One of the most difficult things about living in NYC is choosing. There is more to do than there is woman to do it--a problem magnified during FNO, or "Fashion Night Out" for those of you who have not been exposed to the relentless hype. In only its second year it has become the super bowl of fashion--the object of which is for shoppers to score free cocktails and nail polish, and not let the opposing team (aka "stores") separate you from whatever cash you have left after buying the shoes that are making the balls of your feet feel like you've stepped on fire ants.
What seems a completely reasonable schedule on paper turns out to be possible only for those who are not easily distracted by naked men showering in a store window. The Tiffany diamond, on display for just this night, was also responsible for a complete disregard for getting to where they were dangling warm snacks and hot handbags. It turns out I actually do like the color yellow, but apparently only when it comes wrapped in 148 carats of sparkling goodness.
At the height of the evening, an impromptu dance broke out in Saks, as complete strangers came together to prove that a knock-out sound system and a killer club tune always trumps self-consciousness every time, even in a department store. I watched, swaying and doing that thing with my head that's a cross between nodding and craning to see the television. When the music ended, the only male in the group gave a small bow to the women and turned, stepping effortlessly onto the up escalator. I watched him go until he disappeared from sight. I will never see him again or, if I do, I won't know it. But, for that one night, we were all part of the same crazy music. And, as impossible as it may be to choose what to do in New York, I choose that, every time.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
Directions to Oz: Spacing out in Manhattan
Directions to Oz: Spacing out in Manhattan: "Moving back to Manhattan is a lot like being let out of middle school into a downpour: you know it will be hell getting home, but it's way b..."
Spacing out in Manhattan
Moving back to Manhattan is a lot like being let out of middle school into a downpour: you know it will be hell getting home, but it's way better than where you have just been.
My stuff has finally been wrestled back from the movers who were apparently taking it on a greatest hits tour across the country--skipping only those states where they couldn't find anyone wanting to move across town. After applying a torrent of expletives didn't work to get a delivery date sometime before the next administration, I turned to emotional blackmail, creating a recently-deceased husband my daughter and I named Jonathan after getting a Brooks Brothers catalog for him with my mail. It turns out that grown men do cry, even when they have a prodigious amount of body odor and ear hair, but only when faced with a new widow sleeping on the floor without even her memories to keep her warm.
So, I have my things about me, as the Irish say. And, as New Yorkers say, I have too much shit.
I am convinced my apartment was replaced with an architect's model during the time between my renting it and the couch arriving. The floor plan that seemed like a prairie while I was moving my paper furniture around on its perfect blue-squared paper has turned into an elevator with a silverware drawer--a drawer which, it turns out, can also accommodate two pairs of workout socks and a tube of mascara. I didn't know this about a silverware drawer until I went on the urban version of a big-game safari to bag the most elusive of city game: space.
Conclusion: it's still worth it, just to be here, even if it is raining. And there's always the Container Store, where they actually give you a gun. Alright, it's a scanner. But if you add your own "chhh, chhh" sound effects people give you space AND containers. Who ever said the city was a cruel place?
My stuff has finally been wrestled back from the movers who were apparently taking it on a greatest hits tour across the country--skipping only those states where they couldn't find anyone wanting to move across town. After applying a torrent of expletives didn't work to get a delivery date sometime before the next administration, I turned to emotional blackmail, creating a recently-deceased husband my daughter and I named Jonathan after getting a Brooks Brothers catalog for him with my mail. It turns out that grown men do cry, even when they have a prodigious amount of body odor and ear hair, but only when faced with a new widow sleeping on the floor without even her memories to keep her warm.
So, I have my things about me, as the Irish say. And, as New Yorkers say, I have too much shit.
I am convinced my apartment was replaced with an architect's model during the time between my renting it and the couch arriving. The floor plan that seemed like a prairie while I was moving my paper furniture around on its perfect blue-squared paper has turned into an elevator with a silverware drawer--a drawer which, it turns out, can also accommodate two pairs of workout socks and a tube of mascara. I didn't know this about a silverware drawer until I went on the urban version of a big-game safari to bag the most elusive of city game: space.
Conclusion: it's still worth it, just to be here, even if it is raining. And there's always the Container Store, where they actually give you a gun. Alright, it's a scanner. But if you add your own "chhh, chhh" sound effects people give you space AND containers. Who ever said the city was a cruel place?
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