Warning: This post contains lots of audible sighing.
I spent this weekend in a magical island with my girlfriends. They call this island “Manhattan.” It is shiny and has a lot of Gap clothing stores.
I got home last night around 7:00. When I came home, there was a tent in my living room. I’m too tired to even go into this right now. Let’s just say that Daniel jumped on the tent this morning and now it’s not looking so hot.
I had a great weekend. My bff’s from high school and I hit every conceivable part of Manhattan and some of Brooklyn in three days. Christine lives on the Upper East Side, right around the corner from Sotheby’s auction house. She also lives directly across the street from the apartment building that the Yankee baseball player crashed into via airplane. (Not a fan of air travel these days, myself.) That incident certainly gave a new definition to the term “THE YANKEES ARE COMING.”
I learned a lot this weekend about Manhattan and Manhattanite sensibilities. Like an anthropologist, I scrutinized their culture so that I could fit in like a chameleon. This attempt failed when at every corner I whipped out my camera inevitably labeling myself “tourist” with a capital T.
Anywho, I learned what is NOT acceptable in Manhattan. VPL’ s (visible panty lines) are NOT acceptable. Sitting at the front of the bus if you are not elderly is definitely NOT acceptable. Wearing or carrying any Red Sox related paraphernalia is NOT acceptable. Sending your child to a public school is NOT acceptable.
Surprisingly, many things ARE acceptable. Allowing your dog to doo-doo on the pavement IS acceptable, so long as you pick up the excrement with a baggy. Plastic surgery IS perfectly acceptable. Parasols are acceptable, as are wide-brimmed hats. Having a nanny is acceptable. Saying the f-word in regular conversation in front of children IS acceptable. Being rude to customers in your place of work IS perfectly acceptable. Jaywalking IS acceptable. VBS (visible bra straps) ARE acceptable. Texting while walking down the street is not only acceptable, it is expected.
Lydia and I flew into La Guardia Friday morning and spent the early part of the day meandering around the Upper East Side of Manhattan in search of Sephora. Not so hard to find a Sephora, actually, as they like Starbucks are on every other street corner. We ate at a small diner. I was pretty sure we were breakfasting right next to M. Night Shyalaman. Later, I looked M. Night Shyalaman up on the internet, and the Indian man I was dining next to didn’t really look like him at all. I’m not sure what this says about me. Star crazy, delusional, or racist?
We picked Christine up at work and soon learned that New Yorkers are exceptionally fast walkers. As Chrissy stated, “I am my own means of transportation. The faster I go, the faster I get from point a to point b.” Whatever. She was like a bunny rabbit… we emerged from the bus and… boing boing boing she bounced across the street, disappearing into the crowd while we stood on tiptoes to find her.
Occasionally, Christine took us into these underground caves where we had to fight through slimy, smelly goblin like creatures. Then, an enormous LOUD monster came quickly and suddenly from a deep, dark tunnel. The most amazing thing happened. Christine held up her arms and said “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” Guess what? The monster did not pass. It stopped and amazingly allowed us to get on it and ride it to Union Square.
They called this monster “the subway.” Freaky.
Union Square was full of people perusing an outdoor marketplace full of fruits, vegetables, art, and grass-fed meat. Yay for grass-fed meat! (Do you know if YOUR meat is grass fed? I doubt mine is either.) We took a short jaunt to a wondrous bookstore called The Strand where there were books galore: new, used, antique, etc. What a wondrous place, this Strand bookstore. A happy place with happy book people. Sigh.
On Saturday, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. The BB, as I like to call it. There were two sides on the BB path: one for walkers and one for bikers. The question of the hour was: if you’re a biker but you are WALKING your bike across the bridge, which side do you belong on? I would like a New York official to respond to that.
We went over to Brooklyn where we saw FIVE different brides having their pictures taken by the river, with the BB in the background. How weird would it be to see other brides on your big day? The men in their tuxedoes looked hot. It was hot out. So we dipped out feet in a children’s spray fountain and got ice cream from the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. I ate a lot of fattening food this weekend. I left my key-lime with graham cracker gelato in Christine’s fridge, which I expect to still be there the next time I go to visit.
That night, we went to Cru, the high-end restaurant where Christine’s husband Scott is the executive chef. I ate caviar, fois gras, truffles and drank lots of bubbly in one sitting. We had charming conversation with the bartender, Carlos, who lives in New Jersey with his dog who enjoys eating birds. The dog, not Carlos. It IS acceptable to talk about your dog’s strange eating habits while nibbling on raw tuna in Manhattan.
Yesterday, we popped down the Fifth Avenue, MET area, and went to FAO Schwartz, where I danced on the Big Piano like Tom Hanks did in BIG. I played “The Entertainer” with my feet and the guy working there said it was the BEST anyone had every played that piano in 20 YEARS and would I consider working there FULL TIME. I told him music was my life, but I could not forsake my family to work as a foot pianist at FAO Schwartz. He was crushed.
This is what really happened. I was so much fun playing the Big Piano that the guy moderating the line to get on had to threaten to clomp me on the head to get me off so the little children behind me could have a turn. In my indignation, I left my shopping bag on top of the shoe cubbies (you must play the Big Piano with bare feet) and we had to return for it later.
The weekend flew by fast, and speaking of flying...
The plane was a small commuter plane. There was a large storm. At one point, the plane dropped several thousand feet. The flight attendant looked visibly nervous.
Someone on the plane puked TWICE. Thankfully, she threw up into bags. The man next to her was very kind and not even grossed out. Her friend and loyal companion was very comforting. Nevertheless, the girl was humiliated. She waited to see if anyone else had an upset stomach, but everyone else, though shaken, could not be stirred.
That person, of course, was my friend Lydia.
Sigh… it was me.
My upset stomach put a bit of a damper on the reunion with my family. I handed my kids their presents and ran upstairs to change and wash up. I had chicken soup for dinner. I still feel gross. I think I left part of my stomach somewhere high above Syracuse.
Did the kids miss me? I couldn’t tell you. Doubt it. When I was talking to Caleb on the cell phone while walking in Manhattan, he informed me that “something bad had happened.”
“What, baby?” I asked, seriously concerned.
“My marigolds I gave you are dead.” Pause. “They are all dried up.” Pause. “Did you remember to water them yesterday?”
Did I remember to water them yesterday. Did I remember to water them ever.
I replied with this: “Did you know mommy is going to bring you home a special treat?”
Some pics not in chronological order at all.
I spent this weekend in a magical island with my girlfriends. They call this island “Manhattan.” It is shiny and has a lot of Gap clothing stores.
I got home last night around 7:00. When I came home, there was a tent in my living room. I’m too tired to even go into this right now. Let’s just say that Daniel jumped on the tent this morning and now it’s not looking so hot.
I had a great weekend. My bff’s from high school and I hit every conceivable part of Manhattan and some of Brooklyn in three days. Christine lives on the Upper East Side, right around the corner from Sotheby’s auction house. She also lives directly across the street from the apartment building that the Yankee baseball player crashed into via airplane. (Not a fan of air travel these days, myself.) That incident certainly gave a new definition to the term “THE YANKEES ARE COMING.”
I learned a lot this weekend about Manhattan and Manhattanite sensibilities. Like an anthropologist, I scrutinized their culture so that I could fit in like a chameleon. This attempt failed when at every corner I whipped out my camera inevitably labeling myself “tourist” with a capital T.
Anywho, I learned what is NOT acceptable in Manhattan. VPL’ s (visible panty lines) are NOT acceptable. Sitting at the front of the bus if you are not elderly is definitely NOT acceptable. Wearing or carrying any Red Sox related paraphernalia is NOT acceptable. Sending your child to a public school is NOT acceptable.
Surprisingly, many things ARE acceptable. Allowing your dog to doo-doo on the pavement IS acceptable, so long as you pick up the excrement with a baggy. Plastic surgery IS perfectly acceptable. Parasols are acceptable, as are wide-brimmed hats. Having a nanny is acceptable. Saying the f-word in regular conversation in front of children IS acceptable. Being rude to customers in your place of work IS perfectly acceptable. Jaywalking IS acceptable. VBS (visible bra straps) ARE acceptable. Texting while walking down the street is not only acceptable, it is expected.
Lydia and I flew into La Guardia Friday morning and spent the early part of the day meandering around the Upper East Side of Manhattan in search of Sephora. Not so hard to find a Sephora, actually, as they like Starbucks are on every other street corner. We ate at a small diner. I was pretty sure we were breakfasting right next to M. Night Shyalaman. Later, I looked M. Night Shyalaman up on the internet, and the Indian man I was dining next to didn’t really look like him at all. I’m not sure what this says about me. Star crazy, delusional, or racist?
We picked Christine up at work and soon learned that New Yorkers are exceptionally fast walkers. As Chrissy stated, “I am my own means of transportation. The faster I go, the faster I get from point a to point b.” Whatever. She was like a bunny rabbit… we emerged from the bus and… boing boing boing she bounced across the street, disappearing into the crowd while we stood on tiptoes to find her.
Occasionally, Christine took us into these underground caves where we had to fight through slimy, smelly goblin like creatures. Then, an enormous LOUD monster came quickly and suddenly from a deep, dark tunnel. The most amazing thing happened. Christine held up her arms and said “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” Guess what? The monster did not pass. It stopped and amazingly allowed us to get on it and ride it to Union Square.
They called this monster “the subway.” Freaky.
Union Square was full of people perusing an outdoor marketplace full of fruits, vegetables, art, and grass-fed meat. Yay for grass-fed meat! (Do you know if YOUR meat is grass fed? I doubt mine is either.) We took a short jaunt to a wondrous bookstore called The Strand where there were books galore: new, used, antique, etc. What a wondrous place, this Strand bookstore. A happy place with happy book people. Sigh.
On Saturday, we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. The BB, as I like to call it. There were two sides on the BB path: one for walkers and one for bikers. The question of the hour was: if you’re a biker but you are WALKING your bike across the bridge, which side do you belong on? I would like a New York official to respond to that.
We went over to Brooklyn where we saw FIVE different brides having their pictures taken by the river, with the BB in the background. How weird would it be to see other brides on your big day? The men in their tuxedoes looked hot. It was hot out. So we dipped out feet in a children’s spray fountain and got ice cream from the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. I ate a lot of fattening food this weekend. I left my key-lime with graham cracker gelato in Christine’s fridge, which I expect to still be there the next time I go to visit.
That night, we went to Cru, the high-end restaurant where Christine’s husband Scott is the executive chef. I ate caviar, fois gras, truffles and drank lots of bubbly in one sitting. We had charming conversation with the bartender, Carlos, who lives in New Jersey with his dog who enjoys eating birds. The dog, not Carlos. It IS acceptable to talk about your dog’s strange eating habits while nibbling on raw tuna in Manhattan.
Yesterday, we popped down the Fifth Avenue, MET area, and went to FAO Schwartz, where I danced on the Big Piano like Tom Hanks did in BIG. I played “The Entertainer” with my feet and the guy working there said it was the BEST anyone had every played that piano in 20 YEARS and would I consider working there FULL TIME. I told him music was my life, but I could not forsake my family to work as a foot pianist at FAO Schwartz. He was crushed.
This is what really happened. I was so much fun playing the Big Piano that the guy moderating the line to get on had to threaten to clomp me on the head to get me off so the little children behind me could have a turn. In my indignation, I left my shopping bag on top of the shoe cubbies (you must play the Big Piano with bare feet) and we had to return for it later.
The weekend flew by fast, and speaking of flying...
The plane was a small commuter plane. There was a large storm. At one point, the plane dropped several thousand feet. The flight attendant looked visibly nervous.
Someone on the plane puked TWICE. Thankfully, she threw up into bags. The man next to her was very kind and not even grossed out. Her friend and loyal companion was very comforting. Nevertheless, the girl was humiliated. She waited to see if anyone else had an upset stomach, but everyone else, though shaken, could not be stirred.
That person, of course, was my friend Lydia.
Sigh… it was me.
My upset stomach put a bit of a damper on the reunion with my family. I handed my kids their presents and ran upstairs to change and wash up. I had chicken soup for dinner. I still feel gross. I think I left part of my stomach somewhere high above Syracuse.
Did the kids miss me? I couldn’t tell you. Doubt it. When I was talking to Caleb on the cell phone while walking in Manhattan, he informed me that “something bad had happened.”
“What, baby?” I asked, seriously concerned.
“My marigolds I gave you are dead.” Pause. “They are all dried up.” Pause. “Did you remember to water them yesterday?”
Did I remember to water them yesterday. Did I remember to water them ever.
I replied with this: “Did you know mommy is going to bring you home a special treat?”
Some pics not in chronological order at all.
The view from Christine's apartment is NICE and all, but nothing to get really jealous over. (sigh)
Good friends and good bubbly.
Left out the pic where I did a full split. NOT.
This picture should confirm what you already suspected.
My Manhattan lover.
I want to go to there.
View from Brooklyn Bridge.
Lovely.
I am wearing $3.00 sunglasses I bought on the street earlier that day.
Random building.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, even if it's not eaten at Tiffany's.
1 comment:
I Love New York! Glad for your adventures.
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