I went somewhere and didn't take a picture

This past weekend I had the opportunity to partake in one of my all-time favorite summer-in-NYC activities: walking over the Brooklyn Bridge.

The Brooklyn Bridge is awesome! It's the perfect Goldilocks-approved distance - not too long, not too short. It's pretty. It has nice views. It takes you from Brooklyn to Manhattan. And vice versa! I love it, especially when the weather is nice, and I will go out of my way to walk over it if I have the time.

When I walked over the bridge on Sunday it was particularly hot out, and I was running particularly ahead of schedule, so when I got to one of the nice shady pylon areas, I stopped. I leaned against the railing and I watched the traffic and stared at lower Manhattan while enjoying the breeze.

All around me, people took pictures. Of Brooklyn. Of Manhattan. Of the bridge. Of the water. Of the ferries. Of each other.

I did not take any pictures.

I didn't take any pictures because I didn't feel like rifling through my purse for my phone. I was also just enjoying the fact that I was doing nothing, standing there listening to my new obsession, The Floozies, and looking at stuff.

Even when I saw this cool Tetris-y building, which I swear I had somehow never seen (though how could I have missed it all these years?), I didn't take a picture.

(I'm thinking that perhaps I hallucinated this building because I cannot for the life of me find a picture of it but I assure you, it's a white building with geometric lines drawn on it and I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP).

I'm certainly not the first to say this and I know I won't be the last, but it is utterly insane how obligated we feel to document Every. Little. Thing. As if people, landscapes, experiences, and life itself cease to exist if we don't Kodak the shit out of the moment. So even though I am totally guilty of taking pictures all the time, and even though I was standing on the bridge thinking about how I wasn't taking any pictures and is thinking about not taking pictures really any better than just taking a damn picture already, I somehow feel a little better about not taking a photo.

After all, how many times have you looked back on a picture you've taken - of a touristy site, a sunset, or something else that you thought was so beautiful or majestic - and thought, "Wow, this picture really captures what I was looking at!"

I take pretty bad pictures, so for me, this is almost never. The photos I take on my phone never do the real thing justice. I've also realized that when I stop what I'm doing to try and document it, I inevitably stop paying attention to the thing I'm watching and only pay attention to what my phone is doing. Which is stupid. And silly.

I'm not really sure what the point is here. Will I never take photos from the Brooklyn Bridge ever again? I doubt it. Will I try to document my life less often? Maybe, but I might not succeed and I won't make any promises about how hard I'm even willing to try.

But can I at least acknowledge that sometimes, enjoying some good tunes and a good breeze and some pretty sights is just as valuable an experience even without photographic proof that it ever happened?

Hell yes.

Yet Another New York Love Letter

"I read somewhere that 50% of people in the U.S. have a fantasy about living in New York City."

My friend said this as we were sitting in Central Park, listening to Alicia Keys at a completely free festival that also included the likes of Kings of Leon and Stevie Wonder, among others.

I have no idea if what she said is true, but I do know that I'd believe it if it was. It was in response to something I was thinking aloud, along the lines of, "What do people who don't live here DO with their time?"

It's naive, I get it. Most people don't live here and the vast majority of them probably don't lose sleep at night wishing they were New Yorkers. But even after all the time I've spent here I still sometimes look around in child-like amazement thinking, "I live in the greatest fucking city on earth."

It's not even that living in New York is some kind of utopian dream. We pay too much money for tiny living spaces, the air reeks of garbage in the summer, our transit system is often messed up to the point of being incomprehensible to even seasoned subway riders, and anyone who has ever tried online dating here will have a bevy of stories for you about the weirdos just waiting to send you a creepy or flat out bat shit crazy message (this is nowhere near the worst I've encountered).

What really continues to impress me, time after time, is the sheer number and diversity of stuff that goes on here. I mean, I got to spend a gorgeous Saturday in an iconic park listening to iconic musicians all for the price of zero dollars. A few weeks ago I dressed up in all white and had a flashmob-esque impromptu fancy dinner in Bryant Park with 4,000 other people thanks to Diner en Blanc.

Brie is my friend.

On Saturday night, my friend and I trekked from Brooklyn to Queens to go to an art show, which, as we found out when we arrived, featured a dark room with two men spray painted silver from head to toe, standing on turntables rotating slowly around in circles while an artist occasionally draped ribbons around them and there was a soundtrack of a woman, performing live, wailing and breathing heavily. I can't make this up.

The whole art show was pretty awful. It was so bizarre that it almost seemed out of a sitcom, a parody of what people think life in New York is like except that it's real. Shit here is sometimes extremely weird. Sure, we managed to turn a disappointing night into a fun one by grabbing some well-made cocktails at a speakeasy nearby, but it doesn't change the fact that we both traveled really far for something we really didn't like.

This is part of the appeal of this crazy city, to me. Sometimes you get to spend your Friday lunch break at a swanky ass club dancing to a Major Lazer DJ set, and sometimes you get silver, ribbon-clad turntable men. Sometimes you go to a warehouse party with a 30 foot inflatable slide, and sometimes you wait in line for over an hour for what you think is a party but ends up kind of being a job fair that, by the way, you can't even get into. For every online dating weirdo who thinks its appropriate to turn his webcam on and dance around with no pants on, there's a friend you met during an overnight scavenger hunt at the New York Public Library. The disappointments are still often great stories, and for every disappointment there's some other equally exciting or fun thing that makes you feel like all the bullshit is worthwhile. That's the amazing part.

I never know what a day in New York is going to hold. This place is totally unpredictable, but I don't think I'd have it any other way.

New York - the smallest massive city ever

On Saturday night I went to a bachelorette party for my good friend and birthday buddy Julie.

As our pack of 15 girls walked the 2 blocks from dinner towards the bar that would be our destination for the evening, I heard someone yell my name.

I looked over and, lo and behold, my sorority sister Laura was standing on the corner with some of her friends. I stopped to chat for a minute and then ran to catch up with everyone else. It was an awesome and random encounter because, helloooo, neither of us live in Manhattan yet there we were on the same block.

A minute later we walked into the bar, and I hear, "ARIELLE!"

This time, it was my high school friend who also ended up going to college with me, Jen. RANDOM PART 2.

On Monday of this week, I had my 2nd day at my new temp job, where I'll be working 4 days a week doing marketing for a small accounting firm in midtown. I was on my way to the pantry to get some coffee when I see...a friend of a friend. This guy is friends with one of my kickball teammates, and while I've only known him a few months, I've had an eventful car ride with him where he spilled tea all over his BMW and we've partnered up to kick some ass in beer pong. RANDOM PART 3.

And people say New York is a big city. Pshh.

Life is good

Did you guys know that I have a boyfriend? Well, I do. And he's hot. Proof:

No, I am not behind this Twitter account and so no, this is not like Clueless where Cher sends herself flowers to make herself look and feel loved. This is my real Twitter boyfriend who is hot and tall and Jewish and never says "LOL" and who tweets about things like making me hangover breakfast. It's true love, y'all. And look at those abs! Swoon.

Anyway.

Friday night - The Lion King in 3D with Lacey. Then the weirdest play you will ever see in your whole life.

Saturday - fun times getting an airbrush demo at Sephora, followed by a lightsaber battle and an 80s party. Yup.

I have no idea why this picture refuses to upload the right way seeing as it's saved on my hard drive correctly but WHATEVER BLOGGER THANKS FOR SUCKING.

Today I did next to nothing. I watched a lot of TV and ordered in both of my meals which makes the grand total of times I have ordered food in to this apartment...2. Nice.

"Somewhere far along this road he lost his soul..."

My friends occasionally make fun of me for being heartless. They jest, but it's one of those things where you joke about something that's actually true. I really do think people believe I'm more or less dead on the inside.

They're not exactly so far off. I'm way more heartless than the average bear. I'm typically the anti-romantic, fighting against all things cheesy or otherwise emotional. I haven't had a good cry in over 2 years.

In the last week, however, 2 things have made me get all teary.

1) Harry Potter. I finally saw the damn movie. I teared up multiple times. Including at the end.

2) Reading recaps, seeing pictures, and watching videos of all the gay weddings that took place in NYC yesterday, the first day they could legally occur. THE HAPPINESS!!! It was so overwhelming and adorable. Even I got emotional. I wanted to jump in my computer and hug all those couples and then dance the Horah with them. And then when I was done getting all teary about that, I read a transcript of the wedding that Bloomberg officiated for 2 of his staffers. Amazing. WHERE ARE THE TISSUES?!

I think this means I'm only part robot instead of full robot.

And someone needs to invite me to a gay wedding ASAP.

The day of the free bra, the unlimited vodka shots, and everything in between

Also known as, #laceyandarielle'smostfundayinNYCeverevereverrrrr. Or something like that.

As much as I hate the deathly heat that sometimes comes with an NYC summer, I LOVE SUMMER IN NYC. This is an example of why.

Weekend recap:

Thursday: open bar happy hour to support the charity of 2 friends who are running triathlons this summer. Too many drinks.

Friday: Museum of Sex, followed by delicious Korean fried chicken at Bon Chon, followed by overpriced drinks at swanky, way-too-trendy for me rooftop bar 230 Fifth.

Saturday: CRAZY AWESOME LACEYANDARIELLE FUN DAYYYYYY

- Started off with the Perfect Cup event, where we ate free cups of Skinny Cow ice cream, got fitted for bras (get the cup theme?) and received a coupon for a free bra. We also got goody bags, wine, and took pictures with silly props. ALL FOR FREE. I love free.

- Walked the High Line, what used to be ugly elevated train tracks and is now this gorgeously unique park.

- Saw an inflatable park for kids with this AMAZING MUSHROOM BOUNCY CASTLE!!! Don't pretend you don't want to jump in this thing.


- Delicious slushy drinks from the Kelvin Slush truck.

- The richest, most intense pizza I've ever eaten at Artichoke.

- To digest the insanely delicious but filling pizza, we went to one of my favorite NYC summer staples, a street fair. And sadly could not eat any yummy street fair food. Next time, Gadget. Next time.

- We still had a ton of time to kill before the rest of our day, so we ended up at the Manhattan Mall, trying on ugly dresses.


Unfortunately you can't see the full awesome extent of the leopard print BUTT CAPE attached to the back of this dress. BUTT CAPE!!

- We sat outside at the lovely Beerparc, drinking...iced coffee. Not beer. Whatever.

- Went back to the street fair where I bought this fedora. I am probably never going to wear it because I'm not cool enough. Seriously, can someone come over and dress me in a fedora-appropriate outfit? I really want to wear this thing but I AM NOT TRENDY and have no sense of style. HELP.


- Met up with 2 more people for dinner at Vanessa's Dumpling House. Cheap and delicious.

- Then...DUN DUN DUN. Mehanata, a Bulgarian themed bar, for the ICE CAGE. They dress you in Russian military outfits, give you a shot glass made of ice, put you in a cold room with about 20 bottles of vodka, and let you go to town for 2 minutes. It is frantic. But it is fun. And then maybe you do 4 shots before you run out of time. Which is probably for the better because I won't pretend I needed more than 4 shots.

You can sort of see the ice cage on the right (not really), and the weird naked mannequin things that were sprinkled throughout this winter wonderland themed floor of the bar. It was the weirdest ish ever.

- After this bar, Lacey left (BOO) and the rest of us went to find somewhere else to go. We were stopped on the street by a woman handing out buy one get one free drink fliers for a bar down the street, and thus we spent the rest of the our night at that bar.

Well, this post is getting long but let's just briefly recap Sunday: went to a beer tasting, then partied it up for NYC pride which is the most amazing, celebratory, no-judgment-even-if-you-wear-a-thong-as-pants (not me, obviously) party. Tried to go to a gay club and the bouncer said he could reduce the obscene $25 cover for the 3 guys in our party, but not for the 2 girls. I couldn't even be mad considering how many times the reverse has happened.

The end.

I love New York. And I don't understand why, with summer weekends like these, more people don't come visit. Ahem, everyone.

Last weekend...

Started out with a little Martha...


And then included some last minute ticket purchasing to Boyz II Men (last minute meaning 10 minutes before the concert started).


Good times.

Spider-Man: Epic FAIL

As everyone in NYC (and any theater nerds anywhere else) knows, Broadway is currently trying to deal with an epic shitshow known as Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark. Spider-Man is a musical nearly 10 years in the making that has just delayed its opening for what I believe is the 6th time.

The production has been wrought with injuries, set mishaps, cast members dropping like flies, scathing reviews, safety violations (see: injuries), and most recently, the ousting of their director.

Gothamist, my all-time favorite site for any and all things NYC, keeps me apprised of the latest Spider-Man disasters. Recently, I've begun to notice that they've taken some liberties with the name of the musical using, CORRECTLY, might I add, my beloved strike. Here are some chuckle-worthy titles I've seen lately:

Spider-Man: There Will Be Blood Turn Off the Dark

Spider-Man: I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here Turn Off the Dark

Spider-Man: Legends of the Fall Turn Off the Dark

Spider-Man: The Crying Game Turn Off the Dark

Spider-Man: Turn Off Hopes of Actually Opening Turn Off the Dark

Some of these actually made me laugh out loud. Hard. I think Legends of the Fall might be my favorite.

Good job, Gothamist. You make me happy (btw if you live in a major US city, there is probably a version for your city so sign up for that shizz right now).

Sooo NYC

As I mentioned, I’ve been taking bikram yoga classes. As a result, I am frequently running around NYC with a yoga mat in tow (mat rental is $5 at the studio, no way I’m not bringing my own mat!). It’s come with me to all sorts of places since my schedule, even on weekends, is such that I’m always running from one activity straight to the other. Oftentimes this activity is work, which is gross. But whatever.

On Friday, I went to work, and then went from work to yoga. And then I went from yoga to Irish Exit, where I am proud to say that I have officially started a long chain of friends and friends-of-friends all having discounted happy hours on Thursday and Friday nights (I had the first happy hour, and everyone at my happy hour signed up to “win” – everyone wins at some point – another happy hour. And so the chain continues, especially because you can sign up as many times as you want and keep having happy hours). Irish Exit is slowly becoming my third home.

Anyway, I walked in to happy hour about an hour late. My friend asked if I had ended up going to yoga, and I showed him my yoga mat happily slung over my shoulder.

“Look at you, you’re so New York.”

For some reason that I can’t really articulate, I feel like this IS so New York. It’s not that people don’t do yoga or go to happy hour other places, but somehow walking into a bar with a yoga mat and promptly downing some shots of Jameson just seems like a really New York thing to do.

Unrelated – I learned from the bartender on Friday that if you take a shot of Jameson (or..anything) and then follow it up with a shot of pickle juice, it will completely neutralize the shot and leave you without any burning in the throat or other unpleasantness. I know, it sounds disgusting but TRY THIS SHIT IT IS AMAZING.

My new subway love

If you are not familiar with, or otherwise do not care about the New York subway system, stop reading because this post will bore you. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Every New Yorker has their favorite and least favorite subway lines. Some lines are wonderfully consistent. Some of them go right where you need them to go. Some of them are terrible, never running frequently enough.

Long before I even went to college I have shed my praises upon the 2/3 line. I’ve been making the trip from Penn Station to 96th Street for years and the 2/3 trains FLY there. When I used to live on 98th Street people would always come up to pregame at my apartment and they’d be amazed at how quickly the train got them there. The 2/3 will always be my first and main love of the MTA.

Recently, however, I’ve been spending more time on the 4/5 and I think I’ve found my very close second. Friends, the 4/5 goes from Fulton Street to 86th Street in like, 15 minutes. No joke. Every time I take this train I am in AWE. It’s like I may as well have teleported there because it is (almost) THAT fast. And there are always trains coming! Like some kind of awesome caravan. One after another.

Let’s not confuse this with the 6 train though. The 6 train is slow and HOLY HELL is it crowded. Always. Doesn’t matter what time of day it is, the 6 train will have way too many people on it.

But 4/5 (and 2/3 of course), you’re good peoples.

Crazy nonsense Santacon weekend

This weekend was one for the record books, if I do say so myself.

Friday night I went to Benihana for a friend's birthday. The awesomeness is self-explanatory here because...BENIHANA. Onion volcano! Wham.

Saturday was, as I mentioned in my Bongo Jordy post, Santacon. Essentially, Santacon is a gathering of hundreds of people who all dress like Santa. Or elves. Or anything else they feel like. There were people dressed like dreidels (repping the chosen peeps, aww yeah), Santas in prison suits, banana Santas, slutty Santas aplenty, reindeer, and lord knows what else.

The idea is, you dress up and wander around the city in a big Santatastic pack, singing and drinking and being merry. My friend Lauren and I managed to scramble together some last minute outfits.


We started Santacon pretty late, and finally met up with everyone in Central Park.


I saw some guys drinking Four Loko, and because I was drunk and Lauren and I were ALSO drinking Four Loko, I yelled, "FOUR LOKOOOOO" at them (so creative, I am). And then we became friends for the day. Which was good, seeing as we failed at meeting up with everyone else we had planned on seeing there.

We proceeded to have Central Park shenanigans, taking lots of pictures and watching our new friends trying to form a Santa pyramid. And then Santacon moved down to the West Village, so all million trillion of us piled on the subway, and on our ride down we sang a rousing version of the 12 Days of Christmas. I was pretty proud that I knew everything from 5 golden rings on. And if you don't need them in the correct order, I could probably get most of the other words too. Lords a leaping! Maids a milking! Geese a laying! Am I good or am I good?

At some point in one of our many West Village bars, one of our new friends demonstrated how he was drinking beer out of the children's boot that he had bought as an accessory for the day.


Let me tell you what it's like drinking from that thing. It tastes like a combination of rubber and sausage and beer. Totally vile. So we instituted the candy cane chaser. Which was surprisingly delicious. At some point we left our new friends and met up with someone else and ended up at some random apartment. All I really know is that I was wearing someone's white wig and some guy told me how he had lost his entire Santa costume over the course of Santacon and I could not comprehend how that was even possible.

I went home at around 11, deciding 13 hours of drinking was enough. This was a good idea, considering I had to play in a volleyball tournament on Sunday. For 7 hours. Ending my night early on Saturday was totally worth it because after playing 10 games of volleyball, my team emerged VICTORIOUSSSSS.


Check out our sweet trophies! Go us!

The. Freakin. End. Best weekend ever.

Cross-pollination

On Saturday night, which probably (definitely) deserves its own blog post, a bunch of us were sitting around wearing snuggies, drinking Four Loko and shooting alcohol-infused whipped cream into our mouths (see: Saturday night deserving its own post), when somehow it came up to discuss how we all knew each other. And so we started along the lovely road of, “Well, I know so and so from college, and then X and Y met through a mutual friend but then we became friends, and then there are high school friends and roommates of ex-boyfriends,” and on and on and on.

And then my friend’s boyfriend said, “I don’t think guys do this cross-pollinating thing with all their friends.”

It’s funny he said that because I’ve been meaning to write a post about this “cross-pollinating thing” for about a month now. I always thought it was more of a New York thing than a girl thing but maybe it’s a little of column A and a little of column B.

Ever since I graduated college and moved to NYC I’ve loved the fact that seemingly everyone here becomes friends with everyone else’s friends. Some people don’t like the blending of their worlds and there’s certainly a benefit to being able to occasionally compartmentalize the people you hang out with in different situations, but most of the time I’m all, “HOORAY WE ARE ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY.”

There’s a point where “friends by association” becomes just “friends,” when you no longer need the middleman (or I suppose woman, most of the time?) there for you to hang out. And while our insane mix of people on Saturday night definitely involved a lot of what used to be friends-of-friends, for the most part that’s not how we think of it anymore. Everyone is just friends. You certainly could have taken any 2 people from the room and put them off by themselves and they would have had more than enough to talk about, Four Loko-induced craziness or not.

Over the summer, I went to the NYU cafeteria to try Chick Fil-A for the first time. The person I went with was someone my [male] high school friend met in an acting class. Afterwards, he told me that he was slightly bothered by the fact that his friend and I went together, partially because we didn’t invite him (sorry!) but mostly because we were his friends from 2 separate circumstances and he didn’t like us being friends with each other. This certainly supports the prior assertion that men don’t like cross-pollinating their friends, though aside from us neglecting to tell him the date and time we were planning on consuming delicious chicken sandwiches, I don’t see the harm. You can never really have too many friends in this city, and why bother trying to stake your claim on someone by saying, “I saw her first! She’s MY FRIEND AND NOT YOURS!” Cool people are friends with other cool people and every new cool person helps make your life that much more awesome. And I am pro-awesomeness. And also, when people know and are comfortable with each other, there’s no sense of having to babysit the more shy friends. When everyone feels comfortable enough to participate in a snuggie-couture fashion show complete with Michael Kors-style commentary, it makes the night that much better.

Adventures in the Windy City

I had this whole post planned to talk about my trip to Chicago this weekend. And then life (and my first week of work!!!) happened. So instead, here's a little comparison of the Windy City and NYC:

Cleanliness
I mean, duh. Chicago wins. New York is down and dirty.

Cost of living
Chicago wins again. Things are cheap (except the taxis, apparently). I saw 3 friends' apartments and HOLY JESUS ARE THEY HUGE. And they cost a fraction of the tiny cramped things we New Yorkers like to call our humble abodes.

Public transportation
No one beats NYC in the train department. Though when we were on the L and it took the loop in the opposite direction from where it was supposed to go, it made me feel like home. Anyone who has ever taken the New York subway on weekends knows that it never does anything correctly. Glad it's not an NYC-only problem.

Public art
Chicago has awesome art all over the place. New York, not nearly as much.

Brunch
New York has some of the best brunches ever, but I have to say I had one sick ass time at Duffy's in Chitown. 16 bucks for unlimited buffet and unlimited mimosas, plus a DJ and a completely rowdy dance party starting at 10 AM. Best. Time. Ever. I mean, total and complete insanity. This is a toss up because NYC definitely has far more unlimited drink brunches, but I have yet to go to a brunch where we dance to DMX. New York has quantity, but Chicago wins out for quality for just this one place.

Nightlife
People in Chicago do NOT party like New Yorkers. End of story. Though my friends and I did randomly end up at a salsa club one night, which I have to say, has never happened to me at home.

Overall sense of adventure
I felt comfortable in downtown Chicago after about 3 hours. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it's not totally ideal. Where's the mystery?

In general, my trip was super fun. Chicago is a cute city with some cool people, but I have no idea what I would have done with my time there if I had stayed more than 3 days. In that sense, Chicago is sort of like Boston - a great place to visit, but it doesn't excite me enough to make me want to live there (also, it's COLD). It does, however, make me look forward to going back in November 2011 for my friend's wedding - and for Duffy's. Seriously.

One of THOSE people

This past weekend I found myself in Brooklyn not once, but twice. I KNOW, I know.

On Saturday I went to the BK to take, and subsequently pass, my project management certification exam. Booyah! I finished around noon, and it just so happened that my good friend Rebekah was bartending a few blocks away, and so I stopped by for a visit and a celebratory cocktail that ended up turning into 3 celebratory cocktails due to some peer pressure from a few of her regulars. Which was followed by a pub crawl and me passing out at 9:45 PM but that is neither here nor there.

On Sunday I was back in Brooklyn to attend the Atlantic Antic, a big ol' street festival drinktasticathon where you walk around and listen to live music and eat street fair food and drink sangria and then go back to Rebekah's bar for free beer and to embarrass yourself in front of a guy who you thought would maybe be willing to make out with you in the future by talking about dodgeball and having him laugh at your excessive use of the word "balls" (Seriously, try talking about dodgeball without using the word "balls" - not easy).

At some point in one of the 2 days of drunken daytime revelry, Rebekah mentioned to me that in the next 6 months there will possibly be a room opening up in the apartment she shares with our other friend Marissa. It's a super cheap yet cute apartment, the roommates would obviously be fabulous as both Rebekah and Marissa fall into the category of friends that I like to call "people who are awesome but who I don't see nearly as often as I would like," and it's far enough in the future that I could seriously consider it because, fingers crossed, maybe I'll have a job by then.

Which leads me to think: could I ever be one of THOSE people? You know, THOSE people. The ones that..don't live in Manhattan.

Despite the fact that I spent the first 8 years of my life in Queens, thereby proving that I have actually already been one of THOSE people, ever since graduating college I've always just considered myself a tried and true Manhattan snob. I've lived there and worked there and played there and even though I now live in New Jersey, more of my life is in Manhattan than in the Jerz.

The thing that really intrigues me about the prospect of living in Brooklyn (aside from how cheap it is) is that it's so new to me. I don't know much about the BK's unique little neighborhoods, or how to get from one place to the other without HopStopping it first. The people are different and so is the vibe. While there are many MANY things I still don't know about Manhattan, I long ago achieved a level of comfort there that dissipates when I leave the borough. The times over the years that I've been to Brooklyn and Queens (the only parts of the Bronx that I know are Yankee Stadium and Lacey's apartment, and Staten Island can take Angelina and go far, far away as far as I'm concerned - please leave Vinny here though, love him) have shown me that, *gasp*, there's so much more to learn and see and experience in my beloved city that maybe, just maybe, I could get used to something else.

So...we shall see. Will I defy my Manhattan-is-the-best-place-ever ideals and consider living in a different borough? Only time will tell.

Where ya from, you sexy thing?

Yesterday I was apparently having a very sexy day.

I left my apartment fairly early to run some errands, and as I headed towards the subway I battled the usual onslaught of pedestrians. As one particularly ragged, possibly homeless man stumbled past me, he looked in my direction and said, "Morning, sexy."

Now, lots of women are going to disagree with me on this, but I love getting compliments from randoms on the street. Or anywhere else, really. You know why? Because no matter how old or gross or homeless or drunk you are, you are still entitled to your opinion. And if your opinion is that I'm looking particularly fabulous today, I salute you.

Fast forward many hours to 2 in the morning. My friend Anna and I, the lone survivors from the initial group of 7 partiers, were dancing it up at Nexus Lounge in a way that signals to the world, "Yes, I took shots of Jager on an empty stomach and am feeling the subsequent effects." Over the next 2 hours, we were approached by a wide variety of men who wanted to dance with us. While I'm not particularly crazy about dancing with random men as I feel that they inhibit my ability to dance the way I want to, I had no problem with all the nice things they had to say. There was a "sexy" and a "hot" and a "you have nice hips" and even a "you dance like a black girl," which I take as an extreme compliment even though I know better than to think it's true.

As if that wasn't enough, I arrived home shortly after 4:30 in the morning, and as usual said hello to the night doorman who is an adorable old man that has probably been working in the building longer than I've been alive. He stopped me and said in his thick Eastern European accent, "You such a nice lady. Very beautiful."

And then he gave me my favorite compliment of the day: "Number 1."

Number 1!! Can't beat that, even coming from a doorman 60 years my senior.

Today, I left my apartment again, feeling pretty pleased with how I looked considering that I was running on 5 hours of sleep and hadn't had time to shower off last night's dancey sweatiness.

Yet again I walked towards the subway. I had my iPod on, and was jolted out of my musical daze when I noticed that a man leaning against a brick building was talking to me.

As if to show me that no one should ever get too high on themselves, and in a way that reminded me just how quickly everything in New York changes, he said:

"You're going to hell."

Randomness

I am low on things to say these days. Or rather, I think of things to say but then I'm too busy drinking unlimited margaritas and climbing on skee ball machines to take pictures next to my awesome score and going to the Jersey shore (GTL baby) to hang out with my parents, play pinball and take phone interviews on the beach.

I don't really know why I came back from the shore, actually. My parents' beach condo rules.

I guess I had to resume my life of eating 10 cent wings with Crapface, getting $10 Maroon 5 concert tickets and getting rejected from more temp jobs because I "don't have enough admin experience."

I am also studying to be a certified project manager. Booyah.

Also, I think my grandma's cell phone keeps butt dialing me.

As always, I love New York. So much.

End nonsense.

Margaritas and Kendra, 2 of my favorite things

This email to my peeps yesterday pretty much sums up my life perfectly right now:

Hello wonderful friends!

As all of you know, my summer of leisure, AKA daytime drinking, buying new dresses and hunting down every free food deal in Manhattan, is every so often interspersed with this thing called "job hunting."

I am proud to announce what a few of you already know, which is that I will soon reach a major milestone in my job search. No, not a job offer. Not even the interview of a lifetime. Tomorrow, I expect to reach 100 job applications.

While most people might find this milestone to represent a failure of epic proportions, I think it represents a time to ask a number of questions. Why doesn't anyone want to hire me? What exactly did I get myself into my desired salary's worth of student loan debt for? How many different versions of the same resume can one person possibly create? And most importantly - how many happy hour margaritas can I drink in 3 hours?

Which is why tomorrow I will be downing margaritas like it's my job (because there certainly isn't anything else that's my job right now) in CANCUN BABYYYYYY. That's Cancun, on 8th Ave. between 55th and 56th. Kind of like the real Cancun, only...not.

Happy hour is from 4 to 7. If you would like to join me, please do. And if you would like to bring anyone, please do. Because even if you don't have a reason to celebrate, however fake that reason is, everyone likes margaritas. At least everyone important does.

First 10 people to show up get a free stack of copies of my resume.

With love and tequila,
AJ

Happy hour was fab. I am margarita-ed out. And OMG I forgot to mention how Lacey sent me an email from Berlin or Amsterdam or wherever she was at the time on her whole "honeymoon" thing being like, "Kendra Wilkinson is going to be at Borders signing books." And of course I wrote her back saying "YOU ARE MY FAVORITE" because Lacey knows how much I love Kendra. And Hank Baskett. And Baby Hank Baskett. And then I went with Crapface, a fellow lover of all things Wilkinson/Baskett, and people weren't allowed to take pictures with her but it was all good because I got to see her and Hank (sadly, no mini Hank) and if you think I paid $25 for that book just so I could get her to sign it...you're wrong. I'm not that crazy.

Then over dinner I told Crapface the story of how I ended up being written about (not by name) in one of Jen Lancaster's books all because Lacey was making fun of me because I had never seen Footloose. Maybe one day I'll repost that story from ye olde blog.

How did this post get so rambly? Oy.

Getting my life back

For some reason, life in Boston never really clicked into place for me. Sure, I had moments of normalcy and some really fun times, but I never quite felt like myself during graduate school. As time went on, I became less and less social, opting to stay at home on Saturday nights to watch House marathons instead of going out. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE House. But that's really unlike me. I'm a social butterfly, friends! Except I hate butterflies. I'm like a social puppy. I want to run around wag my tail and smell everything. Okay, this analogy is getting weird.

In my first year of grad school, I sent out emails to my friends saying, "Let's go drinking for St. Patty's Day! Let's go to JP Licks for $1 ice cream day! Let's go to this really cool crafts fair! Let's do this let's do that LET'S DO EVERYTHINGGGGG!" After awhile, I stopped sending those emails because no one ever wanted to come to anything. And the holing myself up in my apartment began.

Being in New York again is like getting back a part of myself that was missing. I get emails and text messages and IMs saying, "Let's get drunk brunch at Calle Ocho! Let's go to restaurant week! Let's see Toy Story! Let's watch soccer games at a bar with sexy Europeans!"

And when I send out those same emails and texts, such as, "Let's get free burgers! Let's go to a street fair! Let's watch soccer games at a bar with sexy Europeans!" (what? Sexy Europeans gather together and you expect me to only do this once??), people actually join me! It's crazy. And I am drinking it alllll in.

When I used to live here, I played volleyball a few times a week at the Y. While I was still in Boston, I emailed my old coach to say that I wasn't sure if he remembered me but I was wondering if the Y still had a volleyball program. He said, "Of course I remember you!" and gave me the schedule.

I was a little apprehensive when I went back last week for the first time in 2 years. I honestly couldn't picture anyone who used to play there other than the coach, and I wondered if I would recognize anyone.

I walked in and the coach gave me a hug, and I started warming up. And then slowly...

"Arielle! Long time!"

"You're back!!!"

"Where did you go!?!?!"

Everywhere I turned were faces (and, surprisingly, names) I remembered. And within 10 minutes it sort of felt like I had never left, except not in a bad way. And except for the fact that I was pretty rusty after not playing for 6 months.

Since then I've been back a few times, and each time I run into new/old people that I used to see. It's wonderful.

I've been back in NYC for 10 days and I already feel more settled in than I have in a really long time. Aside from the fact that I don't have a job and I'll probably have to move back in Jersey in 6 weeks, life is so great and COMFORTABLE I just want to pinch myself.

YAY.

My first weekend back in NYC!

That's right. First weekend back, baby! And it was so marvelous and contained so many things that I love about New York that I need to share some highlights.

Friday night started off with my friend T's birthday party at the Frying Pan. It's a boat. With a bar on it. And you can sit there drinking Coronas and feeling the awesome breeze from the water and loving life because you're on a boat! Who doesn't love boats? Lots of people probably, but I'm not one of them.

After the bar closed everyone sort of dispersed, and I ended up at The Half King with a few others. The most important thing that came out of this adventure was that my friend Anna and I got an NYU senior (who was with the original birthday party) to agree to take us to the NYU cafeteria on Monday so we could get Chick-Fil-A for the first time. Suggestions of what I should order??

On Saturday my wifer Julie and I participated in the City Solve NYC Urban Race, which is a big scavenger hunt where you're given some clues and have to run around the city taking pictures at certain check points to prove that you solved the clue. And if you're us, you do it while wearing your sexy cop/sexy prisoner Halloween 2007 costumes. It was pretty much the best thing ever because Julie and I are both ridiculously competitive. Sadly, we are both also ridiculously gimpy with knee injuries. Despite our not being able to run too much, and despite a slow start on solving the clues due to a lack of functioning smart phones, we still came in 22nd out of 95 teams. YEAH BABY!

Then we proceeded to be extremely tired and spent the rest of the day getting mani/pedis and watching a House marathon. And when I woke up the next morning and saw that I missed a drunk text from this guy at 10:47 PM because I was already in bed, well...I felt cool.

This morning I got on the subway to FINALLY FINALLY go to my apartment because as of today I LIVE HEREEEEEEE. BEST DAY EVER! I was planning on spending all day unpacking, but when I got out of the subway I saw that Anna had texted me asking if I wanted to get brunch at Calle Ocho. UNLIMITED SANGRIA! Of course I wanted to go. After some heavenly food and too much sangria I went home and had a lovely afternoon nap/pass-out. And then I woke up, went to a street fair, and now I'm back and I LOVE MY LIFE.

The end.

LAZY

This is one of my last posts about Boston! In case you aren't 100% up on my awesome life, I am moving home to New Jersey in just TWELVE DAYS! (!!!!!!!) But even better than that, in 18 days I will be moving to New York.

I AM MOVING BACK TO NEW YORK AND I AM SO EXCITED I WANT TO RUN AROUND MY APARTMENT SINGING BAD ROMANCE AND MAKING CLAW ARMS! (I've been doing this a lot since the Glee concert).

The point is though, this post is about Boston. And specifically, how people in Boston aren't really used to walking. This is weird to me because in New York, everyone walks. The city is for the most part a simple grid and as long as the weather doesn't suck and you don't have to wear heels, walking is normal.

People in Boston look at me weird when I tell them I walked somewhere. Recently, someone even reacted with complete horror when I told them I was walking back to the T after work instead of waiting for a bus to take me there. The walk was exactly 13 minutes long, it was 10 o'clock at night and I had no idea when the bus would come and I knew I'd get there faster if I walked. Their response: "But that's so far! I HATE WALKING!"

Fine. Boston, you may think I'm weird for walking. But I don't care. And to throw it back at you, I AM APPALLED AT YOUR LAZINESS.

I frequently take a bus from where I live to a lovely little area called Harvard Square. I get on said bus at the second stop. I can see the beginning of the route from my stop.

Awhile ago, I saw someone get off the bus at the 4th or 5th stop. I thought, "Wait, really? They couldn't just...walk that distance?" I decided to Google Map it to check the distance. .6 miles (and no, they did not have any bags or anything large or heavy).

But it gets worse. Because in the last few months, I have seen people get off at the third stop. .3 miles. POINT THREE MILES! Are you serious?

Recently, some friends were in town for my Tufts 5 year reunion, and we waited for my lovely bus to Harvard Square. The bus pulled up, and someone got off. My mouth hit the floor, and I proceeded to flip my lid to my New Yorker friends, who clearly didn't know that the bus originated pretty much across the street from where we were. For at least 5 minutes I could not contain my cries of "DID THAT PERSON REALLY JUST WASTE $1.50 ON THAT BUS RIDE?!?!"

Google Maps says the distance is less than .2 miles. This person could not bear to walk that distance. WHO DOES THAT?!?

Bostonians, you are contributing to the increasingly sedentary lifestyle of Americans. If you don't want to be like me and walk 25 minutes to the post office instead of waiting for the bus, that's fine, but walking a quarter of a mile takes all of 5 minutes.

Be like Nike and JUST FREAKING DO IT. Or I'm going to punch you next time you get off the bus when I get on it.