Not So Green, and Sometimes a Little Bit Clouded

These eyes are not so green anymore, and sometimes they're a little bit clouded. Sunday will be a year and half of being here, so it's funny to read back on when I was so new. I'm not a veteran -- it takes a long time to get that way -- but I'm no longer the wide-eyed newbie, though I try to remember how that felt, and to bring that sense of wonder whenever I can. Sometimes I'll spin around and see a detail on a building I've never seen. Sometimes I'll tread a street in a direction I've never gone. If it all becomes too familiar and too much a blur, I challenge myself to find the newness: in that is the gratitude I want to keep.

I haven't become jaded, but I've been for a while in a job I don't like, which is kind of like being in a marriage you don't like, I'd imagine, in all the ways you have to subvert your true self, and the ways in which you justify it to yourself to keep on being in it, even though you know it's bad for you. It's quite a blow to self-respect. That might sound dramatic, but I'm not a person who can say, this is what I do all day -- over here, this is what I am. The two have to align for me to be happy. I suppose that's how it should be for all of us, but when I'm in a position to make it so, there's probably no excuse to be unhappy in my occupation. Not the recession, not anything -- when I compel myself to do a task I despise, I lose a certain amount of self-regard. If I'm not looking out for myself, who is?

At any rate, the job I hate is copyediting, which for me might as well be sweeping the floor -- in both jobs, you're cleaning up other people's messes. It's just that I'm allowed to do so little, when in the past I've done so much and more. And the act of sweeping and scrubbing the text until it's shiny turns my own mind soft, so that, by the end of the day, my attentiveness to others' work has sucked out any energy I might have dedicated to my own.

I've made steps forward. I found other part-time work: Reporting for the irascible, irreverent, rollicking city tabloid the New York Post, for which I'm sent around the five boroughs to stir up trouble and ask questions in such a way that I can deliver the sensationalist opinions my editors demand. I like it -- it sends me where I'd never go and where I've never been before, it gets me out of my shell to talk to people, and it gives me a taste of the kind of journalism I'd previously only read about. Sometimes my editors do not so much talk to me as bark -- I imagine them in fedoras, cigars, brandy. Probably all those trappings are absent anymore, but the gruffness, the lust for the story, still remains. This is the world I should keep up -- the other I must shed.

I never used to talk about work on here, and that's because I hardly had any. Now I have a lot and I suppose it's good -- New York is a city better enjoyed with money. And yet, I was in many ways happier then, newly arrived and underemployed, eating my thrice-weekly four-for-a-dollar dumplings. There's a lesson here. I just need to find a way to reconcile it with my hungry ambition.

Action Needed

Well, after more than half a year of not writing, these eyes are a little less green. But the city is still wondrously seductive. I try to look at it every day as if I just got here, and my heart jumps each time I traverse a block I've never been down.

And speaking of seductive, about the title of this post... "Action Needed" is a step in the Chemistry.com rating process, to which I just silently retorted, "Duh, why do you think I'm on here in the first place?!" Honestly. Doesn't anyone think these things through? Maybe they're operating in Engrish. Yes, I am doing online dating, and I'm not afraid to shout it out. I am looking to fall in love, so if you know any sweet funny boys of dark hair and medium height, send them my way. (Maybe love is merely a matter of networking; if this works out, there might be a great style section story here.)

Okay, so I may be back to blogging again. It's bloody hot, but somehow the creative juices are jumping rather than sluggish. I think it's because I quite my job. Er, kidding. But I did scale back to three days a week at New York mag, so I'm no longer turning my brain cells to goop copyediting for 10 hours straight five days a week. Merely three, and I'm freelancing the rest of the time. Today I was out and about in the city. I think I walked about 10 miles in the heat. I saw things, spoke to people; I'm inspired again. Watch this space.

Woo hoo! Story on Nymag.com

If you can't celebrate accomplishments on your own blog, where can you? I've been copyediting for Nymag.com (New York mag's Website) for months and thinking, "I could write something along those lines." It's just been a matter of coming up with ideas, and I've pitched a few things that didn't quite pan out.

This morning, though, I proposed an idea that the editor liked, and by the afternoon, my story was posted on the 'Daily Intel' blog. Just the pace of Online versus print is boggling.

Read the story here. It's on the ever-important topic of megayachts, naturally.

It's happening

When I moved to the LES I knew I'd probably watch it change - it's one of those neighborhoods that has a nice mix of longtime residents (the "real" people), plus hipsters and young professionals. Which means on the same street you can likely buy a $15 cocktail and a $2 hot dog. Until recently, that is.

Thanksgiving week, both the Clinton Papaya on the corner, purveyor of hangover-busting egg sandwiches, and Mama's, two doors down, peddlers of morning cheeriness and $4 breakfast deals, both closed their doors. Since it happened at the same time I thought maybe rats? But worse than rats, rising rent. Nymag.com just confirmed that Papaya is closed for good (R.I.P.), and Mama's might revive, as I stuck my head in there the other morning and the guy informed me they were closed and changing management. So we'll see.

The lovely man who runs the convenience store across the street (no longer open 24 hours, as its sign still advertises) tells me times are tough. He's worried about next month and the month after, he said, and I think the world - as we know it, for now - may be ending. Last weekend, Bergdorf's, at up to 70 percent off, saw its elegant corridors trod by the parka-clad in a bargain-basement frenzy, with steeply slashed luxury goods tossed higgledy-piggledy, Louboutins flung thither and missing their mates. And Henri Bendel, that nattily French-monikered purveyor of not-cheap novelties for the posh set had its entire store on sale for a day last week.
In an apocalyptic reverie I snapped a pic:



I maintained the hope that my shopping experience would be interrupted by some stock-market scheudenfrauder sweeping in with a giant checkbook to buy the whole place with a single flourish of his pen.
But nobody has that kind of money right now. And I have no more cheap breakfast.

What's next? Will Tiffany start holding fundraiser "Breakfasts At" for tourists and tacky people? Will all of lower Manhattan become a John Varvatos store?

Internet-famous!

An interview on Ganda's food blog, Eat Drink One Woman, here.

I don't give a sh*t about celebrities

Oh wait - is that Adrian Grenier over there? I'll be right back.

La vida fabulosa in New York, I've discovered, is even more Technicolor than in other places. And that's not just because we have the best bars, the best restaurants, the best clothes and the best parties of anywhere, but because every now and then (more frequently, if you're kind of a big deal) you find yourself sharing space with a living, breathing, fun-having celebrity. And that's exciting.

In almost seven months I've encountered the following people in the flesh:

Sheryl Crow - slim in skintight ensemble; walking through the West Village one summer night.

Christian Siriano - at a Wednesday-night launch party for some men's dress-shirt company at Pink Elephant; pouting and trying to look pretty.

Courtney Cox, David Arquette, Jennifer Aniston and Ben Harper - at the launch party of their clothing line during fashion week, for which Irish is the fit model. I stood thi***s close to Ben Harper while Irish and others chatted, and was utterly tongue-tied.
Robb Thomas - later on at the Spotted Pig at an after-party midnight supper for 20 celebrating David Arquette's birthday. We discussed the hilarity of unisex bathrooms.

Adrian Grenier - Dancing up front to Phenomenal Handclap Band at an Adidas party in a former parking garage in Brooklyn. Swoon!

Fiona Apple - behind the bar at KGB during boyfriend (as it later came out) Jonathan Ames' insanely crowded reading. I remarked, "That bartender really looks like Fiona Apple in her 'Tidal' years." Wonder why.
In person, she's miniscule and exageratedly cute, with huge eyes.

I'm probably forgetting somebody, but it's a good list. I'm not one to get star-struck or super intimidated by those who are famous - I don't care about writing celeb news or reading People or US Weekly. The cool thing about sharing space with famous faces is that you know that these people with practically unlimited means and access have chosen to be in the same place you have. And that means wherever you are is likely one of the best places to be at the moment. That always makes me feel good.

Any celeb-encounter stories to share?

The Holidays Descend

The other day I caught the piney whiff of Christmas trees on Avenue A. Earlier, bad Christmas music blared from my falafel shop's speakers. The fruit-and-vegetable magnificence of the greenmarket in Union Square has been taken over by a mess of booths selling holiday junk no one needs. And on Wednesday, the line at the Trader Joe's wine store was this long:



The holidays are here.

On Wednesday, ventured out post-Dr. appointment to buy the makings for lasagna and a veggie tray for our Thanksgiving potluck. Dr.'s office is at Union Square, so I hit the greenmarket, which teemed with the holidazzled buying vegetables and wreaths and bacon that, at $12 a package, better truly be "the world's best bacon."

I bought kale, since the chard was done for the year, and beets in two colors, and I felt happy and grinned at everyone like a cartoon loon.

Then to Trader Joe's, which is too small here to begin with and always packed. I fended and fought those in the queue just to get cheese and the line took so long by the time I left it was getting dark. Then home, which I was late to, as Sabra had hired a photographer for us. Not hired, exactly - a Craigslist thing. She took our pictures as part of a series on those who are new to New York and someday she's going to make us/we're going to make her famous. We hope. She was a neat girl named Deidre Shoo and she knew what she was doing with a camera. Afterwards we all went to a bar in Brooklyn and drank some free rum punch. We hope to see her again soon.

I never made it to yoga that night, but it didn't matter because I was happy. Adam Rio was there, and we ordered pizza with leeks and sausage and Deidre became our friend, and on the walk home I had talked to my mom, and I felt loved. Later that night people came over and then we all went to see Labyrinth (what, what, Molly!), my childhood favorite, which was as good as I remembered and - as an adult - also hilarious.
It was the best Thanksgiving eve ever.

And then the next day I woke up late and Sabra did too and then I did some online stuff and then we cooked.
And soon it was 5 pm and we scrambled to get out the door and on the subway and over the river and through the hood to Aaron Goodman's place, which is a cottage in Brooklyn that used to be a carriage house. It's a miniature house, and I was enchanted to see it for the first time.

Aaron Goodman made prime rib and sweet potato pie and artichoke dip and pita and Joel made Chilaquiles and Sabra made mashed potatoes and Stovetop stuffing and Eric Alger made a veggie pie and Adam Rio brought a pecan pie and I made lasagna and chopped some veggies and brought hummus, and so we feasted. It was a gay boys' Thanksgiving, plus Sabra and me, and I took two hits of a joint and spent the rest of the night laughing and sleeping, rousing myself when necessary for trivia. I remembered I don't really like to smoke pot. And then we ate more and then it was time to leave.

By then it already felt like we'd been holiday-ing it forever, so yesterday I did a bunch of errands and then people came over and then we went out to a burlesque show. It was great - and only five dollars. No Box , sure, but also easy to get into, down the block and cheap. And then today woke up and was a layabout for hours - listening to music and such. I'm getting into new bands with the help of Last.fm - trying to expand my musical tastes. So far I've discovered I'm a fan of Television, a genre called the "Nouvelle Scene Francaise," and lots of old-school soul and rock 'n roll. I also recently was introduced to Beirut and I absolutely love them. And Aaron made me a soul mix, which he brought over last night, so it's new music extravaganza around here.

Tonight stayed in as was tired and feeling like I'd been doing the weekend thing for days. Caught up on my "New York" magazine and listened to music. Nice sometimes to keep it low-key. Pacing myself, perhaps, for the holiday hurricane to come.

Cold coming

The cold has come and it's apparent to me now what it truly means to live in a pedestrian city. There's no rushing to the car and bathing in the heater's emissions once there; you want something, you bundle up and go get it on foot. I guess some people have the same revelation here with the heat in summer, but I don't mind heat, actually, so this is only now sinking in.

It's been good this week, though, because I've had a reason to venture out each afternoon, and it was brilliantly sunny most of the week, so if I bundled properly I enjoyed it. The venturing was part of a new project -- a food-writing gig chronicling restaurants in downtown and lower Manhattan. My first beat was an area I soon realized was basically Chinatown (East Chinatown, they call it), so the challenge was to pop into every place and figure out what made one Chinese bakery different from the next.

I really enjoyed it at first, and was reveling in all the bargains I learned of (sandwiches for 70 cents! beef and rice for $2!) but as I got deeper into the neighborhood, people became less and less open to talking to me. No matter how friendly and non-threatening I tried to be, at many places employees would clam up suspiciously and become loathe to give me any information about the restaurant. "I'm a reporter," I might say, "there's no charge," but many people would just clam up, tell me the boss wasn't there or that they didn't speak English and their eyes would implore me expectantly to please vanish. It was dramatically different going to the four or five Vietnamese restaurants in the area - these places had reviews from the papers and Yelp and Citysearch posted and seemed happy at the prospect of further press. I soon realized something cultural was going on at the Chinese places, and I had to wonder if it has to do with the lack of a free press in China, and consequently not really having a place from which to relate to what I was doing. At one closet-sized dumpling shop, the woman gave me as much information as she could with limited English, but seemed reluctant. Her coworker then asked whether I was planning to open my own Chinese restaurant! I had to laugh. No, I said, I'm happy just to eat at them.

Sometimes people laughed at me (I never did get the joke), and at one spot a young Chinese-American kid who was ordering takeout was nice enough to translate my requests into Mandarin, and whatever he told the restaurant owner and cooks made them laugh and laugh. I sort of chortled along (the situation was comical), but I never will figure out exactly what was so funny. Somebody who did speak Mandarin would have been better for the gig - I may as well have been trying to report on a foreign country with zero language ability and no translator - but I'll do my best to accurately summarize each place. The menus, though - and my boss wants comprehensive ones - that may be impossible. Many places didn't even have menus posted in English...

At any rate, it's cold and maybe tomorrow - or soon! - I need to go scarf and hat and sweater shopping. Like everyone, I've really pared back on buying things, but this is necessary. Hopefully retail will see a slight spike as people stock up for the winter. It needs it.

The things we find here

Last time, I wrote about the idea that everybody in New York is seeking the life that's just around the corner. I don't know that I'm so much seeking that - not yet. Day-to-day existence here is still a novelty and a joy, even if it sometimes is a pain. For now I'm happy with what's here, what I happen across. I'm learning every day, and I take this life as it presents itself and Iove the whole experience.

The thing I seem to have found, without even looking for it, is some part of my personality that hadn't been as visible before. I'm bossier since arriving here. I'm stronger and more assertive. I'm more confident, I walk fast. I flirt more. I don't take bullshit from people, and sometimes I come across as demanding.
I like it.

The other day, Sabra and I went to the East Village to pick up the futon we were buying for our living room. I knew a car service that would send a Suburban, so I called them once we go to the guy's apartment, and I guess I used a very authoritative tone with the dispatcher, who was trying to rush me off the phone.

"Do you work in fashion?" the guy asked, when I hung up. Not in a mean way, but very matter-of-fact.
I stared at him astonished for a moment (I was wearing ratty moving clothes and no makeup) and then told him that, in fact, I sort of did.

"Oh, he said," because I know lots of people in fashion and they're always ordering car services to come pick up this and that."

"I've just adopted a bossy New York demeanor since I moved here," I told him.

And yet, like many New Yorkers, I'm bossy and can be brusque in crowds, and at other times when it's necessary to assert myself, but talk to me one-on-one and I'm as friendly and down-to-earth as can be. That's how so many people are here - you've got to demand to get many things, but if you talk to people directly they go out of their way to be nice.

I think it has something to do with this: we're united by our willingness to put up with place, both tyrannical and wondrous, and our love for it - our willingness to sacrifice for that love - unites us. It's as though we were the multiple wives of a charismatic, mercurial man, and we were all alike (despite our rivalries) by the way we loved him in spite of ourselves. That's the feeling you get in New York.

So I like this new me. I may finally be living up to my fiery Aries nature. I never thought I fit the stubborn, take-charge Aries profile, but I think maybe I had just stifled it beneath the good-girl behavior I learned so well.

It's not about being mean, it's just about asking for what you want and telling people, in a reasonable way, when you're not happy with something. I find this tactic rarely has negative results. When you're merely asking for what you want or stating how you feel, no one can really argue. And people respect you more for your cojones. I'm glad to be here, finding mine.

Ruminations

Have I ever mentioned that I love the “Post” in all its rollicking, truculent, unabashedly low-brow magnificence? I gobbled it up this morning and think I ought to do so every day (while dutifully tucking in to the Times as well). The papers seem to appeal to the two sides of me, the serious thinker, and the girl who just wants to have fun.

Outside my window, a schoolbus is bleeping its backup bell and across the street a tall girl with bright-red hair flaring up against her green sweater ambles by. It’s loud here but I like it – I see a lot from my perch.

Some days it takes me so long to wake up. Sometimes I think the only time I truly get out of my hours-long morning daze is when I’m out striding through the sunshine. Yesterday I ventured out around 10:30 to do some long-pushed back errands (tailor, leather repair, etc.). I saved them all because the LES is garment central (or used to be) and I knew I'd get better work at better prices than on the UWS.

My tailor shop, on Orchard Street, charmed the hell out of me. It was narrow and dirty, the floor littered with safety pins and straight pins and lint and other fluff, and an angry, neurotic man was bellowing something about his zipper when I walked in (I think he need therapy worse than zipper-repair). Two old Jewish ladies had their hands folded in their laps or were twittering about – Irene and Susan there were called, which I knew because the proprietor made sure to learn our names. I asked them how the shop was and they informed me there was no better deal on the Lower East Side. The walls were paper with baseball paraphernalia, and the prices were tacked up on big pieces of white paper which clearly stated, in black marker, how much any possible job might cost. I paid $14 for a pants hemming and coat-sleeve repair, which took only 30 minutes, and which I deemed a bargain.

They did another thing I love there, which was refer me to somebody who could do the work better than they when it came to adding a loop to my leather belts. The Puerto Rican man behind the tailor-shop counter directed me to a Jewish shoe-repair shop below Delancey and about five blocks away. Now, this is a neighborhood filled with shoe-repair shops, but he knew just the one. I’m touched by these old arts – the repairing of garments, the customizing and bespoke things. It’s rare these days for anybody to own anything they’re inclined to take care of – when a dress only costs $24.50, who wants to pay $10 to repair it? But I like to own things with history (and usually a few holes) and to keep them and care for them – the reward is greater than with items that fade and pile and come apart (literally) at the seams after you’ve owned them for a month. When that happens with items I buy, I march them back to the store and request a refund. Though increasingly I simply don’t buy them in the first place. I love a bargain but abhor “cheap.” I prefer old things and things with glamour, vintage jewelry – strings of glass beads and old cocktail rings; long leather gloves, fur shrugs (though it’s not pc); coats, coats, coats; belts that have something to say; evening bags; and the kind of dresses made to show off a narrow waist.

It was refreshing to hear an interview with Isaac Mizrahi on WNYC (via the Time's "The Moment" blog) where he advised against buying things on sale – those are the odd, ill-fitting things, he said. Which is kind of what I’ve thought all along, but have been chastising myself for thinking. It was freeing to hear. I think I’d save money, actually, by avoiding sample sales. I seem to get caught up in the moment and buy things I regret. And my favorite things are largely items I’ve just stumbled onto when I wasn’t intending to shop – a vintage snakeskin-patterned raincoat happened upon in a vintage store when I popped in; same thing with an elephant belt and a chartreuse-wool dress – I wasn’t shopping on any of these occasions. One of my favorite clutches was a $100, I-have-no-time-but-I’m-going-to-hold-my-breath-and–buy-this wardrobe addition and another is the Diane von Furstenberg pencil skirt I paid a fortune for but which is my go-to garment I can wear six ways. Yes, the best things are those I spy when I merely step into store for a quick perusal, not intending to get anything – and then I just go for it. When I set out to shop, I go with the mentality that I have to get something, or I haven’t accomplished my goal – and that leads to regretted purchases. I’m going to go to the consignment shop asap, in fact, and unload some of them.

But yesterday. The shoe store was shuttered – we had all forgotten the Jewish holidays. But it’s on my street, practically (in the no man’s land below Delancey) and I’m glad to know where to go. It’s sometimes hard to find these places, they don’t often have websites or advertise much; the tailor shops, the repair spots – all of it is a dying art but one I cherish. And while I was looking for the shoe store I found a much-lauded donut shop, Donut Plant, a harbinger of what the area will be, whose pillow-soft organic donuts made me understand why I once encountered two girls who had taken the subway here expressly to find it. I couldn't direct them to it then, but now I know.

It’s fall in New York and I think I might finally understand this season. Summer was a youthful, go-go party of sultry evenings and endless running around and ensnaring ourselves insouciantly in scrapes only to laugh it off and scamper away. But I think it’s during fall that New York is most itself. In blazing, knowing autumn, the city’s wiseness and weariness is revealed. It’s at once at its most glorious and it also seems to be shrugging off the trials it puts us through: "Yeah, whaddya gonna do?"

I love this place so much that sometimes I’m aching for it before I remember that I’m in it. Could it be true, like some have written, that we all stay in New York for the life we imagine is just around the corner? Maybe that’s part of it, but I’m pretty thrilled with this life – the combination of indulgence and penny-pinching, of glamour and grit. The way I can go about my daily errands and suddenly look up and see the Chrysler Building, or go for a run and watch the sun bounce off the river beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. I never want to lose that sense of wonder.

Blog-dentity crisis

I'm not really sure what this blog is about, to tell you the truth. It's supposed to be my gimlet-eyed ruminations on New York, but it seems like most of the time I just go on and on about myself and the minutiae of my existence - to read it you'd undoubtedly conclude that I'm hopelessly self-absorbed.

It's not that, really. It's just that I don't really know how to blog.. I ought to know -- I've been copyediting the blogs at Nymag.com for a few months now and I think I get their format. Blogs have to be about something - that's the idea. One of these days I will start a blog that is about something - maybe a ramen blog, or one called Lower East Snack.

For now, I guess my goal for this one is to focus more on the writing, so it's an enjoyable read no matter what I'm blogging about, and to make it more sharp-eyed observations, less diary-style gushing.

Thoughts, dear readers, on how Green Eyes on the City could improve?

New digs, fresh start

Sometime mid-last week I felt the first twilight chill in the air, and this time I dug my winter clothes out from under my bed and kept them out. Though the next day, when I tried to wear a purple wool cardigan, drops of sweat beaded on the small of my back and I looked around and it was hot.

It's still too hot for turtlenecks and wool. I know this because I moved across town today, and even in a cotton t-shirt and cut-offs, perspiration pooled and plinked off of me and off of the Uzbek movers. After they had loaded the truck (while I frantically finished packing the kitchen) they set off downtown and I did the same, taking a cab so they wouldn't beat me there. What luxury the cab people enjoy, speeding across town with a view on every side! We mole people of subway voyages get none of that, not counting the occasional sight of a rat.

My driver took the FDR highway, which hugs Manhattan's Eastern edge, and as we merged and he accelerated I realized how little I ride in cars anymore (especially during the day) and how apparent driving's precariousness is to me now; I'm skittish in a car. But the view was glorious, grand, sweeping, and every other cliche. The angled light of a late-fall afternoon burned blue above the East River, above Queens' former factories (now lofts), with the Triborough reclining elegantly in the background. I was suddenly no longer consumed by drudgery of packing and moving. I felt as light, and as much in wonderment, as the day I arrived.

It was a good way to begin a new beginning. And that's what this apartment is, a fresh start. It's more beautiful than I had anticipated, the poshest place I've ever had. Of course, my standards for poshness in housing aren't high -- throw in a dishwasher and I'll swoon as though you offered me the penthouse suite at the Ritz. But it's apparent that care has been taken in the details. There's a marble stoop, granite counters, exposed brick, recessed lighting, closets galore (with clever separate storage units above) and brand-new, good quality kitchen appliances.

So it's gorgeous and for two days, until Sabra arrives, it's mine alone. Mine and my boxes -- they have a life of their own. But I'm tired of being owned by stuff, so a lot of this is going. It's smarter to purge before you move, but it took this new place to inspire me. I now see that the old place was a drag on my energy. I'm glad to be out, and so glad to be here. Bring on the new season, the new place, new opportunities and new attitudes.

Dear readers, please send encouragement

So, it's gotten to the point, and I knew it would happen eventually in New York, where my optimism feels a little bit bedraggled, a little threadbare. I've been in the running for a few great jobs but haven't landed one yet (though there's a good one I'm being considered for - there's my optimism again), getting into freelancing here is proving more fraught with hurdles than I expected, and my energy just feels scattered.

I think scattered may be the nature of the city, though. If you've ever called or emailed someone in New York and not gotten a response for more than a week and thought, what's wrong with this person? I can tell you. It's the city. There's so much going on, so much exciting work to do and places to check out and events constantly and your subway rides are deceptively long, that the time just goes, drains away. A week has passed and you still have unanswered emails. It's a thrilling, rollicking tornado of an existence for those who are truly "doing" the city, but sometimes it causes a person to pull back and wonder why there's never enough time.

I think my apartment situation is a big part of the malaise I'm feeling. I've been ever-so-ready to move since my roommates have devolved into not the greatest - loud music, stuff left all over the living room, dishes that sit in the sink for days, always running around like they're too fabulous to take out the trash - it could be worse, but it's gotten worse than when I moved in, and it's been wearing on me. Plus the boys that live in the neighborhood and catcall like crazy bug me, too. (Yesterday one was driving alongside me, persisting in offering a ride. I declined politely the first five times and then he made some skeezy comment and I exclaimed, "Stop harassing me!" "Harassing?" he said, befuddled).

Sabra and I were supposed to move into our new apartment Sept. 1, but now it's been pushed back til the 15th, and I was really just ready to get out of here. I am going to look at the apartment again tomorrow, so that's exciting. I'll make sure it truly does look 15th-ready (dear god, it better be). I'm just ready to be downtown and away from these current roommates!

Well, I guess that's all my complaining for now. Back to being pluckily optimistic.

Silly food quiz type thing: Who's a foodie?

Saw this on friend's food blog and couldn't resist trying it.
Granted, this is from the U.K., so it skews a little bit more towards the weird British animal-part food category (black pudding, headcheese, haggis, etc.)

Mine score was 55 - I expected higher! But I beat my friend the food blogger's score - hers was only 51. Maybe I should start that ramen blog I've been thinking about...

Want to try it?
Check out the list and hit comment to share your number.

Here’s what you do:
1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
4) Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:
1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O

39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake

Wonder Weekend

Had a total blast this weekend. The highlights:

-Friday night, dinner with Caitlin et al at Schiller's in the Lower East Side, a couple of blocks from both Brad's place and from my future apartment. Schiller's is really famous because it's about a zillion years old, and while I liked the food and the atmosphere, I felt like the menu should have had more in the way of light options appropriate for summer. Oh well, when you've been around a zillion years, I guess you do what you want. Brad's boyfriend Walter, who is much older, was visiting from Austin and he was nice enough to pick up the tab for all of us, which he frequently does. He has a gruff air about him, but he's actually a sweetie.

After Schillers we headed to this cute underground bar I've been to before, which doesn't really have much in the way of a sign, so I'm not sure of the name. Bar 151 or something. When that place proved kind of dead, Brad was at a loss (he mostly goes to gay bars) and nobody else knew the neighborhood. I'd been to one nearby bar a couple of weeks before and remembered that it had good dance music --not so much clubby, just eclectic, more old-school -- so we headed over there and sure enough, the music was rockin'. It was mostly 50s and 60s soul, which reminded me of Sock Hop music, and is about my favorite for dancing. After a few vodka and red bulls, we were all boogying along with the hipster-y crowd.

-Saturday, I straightened up a bit and worked a little on this important project I'm doing (more on that later) and then in the late afternoon Lariss and I headed to the Warmup party at P.S.1, the contemporary art museum in Long Island City, Queens that's housed in a former school. The party was fun - music, beer, lots of pretty people - but what impressed me most was the museum itself. At most museums I get the feeling that I'm a spectator merely taking everything in, a very one-sided relationship, but somehow these exhibits engaged viewers more deeply. It wasn't anything gimmicky and self-consciously "interactive," either, it was just that we were asked to more than just look. In one mostly dark room, six diver suits hung from the ceiling, ominous and larger than actual people. They were holding large wrenches and other scary-looking metal implements and occasionally a light would flicker on above one of them. Sound effects included much creaking and groaning, and a strange smell filled the air that was probably compressed oxygen. It was eerie and weird and nightmare-ish.
I liked many of the other exhibits, too, but what I appreciated overall was their variety. Different media - film, hanging things, a room with all the walls painted like a Utopic brookside scene with big fluffy beanbag chairs to recline in. It was (in my inexpert opinion) contemporary art at its best: not towering, abstract, and impenetrable, but designed to engage the viewer in varied and surprising ways.

Saturday night we were out with the girls in what has become a typical night for us: Dinner at Employees Only, dancing at Tenjune, and then a nightcap at Employees Only. Irish knows everyone there, so we sat with the employees in the garden and ate late-night snacks and some people smoked. Then Lariss and I shared a cab back to the Upper West Side.

Today Irish and I had an amazing time at the free Yo La Tengo show at McCarren Park Pool. It was the last of the legendary Jelly NYC shows, and was bittersweet because after this they're closing the pool as a concert venue and turning it back into a pool. Right now it's an enormous shell where a public pool used to be, and it's perfect for all of the varied activities they had today: the show, dodge ball, four square, lots of booths giving things away and signing people up to vote, etc., and Irish's and my favorite: the slip n' slide. We spent hours slip n' sliding, and made friends with two little girls, sisters who were 5 and 8. They were so darling and sweet, and liked to hold our hands and we hung out with them all afternoon. It was an adorable family, actually. The parents were young and good-looking and (evidently) French, because the little girls started speaking it with their cousin, to our surprise. It was really a wonderful time - relaxed and carefree and a perfect way to spend one of the last summer Sundays.

New Communications

Had an appointment at the Apple store today to get a "genius" to look at my cracked iPhone. The screen had a small crack and half of the touch icons had stopped responding. I figured there was nothing to be done but that I ought to have them look. In an annoyed mood I fought my way through throngs of tourists at the 59th and 5th location to get to the appointment I'd had to wait two days for.

"Yep, it's cracked all right," the genius said, examining my phone. "We'll have to get you a new one." He busily started pulling out some paperwork. 

"Wait, how much will that cost?" I asked, dreading the answer.

He looked at me a beat, "Well, it shouldn't cost anything. It should still be under warranty."

Zing!

As though it were the most natural thing in the world, he did a few things and then handed over my new $400 piece of equipment. It took ten minutes.

I hadn't even realized my phone had a warranty. But now I'm the elated owner of a brand-new phone and brand-new white case. Who needs the iPhone 2.0?

****

Now that I'm leaving the UWS soon, there's a list of must do's before I go (don't call it a "bucket list" or I'll have to reconsider our acquaintance). One of them was to have beers with David from the hood on the roof of his building (I didn't meet him in the hood, actually, I met him through Maria). He actually grew up in the building and now lives there with his parents while he figures out his next career move. It's pretty sweet. His parents and some other Utopia-minded types took over the building 30-some years ago when it was abandoned and buildings like that could be had for free by the "urban homesteaders" willing to fix them up. So David grew up knowing all of his neighbors, not needing to knock before he went into their apartments -- a great way for a kid to be raised. 

So anyway, we had the beers, and then David's friend Julia came by with an orange watermelon that I at first thought was a pumpkin.

"Why is she plopping a pumpkin on the table?" I thought. "Is this yet another harbinger of fall?

But, no, it was another reminder that this is still summer -- if only for a short while longer. 

After the beers, David and I got pizza slices at Koronet on Broadway and 110th. Columbia students were everywhere, enjoying the mild night and one of the last summer Thursdays. Their classes must start soon. Everyone's in the mood to squeeze in as many last moments as possible, including me.

Plunkety-plunk

Many things have happened since I last checked in. Some snippets, in no particular order:

Went to another MediaBistro mixer last night (honestly, not sure if these things are worth it), and saw the same fluffily balding guy staring pointedly in my direction. I've now downgraded his status to downright creepy. Hopefully I won't get another emailed invitation to "Get together socially." Got hit on subsequently by another weirdo. Did I make any business connections? Not really.

    *****

Felt the first chill in the air, during a month that's supposed to be sweltering. There was such a crisp breeze this morning that I dug my winter clothes out from under my bed. But then the day warmed up and I put them back.

*****

Today I walked down a midtown street with two piano stores and a choir school. It was after 8 in the evening and the shops were shuttered. Though I longed to hear the trill of some long-forgotten song trickling out between a door crack, I heard no music.

*****

1)Saw the 70s version of "Superman" in Bryant Park (the one with Christopher Reeve). I'd never realized what an overly long movie it is, which is all the more difficult to sit through when you're unable to hear due to crappy park sound system. Enjoyed flying scenes, however. 

2)Saw a Mexican film called "Duck Season" (which I kept wanting to call "Duck Soup") at a park in Queens tonight with Molly and Ian. It was the last of a wonderful outdoor film series there that offered foreign films with coordinating (nationality-wise) bands and food. Wish I'd thought of that!

*****

Everyone here is obsessed with summer ending. Already, in a late-July issue, "Time Out"'s cover story was "50 things to do before summer ends." It's as bad as the back-to-school issue of Seventeen that used to plunk its way into my mailbox in early July demanding that I begin to think about wool and boots. People seem to be frantically gobbling up these last few weeks of summer, the Labor Day deadline looming. Who knows, it's my first summer-into-fall here, so for all I know, the second Labor Day ends the temperature plummets and everyone starts wearing turtlenecks. I'll let you know. 

I'm used to long, lazy Austin summers that stretch on and on until sometime in early to mid-November you feel your first goosebump in months, and think, "Oh gee, I wonder if I still own anything long-sleeved?" This has been a mild August, and between the chill, the "Time Out" headlines and the fall clothes in store windows, I sometimes feel as gloomy as though it's mid-winter already. But then I look around at the glorious New York day and remember that wow, it is in fact full-fledged summer! 

(some) enchanted evenings

Saw "South Pacific" on Sunday. I had gotten the tickets for free and my friend Brad had been supposed to come with me and then he cancelled at the last minute, so I desperately texted everyone I knew, dangling a free ticket. Jean Scheidnes wanted it, thank god, but you'd be surprised how tough it is to give away a fifth-row ticket to the season's most sold-out Broadway show. Everyone was in Hoboken or something (What's the world coming to?). My backup plan had been to scalp it and watch the play alone, but I don't think there's much scalping demand at Lincoln Center. 

The show was a perfect Broadway effort. Jean loved it, too. It was modern yet true to the original, and the cast was so exuberant, clearly having a blast. Afterwards we had some wine at the Hudson Hotel. It was gray out and we perched on a bed-like banquette on the roof deck they have there. The air was heavy and damp -- good Sunday-afternoon air. We perched there and talked about books and fashion and the future. ("Perch" is the verb of choice of society girls, you know - no one "sits" anymore, too ordinary). I felt ever so posh. 

Tonight went to a MediaBistro mixer at a nondescript East Midtown bar. It was called Chill - an aptly nondescript name. Unfortunately, it attracted a crowd of men who, if not wholly nondescript themselves, were there for a different sort of mingling than I had in mind. At least one was, and he pounced on me the moment I got there. I signed in, got my name tag, ordered some wine, and there he was - he literally had me cornered. Actually he was a nice guy and seemed interesting and not sleazy or anything, but he wasn't cute -- he looked tired out and was balding in a fluffy way. But not just that - he reeked of desperation (though not of liquor -- in fact, he seemed like he could have used a drink). He's making a documentary about the convergence of music, film and art in the 60s and 70s. Sounds really interesting, actually, but the guy was just a bit awkward. He cut right to the "chase": had I moved here alone? was I STILL single? did I want to get together "socially"? Had I seem the biopic of Hunter S. Thompson? did I want to go? I gracefully escaped, claiming I needed to find a friend. And now I just received an email from him, using that "getting together socially" phrase again. Ick. 

It's just like the French guy who started talking about going home together well before we were even ready to leave Zanzibar (the bar, not the country -- if he took me there I'd probably sleep with him). Then he asked me if I wanted kids, and how many. (I told him five). We didn't go home together, but I had to be very persistent in saying no. Egads! 

These men want to skip all the flirting - the fun stuff - and fast-track things. They're in a hurry. And people say women in their thirties are desperate...

Donde esta la mystere, boys? It's not sexy without it. Men aren't the only ones who like a dose of the Rules. 

Wowzers, Coney Island!

Friday night ended up being one of those wonderful New York nights where you go into it with no expectations and then it ends up being wonderful and crazy and one of a kind and you're reminded of why you love New York. I knew it would be fun, but I headed for dinner with girlfriends in the West Village with just that expectation - that it would be fun. We ate at a spot called Employees' Only, three doors down from Irish's place and wonderful and candlelit and speakeasy-like, with great music that's never so loud that it drowns out your conversation. We know the owners there since Irish goes all the time, so we had a great table and wonderful food and then after they had a free round of drinks waiting for us at the bar. 

I met a French guy named Jerome and spoke French with him a little and he got my number and then I laughed with my girlfriends and then we moved on. We tried the Beatrice Inn and some rat-dog, 98-pounder of a girl with a long black tail for a mane was guarding the door and deemed us unworthy to enter, even though we all looked hot. I think it's because Kristin, who's an actress, brought out some weird Scottish accent when asking if we could go in -- she's older and I don't think she was into the scene, but it meant none of us were permitted to enter - oh well.

Lariss, whom I met in Austin at my birthday party was there (I had invited her after she texted me Thursday and I'm so glad she came!), so then Irish Lariss and i continued to upstairs at Harry's or Henry's or something - one of the Cipriani places (likely soon to be bankrupt if Page Six Magazine is to be believed) and there we met up with Tatiyana, who thinks she's ever-so-cool and probably is (but shouldn't make it so obvious), who introduced us to the owner and made us feel grateful for the opportunity to pay $15 for well vodka. Sort of, anyway.

Then Lariss, Irish and I hopped in a cab to Tenjune, in the meatpacking and danced our asses off with a veritable United Nations of men - Swiss, German, other things I don't remember. The German guy who was hitting on me was really ugly, pale and blond with a big pumpkin head (not my type at all, even minus the pumpkin head), so at 3:30 when we escaped into the night I wasn't sorry. Crossing the street, we ran -- literally almost smacked into -- some Spanish guys, who started chatting us up until Lariss and I had paired off - me with the tall gorgeous floppy-haired collegiate-looking guy and her with the shorter guy who was cute and had long lashes. They took us to a diner down the street that was aptly called The Diner, and we ate pancakes until the place closed down 20 minutes later. The cute floppy-haired guy ate off my plate, and I swooned, even though I couldn't help but think it should have been the other way around. But he paid, so it was fine.

Then we went out into the brightening early morning and the crazy long-lashed guy declared that it was time to go to the beach. We chuckled, but he was serious. He ran across the street and hailed a cab and told us to get in, we're going to the beach. The driver wasn't sure - are you sure? he kept asking us, but at least one of us was sure, so we went to Brighton Beach/Coney Island in the cab. It was 5:30 a.m. and tons of people were there, all of them 70 and over, taking a morning constitutional or swim. Why are you up so early, we asked one Speedoed oldster. Just try sleeping past 5 when you're my age, he replied.

a comedy tonight

First note: We got the apartment. It's been a hellish cross-continental exchange between Sabra, her mom and aunt, my dad and me (we need guarantors, since we're not rolling in dough), but it's set. Tomorrow I go to sign the lease!

So I'm leaving the UWS just as I've made friends in the hood. There's a whole lot of young people quietly living up here, a bunch of whom are friends with each other. I met the three guys who live in apt 33 (my number) in the building next door, and one of them invited me to his comedy show tonight. Well, it got cancelled because the bar where they hold their shows is shutting down - today! Rising rents... Seems to be the theme around here...

So instead they had everybody over to some friends' apartment on 104th st. - a nice, big place shared by four people, and a regular party evolved into singing and sketches by the comedy troupe. The best one was a skit where two British guys were interviewing babysitter candidates. Among the motley crew, a detective in hat came in and started spewing off names involving children's book titles. "That Amelia Bedelia, etc." The best joke was something like: "Now, Madeline I like. She's a sweet French number. She'd make Clifford the Big Red Dog sit up and say 'Woof.' She gave Alexander a terrible, horrible no good, very bad...boner." When I heard that I nearly fell off my chair.