Tag Archives: new_york_city

Sandy is terrible name for a hurricane

“The storm is supposed to be here in like 11 minutes.”

As if on cue, the power cut out. After realizing that I also didn’t have cell service and couldn’t update parents/coworkers/etc, Chris and I switched to drinking our bourbons neat (does opening the freezer door let all the cold out? We’re scared to open the freezer. Please advise…). For the second night in a row we fell asleep to almost silent New York City streets, save for the sounds of fire engines and ambulances.

Waking up without power, cell service and a radio is an eerie thing, especially when your window overlooks an alley. We had no idea what was going on outside and no way to check without venturing out. I figured zombie apocalypse, but still kinda wanted to see the zombies so we eventually left Chris’ place.

We’re currently sitting in a bar north of the power outage, watching the wreckage on the news and still trying to figure out the opportune time to open the fridge/freezer. I took some pics today that I intend to post when I can update from my computer instead of my phone, but for now I have some Best/Worst things to mention about Sandy:

Best- The way it smells after a storm. It’s the kind of fresh air that reminds me of home.
Worst- Massive Lower Manhattan power outage that is supposed to last for days.

Best- The video of the ConEd power center exploding. Shit looked like an action movie.
Worst- The fact that I still keep trying to turn on lights even though they don’t work.

Best- Finding an open bar that’s NOT totally packed.
Worst – The bar you’ve chosen recognizing that it does not need to offer its normal daytime specials and charging you weekend prices for drinks.

Best- Making new friends because you are sharing the same power strip at a packed bar.
Worst- Despite New York City being declared in a state of emergency, those freaking tour guides in Times Square still trying to sell tours.

Also, can we talk about what a bad name Sandy is for a hurricane? She sounds like a nuisance, not the instigator of the end of the world. Like, “Oh, darn! We went to the beach and now the car is Sandy! We’re gonna have to vacuum.” Remember Irene? That shit SOUNDED intense… Like a librarian that was deffffinitely gonna fine you for returning your book one day late or some frigid bitch who works in your HR department and gets on you for the appropriateness of your work attire.

Can we all agree to change Sandy’s name? I can’t take her seriously. Any new hurricane name suggestions are welcome.

Enjoy your electricity bitches,

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“Real” New Yorkers

If I haven’t told you before (I probably have because, let’s be honest, I tell you guys everything) I’m pretty obsessed with How I Met Your Mother. Nina introduced me to the series early this year when I was going batshit crazy from my job at The Flower Company and I was so taken with the show that I used a solid stream of all seven seasons and calzones to self-medicate. See also, those six weekends in a row that I didn’t go out.

Ever since then, Ted Mosby, Robin Scherbatsky, Lily, Marshall and Barney Stinson hold a special place in my heart for getting me through a tough time.

I love you guys

Today I was thinking about the episode where the gang outlines the things you have to have experienced in order to qualify as a “real” New Yorker.

  • Seen Woody Allen
  • Stolen a cab from someone who needs it more than you
  • Cried on the subway and not given a damn what anyone thinks
  • Killed a cockroach with your bare hand

Now that I’ve been here two years, I’m starting to notice changes in my behavior that reflect a transformation. Sure, a born and bred New Yorker would scoff at these changes but to me they represent my joining the ranks of so many who’ve come before me. Those once fresh-faced transplants from the Midwest, the suburbs, or any other place on this whole planet who now consider themselves New Yorkers.

While I haven’t done everything on the HIMYM list and I can only hope I’ll never have to kill a cockroach with my bare hand, I do have my own set of experiences and skills I’ve acquired living in New York.

Here’s a list of ten of them:

1. Learn to sleep through the night, despite how ungodly loud it is outside always.

In my opinion I think the real reason this city never sleeps is because outside our windows is freaking insanity. On any given night, I can expect to be awoken by any or all of the following sounds:

  • Greyhounds and tour buses
  • Screaming couple fight (“I love you” “NO! I LOVE YOU” “NO YOU DON’T” “FUCKKKKK YOUUUU”)
  • Ambulances/ cop cars/ the exhaust pipe from a car that could only have been created by the mechanics of Pimp My Ride.
  • Jackhammering. I want to meet the dude with the 11PM to 3 AM jackhammering shift. Shit seems rough.
  • Above, below and side neighbors moving furniture, learning how to salsa dance with elephants, having some sort of orgy, getting tortured/ killed – ok, I get scared sometimes when I wake up to weird sounds.

This is a very recent skill I’ve acquired and I’m particularly proud of it. Sure, when I go anywhere else the first night I go to sleep with that buzzing in my ears that you normally only get after going to a concert because my ears don’t understand silence anymore, but as of late I’ve been waking up in the morning and feeling downright well-rested. Hell yes.

2. Actively select where you board all your subway trains in order to minimize time spent walking through your destination station.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/06/technology/personaltech/06smart.html. You’re welcome.

3. Know how to walk over grates in stilettos without falling/ getting stuck/ breaking an ankle.

I wracked my brain for the male equivalent of this and came up with nothing. Guys, any ideas?

4. The ability to recommend restaurants in every Manhattan neighborhood below 96th street.

Extra points if you know their happy hour special.

Double extra points if you didn’t read about it on New York Mag/ Gothamist.

Triple extra points if you places above 96th street.

5. Have your go-to source for NYC-specific news.

Mine is Gothamist. I read that shit erryday. I’m sure there’s a more hipster one, but I’m not that cool.

6. Knowing which supermarkets are the best for specific items and building your purchasing habits around that knowledge.

  • Wholefoods for meat and produce (unless you can go to the Green Market)
  • Trader’s for basic ingredients/ frozen food/ wine
  • Pre-made deliciousness comes from Westside. Just don’t buy their maraschino cherries (Thanks to Clare for that nugget of wisdom!)
  • Zabars for Cheese… the list goes on

7. Fall in love.

OMG you guys this one is SO good. If you can pair it with things like a promotion at work and a post-date cab ride down Park Avenue when the Empire State building is lit up extra pretty, you’ll be updating your FB status to something obnoxious like, “Maybe I CAN have it all…” in no time.

8. Learn that you can’t have it all.

And accept the fact. No, you can’t be the next up-and-coming executive under thirty and have an awesome body and have a perfect relationship and have an awesome social life. There’s a line in Sex and the City that perfectly describes this point – “ln New York, you’re always looking for a job, a boyfriend or an apartment.”

Anyone who tells you otherwise IS LYING. You people know who you are… Thanks for trying to make the rest of us look bad you jerks.

9. Have a no good, very bad, shitshow of a day.

Lock yourself out, throw away your unlimited monthly metrocard two days after forking over the $104 to buy it, step in something that may or may not be poop/piss/semen/blood, order lunch from that place you’ve been wanting to try and have it suck so bad you whisper curses under your breath and contemplate writing your first Yelp review ever because of the principal of the thing, talk to your ex on gchat at work and then cry in the bathroom after he mentions the girl you’re positive he’s now sleeping with, and then finish it off by getting stuck with one of those super talkative cab drivers who’s intent on teaching you the meaning of life.

New York is a great place to be happy, but it’s also a great place to be upset because it’s full of fuel for your fire and having a massive public blow up is occasionally necessary, and cathartic. I once told a guy who was being rude to me at the deli I went to every day to “HAVE A TERRIBLE DAY” in front of 15 people and stormed out.

10. Start to imagine that you just might alter your life plans so you can stay in this fantastic metropolis a few more years… or you know, forever. 

You definitely can’t have it all at once, but if you stay long enough you might be able to have all of the pieces you want at different times.

What are the things that make you a “real” New Yorker/ Atlantan/ Botoga-vien (Robin is that what you call it?)/ San Franciscan?

Peace, Love and Bagels that you can’t get anywhere else, 


PS – One more thing about How I Met Your Mother and how much I love it: I recently woke up and discovered that I had drunkenly purchased the entire seventh season on iTunes because it wasn’t on Netflix. I’m gonna go watch some episodes. Right. Now.

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Brooklyn Bowl

“Are you actually British?”

Ever since two of my friends pretended to be British for an entire night as a ploy to get free drinks from guys, I don’t trust that people I meet are actually British.

“Yes… We are actually British.”

I’d stepped outside Brooklyn Bowl to try to buy a cigarette from someone. For some reason, once in Brooklyn I decided that I should ask if I could purchase a cigarette, rather than ask if I could bum one. I don’t know if that’s an indication of how I feel about Brooklyn or a result of the fact that for once I had money in my wallet. Either way, the British guys I met outside the venue would not let me purchase a cigarette, but gave me one for free… God bless them.

First I met Alistair Robinson (his real name, no joke!), who commented on the fact that we both have a lot of hair.

“WE COULD START A WIG COMPANY!!!” We yelled this in unison… Insta-friends. Really anytime someone wants to start a company that’s sure to fail with me, we become insta-friends. Then his friend Dan took over the conversation while Alistair went to find the ‘toilet.’ We had the usual conversation you have with British people about how Americans call it the ‘restroom’, haha, isn’t that funny, you don’t rest in there, what about the water closet? Oh you mean the WC? Cultural differences. OMG so fun!! 

Dan and I talked about how I mispronounced his name (“It’s Dahhhhn”), how he wasn’t from London (it turns out that not all British people are from London!) and then he started saying something about Americans and nationalism and I remembered that Chris was ordering food inside. At some point Dan accidentally head-butted me and I told him it’s ok, in America that’s like a handshake. I then promised him that I’d bring him a chicken wing even though I was uncertain as to whether or not Chris had ordered chicken wings (it’s like 3 to 1 odds in any drinking/dining scenario).

When I got inside Chris had not ordered chicken wings, but Dan came by and I have him a nacho. He head-butted me and then told me he loved me. Seriously, insta-friends with both of the British dudes.

Ok, here’s the part where I rate the venue.

If you haven’t been reading so long that you remember how it works, here’s how it works:

  • I go to a bar/club/venue.
  • I take pictures that are usually blurry because I’m a bad photographer/ have only an iphone/ am usually embarrassingly drunk.
  • I rate the club on a scale created entirely by me, using my criteria for going out. Keep in mind that I have the preferences of a 65 year old antisocial man, that my favorite bar is housed in a building that once caught on fire and no one evacuated, and that I usually write these lists in a state of still-drunk hangover while yelling that I could really use a mimosa right now.
  • Sometimes the list is disjointed because I lose focus searching seamless web to see if they deliver mimosas.
  • Based on my entirely made up scale, I calculate the score, most of the time incorrectly (re:hangover), and then completely disregard said score and give the place a rating of Best or Worst Club Ever based on my overall opinion.

Brooklyn Bowl:

In Brooklyn: -500 points

Cool stamp: +5 Points. Please disregard other stamps, the one we’re focusing on is the bowling pin stamp, even though the heart stamp is also quite cute.

Bouncer who didn’t take too long to inspect my passport: +20 Points. It’s a fucking passport people. Who gets a fake ID that’s a passport?

Mexican/Tribal-looking bowling pins: +30 points, and also some clapping and bouncing.

Potential for meeting new friends: +50 points. Seriously, those British dudes were awesome.

Number of Black Eyed Peas songs played (0): +27 points. The Black Eyed Peas are the worst. Every time “I Got A Feeling” plays, a puppy is euthanized.

Bad band that we had fun making fun of played: +52. I love every time the a band tries to be Kings of Leon post Brian Eno. There are only so many ways to rewrite old U2 songs, guys.

Bands that were good played:  +43. There were also good bands, probably because of CMJ.

I don’t know the name of the band but if they were on Pandora I wouldn’t skip their song.

Not having to bowl: +76. I didn’t have to bowl, which is awesome because I suck at and hate bowling.

Wishing I could have watched other people bowl: -32. I do wish I could have watched other people bowl while eating my nachos or listening to music. I guess you can’t have it all (without risking getting hit in the head with a bowling ball).

Not getting hit in the head with a bowling ball: +100. Well done, Brooklyn Bowl. I am like a magnet when it comes to injuries. The fact that I didn’t end up in the emergency room while drinking near heavy objects is a true testament of your risk-management team’s planning skills. I applaud you.

This thing: 

+8 points

One time I saw a fight between a Hasidic Jew and a bro from Jersey at Brooklyn Bowl: +78 points. It happened the last time I was there, but is definitely worth mentioning. Both got kicked out. It was totally the bro’s fault. It was totally awesome.

Having enough people in our group to take a cab (rather than the L) back: +700 points.

Final rating for Brooklyn Bowl: Best Club Ever

Brooklyn Bowl, come for the music (or bowling), stay for the food and friends and/or fights you might see between Hasidic Jews and bros, leave when you have enough people to split a cab ride back to Manhattan.

Drunk pirouettes by Chris and Mark. No idea why they did that…

Peace, love and happy Saturday,


PS – If you’d like tips on how to use a fake British accent to get drinks from dudes, please comment. I will tell you everything.

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And this is why I’m not a fashion blogger

My sister-in-law recently launched an awesome new website – it’s kinda like Forever21, but there’s less teeny/tie-dyed things and a better curated handbag selection. So, she sent me some super cute accessories and I promised to take some Lookbook style photos for her.

After trying to do this, I now have mad respect for my favorite fashion bloggers. Every time I read Cupcakes and Cashmere I’m all, “Whatever, her boyfriend takes those photos and she knows how to use photoshop.” Now that I’ve attempted this formula, I understand how difficult it is to 1. Look effortlessly cute while standing in a street/ alley/ barn and 2. Instruct your significant other, who doesn’t spend hours reading fashion blogs, on how to choose the best moments to take a photo AND 3. Learn how to use fucking photoshop. Shit is hard. Also, I have now decided that fashion bloggers probably don’t use an iPhone to take their pictures.

ANYWAY. While, I won’t be sending these photos to my sister-in-law, I realized when boyfriend and I slid into the cab last Friday night that I had to share them with all of you. We’d just finished dinner at the Smith, and after 2 or so glasses of wine I was feeling brave enough to be photographed.

“Here! This is the perfect spot!” I threw my purse on the ground because it didn’t match my shoes.

“Ummm, how do I work this thing?” Chris as an android. Poor thing.

“Focus mainly on my shoes. It’s about the shoes.”

“I don’t know that the light directly above your forehead is the best choice for this photo shoot.”

“Just take a picture of my shoes and make the rest blurry!!” I clearly don’t understand how cameras work.

The ‘photoshoot’ ended by a group of older, drunk people walking out of the back exit of the restaurant and stepping onto my purse, and then the guy who stepped on my pursing didn’t apologize but instead said, “Oh! Good! For a second I thought that was a rat.”

Annnnndddddd here’s why I’ll never have a fashion blog:

Attempted look: “Effortlessly cute.”

Attempted look: “Oh, you’re taking a pic of me? I was just looking to the side and thinking about how awesome I am.”
Actual look: “No, I’m really sorry. I don’t have 25 cents. Oh… God bless you too?”

Attempted look: “Super blurry, yet amazingly fashionable pic of my shoes!”
Actual look: Chris accidentally pressed the ‘capture’ button while trying to figure out the whole focus-on-the-shoes-everything-else-is-blurry thing.

Attempted look: “Something unexpected happened, but I’m so fashionable that the only way you can tell something unexpected happened is that my hair is now wavy.”
Actual look: “WTF. My purse is NOT a rat. If he broke my BRAND NEW F21 sunglasses I’m gonna freak out bc I can’t afford another pair!”

After my failed photo session with Chris, I comforted myself by knowing that both Austin and Shiva have the blog/photo thing on lockdown. One day I’ll look all model-y as a result of their photo skills…. Or I’ll just use Angela instead of me. She always looks model-y.

If you’d like to read my non-photo related fashion blogging debut, you can right here. I don’t curse or talk about alcohol once! Can you believe it?

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Silicon Alley

There were days when I felt like I was part of something so special that I never before had and never would again be part of anything that worthwhile. The feeling usually came after getting up at six in the morning and doing a number of tasks that had nothing to do with my job title or at the end of a day when we’d accomplished some seemingly insurmountable goal. We’d sit on mismatched office furniture, beers in hand, and smile giddily at one another. A little later, when we’d taken it to the bar and moved on to liquor, we’d break off into pockets of two or three. The groups seemed distinct, but we were all tipsily whispering the same thing… “I mean, if this thing gets big… and I think this thing could get really big.

Hibben once described start-ups as the type of place where they “make you drink the Kool-Aid.” If you don’t get the reference, she’s referring to that death cult where they all wore the matching sneakers and drank cyanide laced Kool-Aid and waited for some alien god to come rescue them from their miserable lives. Ok, after wikipedia-ing the Jonestown cult I may have referenced another cult when I brought up the sneakers and the aliens (Haley’s comet… I think?).
Whatever, “Drinking the Kool-Aid” is the best description of start-up culture ever. Don’t get it? Here’s the formula used to get a group of individuals to drink the Kool-Aid:
Make them believe that (insert here: something more amazing than anything else) will happen so long as they all do (insert here: something others would find insane).

Cult: Make them believe that the aliens will save them; Jesus will accept only them to heaven; they’ll die and be reborn as a Coppola so long as they all kill themselves; kill other people.

Start-Up: Make them believe that they are working for the next Amazon/Zappos/Facebook so long as they all give up their relationships/social life/ health/free time… basically their 20s.

New York’s growing start-up scene is referred to as Silicon Alley. In a city where 80% of the people on the street from 7PM to 7AM are drunk, the start-up employees of Silicon Alley are drunk off the Kool-Aid 24/7. If you haven’t worked for a start-up, you might not know what I’m talking about. Let me break it down for you – anytime you see a frantic 20-something wearing a blazer and flip-flops carrying a venti cup of Starbucks and an iPad, talking on her cellphone in what seems to be a strange language but is actually just a bunch of acronyms… that’s a start-up employee. Her dreams are big, her ambitions are high, her idea of disconnecting from her job is the anxiety-filled 20 minutes on the subway when her iPhone can’t connect to her Gmail.
I remember the first night I drank the Kool-Aid. I’d been working at my start-up for a couple of weeks and was trying to get used to working a ‘grown-up’ job. I was exhausted, but concerned I’d get fired for sucking. So, when the co-founder needed someone to stay late and do data entry, I jumped at the opportunity. He bought us some beers, we listened to rap and we talked about personal things – not things so personal that they were inappropriate, but things more personal than you’d expect to talk to a boss about. He was a cool boss… how novel! That night I was drinking Corona light, but I was also drinking the Kool-Aid.
The next year was a blur of hard work and excitement. I was in a leadership program, I was starting a department, we were raising more capital, the New York Times featured our CEO. Fuck, it was exciting. At the same time I was working weekends, holidays and only for enough money to barely survive my first year in the city. The funny thing about a start-up is that you’re not working that hard because your bosses are mean or they demand it; like a cult, you believe that this is The One True Way to your success as an individual. I felt so incredibly lucky to be able to work all day Saturday or to answer emails at 3AM.
These are the type of stories you hear from people who started at Amazon, at Zappos and at Facebook. They were so enthralled in what was happening (and so sleep-deprived) that everything felt cinematic. Everyone in Silicon Alley is sure they’re working for the Next Big Thing and that’s what keeps the effects of the Kool-Aid lasting for months and sometimes years through all sorts of unfavorable conditions and roadblocks.
The thing Kool-Aid drinkers never anticipate is that the delirium might wear off. For me it was almost overnight. One day I woke up, went into the office and instead of feeling SO INCREDIBLY EXCITED I was SO INCREDIBLY EXHAUSTED. I no longer believed that all of the other things I’d given up were worth it. I hoped it was just a phase at first; for all of the insanity my job brought to my life, I’d never imagined that I’d want to leave. But I couldn’t stop feeling that way – I was off the Kool-Aid and I’d developed some sort of resistance to it. No amount of company happy hours or national press mentions could make me want to stay there, even though I so badly wanted to want to stay there.
There was one feeling that didn’t wear off immediately: the feeling of impending doom I got every time I thought about my life outside the start-up. I worried they’d create the position I’d been killing myself for right after I left or that I’d find my new job so stuffy and boring that I’d miss the chaos. I had this list of fears, the biggest of them being that I’d regret leaving because I’d miss start-up culture.
After a month of being at a non-start-up, I’ve had lots of time to think about start-up culture. It’s this mystifying combination of Kool-Aid ingredients. For every awesome Kool-Aid ingredient, there’s also a little bit of bad. I’ve started compiling a list, and I’d like to think it applies to most start-ups… Ok, maybe some of the bad ones are limited to my experience, but I know a couple other ex-start-up employees who tell similar stories.
Here’s what I’ve got:
Awesome Kool-Aid ingredient: We drink together! All the time!
Hangover-inducing badness: Drinking with your bosses = telling your bosses stuff you tell people when you’re drunk. Do you want the CEO of your company to know that if you hadn’t gotten THIS job, you’d probably be a stripper right now? No, I can assure you that you really don’t.
This shit is strong!: Everyone is so smart and talented and driven! The energy here is great!
Wait, is this everclear?: Everyone is battling to prove that they are the smartest, hardest working, and most in love with the company by putting in as much face time as possible. Have you ever sat in a room at 7:30 PM on a Friday when you’re completely done with you work, but you’re so determined to not be the first one out of the office? I used to try willing my coworkers to leave.  My friends would be texting me all the fun things they were doing and I’d be glaring at the person in front of me yelling with my brain, “JUST FUCKING LEAVE!”

I really love you guys, and I’m not just saying that because I’m drunk: You get to work with highly experienced department heads who pass their sage knowledge onto you.
Uhhh, my stomach doesn’t feel so good: Start-ups don’t always make the best hires and if they make the wrong one the “highly experienced” department head who becomes your boss may turn out the be a highly inadequate bitch from hell. You go from loving your old boss to wanting to jam pencils into your eyeballs every time your new boss says your name. You have nightmares about her asking you to step into the conference room and have a ‘quick chat.’ Even after freeing yourself from her reign of micromanagement and terror, you’ll never look at conference rooms the same way. Conference rooms are the place where your soul goes to die.

Wooooooooooooooo!: The office space is so open and unconventional!
Ugggghhhhhh: The lack of basic amenities. Do you have an office coffee pot? NO! NO! That takes away from margin! What about a fridge? There’s a mini fridge. It’s for 35 people. If you don’t like it, you can suck it up and go buy a burger at the McDonalds every day for lunch, because really, that’s all you can afford.
When you’re Kool-Aid drunk, you spend a lot of time telling yourself, “This will all be worth it!” You fantasize about being on the top floor of the corporate skyscraper. Sure, right now you’re doing manual labor while your friends are getting drunk at brunch, but you’re sure to be in the 30 under 30… or at least the 40 under 40. Is there a 50 under 50? You’re definitely going to be on that.
I mentioned earlier how scared I was that I’d regret leaving my start-up. I also worried that I’d regret putting in all that energy without it catapulting me to the top of the corporate ladder at an early age. In retrospect, I can honestly say that I have no regrets. In a year and a half I got an education I wouldn’t have at an entry-level job at some big company, and working non-stop helped me determine my own personal priorities.
Ok, so maybe there’s one thing I don’t love about my start-up past. I still flinch when my new boss asks me to step into the conference room for what has, thus far, only turned out to be staff birthday parties… but we all have our battle wounds.
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Notes from the week

The past week was full of important landmarks for me. Here’s a list of them, as well as some not-so-important but noteworthy items:

1.) Weekend wins: Some of my favorite friends came to visit New York last weekend, and we didn’t waste a second of our time on things like sobriety or culture. It was one of the best weekends I’ve had since moving here. As a result of all the drinking, I made two bodega stops over the course of the weekend and BOTH TIMES I WON. The less exciting win was the discount I received on an arm full of candy I purchased – “All of this is five dollars, but for you, I charge three.” #fatwin. The super exciting win happened around 4 AM on Friday night, when I was waiting for my spicy special, philly cheesesteak and mozzarella sticks to finish cooking. A drunk, old fat man walked into the bodega to buy beer. He looked me up and down and walked to get his six pack. He must have been struck by my beauty; I was wearing a skimpy peach minidress and clinging to an assortment of cookies and candy… Sexy, right? Anyway, he walked up to the counter and says, “This beer and everything she’s having.” The clerk looked at him like you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into buddy, and goes, “Nonono. She has many other things.” The drunk man waved his hand up as if money was immaterial, purchased my $30 worth of drunk binge food and disappeared into the the night. Now I understand the allure of a sugar daddy…

2.) Summer’s arrival: Sure, it rained all week, but last weekend I got a fucking sun tan. I can honestly tell you the last time my skin was anything but disgustingly pale was two years ago. I’ve started carrying printer paper to the Duane Reade so I can make sure I’m properly matching my skin tone to my makeup.

Of course, along with the heat comes the need for an AC, so on Tuesday night I carried my window unit down our long hallways and propped it up in my window. I love my AC so much that I named him last year.

This is Coolio-

Welcome back Coolio, I’ll sing the theme song to Kenan & Kel to you all summer

3.) I STARTED MY NEW JOB!!!!: I’m super excited about this one. After a week of not fielding angry phone calls and emails from everyone and (sometimes literally) their mom, I remember that I like working. On top of that, working for a more established company comes with big perks like A KEURIG, AN IT DEPARTMENT, A REGULAR SIZED REFRIGERATOR, FAST ELEVATORS. I even have an ID badge to get into my building. Bad. Ass.

4.) Failing at the Financial District: I’m working in an entirely different area of town and it’s really cool to be somewhere new, especially a place that’s so iconically New York. On my walk to the subway every night I stare up at the new World Trade Center, and I walk past all these beautiful historical churches and cemeteries every day. That being said, it’s a confusing area. It’s not a grid, there are tourists everywhere and I keep fucking up with the subway.

Example 1 – There are like 14 entrances to the Fulton Street station, and I found a new one that’s super close to my gym yesterday. I was feeling so cool and I was so enthralled with playing Angry Birds on the platform/train that I wasn’t paying attention to anything going on around me. About 20 minutes later I looked up and realized I was not, in fact, almost to 23rd street, but instead I was deep in Brooklyn.

Example 2 – Earlier in the week, I’d found another entrance to Fulton Street that was more convenient than my first station and I hadn’t yet remembered Angry Birds, so I was very focused on my surroundings. As soon as I swiped into the station I realized that I’d swiped into a platform with a train only going in one direction. I wasn’t sure of the direction, and rather than asking someone I decided to walk out of the station and check for myself. It turned out it was the correct direction, but when I went to reswipe my monthly MetroCard I got the stupid Just Used message that turnstiles give you to avoid people sharing MetroCards. I’m poorer than anything right now, so rather than purchasing a one ride ticket for $3, I walked the four blocks to another station.

The turnstiles are smarter than I anticipated. I got the Just Used message from that one too. After a few very frustrating minutes of waiting, I saw a Youth jump over one of the turnstiles. I looked around, waited for all the people in suits to swipe in, and then attempted to jump over the turnstile. It turns out I do not have the tricep strength, and I ended up having to crawl underneath the turnstile. I got through this way, but not without awkwardly getting stuck underneath it for what was probably five seconds but felt like a minute.

Lesson learned (I think). I will be more conscious of my surroundings and I will not try to swipe in twice.

5.) Flailing at the gym: Now that I’m in a new area, I’m also going to a different gym than I was going to before. On Tuesday night I tried a class called Abs & Ass. There’s a couple men who like to teach classes in a ‘military style’ at Crunch, but like any other aerobic instructor they are still definitely gay. Imagine listening to a techno remix of Michael Jackson’s Black or White while some super-effeminate yet totally jacked guy yells, “Left, Left, Left Right Left!” at you. That’s really all that happens.

Eric, the Abs & Ass teacher was one of these. I’m fairly new to fitness – I started working out on a regular basis about two years ago with an amazing trainer I had in Atlanta named Ali. Our training sessions involved him making me do really simple things like squats and then laughing at me. He once said to me, “When I started training you, you were so weak that I didn’t understand how you could walk.” I miss Ali. While I’ve gotten a lot better – I can run several miles, I don’t throw up every time I work out and I understand that the elliptical was something invented so fat people can feel better – I’m still clumsy as fuck.

Eric had us doing these plank exercises that involved us laying on our side and then lifting our hips. It should have been simple enough, everyone else seemed to have no problem with it. I, on the other hand, could not manage to keep myself laying on my hip. I’m not talking about the actual movement he wanted us to do (a side plank), I just couldn’t lay on my side. As Eric walked around the classroom and yelled that we were not trying hard enough, I was continually trying to roll myself to my side, falling over onto my stomach and flailing my arms in attempts to regain my balance. Pathetic, Tiffany… Pathetic.

6.) My first Katz Deli experience: Katz Deli is super famous because it was the setting for Meg Ryan’s faked orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally. On Thursday night, I got to try a pastrami on rye sandwich from the deli for my first time. HolyFuckingShit. I don’t even like pastrami OR rye, but oh my god this sandwich was amazing. Sidenote: It does cost $18…

I stole this photo from a google search

7.) Last, but definitely not least, my street interview: About 30 minutes before my Katz experience, I was standing outside of a concert in the LES, smoking a cigarette I’d bummed from some guy who seemed like he was giving me the cigarette just so I’d leave him alone. Another guy comes and stands next to me and introduces himself. He was a Bangladeshi masseuse who was very drunk. He offered me a free massage (which I declined) and somehow, despite my tremendous arsenal of standing outside a bar talking to a stranger questions, the conversation veered very quickly into him telling me that he masturbated a lot. It took him saying this three times, because it was hard to understand his accent, so I can assure you that it wasn’t one of those drunken word-vomit situations. He definitely meant to tell me about his extensive ‘personal’ time.

He then proceeded to interview-style ask me a number of questions about my sexual history, preferences, etc., including but not limited to asking if my gay roommate sleeps with girls too, if I like to sleep with girls and how my one-night stands have gone down. I answered far too many of these questions (mainly because I still had cigarette to finish, but also) because I figured at a certain point there would be no more questions, but the Bangladeshi guy was full of them. I eventually had to run back into the concert and hope that he wasn’t secretly a Candid Camera person asking me all about my sex life as a joke.


All in all, it was a typical New York in the summer kind of week. I’m so excited for so many more of them this year.

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Note to self: Don’t tell Online Dates about this blog

We were sitting across from one another at Big Bar in the East Village when I realized his interest  in me had turned to hatred.

“So… I guess I should just leave?”
“Ok…. bye?”

I was a mess last night, which could have been predicted given my whole pre-date routine of ‘I’m drinking and having an emotional breakdown after hot yoga by myself in my apartment,’ but sometimes I don’t realize before it happens that my being a mess isn’t like, Zooey Deschanel adorable (Fuck you, Zooey! Why are you so cute that fucking COTTON wants you to represent it?!?). I was texting Nina tipsily my whole cab ride down about how much I was not in the date zone, how I’d be home in two hours, how Rutherford seemed super dumb. Yes, Rutherford… I make up names for all these guys and I’ve decided to just have fun with it because I’m running out of Johns and Kevins and because he really did have a weird name, even though it wasn’t Rutherford.

I realized pretty quickly upon meeting him that a lot of his stupidity was due to his being a recent Seattle-NYC transplant. People new to New York are like babies! I’m sure we wouldn’t like each other sober – he talked about himself a lot and asked me the worst questions… but then we started drinking. I really enjoy this part of my dating life; getting drunk with a total stranger is what I’d imagine a bartender experiences every night. Because we’ve only just met and we don’t know each other’s last names or social circles, the conversation gets more honest more quickly. I underestimated Rutherford until he admitted to me that he’d been on an online date RIGHT before meeting up with me. I high-fived him, because let’s be honest, anyone feels cool doing that. I went on two dates in one day last summer and I felt SO COOL and kind of evil but also in a cool way.

After that confession, most sentences started with “Since we’re being honest….” even though we weren’t telling each other anything that really needed the preface.

We smoked cigarettes outside and had idiotic conversations –

“Since we’re being honest…. I was fat in high school!”
“I was too! How fat?”
“175 pounds.”
“That is kind of fat – I got skinny around age 13.”
“Oh….you were much cooler than I was….”
“Yeah, I was kind of cool in high school. When did you lose your virginity?”
“I was almost 21. You?”
“Since we’re being honest… I was almost 17.”

I high-fived him here.

I didn’t think he liked me, because I didn’t like him, but when we got up to leave the restaurant he said something about there not being anything here (gesturing between the two of us) and I was like OMG I KNOW, RIGHT? I’M GLAD WE CAN BE HONEST.

And then he said, “I was joking? Wait.. you were joking right? Come have another drink with me?”

“Oh.. yeah. I was totally joking.” Some how that worked and we stumbled over to Big Bar.

I think it’s all the interviewing I’ve been doing that made me want to tell him at least one real thing about me. I’ve been answering all these questions about why I want to leave my job and where I see myself in 10 years and I’ve been lying through my teeth. I hate lying, and so before I knew it, the truth about why I go on online dates was tumbling out of my mouth at a terrifying speed.

“Since we’re being honest…”

I tried to backpedal after that, but there was no saving the conversation. I got up and saw myself out. I thought about feeling bad, but then I got into my cab and the super old Latino driver offered me a cigarette. He told me about how much he hated his job and how all he wanted to do in life is get drunk and watch tv. We bonded. I came home and threw up on my pillow… it’s been a weird week.

This morning I’m faced with a gross pillow and blurry thoughts of my conversation with Rutherford. Is telling someone, “This thing you think is a date isn’t really a date” any worse than when guys use online dating just to hook up with girls? I don’t think it is, but maybe I’m an asshole.

I’m going to comfort myself by thinking that Rutherford now has a story to tell his Seattle friends about crazy New York people. I had to wait until my fifth online date to have anything crazy happen so, YOU’RE WELCOME, Rutherford.

The great part of online dating is that when you fuck up royally as I did last night, you get to walk away with a feeling of lightness. I’ll likely never see Rutherford again, as long as I don’t eat at the restaurant where he’s a chef.

And since we’re being honest… I can’t afford that restaurant anyway.

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The Gansevoort On Park Ave Is like the hotel california, and other notes from the weekend.

Baby Alexa turned 23. To celebrate we brought her lots of goodies from the Mexican dollar store on our block. Stolen Equal packaged and priced at $1.25, anyone?

The As having a Worst Club Ever experience in the line at the Gansevoort on Park Ave. It was equally as hard to find our way out, surprisingly enough. It's like the Hotel California, with a longer line to get in but a promoter grabs you and brings you in after five minutes of standing in the rain and bouncers keep telling you the doors that say Exit aren't really exits so you almost start crying because you think you're trapped in the Gansevoort and all you want are chicken wings from the Bodega.
So, pretty much the same.

Making this super small because Austin will hate me for posting it. Austin, you really wanted me to take a picture with the most bruisedbanana.
You were disgusted by the bananas.

Evidence that a Saturday night crime was committed.
Late night eating, I hate how much I love you.
The existence of this photo made me realize how annoying I am when I'm taking photos of stupid shit and I'm all, "OMG YOU GUYS I'M GOING TO PUT THIS ON MY BLOG."

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Oh Drunk Girl, we are the same

As you know, I’ve had a hard week at my job dealing with the mounting stress of Valentine’s Day. There are problems in life that involve effort – making a plan about resolving them, listening to ‘You Can Do It!’ music while running on the treadmill, etc. Then there are problems that you just have to let wash over you and know they’ll end in a matter of time. This is the second type of problem, and I’ve decided to let it wash over me and wash it down with a lot of vodka.

I feel encouraged by the fact that I didn’t have a hangover yesterday, in spite of drinking almost that entire bottle of Skyy Vodka, smoking cigarettes and eating only raw food all day… and chickpeas, which Franklin told me aren’t raw, damnit. I think my body is telling me that YES, this is exactly how I need to proceed through this stressful situation.

I started out the weekend with the intention of drinking heavily and guess what? I succeeded!! I ended my night by breaking my vegan diet and eating a spicy special on my couch, but how I got to that point is so awesome.

First off – I saved a drunk girl! I don’t know from what, but as I was leaving my friend’s apartment I happened upon this:

Looks like a crime scene, no?

Anyway, after the several minutes it took to figure out whether or not she was actually dead, I saw her apartment keys and let myself into her place. I tried to get her to stand up and walk to her bed, but she didn’t even want to get off the floor . Our conversation went something like this:

Me – Hey, hey! Let’s get you inside.

Drunk Girl – I uhhhhhhh, nooooas;jkfs;jkasf

Me – No, you really wanna go inside your apartment. Let’s get you inside your apartment.

DG – Nouehahahheeeeekkksdf;kafd;kad

Me – Oh, honey. You really don’t want to be out here in your hallway (starts to pull DG up)

DG – ;jadfs;dfkldfjkldfjkladsfjlkdfskljkjdfuhhhhhhhhh

I ended up having to pull her into her living room by picking her up and dragging her into her apartment.

After throwing her keys on the floor and going over the Angela’s, I continued my quest to drink heavily. The funny thing about helping drunk people when you’re about to get drunk is the very limited amount of time that you have to feel self-righteous. It took all of an hour before I fell in the bar and Austin and Angela had to help me off my knees – I apparently decided hanging out on my knees at the empty bar was a good choice.

Shortly after that I headed home, “decided” to break my diet and buy a Spicy Special and cheese fries, and went to the bodega. While I was waiting for them to make my sandwich, the cashier walked away from the register. It was at this point that I realized the chocolate bars by the register were good for the taking, and I decided to steal a chocolate bar. I slipped one into my purse, and after the cashier returned, didn’t notice and left again, I took a second.

When I woke up this morning and surveyed the wreckage in my living room (somehow I put away the rest of my sandwich and fries, but left my underwear in the middle of my living room) I saw the two chocolate bars sitting on the coffee table. They serve as a great reminder that on any given night I’m only one failed attempt at opening my door away from being the drunk girl I helped.

Yes, there is a price tag on my sweatpants. In case you’re wondering, it says $2.99.

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