On Being a Fashionista and Why I Need a Job.

It was on a visit to the UK four years ago that I first found the love. Topshop. Cool cut shapes, bold colors, wild prints, hanging, folded, and robed on gaunt, white mannequins as if straight from the catwalk. It was like a fashion runway exploded. With each piece I put my hands on I was tempted, every one stylish down to the seams. But with the unfortunately poor exchange rate of dollars to pounds and the logistical dilemma of transporting suitcases full of purchases back to US soil, my item total tallied only two. They would however remain beloved pieces of my wardrobe for years to come.

Cut to— New York City, Spring 2009. Topshop has arrived.

Being the disciplined lady of frugality that I am, I was able to steer clear of downtown’s Broadway-Grand Street intersection for months, knowing that a step inside the three-floor palace of fashion goodies would only lead to doom, as every step further would in turn bring me closer to dollars more debt that a jobless me simply cannot pay off. But, following a conversation with a fashionista friend last week, I decided things might need to change.

I’ll back up a little.

Ok first, I am not a fashionista. That however, is not to say I don’t love fashion. I do, very much so, and I admire the amazing minds and hands that create it for us, and likewise those [fashionistas/os] for whom celebrating it every minute of every day almost seems like life’s work. I watched Style with Elsa Klensch when I was a teenager and cared more about the collages of runway footage in Harpar’s Bazaar than I ever did the dating tips in Cosmo. Although I didn’t choose fashion as my field of study, I do have a passion for it, though it might best be termed a closeted one. No pun intended. I go to sleep at night designing garments in my mind (that I often think I should put down on paper) and when I see a well-dressed lady or gent on the street, though I never actually drool, I will say aloud, ‘great outfit.’

Larger than the issue that I lack the riches to be a fashionista, I simply do not have the patience. For me it’s typically top, bottom, shoes, GO!, the layers and accessories fallen by the wayside. Anything in excess of the basic pieces required to cover what needs to be covered are more like collectibles to me, organized by cut, color and type but rarely making appearances beyond my humble abode.

So the other night, I was out with this fashionista friend and I mentioned wanting to give my wardrobe a make over…not so much to buy everything new, but to work with what I have and try to make it great…to really find a look for myself. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “You do tend to go more for comfort than style.” My face contorted into a puzzled grimace. Yeah ok, I like to be comfortable, but it’s not as if I have a closet full of elastic waste jeans and slide-on sneakers like someone out of a Land’s End catalog.

WTF? I thought laughing to myself, watching her wobbly steps as she tried to cross the cobblestone street in 5 ½-inch stilettos.

So, now on a mission to make-me-over, I’ve thought things through. I’m not going the route of hooker shoes (yes, even she called them that), but as it’s time for the annual summer clothes-winter clothes closet shuffle, I am allowing myself a trip or two Topshop. It is the answer to all my fashion woes. In between the racks of ruffles, glitter, zippers and a line by queen of the waifs, Kate Moss, there is no way to go wrong. Whatever you pick up is screaming style—they’ve done the work for you. Sure this might mean you’re leaving in a torn tee and a fluffy tutu but hey, this is New York.

So after all those months where downtown saw nothing but Topshop posters plastered on building walls, tragically hip models with sultry stares trying to lure us over for a visit, I get it. I knew it was great but I guess I’d forgotten. Yeah, it’s great. It’s fashion heaven, for all of us who can’t afford Chanel and Louis.

I need not only dream of being a fashionista…I can be one. Now…if I only had a job.

This Is My City!

If you’re like me, a lover of summer who much prefers the days of lightweight clothing and open-toed shoes to frigid temperatures and the necessary earmuffs and travel pack of Kleenex, you’re probably wincing too. How is it that summer has once again come and gone? The pools are closed and the screaming children are back at their desks. The foreign tourists have departed to their motherlands and the boxes of winter clothes we bade farewell only months ago have emerged from the depths of our closets. Goodbye to sipping melted lemon ices, hello to crunching fallen leaves beneath our feet, and in a few more months, shivering bodies and noses being burned by frostbite.

It would be unfair for me to continue, as if for summer’s stretch I was cooped up within cubicle walls under buzzing fluorescent lights and artificially cooled air that inevitably would be too cold for my thin skin. My last three months were, essentially a New York City stay-cation, where my days consisted of adventuring throughout the five boroughs in search of fun, with a work portion at my desk at home, which more often than not, took place in my pajamas.

With my final post of 92 Days of Summer just last week, I am now twisting my torso in hopes to relieve the knots in my back that keep me up at night. From stress, perhaps? I know, “What stress?” you ask, smirking at the fact that I would even dare say such a thing when for twelve weeks I have had no real responsibility other than swiping the life out of my MetroCard and jotting down some thoughts on my travels. Though it sounds like I’ve been taking a joy ride, with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, it has been work, and a commitment I made to myself that I would not default on. One activity every day, and a post, that even if I didn’t feel like writing, I had to do. Now that it’s over, I must say that this might have been the best summer I’ve ever had. When I decided to embark on this 92-day journey, some friends thought I might be biting off more than I could chew. “One activity a week is enough,” someone suggested, and “Well if you don’t post everyday, it’s fine,” another said. No way, I thought. And now knowing of Julie Powell’s 365-day endeavor, I breathe relief that I accomplished a measly 92.

As much as it feels like summer just began, it seems like forever ago that there I was hiking over to Park Avenue at 105^th Street to the Central Park Conservatory Gardens on Day 1. Day 92 finished with a night visit to the Empire State Building, which I hadn’t done since my freshman year of school here in 1995. (Cough couch). In between, I finally walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, ate a pastrami sandwich at Katz’s Deli, and ventured to Long Island City to the Socrates Sculpture Park and the Noguchi Museum. I was serenaded by a cute twenty-three-year-old on a gondola ride in Central Park, humored by the sights on a day at Coney Island and thrown for a loop watching my friend win five-hundred bucks at the track. I wined and dined at NY Restaurant Week, tried my hand at kayaking in the Hudson River and spent three days waiting for tickets to Shakespeare in the Park. I walked through neighborhoods I’ve only heard of, got my money’s worth out of the aforementioned MetroCard more so than I ever did commuting to work, and found things to do and places to see I’d never before had the time to look for. I struggled to find friends whose schedules allow them as much free time as mine does and ended up making most of my trips solo outings. I stood in the middle of busy sidewalks with my camera like I’d never seen such sights, and as a result bothered businessmen rushing to get by as I would block pedestrian traffic trying to capture the perfect shot. I carried my map around like any foreigner does and even succumbed to asking directions when I feared getting lost.

In a matter of ninety-two days I got to know this city better than I have in the thirteen years I’ve called it home. I found treasures I never knew about and as a result fell in love again. I may have looked like a tourist, minus the I Love NY tee and the Midwestern drawl, but felt with every step like I was home. As often as the idea of leaving comes up in conversation, it’s really difficult to imagine not being here. I probably will take off someday, when the right force pulls me elsewhere. But for now, this is my city. And I’m singin’ it!

Starstruck

For one of last week’s summer blog posts I took the train under the river to Carroll Gardens one afternoon for a tour of Smith Street. I’d been before, but never with a solid three-hour block of time to stroll freely and stop as I pleased. Smith Street is Hoboken’s Washington, Williamsburg’s Bedford, the main drag, the happening place. So with a map in hand, I walked along from point A to B, surveying the cafes and boutiques where I spied some designer duds I wished were hanging in my closet rather than hanging on a mannequin on the other side of shatter-proof glass of the store window. But being that the distance from A to B was less than a mile in length, in a matter of twenty minutes (thanks to having no money to spend, nor anyone to share a late lunch with) I was ready to turn around and go back to Manhattan, my home borough to which I admit, I’m a little addicted. 

While I headed South on Smith Street towards the train I spotted a tall, skinny hipster approaching me with a look of odd excitement on his face, one that was notably strange for a pretty regular looking dude on a mid-day walk. Yeah, ok, whatever, I thought as with his quick stride he grew nearer. I kept in my forward direction until we were about a sidewalk paver’s distance away from one another when he flashed a grin the entire width of his face. “Julia Roberts is over there,” he whispered, gleefully yet unobtrusively, as if spilling an FBI-grade secret. I looked back with an equally giddy smile and wide eyes and asked, “where?” He didn’t slow his pace a bit but rather, replied mid-step with a “back there,” and an arm pointed in the general vicinity of where she, Ms. Roberts was. Yes, obviously it was there, where the black curtain was blocking off the vacant restaurant’s façade and film equipment trucks were lined up as part of whatever effort was taking place.

I’ve seen a good deal of celebrities throughout my tenure in New York, and though I don’t take that silly pleasure for granted, in truth, it’s become commonplace. The other day I was grocery shopping alongside Jean Reno (that guy from The Professional with Natalie Portman); I recently walked passed Willem Dafoe in the village, and one night passed Reese Witherspoon leaving my neighborhood deli. (Ok, I admit, I almost fainted on that occasion!) Jerry Seinfeld cruised past me in his Porsche once, and before she passed away, I once saw Carolyn Bessette Kennedy in a shop. She was beautiful. My closest celebrity relationship however is with Famke Janssen who lives around the block from me and is always either bike riding or walking her dog. Our run-ins are so regular I feel like we should be waving and exchanging hellos by now. But like I said, it’s commonplace. I see these people in there everyday lives and remember they’re just like us—ish.

Ok, Back to Smith Street… Well as ready as I was to skip town in favor of my own beloved neighborhood, with this new morsel of information there was no way I was leaving just yet. I mean this is Julia Roberts we’re talking about. Mystic Pizza, Steel Magnolias, Pretty Woman. She’s not my favorite actress, but she is a living legend. A goddess. Named one of the most powerful women in America and a ‘most-beautiful person’ eleven times. She’s something if she’s got even got hipster Brooklyn dudes weak in the knees.

So I continued to pace—back and forth along Smith Street, down the block and over to Court Street, and back again, watching the minutes pass in hopes that I might perfectly coordinate an ‘accidental’ run-in during which I would throw all pride aside and humbly ask, “Excuse me Julia…could I get a picture with you?” I would. I’d be a complete dork for a moment, like me in my grade-school years where pages of Bop magazine decorated my walls and I truly believed Balthazar Getty would one day be my boyfriend. I’d break the golden rule of celebrity etiquette that it takes knowing, to be qualified as a true New Yorker, and I’d ask her for a photo. Assuming she’d agree, I’d then sprint home to upload my newly prized image and boast to the world, my star-studded afternoon.

It didn’t so much end that way. After a half a dozen walk-bys and the guys at the equipment truck beginning to give me looks like, “Come on lady” I decided it was time to surrender. Even if I don’t have the picture, I can add to my archive of New York stories that one day I was just down the block from Julia Roberts filming a movie. When I go the see it (the film adaptation of Eat, Pray Love) on the big screen I can chant to myself , “I was there! I was there!”. In the end it’s probably better this way. Looking back I suppose I should feel relieved that I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. If I ever get the chance again, instead of gushing, I’ll play it cool and say something like, “Oh hey Jewels. S’up?”

Some Enchanted Evening

I have been told so many times that I will meet the love of my life when I least expect it, you’d think by now I’d have figured out not to bother doing my makeup before leaving the house. Just the same, people always say that some of the greatest times in life are unplanned. So, am I to throw my makeup out the window and dismiss the possibility of bumping into my future husband in the produce department or at the post office? And likewise, am I never to plan or hope for good times with friends? Ok, maybe I’m taking it too far. I’ll admit, I do know first-hand that sometimes unplanned moments are indeed the best.

I recently experienced one such moment on a mid-week evening in Central Park. I’ve been there so many times during my life as a New Yorker, one might assume that my fascination for it has waned. No, no, no. To me the park is a puzzle—a great green puzzle in the middle of Gotham City taking up a block of land that measures 843 acres. This impresses me to no end, and even after so many years, there are countless pieces to this puzzle that are stranger to me. It was only last week, that I really discovered the lake. Never mind that I’ve been to Bethesda Fountain a thousand times before; I suppose I’m usually so taken by the Angel of the Waters herself, that I’ve never paid much attention to the rather substantial body of water behind her!

The other night, I went with friends for what was to be a casual glass of wine at the boathouse, thinking it would be a nice change from the typical air-conditioned bars of summer. Well, we arrived to find that every other park-goer (local and tourist) had the same idea that evening. So we waited in line as one glass of wine turned to two and before long we had a table. It was turning twilight and the rowing had finished for the day. There was not a boat on the water but one—the gondola, docked. Gondola? I’d never even known you could take gondola ride in Central Park. And I probably wouldn’t have been so interested in going out for one had it not been for the fair-haired young gent sitting at the stern waiting for takers.

I didn’t notice him at first, but my friends, neither of which is in the market for a new man, both did. At one glance they were convinced he was perfect for me. This is what married girls do. Like hawks watching for prey, they are always on the lookout for suitable mates for their single friends. As over the years I’ve grown used to this practice, I’ve also perfected my uninterested response, always with a new reason why it just won’t work—an arrogant nature, wandering eyes, pleated pants, goatees. But this one, I agreed hit the mark, in terms of appearance at least. He was in a gondolier’s costume of red and white stripes and a hat, but nevertheless, I agreed he was cute and very much my type. 

Still, going for a ride seemed too obvious. We continued to watch and whisper, and as girls do, we began to feel sad for him as he sat there all alone. It’s like the bird with a broken wing thing—you just want to take care of him. Certainly he was fine; maybe even cherishing the interlude. But my friends were on mission. So minutes later, following handshakes and an exchanging of names, with champagne in hand, the three of us stepped into the gondola to let our sweet (but not broken) bird take us away.

It was magical. Once out into the lake, we realized its grandeur—a glassine surface, like a mirror, reflecting the park’s lush green and the famous Upper West Side architecture towering above in the soon-to-be night sky. And in our boat, over the quiet that surrounded us, our gondolier serenaded us in Italian. It’s fitting for the comedy that is my life that I was there with my girlfriends. Some enchanted evening.

It would be quite a story if I could say that we rowed off into the sunset, the cute gondolier and me, but we all know the likelihood of such fairytale endings. It was really more about the unexpected wonder we stumbled upon that night. None of us thought we’d be on a lake in a gondola, not to mention there with a handsome stranger. We couldn’t have planned it. Or, at least if we had tried, it wouldn’t have been so perfect.

Ladies Who Lunch

I’ve never been able to imagine one day reaching a point in life where I’d fit into the category of ‘ladies who lunch’. Lunch to me has more often than not, been centered on the task of finding sustenance for a weary body, hours after a low-cal yogurt breakfast, when in need of a re-fueling, to plow through the rest of my workday. Lunch was always something like PB&J or turkey and Swiss on pita, rounded out with apple slices, and sweetened by a miniature peppermint patty. It was packed daily in a humble brown paper bag and consumed at my desk in front of the computer. I would eat it quietly in approximately ten minutes flat, because as many of us that have ever spent any amount of time as part of the workforce know, the lunch hour has died. In my world, lunch was ordinarily not a dressed-up affair; never a mid-day delighting in culinary pleasures with my gals; rarely a treat, no matter how well deserved a regular one might have been.

When my childhood friend and former fellow Manhattan gal Katie called me last week to let me know she was coming into town for work, my head began buzzing. We would go here and there and everywhere, painting the town together, like we did in the old days. But as usual when she’s here, though her paying job demands only a small fraction of her time, she is like a piece of taffy, pulled in ten directions trying to see all half-dozen of us she keeps in touch with. So, being the free agent I am these days, I laid out my open calendar and offered that she choose whatever window she like for us to do something—brunch, drinks, whatever. It made no difference to me. I did however sneak in a mention that New York City Restaurant Week was going on and maybe we go to dinner at one of the participating restaurants that ordinarily would not fit within our personal budgetary constraints. Her voice took on a fervent ring, being not so much a foodie, but one that’s always up for a touch of glamour, be it ruby-red lipstick, fine wine, trips to Paris, dinner at fancy restaurants…you get the idea. But it was only 11am so dinner was at least six hours away, and we were already so famished we might’ve taken to eating our hands. Instead, we decided on making it a lunch. And along with Katie, would come Nathalie, her equally glamorous co-worker, who in their trips over the years, I’ve come to know and love.

After scanning menus online and measuring our options with each of our tastes, we landed on Bar Boulud. It seemed the perfect place—French cuisine (as we all loved), outdoor seating (that who in the summertime in NYC doesn’t love?), and best, only steps from Katie and Nat’s hotel. We arrived shortly after one o’clock, sat at our table in the shade, ordered three crisp glasses of wine and studied our menus trying all the while not to be distracted by the sensory overload that enveloped the air around us—sips and sighs, clanking glasses and gorgeous plates of artfully prepared food being set down at adjacent tables. It was all so much more beautiful than our typical daytime fare, and so out of the norm for us.

We managed to try all nine of the items on the Restaurant Week lunch menu, each of us choosing a different appetizer, entrée and dessert, and subsequently sharing bites, collectively savoring not only the exquisite flavors of our meal, but the act of lunching itself. There we sat, dolled up in summer sundresses, with dark sunglasses, French twist hairdos, and Pashmina scarves that an hour before were pulled out of our closets— or for Katie and Nat, their suitcases—and thrown on to make us each look the part. No one there knew that this wasn’t an everyday indulgence for us. No one knew that under the table I was texting my bank to confirm my week’s unemployment pay had gone through. I know, I know—is a fifty-dollar lunch really a responsible move for a woman without a job? Not typically, but in the name of research, yes!

So thanks to my lovely friends being in town, for a day, I got to sit amongst the ‘ladies who lunch’. Even better, I got to be one myself. Now I know the pleasure it is, and yes, I’d happily be a lady who lunches any day of the week!

Rules of Fashion?

I passed this scene on the street earlier today and got to thinking…are there really any rules of fashion here in NYC? Of course there are guidelines—do’s and don’t that should be paid attention—but really friends, anything goes. No one in NYC should ever worry that what they have on might just be too strange. Outdated? Yes, that’s bad. But personal style? Who cares. Wear whatever makes you happy. If this guy can stand on a street corner of Columbus Circle in broad daylight in tighty-whities and a pair of angel wings, you can wear that freaky ensemble that no one seems to get but you. Really, that’s all that matters.

[Waiting for tickets to] Shakespeare in the Park

Nearly halfway into my 92 Days of Summer blog, for which I’ve challenged myself to find one thing of note to do, see, or taste for every day of this New York City summer, last week I finally decided that it was time for Shakespeare in the Park. Before I go any further, let me clarify… By ‘challenged’, I do not mean that there is a shortage of things to do here in this marvelous metropolis; rather, I mean that not just anything can find a spot on my list. I care only to share and yes, I guess boast a little, about the things that I find extraordinary! In my imagination this event would fit the bill—Twelfth Night, in Central Park, starring the lovely…Anne Hathaway.

Word around town is that the line for tickets can be rather long, as they are free, and if you really want them, you have to show up early. Yeah, ok, I thought. I’m currently unemployed—it’s not like I don’t have the time. So before going to bed the night before I was set to go, I got online in search of tips so that I would be most prepared. On one page of a generally trustworthy source, I read that the best chance of getting tickets is by joining the line, in Central Park, between 8 and 10 a.m. Easy enough. But, being one who cannot boast punctuality as a strong suit, I decided I would aim for seven.

In the end, I spent a total of twenty-one hours over three mornings sleeping in the park (as if I didn’t have a regular roof over my head) before landing two of the more or less golden tickets.

Day 1 – Monday:

At 7:50am I arrived at the 81^st street C train stop and headed into the park. Slung over my shoulder was a medium sized tote packed with an assortment of items I believed would adequately carry me through the day with regard to hunger, boredom and fatigue should I encounter any of them while laying in wait. The contents of my bag included: book to read, Muji tablet with pen and pencil for taking notes, bottle of water, Lara Bar, peach, turkey and cheddar roll-ups, cucumber slices, towel, phone, money, metro card.

Unsure of exactly where I was headed, I hopped on the trail of a woman carrying a tote bag with blanket, whom I assumed was on the same mission. Indeed she was! Upon reaching the line’s end, which to our delight was in a partial sunny/partial shady patch of grass, we unfolded our blankets and in unison, sighed at the sight of the line ahead of us. (Later in the day en route back from the bathroom, I counted 278 people.) Minutes later another woman arrived behind me and while she proceeded to put together a folding camp chair, we began to chat. For the next six hours we shared stories about life in New York City, about her kids, my blogs, her art and of course our thoughts on the chance of actually walking away with tickets. Our little group that started out a random sampling of strangers, by the end of the day, was rather like a comfortable circle of friends.

I know, the idea of hanging out in a patch of grass with people you don’t know for half a day doesn’t immediately sound like the dream. Really it wasn’t so bad. It was like any other picnic in the park, where people set themselves up with reclining chairs, card tables, laptops, gourmet food spreads. Theater security guards that looked more like summer camp counselors—young, cute, enthusiastic—would come around answering questions and maintaining the peace. They’d let us know our chances based on where we were in line be it ‘The Rock of Hope’, ‘The Tree of Chance’, or where I was, in ‘The Grass of Uncertainty.’ Guys from the local deli would ride by on bicycles calling out names of people who placed phone orders. Yes, a deli delivering to people on line for tickets—only in New York! Seeing it all, I realized that this was, not just any line for tickets, it was…a thing.

At 1:28, as we rounded the last curve of the path from the front of the line, all hope was lost. Tickets were gone. As I walked away, with tired eyes, an aching back and good ole’ fashioned disappointment, I wondered: would I be up for doing this again?

Of course I would.

Day 2 – Wednesday:

Knowing after my first unsuccessful attempt at getting tickets, that the recommended 8am arrival time yielded nothing more than a fat chance, I devised for myself a better, hopefully more profitable plan for Day Two: stay the night at friend’s Upper West Side apartment (two blocks from the park), wake up at five and be out the door by 5:33 (when the forecast says the sunrise takes place), find a better spot in line, get a few hours rest, read a little, write a little, chat with new friends should I make any, and by ten after one, have tickets in hand. Not so much. Staying at friend’s meant two glasses of wine and an accompanying late night of gossip. My 5am wakeup turned out to be 5:14 and by the time I arrived down to street level, it looked as if the sun had been hanging out in the sky for days. When I landed at my spot in line I was pleased to find that I was well in front the Rock of Hope and it’s neighboring tree and grass. This time I was in the mulch (literally) and thanks to smart packing had, in addition to my towel, a large fleece blanket as well. Since I had assumed it would be a sunny day, like the first one, I had on shorts and a short-sleeved tee. But…no, no…I was in the shade. This time rather than a picnic, it felt like camp in the middle of October as there I was curled up in a ball trying to keep warm on the cold, wet earth beneath me.

Oddly enough, as I was walking into the park that second day, I was disappointed not to have my friends from Day 1 there by my side. And then I remembered, that they had started off as strangers. So I continued on to the end of the line with that thought in mind and opened myself up to the possibility that I might meet someone of equal or greater awesomeness. Again, not so much. To my right was a pair of girls my age, but brainier and though fun to eavesdrop on, nowhere near as chummy as my previous visit’s pals. To my left was a man who suffered from a combination of severe social awkwardness, an addiction to Marlboro Reds, and uncomfortably loud gastro-intestinal issues. Fun for me. The day wore on, in many ways the same as the first and in many ways differently. For one, I felt a bit more like a pro at the game. And as a pro, I felt that this time, surely I would get tickets.

At 12:45, we stood up and shuffled along toward the ticket guy. Again, I felt the nervousness rumbling in my tum. And to my utter shock, this time, mere feet away from ticket handoff, again I felt the heartbreak. “Sorry folks,” he said. “We are out of tickets. If you’d like to wait in the standby line…” Ugh! The thought of the standby line made my stomach churn so, I walked away. And again I asked myself, “can you give it one more shot?” Of course I could! Only the next time, I would have an even better plan.

Day 3- Thursday:

As I had proposed that, should I get tickets, she’d get to be my lucky date, I arranged to stay at friend’s apartment a second night. This time it would be one glass of wine, no chit-chat and the alarm set for 4am. (Ya think I’m nuts yet?!) Despite the pitch-black that enveloped me, I woke up as scheduled. After throwing myself together in a matter of no more than ten minutes, I grabbed my bag, this time with yoga mat and pillow and flew out the door to be on the street by 4:15. Streets lights lit my path enough for me to safely arrive at the line of doorman buildings opposite the museum. I kept a run-walk pace and finally reached the park. Just ahead, along the park’s perimeter wall—mind you it was quarter past four IN THE MORNING!!!— there was a line of two hundred people. “Shakespeare in the Park?” the woman at the front asked. “Uh, yeah,” I replied. And following her command I proceeded to the end. Die-hards.

Forty minutes later, as the sun began it’s ascent, the line of us, intact and single file, proceeded to the path, inside the park, where we resettled to begin our wait for the day. The yoga mat was a good idea seeing as how, though I had a better place in line, I landed at a spot on the concrete pathway where I would wait for the next eight hours. There was no way I was leaving this time unless I had a pair of tickets.

 As if the early wakeup, run-walking in the dark and finding a line of two-hundred ahead of me wasn’t bad enough, minutes before getting settled on my bed, I practically got tossed from the line after being accused by a frantic and subsequently mistaken woman that I had cut. I don’t think so lady! Did she know me at all? Thankfully, the friendly, young thespian duo beside me came to my defense.

Fast forward to three hours later when after a semi-comfortable sleep, I woke to camp counselor rattling off what had to be nonsense; I hoped I’d heard him wrong. Limited ticket distribution? Regardless of our ordinarily good spot in line today he couldn’t promise anything? I had to be dreaming. No wonder that woman tried to kick me out of line. Chances that any of us past the first hundred people would get tickets were slim. It was dog eat dog. But I’d made it this far and had only four more hours to go. I tried to hang onto hope. I didn’t think I would have it in me to do another day. When people would walk by with a blanket under arm, eager to find their own place in line, though feeling bad about how clueless they were, I would laugh under my breath. Right…no way you’re getting a ticket at this hour. My neighbors in line joked we should have a poster reading simply: 4:30am. Uh huh.

When one o’clock finally rolled around, my nerves were a mess, the whole limited distribution thing looming over our heads. We inched closer…and closer…and a little bit closer. And then the line stopped. I could see camp counselor back and forth with the ticket man. What were they saying? I wanted to scream. And then line started moving again…closer….and closer….and closer, until finally, there I was. “One person, two tickets,” I exclaimed. And off I went, skipping away, tickets in hand.

 Three days crack of dawn, twenty-one hours total. At that point, none of it really mattered…cause I was finally, finally, going to Shakespeare in the Park!

4th of July Recap

As typical when any holiday weekend rolls around, this 4th of July, it was only hours before the sky would be dark that I had solid plans for the evening’s celebration. With the East River fireworks show having been relocated to the Hudson, the idea of going up to my friend’s Brooklyn rooftop got the ax earlier in the week. When nothing else came up, I waited and waited, sure that eventually someone would call to offer up another equally appealing suggestion. With Plan A having been a Brooklyn evening, clearly I wasn’t thinking any big hurrah. Jeans and a tee sounded perfect. So when my friend Milda called and suggested a late day picnic in the park and maybe a festive drink over fireworks, I quickly agreed. In my mind I conjured up a New York City style quintessential Independence Day picnic of Martha Stewart proportions, chock full of beautiful food and wholesome family fun. In my dreams.

So, the plans were taking shape. But with holiday weekend sluggishness and trying to cram too much into too little time (which is a regular and seemingly incurable weakness of mine), I was late arriving to Milda’s. So, we redirected ourselves away from Central Park and decided to head up to her roof instead. Not so Martha, but low key and lovely just as intended.

Cut to: Three hours later (and don’t ask me how we arrived at such a place), the two of us at a party on a rooftop bar in the Meatpacking District called ‘Plunge’. Imagine the scene: 200 party people filling up every available square inch of floor space on a roof deck whose center is taken up by 45’ pool. It was the closest thing to Vegas I’ve ever seen, with mm-cheh, mme-cheh dance beats reverberating, chicks in high heels and skimpy bikinis and playboys with fat wallets showing off their riches at tables stocked with endless bottles of liquor and a colorful assortment of mixers. Martha was at this point completely out of the picture, and I felt like a guest star on ‘The Hills’.

I’m no LC, but I did have a summer sundress to wear thanks to quick thinking after the maybe cocktail Milda had mentioned. Surely the diesel doorman wouldn’t have let me into the elevator had I still been in the less than glam jean shorts and Vans from earlier. And thanks to the generous hosts, friends of M’s that invited us to the shindig, I was soon in a hazy state so much that the ridiculousness around me was actually entertaining. I even laughed—once I was able to open my eyes and catch my breath—when an overzealous, or perhaps just over-indulgent and thus over-intoxicated idiot sprayed an entire bottle of Veuve into the crowd and ended up dowsing me from the neck up. Yes, you heard me right. So much for primping.

In the end though, I have a good lot of laughs about the night and have come to the conclusion that it wasn’t the worst place to spend my 4th. The view of the fireworks show was pretty awesome and definitely better than the one I would’ve had from my own roof. And being, not dined, but wined, err—boozed at a venue requiring bottle service starting at $275 without having to drop a dime—well, that’s a New York evening every gal should enjoy at least once.

Sorry Gramps But I’ll Never Be Your Girl

Allow me to complain for a moment at least.

I’ve been told before that if I truly want to find my prince, perhaps then, I should lower my standards, at least a bit. I’ll think about it. One condition that will remain standing, however, is my requirement on age. I will not, for as long as I remain on this quest, give in to being courted by anyone old enough to be my father. I’m even thinking any gap greater than eight years is out of the question. For now anyway.

Yesterday afternoon while out and about doing research for my new summer blog, 92 Days of Summer, as I was minding my own business, in a world of my own amongst an abundant green garden and choirs of chirping birds, a man three times my age tried to pick me up. Our exchange began when he approached me and took a seat on the bench adjacent to mine, both of which looked out onto the square in the middle of the garden where a small wedding was taking place. “Hello,” he began, assuming, I suppose, that I wouldn’t be bothered by the greeting despite it being quite clear I was at work writing in my notebook. I said nothing in return and simply smiled with closed lips. “It’s a great place for a wedding,” he continued.

This time one word. “Yeah,” I replied with a half-smile, somewhat curtly.

“I was here last week watching another ceremony and it was funny because the man and woman walked in and I noticed he was well past sixty and she looked about twenty-five.” I listened, wondering where he was going with this. He went on. “I looked at them and thought, well, good, maybe I still have a chance.” As he waved his hand across the shiny, bald crown of his head, smoothing out what chalk-white hair remained, my skin started to crawl. And then I heard the words I’d been dreading. “So do you come here often?”

At this I confirmed my suspicions and realized this wasn’t one of those “girl sits on park bench talking to sweet little old man who reminds her of her grandfather” sorts of conversations. On the contrary. Couldn’t he tell by the look on my face I wasn’t interested in getting to know him? How fitting, I thought, that I should encounter such a situation with a paperback copy of Lolita in my tote bag, a page book-marked at the half-way point. Despite me having passed the stage of nymphite years ago, I couldn’t help but think that the scene felt very Humbert Humbert-Dolores Haze. Getting back to his question I took a gulp and replied with a blatant “No”.

Finally my unwelcome guest caught on and got up to leave in search perhaps of a more receptive subject. As he paced slowly away I knew in my gut it was too good to be true, so when he turned and asked, “What’s your name?” I smiled and answered, “Laura.”

Mother

I am weeks past due writing this as it was supposed to be a Mother’s Day post, but I figure since it’s still May (for a mere 59 minutes I know), it still counts. I’ve wanted to blog about my mother for a long time now, as to me, she is the original Gal in the City.

Many moons ago it was right here in Manhattan where she was born, and ‘til the age of nine, it was on 7^th Street between Avenues B and C where she lived. Following her remaining childhood and teenaged years in the Bronx, Manhattan, like it did to me too, called her back. And for the next fourteen years these city streets were hers, for a time for work, and later for play. When her prince charming finally came along to marry her and start a family, it was farewell to big city life and hello to sunny days in a small town called Cape Canaveral.

The story continues with a fast forward to the summer following my high school graduation. With a jam-packed mini-van and me, her doe-eyed daughter, it was back to NYC—this time to 27^th Street, to the Fashion Institute of Technology. There I would start my college career, and though I’m not sure either of us realized it, I’d also be starting my life as a gal…in the city!

It was my mother’s own experience with the goings-on in this crazy but wonderful vortex of creativity and culture that allowed her and my dad to drive away that August day and wish me well on my new adventure. Even though they both knew that somewhere beneath my youthful skin there was curiosity, and bravery to fuel it, they knew another truth: I was a fledgling. I suppose my mother could reason that she did it, so I could too.

As the years passed and my life in New York City unfolded, and my relationship with my mother simultaneously strengthened, the two of us began to feel as if I was reliving her life from decades before. Though neighborhoods had been gentrified, favorite storefronts closed to make way for bigger and better, and old city pastimes replaced with modern day fun, New York was still New York.

I can never tire of hearing my mother’s stories. I love the one about the time she and her gay friend Gil went to dinner at The Sign of the Dove. In a dress she borrowed from the store where she worked (and yes, returned in perfect condition the following day), he in a suit and tie, it looked like they were on a legitimate date. But when the check came, as they’d agreed to ‘go Dutch’ she had to pass him money under the tablecloth. And then there was the guy she dated that despite his looking like Howdy Doody, she liked. The problem was that his mother didn’t like her ‘cause she was a schiksa! (When I asked what a schiksa was, my mother explained, surprised I didn’t know, as now- as opposed to my childhood years- I live in a much more culturally diverse community. I’m just not down with all the slang!)

There were extravagant beehive hair dos that I only recently found out were wigs, and the loony roommate who my mom once found with her head in the oven. It’s been a joyride for me, going back with her in time and sharing stories of my own. And we get a kick when I’m doing something she did years before; like going out in my favorite wig! I even learn a thing or two, like to take the bus which years ago I scoffed off in favor of subbing it (and by that I mean taking the subway).

“The bus is great,” she said. “It gets you where you need to go and you get to see the city outside. I used to take it all the time.”

Now here I am telling people to ride the bus. And I feel like my mother.