Robs!) who is terrified that she’s not a ‘hip’ enough dresser to make it in either town. Meanwhile, neither am I.

Clubs. Whether you’re clubbing in LA or clubbing in NYC, they all look the same from the inside. Dark.

Red Sox fans. There is no escape. Fortunately.

Hipsters. There is no escape. Unfortunately.

Tourists. Apparently, tourists heart LA as much as they heart NY.

But the number one similarity that I’m convinced doesn’t exist anywhere else in the US, is The Freak Factor.

My theory is that everyone is a little freaky – but not everyone waves the flag. In fact, most people don’t. But in New York City, as well as in Los Angeles, you are free to wave your florescent Freak Flag – and probably no one will notice. And if they do – they won’t care.

The Freak Factor is when being a freak, doesn’t make you a freak at all.

This dawned on me today as I darted out of my office, holding my purse over my crotch, hoping that the streets would be empty during the lunch rush. Its not what you think. I had a little Caesar dressing fight with a piece of lettuce today, and the lettuce won. Too bad for me, I had opted for the fuchsia colored skirt (I know – who wears fuchsia?), which, apparently LOVED Caesar dressing, because it sopped it up, and spread it out, and gave it a little ring around the outside for extra punch.

In a desperate attempt to save the fuchsia skirt, I drenched it in cold water. Before long, it looked as though I had sat in a puddle, backwards.

The timing of all this could not have been more perfect, as this was around 1pm, and I knew that Gertie would soon be watering our rug if I didn’t get home for our lunchtime walk. I could not wait to dry off. I could not ring myself out. I could not get out of the building without passing by our clients, who I didn’t necessarily want to assume that I was in need of a diaper. Sigh.

By the time I hit the pavement outside of my office, I wished to be dead. The streets were teeming with normal looking people who didn’t have stains or wet spots, or a potential bladder control problem. My Freak Flag was flapping in the warm, noontime breeze.

Then, ahead of me, I saw a man in a dress. He was a handsome man, in a pretty red number with spaghetti straps. He had on flats, and blush, and had some pretty impressive pecs. He was with a group of men in suits, giggling. He had lost a bet.

I then passed a woman wearing a unicorn t-shirt, a kid with a Mohawk, and someone in a Lobster costume.

And just like that, I forgot about my stain.

No one batted an eye at me. Nor did anyone bat an eye at them. No one batted any eyes at anyone.

And then it dawned on me: it’s the Freak Factor. There are people in New York who wear gold lame’ spandex outfits. There are people in New York who have purple hair, missing teeth and invisible friends. There are people in New York who wear capes, chaps, wet skirts, dry skirts, and no skirts. There are men in New York who wear dresses – even when they have not lost a bet.

And no one cares.

Therein, lies its greatest likeness to LA. In LA, people will walk down the street looking like Poison, circa 1988. In LA, people will wear bikini tops to the movies. In LA, people will rock breast implants, calf implants, body paint, butt piercings, red shoes, no shoes, and snowshoes on the beach.

The Freak Factor is bi-coastal. The only difference is time zone.

How lucky am I? I can be whatever, whomever, and however I want to be. I can dip my entire body into a vat of Caesar dressing and walk down the street if I’d like – and probably not be the biggest freak I pass. I can then fly to LA and do the same. This would make me stink, but it wouldn’t make me a freak. It would make me me…if I really loved salad dressing.

And that’s what I think is so wonderful about this place – and why I miss LA – it is impossible to judge someone for looking like a freak, because if you, yourself, look too normal – that makes you the odd man out.

Once home, I relieved Gertie, changed into a gray skirt and put on my crazy monkey underwear. Because I’ve got a Freak Flag, too…you just may not be able to see me waving it.

GERTIE SAYS:

There's a difference between us. You think the people of this country exist to provide you with position. I think your position exists to provide those people with freedom. And I go to make sure that they have it.

-William Wallace, Braveheart, 1995

As if I needed another Old Yeller.

Good Lord, the economy sucks. I know I might be a little behind the 8 ball that I’m just NOW saying that, but I’d like to think that that’s because I’ve been intentionally living under a rock, in an attempt to stay optimistic-ish.

But it just got personal.

There are very few things in life that I genuinely look forward to. I look forward to Pizza Fridays, Groundhog’s Day, the eventual arrival of a mini-me, and Flurt on a Sunday.

As much as I love it, living all the way Downtown has its cons. Most of them can be viewed as cons AND pros. For instance, it’s a little “ghost-town-ish” on the weekends. When I’m bored but don’t feel like traveling, this is a con. The other 99.9% of the time, this is a pro, as I like the elbow room.

One con that has no counteractive pro, is Downtown’s lack of frozen yogurt. For those of you who don’t know, I could literally live on frozen yogurt. In fact, through 4 years of High School, I actually did. This is perhaps why I can’t fit into jeans from 13 years ago (which yes, I still have) - though, this may be a good thing, as a nothing-but-frozen-yogurt-diet is alarming and mental.

In any case, I love it. When the first Pinkberry (ever) opened in my LA neighborhood, I vowed to never move. When Pinkberry took over New York, I took over New York. This is a pattern that I don’t intend to break.

Thanks to the fact that imitation is the finest form of flattery and (in the case of Pinkberry) the fastest way to laugh all the way to the bank, there are impostors all over this city. I would not have moved to 90 West Street, had such an impostor not been located in Battery Park. Flurt was the final selling point in the apartment search.

Granted, I took a gamble, as Flurt is the only decent fro-yo place south of Ground Zero, but I figured I was safe, as it had the young mother market cornered in Battery Park, and very little overhead. They only accepted cash, ridiculously overcharged for only one flavor and very few toppings, and had a rotation of 4 young female employees whose hourly wage could not have been more than the cost of a medium, one topping cup.

I reserved Sundays for Flurt, as it’s a hangover cure, and by Sunday, all bets are that I have one. Yesterday was no exception. I spent all day on the couch, and by 5pm, I had decided that Gertie needed a walk, and I had had the type of weekend that constituted a large fro-yo with blackberries, strawberries AND mango. It was a trifecta day.

I then spent the next 20 minutes scouring our apartment for rogue dollar bills and change.

Pockets jingling with pennies, nickels and dimes, and perhaps some foreign coins, I practically skipped over there. As I neared Flurt, my skip went to a hop, which went to a walk, which went to a crawl, and I eventually stopped short. It was all dark inside. And not the usual “dark” that is a direct result of them running out, leaving “be right back notes” taped to the door, but “dark” as in no fro-yo, no toppings, no employee popping gum and reading UsWeekly. “Dark” as in closed. Forever.

The constant stream of store closure is an odd phenomenon of these times. There one day, literally gone the next, entire blocks of this city are being wiped out by this economy. It seems like the kind of thing that you can say “It’s a sign of the times” or “That place was a rip-off anyway” – until your favorite place turns up shut down.

And then, another phenomenon happens – one that I like to call the “Old Yeller Syndrome”. The Old Yeller Syndrome is when you just don’t believe it. Somewhere in the back of your mind and in the pit of your heart, you think it will end differently. Like, tomorrow, I’m going to round the corner and Flurt will be open – lights on, girl behind the counter painting her nails. But it won’t be. Old Yeller dies, Dude. And Flurt did too.

Unfortunately, this was the straw that broke my back. With Flurt’s close, went the last of my optimism, and welcomed the dawn of Sundays with no hangover cure.

The only bright side I can muster? At least the economy can’t shut down Groundhog’s Day. Or can it.