The Awful Day

Today was not a good day in the city. Want to know why? I don't care, I'm going to tell you.

When I woke up, I thought my roommate's cat was dead (and I was the only one home). She wasn't dead, just barfy and very tired. So I cleaned up her kitty vom.

I had to drag my giant, heavy suitcase to work, and they still haven't cleaned the sidewalks. We went through giant puddles and mountainous heaps as well as up lots and lots of stairs. No one helped; I guess I was easily mistakable for the awful holiday tourists, and people were rude to me.

When I went to turn on the stereo at work, I noticed this white stuff all over it, as well as on the Wii. It was the ceiling. The ceiling was falling down on the expensive electronic equipment including our printer, I was the only one in the office, and we have a big client meeting in our office the day everyone gets back from vacation. Why???

I got the landlord to come up and look at the ceilingocalypse. I asked him if it could be fixed before our very important client meeting on Tuesday. "Absolutely not. Every one is on vacation. Haven't you noticed? I think the two of us are the only people in this whole building." This was a gross exaggeration, and I really like and appreciate the landlord man, but at this point in my day? Eff you, dude. Eff everyone. I'm going to Ohio tonight.

I was concerned that I wouldn't get to the airport on time, so I arranged for a car service. Fifteen minutes before they were supposed to pick me up, they called and said, "Sorry, we're not gonna be able to get a car there in time. The traffic is really bad." Well, driver friends, if the traffic is really bad, this is when I NEED you to be here on time, so I don't miss my flight. Serious panic attack time.

INTERRUPTION: you have got to be effing kidding me. The flight attendant just said, "Now, ladies and gents, we have a little fun for you on the flight." (To which I said loudly, "Please no.") "We are happy to announce our 100th passenger on the flight. Can Miss Geller come up here please?" The girl half of the BeachJew couple sitting next to me (I got window seat of the three seat side, of course; my two bench compadres are a very stereotypical Beachwood Jew couple of the kippah-wearing variety. Obviously. Why me?) goes up to the front. Her bf next to me grabs something out of the overhead and follows her. "Actually," the flight attendant says and hands the speaker to the bf, who then PROPOSES to his gf OVER THE SPEAKER. She, of course, tearfully says yes. And the attendant is "so honored they picked Airtran." People won't stop applauding and talking to them and taking pictures. I'm currently ducking so as not to be in their "in our plane seats, newly engaged" pictures. This is so fitting for my weird damn day.

The Snowpocalypse

Took me an hour and a half to get to work today. 1.5 hours. To get from West Harlem to Soho. It should NOT take that long. Even Google maps agrees:

See? Google maps knows all.

Apparently this city doesn't know how to deal with what they are calling Snowpocalypse 2010. Having chosen to move here after four years in Syracuse, this just baffles me. Twenty inches of snow? All in a good day's work. Shouldn't slow us down for a second. However, people have been going kind of crazy.

This was before it got really snowy. But seriously, who takes a cab in the middle of a "blizzard?" Take the train, dumbass. Or better yet, do as I did and STAY HOME.

You would think, in the most heavily populated city in the U.S., they would have some kind of efficient snow-cleaning system. It hasn't snowed in over 24 hours (I think...can't promise as I haven't been standing outside this whole time), and it's still ridiculous to get around (note my commute time today -- and that was on the subway. Which, if you didn't know, runs UNDERGROUND. It generally doesn't snow under the ground. Wtf, friends). The roads are impossible to drive through, and if you parked your car on the street pre-Snowpocalypse, you can look forward to not driving for a good long while.

And the sidewalks are atrocious. In a pedestrian city, I don't understand how the non-Syracuse-primed people are dealing with the trodging-through-the-Appalachians-type experience it takes to go half a block. If, Allah forbid, you have to cross the street -- well, in many cases, you're just shit out of luck. Have fun sloshing blocks out of your way to run across to the deli.

This is what I feel like, trying to walk on the sidewalk. Except, you know, with a less fashionable sweater.

I'm looking forward to a few days in Ohio, where people know how to interact with their weather a little more effectively. Also so I can be pampered by Mommy and Daddy.

Note: none of these pictures were taken by me. They came from some poor suckers who post their stuff publicly on Flickr. But, rest assured, I've seen examples of the above, and worse, with my own eyes during my struggle to get to work today. Including several hilarious and sad dog incidents.

The Apartment

One of my roommates has moved out (and she took everything in her room, as well as everything in the living room...terrifying empty roomness), one of them is in the process of moving out when she gets back from Ohio, and one is on vacation in Florida. My giant Harlem apartment is empty and cold and scary as hell. I don't even have an insanely violent kitty cat here to entertain me.

Of course, I'm working from home today, so it shouldn't matter (I'm the only one in the office, obviously, who didn't take the day off. Take a moment to wonder at the plight of Jews on Christmas. Why doesn't everything in the world shut down on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur?). However, it turns out that working from home means working in my p.j.s from my bed, particularly when all the living room furniture is gone. Still cold and empty and scary.

The Do

I am the worst blogger ever. Actually someone once told me that if you don't blog more than once a week, your blog is not a blog anymore. I'm not sure what that means for this thing. What is it, if not a blog? A kazoo? A puppy? Is it going to have virtual identity issues?

I am feeling particularly jaunty and weird today, if you can't tell.

My office (the new one...aka the coolest job EVA) went to Barbados this past weekend for our holiday vacation. We were each allowed to take a plus one, so obvs I brought my heterosexual life partner. I knew everyone else would bring bfs/gfs, but honestly, I don't like anyone as much as I like her. Plus, since I'm not seeing anyone, what was I supposed to do, bring a good guy friend and pretend we're sleeping together? Or worse, bring some dude I don't know and actually sleep with him AND have to spend my tropical island time with him? No, thanks. So I took my bff, and it was amazing.

I think I love NYC more since coming back, too. Particularly since I got half my head cornrowed (they say "canerows" there; I don't think they grow corn) in Barbajia (as we call it) on the recommendation of my new best Bajan friend Liz. Seriously, how are people so nice and friendly there? How is that possible? Comparatively, New Yorkers aren't just cold, we're downright murderous. Yet, the murderousness has its own strange charm.

But anyway, the cornrows are great because if you look at me on the left side, I'm just a pale Jewish white girl -- but boom, I turn my head, and you're like WHOA this white girl has attitude. And you know that, because I have badass hair. If I were in bufu Ohio with this hair, I would be shunned and kicked out of my schtetl. But here I can actually tell who the tourists are because they are the only ones who do a double-take when they notice the right side of my head. And I kind of like it.

The Movie

Did I go to the HP7.1 opening night? Um...duh. I have an abbrev for it. Of course I went.

My roommate got our tickets to the Zigfeld theater on 54th, a really huge cool old-style theater.

No, this wasn't that night...unfort, people did not go up and duel in front of the stage.

I got there super early (long story, didn't have time to go home after work) at 10, planning to walk around Rockefeller. Luckily I checked out the theater first, because the line was already almost half a block long. By the time my roommate brought me an eggnog latte from Starbucks, I was thinking I might die from cold and the obnoxiousness of the couple behind me. (I was sitting down, and they stood literally right ON TOP of me and started making out. And then no matter what I did, they wouldn't move from standing a couple inches away from me. Even when I stood up and started pacing. I just kept "accidentally" bumping them, hoping they'd get the point. They didn't.)

The nerdocity of cult-followed movie opening nights definitely brought a smile to my face, though. I mean, even though I do know the books as well as most of these crazers in robes with their House signs and wands and drawn-on scars, I would never actually say some of those things out loud.

Want.

The nerdfandom vibe is contagious though. I particularly love how they applauded (COWBOYS & ALIENS!!!) or booed (sorry, Yogi) for the previews. And I felt freed to be more open about my crying and laughing and swearing during the movie.

After the movie on the long hike home-ward (during which I couldn't stop randomly yelling expletives because my mind was so blown from HP7.1), a bum on the street came up to us and asked us for some help as he really wanted a sandwich. At this point, instead of sadly shaking my head and continuing to walk as per usual, I actually said, "Wait a sec." I dug around in my bag, and the first thing I came up with was, unfortunately for me, one of the last Dove bars from the office. "Here, have this."

The man takes the bar from me, looks at it, and says, "Aw man, I really wanted some meat."

Me: "Um...it's a Dove bar."

Bum: "But I'm diabetic. This is bad for me."

Me: "Ok, I'll have it back, then."

Bum: "Nah I'll keep it. But can you help me out so I can get some meat?"

Me: "Sorry."

Can you believe this jerk? And then he follows us for several blocks, asking for money. When he finally gets some poor sap to give him money, he comes back to us, yelling, "Miss! Miss! That dude just gave me $20! See that? He just gave me $20."

Well, good for you.

The Cat

What does it mean when my roommate's cat is taking up my whole bed on a Saturday night? I think it means I need to get a boyfriend. Look out, NYC.

The Recap

Ok, clearly I really suck at working an intense job (which, bee tee dubs (<obnoxious and hilarious), I adore thus far) while blogging and still trying to get an acceptable amount of sleep. So, quickly, a recap of all of the crazy things you've missed in my NY life, fans:

Job rocks. Why? Responsibility. Brainstorming. Chocolate. Corporate Card. People listening to me and appreciating me and telling me I'm brilliant. Traveling (to Jersey...I know, but it's not sitting in an office, AND there are real natural-grown trees in Jersey) twice within my first week of work, being given an AmEx and sent all over the city for things, and going to the NYC Chocolate Show didn't hurt at all. Summary? Love. Also, this week we have a temporary German intern in the office.

Went to Cuse over the weekend for a panel trying to convince freshman to join the Ad department. Loved the Newhouse time (obvs), but it was way too early for me to be back there. I'm not a student any more. The weirdest part was that I actually missed NYC while I was away. The subway, the shopping, even the people -- people here may be rude, but at least they're real.

On a fabulous note: a girl on the train this morning was wearing fake gold giant hoop earrings with the word "Sexy" in fake gold script in the middle. Kind of like this, but actually taking itself seriously:

I want these.

The First Day

New job today. Exhausted. Definitely not cool enough for Soho OR working at a sweet little UK-based insights shop. Will trudge on, however, and refused to be intimidated because of my total Ohioness. This place is awesome. My first week is going to be very chocolatey!

The Connections

Cannot stop reading the "Personals" section of Craigslist. Obviously, my favorite part is the "Missed Connections." It is filled with ads posted by people who, like me, are avid peoplewatchers and like to make up little connections with their poor peoplewatching victims in their heads; however, some of these ad-posters have the additional characteristic of being total nutjobs. They genuinely believe that these strangers they saw are the possible loves of their lives.

The majority of posts pathetically end something like, "I hope you'll see this?" First of all, that is not a question. It is a statement. Your inappropriate use of a question mark is not only grammatically incorrect; it makes you look wimpy and doormat-like. Secondies, SERIOUSLY? There are eight million people living in NYC. How many of them do you think will happen to read some post with a lame subject that you made in the "Missed Connections" section of Craigslist at this particular time? Thirdly, have you ever thought that if he/she is the type of person who would see your post, possibly he/she doesn't have anything more exciting going on with his/her life than sitting around reading Craigslist postings (erm, not to be hypocritical or Woody Allenish or anything...), and therefore isn't the kind of person you'd want to be with anyway? Brutal example: 

Elevator on E 72nd - m4m (Upper East Side)

Rode the elevator yesterday morn-u had groceries wearing gym clothes-wanted to chat more- won't see this but trying!?  

Why? Whyyyyy? But thank you so much for giving me a chuckle.

Another category of poster, which is intensely annoying, is the angry/upset ex. This is not a missed connection, people. You know how to get a hold of this person, but you just want a lot of attention and are a huge pansy. Just pick up the phone and say it. The ads are either furious, like "Devin, you ruined my life," or more like:

Sabrina...Marry Me - m4w (anywhere you want me to be.)

Sabrina please marry me. I know I screwed up. Give me a chance to show you how much you mean to me. I will never hurt you again...Please call me! I love u more then I've ever thought possible....Love you always and forever...James 

Yes, however you "hurt her," this ridiculous post will totally make her not only forgive you but legally bind herself to you for all time. Totally. But then, some of the posts are straight-up hilarious:

The 2 PM Pee-Wee Herman Show - m4m (Midtown West)

We were both at the 2 PM Pee-Wee Herman show...you sat in front of me with your friend. Afterwards we walked down the street and we kept smiling at each other. I wanted to say hi. If you see this please say hi. I have a beard. 

I think his beard is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

However, most of the posts are so simple and wistful that they seem almost poetic. It's funny to think about how many people we pass every day in this city, though we don't usually interact with them. Sometimes those tiny things -- a meeting of eyes; a smile -- can genuinely affect someone (even if that person is batshit crazy enough to post it on Craigslist):

G-train - Court sq to Greenpoint ave - m4w (Greenpoint )

You got on the train at Court Sq and were lingering near the door unsure if you were on the right train, and you came to me and told me that you were going to Greenpoint ave and asked if the train went there. I said yes. Then when you were getting off, we looked at each other and smiled. you had the most beautiful smile I've seen. I know you were just being friendly, but your smile has been haunting me all evening.

Send me a note if you see this.

If I were her, I'd write back.

The Haiku

Hipsters, my dear friends,
Though I oft agree with you,
You're damn pretentious.

The Jazz

Pre-new job preparations have been taking up all my time, but I have to tell you about last Wednesday night. Some of my (previous) coworkers and I joined reps from Pandora at the City Winery for a show of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band from New Orleans. Top night.

The venue itself was a beautiful restaurant, with an interesting menu (I ordered the Lamb Crostini, after asking everyone at the table if they knew what in the world a "crostini" was) and wine to die for. Seriously. I am not a wine gal, but this stuff was delic and more than did the job. Also, the presentation was unique; our house Chardonnay for the table came in science beakers.

Adorable.

The band itself was great. I couldn't stop dancing in my seat the whole time. It was made up, obviously, of amazing old-school Southern jazz dudes who you just want to sit around and talk with because you know they'd have the best stories.

Although I argued that the (in my mind, as a previous sax player) harder-to-play brass instruments such as the trombone were more sexy, my friend insisted that the tenor saxophone in the band was the sexiest addition by far. I don't know how I feel about that, but I do know that the slick-haired, moustachioed sax player making love to the microphone when he sang was definitely a highlight of the night.

Picture by our fellow patron, Feast of Music, on flickr

We both did agree that the pianist seemed pretty BAMF-like.

Toward the end of the show, the band actually began to come down off the stage to walk while still playing. We were sitting right by the stage exit, so as they came down they motioned to us to join them. By this point we'd been there for a few hours and gone through quite a few beakers, and had no qualms forming a jazz-congo line and parading around the restaurant, dancing like crazy behind these jazz-playing men. We ended up joining them back up on stage and dancing around as they played, while the crowd of (much classier) table-sitters took pictures of our, ahem, enthusiasm. Right as I was ready to exit stage right after a song, my friend forcibly grabbed me and began swing dancing on stage. Mind you, I have no idea how to dance. But the music (and the beakers of goodness) inspired me. I've got to say, it was a pretty damn good show.

The Article

If you live in NYC, want to live in/visit NYC, or think you know anything about NYC, you have to read the 50 Reasons to Be Pretty Damn Euphoric You Live in NYC.

One of my favorites: reason number 5, which states, "5. We are, as a group, anti-fanny-pack as much as we are pro-gay-marriage. Hetero marriage, on the other hand, we can pretty much take or leave."

The Meal

As previously mentioned, my parents came to visit this past weekend. They drove here from Ohio, which is kind of like taking the scenic route from a different universe. I think they wanted to be able to see my apartment and reassure themselves that while I am living in Harlem, my apartment isn't quite a dirty harem (see what I did there?). Lucky they did drive though, because in their car they brought me my husband pillow, some Hanukkah presents, and approximately 15 cans of beans. Apparently there was a sale.

At least now I have something easy to make and eat after work when I am all unmotivated, which is not a can of Chef Boyardee. (Although a couple weeks ago one of my roommates asked me if I was gathering the Chef in preparation for the apocalypse, and yesterday a different roommate said that she noticed the Chef Boyardee supply shrinking rapidly and asked how I felt about myself for that. To be honest, I don't feel amazing about it.)

Staci's Awesome Quick and Easy Rice and Beans Recipe:

-Put a cup of whatever kind of rice you happen to have on the stove, following the directions the box/bag gives you.
-While the rice is simmering away, chop up a small onion (or half a big onion) and however much garlic you feel like having.
-Heat up some oil; throw the onions/garlic in. Let them cook, stirring, for whatever amount of time until you think they've been there alone long enough.
-Dump a can of black beans (or other kinds of beans, if you want; be inventive), including the watery gunk, in the onions/garlic. Bring to a boil
-Pour in some red wine vinegar. If you really like vinegar, pour in a lot. If you don't like vinegar, pour in a little. The taste is going to cook down, so wait a couple minutes and re-taste to see if you want more vinegar. If you don't have red wine vinegar because honestly, who has that, use whatever kind of vinegary things you can find. I'm currently using balsamic vinegar and it is delic (note: not vinaigrette. We don't want our beans to be wimps).
-If you have tomato, cut up some of that and throw it in. Not necessary, just a yummy bonus if you've been to the grocery store recently (I usually haven't, and therefore skip this step).
-If you have other vegetable or herby-type things you feel like putting in, like parsley and whatnot, by all means go for it. I think if you are the kind of person who has those things around, though, you should not be taking cooking advice from me.
-Bring beans back down to a simmer.
-Let them simmer for whatever amount of time is good for you. Usually I just let it go until the rice is cooked.
-Throw in a ton of oregano, as well as whatever other spices sound good.
Serves...well...me, for a few meals. Depends on how hungry I am. Good to take to work for lunch; the yummy smells will impress your coworkers with your cooking skills when you obviously actually have none.

The Change

Guys, just so you know, this is my last week at my current job. Just wanted you to know. For future reference. Keep a log.

In the ad industry, especially in NYC, people move around all the time. I guess the creative ad mojo (and the money) just works that way. But then, I'm moving out of the ad industry, into the "innovations" team at a teeny tiny brand strategy firm. As my friend said, innovations just sounds so me.

The less-me part of this whole gig is that the new place is in Soho. That's right, little frumpy Ohioey me, in Soho. Just sitting on the street waiting for my interview, I was completely intimidated by the coolness of people walking down the street. Everyone was so put together, and I don't even blow-dry my hair most mornings. For example,

Soho...

...Me. Sad, but true.

Soho...

...Me.

Soho...

...Me.

Do you see what I'm getting at here?

The Eve

I still don't get Halloween in NYC (or anywhere, but that is beside the point). Apparently kids demand candy from the shops and things? To my fellow suburbanites, can you even imagine what would happen if we tried to do this? Picture going into Giant Eagle or something and asking a cashier for candy. She'd just say, "Ummmm...no, we don't do that" in a slightly bored voice, while looking at you like she's seen more exciting specimens on the bottom of her shoe.

My parents were visiting this weekend so I didn't go crazy or see the parade or anything, but we did love checking out the costumes. My favorite was at a Bowery bar on Saturday: a slutty 3 train, complete with headlights on her chest and red taillights on her butt. I also saw a matching garden gnome couple with the huge pointy red cone hats, big white beards and plaid, and all night they were dancing very stiffly and jerkily as you would expect a garden gnome to dance. There were a surprisingly large number of Marios out.

We went to the Sea Thai restaurant at Washington and 12th St, which I thought was really well priced (food-wise; drinks less so) for the trenditude of the area and the restaurant itself. (Not sure what they were thinking with the techno, but you can't win them all.) The waiters and staff were all dressed up and masked or face-painted for the holiday, but one of them actually had a studded leather harness on.

His wasn't quite this intense, but you get the idea.

Nothing better than having Thai food served to you in a cool restaurant by a kinky waiter.

The Homebody

I love that instead of going out tonight, the Friday of Halloween weekend in New York City, all my roommates and I ended up at home having a music share fest.

The Crazers

Walking home from the bar tonight, I bonded with a drunken crazy woman. I was venting to a friend about why Charlie Brown is terrifying -- that is, that the incredibly depressing voices, sound effects, dialogue and even illustration style are teaching little kids that life sucks -- and I stupidly said that it taught them that "they might as well put guns to their heads." Thinking back, maybe just generally a bad thing to say in public, but we know self-censorship is not one of my strong suits.

Upsettingly depressing.

Anyway, I noticed that a woman passing on the other side of me was staring at me with a creepy smile on her face, so I said, "Er, not really. Just kidding." She goes, in a friendly but belligerently drunk and over-sharey way, "No, you know what? Sometimes you do want to put a gun to your head. Like when..." and then she continues on some long story about a boyfriend and French textbooks. No, really. It made no sense. The story ended, "So yeah, I do kind of want to put a gun to my head right now!" I decided that it would be irresponsible of me not to say, "Ha, right. I know the feeling. But...don't actually do it, ok?" At which point she said that she was planning on remedying the situation with beer and cigarettes, and disappeared into a convenience store.

Later, my uptown 1 was stopped briefly to switch conductors, and obviously I was people-watching the folk walking on the platform to the exit. One guy walking past looked into the car, saw me watching, winked, and made a very lewd sexual gesture. I started laughing, and all the people in the train around me stared at me, thinking I was a crazer laughing at nothing. The guy sitting next to me actually scooted away a little.

When we finally got off the train, the girl walking up the stairs behind me yelled, "Holy shishkabob! It's raining!"

I think my travels home on weekend nights are the best part of living in NYC.

The Earring

Why is Soho so(ho) difficult to get to from my side of the island? (I am hilarious. But actually, it is.)

No time for a fulllll post, but today's Five Things of New Yorky Awesomeness:

1. On the 5 train there was a huge black man with a giant really cool looking gold earring that looked like Carrie Bradshaw's name necklace. Obvs, I edged closer to see what it said. IT SAID MY NAME. It was spelled "Stacy," but still. A big dude on the train was wearing an earring that said my name in gold script.

2. Starbucks let the public use their restrooms. And they are every block in this city. If you don't think this is awesome, you are just blatantly wrong. My mom said back in her day, they used to have to find hotels and pretend they were staying there to sneak into the bathroom.

3. Both today and the last time I used a Starbucks bathroom, I was sandwiched in between two groups of people: one speaking Hebrew and one speaking Mandarin. How does this happen? I mean I know the Chinese are the most populous dudes ever, but Israelis? And I know a (teeny tiny miniscule) bit of both languages. Awesome.

4. Three different people asked me for directions today, and I knew how to get to all three places (and I wasn't in a hurry, so I didn't even point without thinking in the direction opposite from where I was going, as sometimes happens). Boom. I am the directionmaster.

5. Random strangers also kept calling me "honey" and "sweetie" and such today. This is what happens when I let my roommates dress me. (Not-so-awesome things also happened from this, like train creepers staring at my patterny tights and then giving me creepy predatory smiles. But the show must go on.) Apparently all those psych classes were right: when you look cute, people are nicer to you. Who knew?

The Song

I just wrote a big, angry, anti-New Yorker post, but I decided to drop it and feel the looove instead. That's right. I whipped myself up a little Chef Boyardee, turned up the Pink Floyd (it was "Wish You Were Here," which is a particularly meaningful love song of mine. And hate song. And emo song, and happy song, and hopeful song, and desperate song. This song is everything. Have you ever met someone who didn't like "Wish You Were Here"? No, is your answer. You haven't. Because this song is the epitome of everything that songhood should be. Here, listen. Do it.

Now after that, try to tell me that you're not feeling all feelingful, whether it be motivated or nostalgic or depressed or the beautiful drainy lack of all feelings (as PF likes to call it, "comfortably numb"). Isn't that great? All songs should aspire to this.)

Where was I? Right. I was cuddled in bed with the kitty cat (he only bit me twice. This restraint means he's feeling the love too), and I pushed the "delete" button on my negativity.

Apparently, my New York persona (didn't you know everyone has one?) has become complainy lady. I've never been miss Sally Satisfied, but since I've been here I feel like all I do is bitch. Even right now, I'm kind of bitching about being a bitch. This is not congruent with the slightly sassy but generally upbeat and somewhat naive touristy New Yorker I would like to be. Guys, stop laughing. I can totally be upbeat. Just watch.

As of right now, I am making an October 18 Resolution. My resolution is to, at the end of each day, come up with at least five things that happened that day that were kind of awesome, related to New Yorkiness or my new NYC lifestyle.

Five, you ask? On a Monday? Is that even possible?

Friends, this is possible. Not only because I am "Wish You Were Here"-inspired, and not only because I tend to completely exaggerate everyday occurrences (well, yes, maybe a little because of that). But five awesome things per day is not only possible, but unavoidable, because I live in a city that millions of people dream of, where infinite possibilities become realities every moment. When you have this many people in this space, magic (as well as some really awkward grossness) happens all the time. I'll bet right now, somewhere on this little island, a lost kid is finding his parents, or a girl is being proposed to by the love of her life. I'll bet also right now somewhere on this island, someone is taking a photocopy of his/her butt. It is all happening. So, as I said --

The Five Awesome Things That Happened (in this godforsaken city -- juuust kidding) Today:

1. I resolved to be positive about this city and come up with the list of Awesomeness! Isn't that awesome?

2. We had a vendor meeting at work, and they are letting us try out their product for free for a little while. I know I'm not being very specific here (I could, it's not confidential, it just feels kind of dirty), but I promise, it's awesome. It's been a little while since we had a non-food perk on my team. And I'm lucky for any perk, anyway. My job is really cool and we get free stuff sometimes. Who doesn't like free stuff?

3. On the way home when I was struggling to get off the ridiculously crowded express train where everyone was pushing and squishing and being generally rude, this dude gave me a smile and a polite "after you" gesture and let me go ahead of him off the train. Seriously, that is all it takes to make it to the Awesomeness list in my book. Think about how little real physical effort that cost him; yet, most people wouldn't do that. I kind of want to give him a hug.

4. Something pretty awesome and exciting happened that I can't tell you about yet. I'm sorry, interwebz, some things have to be private. Even so, it was awesome enough to go on the Awesome list, so here is its placeholder. (I'm not pregnant. Just wanted to quash that potential rumor off the bat. That would not be a NYC-related thing, anyway. Particularly as if that did happen, I would probably go back to Ohio because dear god I am not prepared to take care of a baby by myself right now.)

5. I saw this cool looking yogurt/gelato shop near work that I've somehow never noticed before. Come on, gelato is delicious. I am pretty excited about it.

The Gallery

I went with my roommate to a dance film showing/competition that her friend had a film in. It was in one of those really trendy little second-floor multi-media studio galleries in Soho, and all the films were projected onto the white exposed brick wall. I was straight-up not cool enough to be there.

Her friend's video was shot on a beach covered with broken glass. The star of the film danced among the broken glass, and the soundtrack was an original piece in toy piano and xylophone made to sound like the glass moving. They won the competition, and I learned stuff about dance/film art.

On the way out, there was a dude walking his three dogs of various sizes. All three dogs were wearing purple sweaters.

The Serenade

This gangsta-looking Latino guy was singing "U Smile" and wearing a doggie backpack on the subway today.

And when I say gangsta-looking, I mean just your typical Harlem dark sweats, sneakers and cap-wearing dude.

And when I say singing, I mean he was really hitting those high notes. I am a pretty high soprano, but he was singing his Bieb feve frenzy in an octave I can only aspire to.

And when I say doggie backpack, I mean he literally had a bright red rectangular backpack with a small doggie in it.

The Visit

My friend came to visit this weekend. She's originally from Ottawa, but goes to school in Kingston. Funny, how Americans know nothing about Canada, but they know all about us. We are way more self-important than them, though. Plus, we are more likely to shoot most other countries than they are us, so everyone needs to keep informed.

I am still unfortunately sick, so I'm not going to give you a long, detailed weekend play-by-play. Suffice it to say (is that the right phrase? Suffice WHAT to say? This makes no sense) that we covered a lot of ground.

We actually did one of those sightseeing bus tours yesterday. I know, you're like, "Ewww why??" But it was really cool, and we wanted to. We learned stuff. I'll bet you don't know some of the interesting stuff about the city you've lived in your whole life that we know from that one day. We know some history of tenements in NYC, and where Bon Jovi's penthouse is, and why the current MSG is the fourth one built. We know why Donald Trump is a dousche, and all about the wave of Jews that my great granddaddy came over with. Also, one of the guides talked about the building I work in (I am special). We also got to hop off throughout the day to buy things and explore and drink street daquiris. So lay off, haters. We had a good day, and you are judgey and mean.

Also, did you know that the Church of Scientology welcomes visitors? NOW YOU DO. Why is everything Scientology so scary?

The Stranger

All right, friends. I am very sick right now and (another) big weekend is coming up, so I know that tomorrow I will seriously regret having stayed up to thumb-type this post on my iPod. And yet I trudge on, for you. Actually, mostly I trudge on because I am a bit of a narcissist, and I love hearing the sound of my own (digital, written) voice.

Here's the situation. Every day, when I'm walking the couple of blocks from the subway stop to work, I pass the same guy. EVERY DAY. That's the weird part; I don't necessarily get to work at the same time each day. Yet, I always pass him during my fourish minute walk.

This dude is probably around 30 (although I suck at judging age; he could end up being 20 or 40), relatively fit-looking under his suit, with the kind of slightly spiky dair hair and facial hair that says, "I listen to great music, and I know it. I also have at least one tattoo and possibly a surprising piercing on my body. I wear this suit because I have to and I do it slightly ironically, but damn, do I make it look good." You know what I'm talking about.

For the first couple of days that we passed each other, I thought it was a funny coincidence. I tried to catch his eye to tell him, in eye language, "Hey there. We cross paths daily. We should smile at each other, or at least make the slight face adjustment that shows recognition when you're feeling too New Yorkian to smile." But, frustratingly, daily guy would never look up to make eye contact with me. Then I started getting this weird paranoia that someone had hired him to stalk me, which explained both why he was there every day even at different times and also why he wouldn't look at me. However, I'm not actually that paranoid/ narcissitic/ generally crazy, so I figured that he probably is just super zoned in the mornings, and legitimately hasn't noticed the beautiful brunette he passes daily. Not sure how he hasn't noticed; lately I have taken to openly staring, a mixture of "What the hell? Really, every morning?" and "Be my friend!" This morning it kind of almost seemed like he was smirking a little as he pointedly avoided (at least it seemed pointed to me) my gaze.

So my question to you is, how do I get my morning buddy to actually become a morning buddy in reality and not just in my head? Should I just leave this poor dude alone? (Let's be honest. That's not really an option for me. I don't leave things alone. I'm a trudger.) Advice?

The Meal

Right now I'm having the gourmet dinner of champions: a can of Chef Boyardee with frozen spinach and hot sauce. I think I eat even worse now, as an entry-level young professional trying to support herself in NYC, than I did as a college student. Actually, I know I do. Thanks, college roomies.

The Party

Last night was my roommate's joint birthday party with two of her friends. I tell this roommate that she is crazy pretty much every day, and the party (and her friends) were a fitting extension to her craziness. In other words: awesome chaos.

I never ever get dolled up, as you know (if you are a StaciBeth stalker, which I know you are), but as we were VIPing at a club, it was time to do it right. I wore heels. Stilettos. Trust me, if there is any place that could be the worst, most annoying, inconvenient and painful place to wear heels, it is NYC. There are constant sidewalk cracks and holes and bad drivers and rude people and all kinds of other obstacles. I really don't get how people do it every day; possibly they are masochists. After an hourish, I wanted to stab myself in the foot with my stiletto to end my misery. But, I looked freaking hot.

When I say the people last night were crazy, I don't exaggerate. My favorite was this giant, possibly 300 pounds of muscle, loud, charismatic, very Italian guy with a lisp (I love lisps. I think they are incredibly funny and cute. Half of my friends have lisps, and I'm still not over it) who was there with his Russian girlfriend who barely spoke English. I asked where they had met, and he went on about meeting on the plane to Las Vegas (he was drunk, she was attractive and all foreigny) and then spending their whole time there together. Right. You met the attractive Russian girl who speaks no English when you both happened to be alone on a plane from New York to Vegas, and then you both happened to come back to New York at the same time. Totally.

My least favorite crazy person had to be my roommate's ex-boyfriend's date. She kept talking about her job, "To help people live a better life. If you don't love your life from the moment you wake up until the moment you go to sleep, I'm not doing my job. That's what I do. I just want to make other people's lives better. That's my job. That's all it is." At first I thought she meant she was some kind of prostitute, but she explained that she works at some "education" center that runs programs to help people live extraordinary lives. In other words, a cult. She was totally brainwashed. Apparently she turned to my other roommate randomly at one point and said, "I'm extraordinary. Most people are down here. [Hand gestures] I'm up here. Barack Obama? Down here. Me? Up here." But that doesn't mean she wasn't just crazy to start with. Later, in the middle of a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with this, she leaned over and announced to the birthday girl, "If you need me to sing tonight at any point, just let me know." I said, "Um...why would she need you to sing?" "Oh, I sing and dance and act. You know." Yes, I do know. You have a personality disorder. I get it. You should get help. I realize that personality disorders are no laughing matter, but...this one kind of was. It had to be, or we would have killed her.

Venue-wise, the club was very cool. It was an old synagogue-turned-fabulous drinking establishment, and you had no idea it was a club from the outside. Inside on the restaurant level, there were great stained glass windows and weird light mummies and a tree as well as antlers growing out of our stone table. I will have to track down someone with pictures.

Downstairs, we had this comfy VIP nook that could be curtained off from the rest of the place (but wasn't, obvs). Thank god we had it too, because the place was packed, and I was not in the mood to pick up random guys. Not trying to be conceited (too much), but that's just what places like that are for. Girls get all sexified up to go and gyrate in public and make men (and women) drool all over them, so they can feel good and confident and sexy. And I did feel good and confident and sexy, but for whatever reason I wasn't really feeling like being groped by strangers (yes -- I was pretty sober). It was really fun, though. Also for awhile we had this huge, arms-crossed security guard in our section to stop other people from trying to impede on our awesomeness. Hilarious.

After my roommate got in a fight with the establishment owners because they are racist jerks, we ended up at some really crappy hole-in-the wall back-alley place that was straight out of a 70s movie. When we got there I thought it was a black disco bar, and I imploded with joy. They eventually started playing more modern rappy stuff (unfort), but it was still an amazing find. It had a little dance floor with a stage, piano, big comfy couch and obviously disco lights, and the D.J. was set up on a tiny open balcony above the stage. If it weren't so far away from my beloved Harlem, I would absolutely become a regular there. We closed the place.

This morning, in front of my roommate's friend's Village one-bedroom apartment (!!!) where we had slept, we watched a parade of Catholic Filipinos go by. They had instruments and signs and flower chain things and big Marys. When we asked the policeman what was going on, he said, "I don't know. I'm Jewish. We don't do this at synagogue."

The Town

Why do I feel like I always find myself at karaoke bars playing drinking games in foreign languages while surrounded by belligerent Asians?

Right. Because Chinatown is my other neighborhood, and the Neway KTV is my other dig. (Can I say "dig"? Is it supposed to be "digs"? What does that even mean, really? God, I'm white and sheltered.) I particularly love how the bouncers at the KTV know me now.

I also love how when I was trying to rap tonight, this girl stared at me and said, "Waaah." This is the Chinese version of "wow" (depending on how it's said; it could also be a whiny noise. Chinese is all about intonation, after all). I wasn't sure if she was impressed by my mad abilities to channel Jay-Z or by my incredible tolerance level for humiliation. I'm leaning toward Jay-Z.

The Laugher

When I went into the restroom at work today, a woman was standing at the mirror and hysterically laughing with her reflection. We made eye contact briefly in the mirror, and she smiled at me. It wasn't a reassuring smile; it was more of a crazed hyena smile.

(Speaking of which, why are the hyenas in Lion King so scary looking? Hyenas are kind of cute:

You know, cute like one of those dumb-but-good-hearted second grade kids who picks his nose in class and gets embarrassed really easily. You know who I'm talking about. That's hyena cute. Minus the FACE-RIPPING VIOLENCE.)

Anyway, I actually waited in the stall until I heard her leave before I came out. She terrified me that much. Sadly, she probably sits on my floor somewhere, so I will most likely encounter her in the future.

And I will run.

The Question

The very typical loud, Jewish, Queens born-and-raised kind of dude in the office next to my cube (who I usually can only put up with because he always is either blasting a. what sounds like my exact favorite custom-built Pandora station or b. hilarious LA gangsta rap) just yelled at the pregnant woman a couple of offices down, "HEY, is your belly button completely inside-out yet?!?"

The Isle

This may just be a new kid thing, but I feel guilty when I don't do anything with my free time since I've moved here. I'm the kind of girl who enjoys pastimes such as watching seasons of TV on my laptop (preferably nerdy Joss Whedon shows), blasting music in my apartment and dancing around in my underoos, or reading entire novels in a day on the couch. All these pastimes consume precious non-work time which I could be spending instead doing exciting neighborhood explores, discovering trendy cafes or gazing at worldly works of art. Every time someone I talk to here says, "Wait, you haven't been to John's Pizzeria? How is that possible?" or someone at home says, "What do you MEAN you have no idea where the Empire State building is? You live in New York!" I feel like I should be spending my free time a little more strategically. (I do go out and explore and drink and whatever. Just not every hour over my weekends. Plus, everyone knows that Thursdays are NYC's Fridays.) This may be the city that never sleeps, but I love my beauty rest on the weekend.

That's why, even though I am new here, I already have found that running away to Long Island can be a nice getaway from the city. Whereas I might feel a little guilty potatoing on my own couch all weekend, I have absolutely no guilt about watching DVRed movies all day at my friend's house in Bellmore. It's a totally out-of-city experience to stay somewhere with yards and neighbors in separate buildings and store parking lots, and the familiarity of suburbia is reassuring sometimes to a North Canton, Ohio girl. (Although, millennia ago, my grandpa apparently decided NOT to move to Levittown in Long Island because "all the houses looked the same." No joke. Explains where I get my decision-making processes from. Ironically, my parents ended up moving to white Ohio suburbia to raise us. But unlike the parts of Long Island I've seen, our version of white suburbia has almost no Jews (except for us), no jet skis, and significantly less bagel shops.) Now that I live in a city with what can feel like too many things to do, going someplace where there's nothing much exciting going on can be a welcome relief.

Of course, on my way back to my apartment tonight, my bus stop corner was closed off because an  SUV cab had completely destroyed the side of a four-door sedan. I mean, obliterated. Even some of my neighbors were stopping to stare, transfixed, at the wreckage. Harlem, at least you are never, ever boring.

The Station

Wait. Has that Kmart always been in Penn Station?

(Mommy says no, but she also says that Kmart might not have existed last time she was in Penn. I think this is impossible. Kmart is one of those things that's always been around, like Prince. Back in the day before he became a supastar, Prince used to ride a triceratops (which also might not have been a real thing, according to something I read the other day) to Kmart when he needed some household goods.)

I don't understand how Penn can have like 836 ATMs (and a freaking Kmart), but I couldn't find a Chase ATM. I tried asking the Kmart security guy where one was, but he didn't seem to speak English that well. Or he was messing with me. Anyway, I ended up charging $2 for a bottle of pop (I will never stop saying it!) because I didn't have $1.25 in cash for the machine. Ah, the price of convenience.

The Metalface

Unfortunately, unlike my past experiences, nothing off-the-wall happened at 42nd and 5th when I was leaving the library today (again, NOT the lionbrary (oh my dear god, when I Googled "Manhattan library," this was one of the top images. Google knows me so well. Kind of like Pandora. I feel like I say it every day, but I'll repeat it: I will never find a man who understands me like my Pandora radio does. If I ever do...well, I digress from my parenthetical notes). I go to the library across the street from the big one).

However, a trip to the library never leaves me without at least some minor amusement. When I was getting on the train, I saw a girl. She was a relatively normal-looking Latina girl in jeans and a tee, probably in high school and still high schoolishly skinny, not fully grown into all the benefits of her Latinaness (I wanted to offer her some ice cream or something to help her along, but I think people take it badly when you offer strange kids sweets). Totally normal. Except for the bar of metal going through her face.

Seriously. I'm cool with piercings; I mostly think they're pretty hot. But this shit was a huge metal chunk under her left eye and above her cheekbone. It may not have been that bad (don't click on that link if you have an especially girlish stomach), except that it kind of highlighted where the bottom of her under-eye circle is and made her look, for lack of better words, old haggish and trashy as hell. I have attempted to make a re-creation of her face below:

Is this a thing? Did the under-eye aging piercing become a trend that I missed in my Ohio and then Syracuse-grounded existence?

TOTAL SIDENOTE: Google has also just taught me that this is a trend in Japan, apparently. Chris C. says, "This is #8 on my list of “Things I Didn't Know Were Things But Shouldn't Be Anyway”" and now I want to know what his other things were, too. I just thought you should know. I think everyone should know. You should probably make a memo.

The Scoff

When a teammate of mine walked into the conference room today, she asked me what I was looking at out the window. I replied that the buildings near ours are really pretty, but it's hard to tell from the ground sometimes. Occasionally I do just walk around and stare up at them during lunch, though. "You walk around facing up?" she scoffed. "Like a tourist?"

I looked at her and said, "I hope I never stop looking up."

True story. She really did say this, as a real-life example of what I was blabbering on about in The Nap. And yes, I am this corny in everyday life.

The Nap

I am so, so glad that I slept all afternoon yesterday after coming home from my 6:40am flight out of Akron, because I was thus unavailable to go to the movies with my roommate. You're thinking, "Wow, this girl is an awful person," but you need to be patient and read on. I'm not that much of an ass. Sometimes.

When I finally showed my face last night post-nap and bed hangout, I found my roommate in the kitchen looking like she'd tried to take on the Jets' defense single-handedly. It wasn't hard to coax her tale out of her. Apparently she'd gone to the Loew's theater at Lincoln Center to see Never Let Me Go, which is one of those disturbing and emotional sci-fi movies (although nothing, NOTHING, will ever be as disturbing as Splice. Seriously. I felt violated afterward. Felt unclean for days). She went alone and was sitting at the end of the aisle. Mid-movie, an older woman sitting on the other side of the aisle got up, fell over, smashed her head on my roommate's armrest, and started compulsively vomiting everywhere. And no one did anything.

My roommate, who was obviously cornered into her seat by this, tried to get people around her to help. With a lack of response, she ended up jumping over the woman, leaving her purse and everything, and sprinting out of the theater to the concession stand. Panicked, she told the popcorn-serving kid what had happened and to get medical help. He looked at her, looked at the long line of cranky, obese American customers waiting for their extra butter, and told her that he couldn't help her, she'd have to find a manager.

At this point, she was beyond freaking out. As she was running around, she noticed the high-up booth of staff dudes, and she yelled up at them to call a manager and help. She couldn't tell if they heard her though, so she kept trying to find someone to help her. Finally, a movie-goer who had heard her encounter with the pimply concession idiot approached her, explaining that he was a doctor and would take a look at the woman. In the end, they ended up dragging this still-vomiting, unconscious woman out of the theater with minimal help from other audience members. The booth staffers had heard her and walkie-talkied a manager, who was completely useless. Loew's staff asked my roommate to come speak with them, and while she assumed they'd question her and take her name and phone number, they just gave her a movie voucher and apologized for the "inconvenience." She waited for the ambulance to come to make sure the woman was taken care of by semi-competent professionals, and took a cab home.

The thing that I think is most disturbing about this isn't the total lack of competence or response whatsoever by the movie theater staff. My main problem is that this theater had plenty of other people in it. AND NO ONE DID ANYTHING. My roommate said that the only other person in the theater who really moved to help was an old man with a cane, who could not keep up when she sprinted for help. Everyone else in the theater? Some people turned to look. Most continued watching the movie, ignoring the commotion.

I make comments pretty often about rude, jaded New Yorkers. I've mentioned before that people in this city generally try to act like they are unaffected by spectacle. For people here, it's pretty important to come off as a native New Yorker. I understand that when you live in a city unlike any other city in the world, the way to fit in and stay sane is to make your own mini-bubble. You kind of need to ignore the spectacles in order to get anything done. But at the same time, a lot of it is for show. People don't want to be seen gaping at something that's just "typical" crazy New York. You would NEVER want to be thought of as a tourist.

Last week, my friend told me a story that I thought summed it up pretty well. His friend's cousin, who had never been to a large city, let alone the world's center that is New York, came to visit. Before they even got out of Grand Central, the cousin saw a man sitting in the corner, covered in newspapers, and she freaked out. "We have to help him!" The New Yorker quickly shushed her, embarrassed, and explained that it wasn't a big deal; that kind of thing was normal. The sad thing was, her response was the right one. He was ashamed of her public outcry against the typical misfortune of a homeless person; his preferred method was to shut his eyes to it. And his was the "normal" response, in this environment.

City people are usually thought of as experienced and worldly. In other words, civilized. After a couple of months here, I already have found myself turning up my iPod to avoid beggars on the train. But when I think about it, I'd rather make eye contact, shake my head, and say, "I'm sorry" than turn away. I'd rather be a wide-eyed Ohio girl for the rest of my life than the kind of jaded New Yorker who'd ignore a woman having a medical emergency in the movie theater.

The Airport (part dos)

Well, here I am. Back again. How is this happening? I feel deserving of scorn right now. "You're leaving New York...to fly to Akron, Ohio...again? Do a Lebron and RUN AWAY, child!"

The man sitting a couple of seats down was just hardcore staring at me, and when I looked up he did the awkward nod that says, "Yes, I am a man awkwardly staring at you. It's not in a predatory way. This polite nod signifies that I am not a creeper." He does look familiar though, probably in the way that any blonde, fit, white polo-wearing, upper-middle class Yankees fan looks familiar.

Contrary to what I said last time I was at the airport, I feel like not as many people are being friendlier than usual New Yorkers today (other than Mr. Polite Nod, since people here generally don't feel the need to cover up their staring with polite gestures). It could be just me taking on a stronger rude/jaded New Yorker persona though. I hope not. Ah well, it's nothing a weekend of praying and fasting in Ohio can't curb.

Later edit: When I was boarding, the boarding line was held up. Peering around a couple of people in front of me, I saw that it was because a young couple approximately my age was tickling and canoodling and getting altogether swept up in their mutual public lust. Obvs, I felt it was necessary to yell "EXCUSE ME" to snap them out of their line-clogging sexual reverie. A few minutes later when I got on the plane and went to find my seat, I realized that as I was sitting on the side with three seats in a row, the disgustocouple were my seatmates.

The Rat

After a stressful, 12-hour (no, seriously) day at work, I'm glad I could still get amusement from a man cheering on a rat as it tried to not get hit by an oncoming train.

The Cubicle

This may sound kind of Dilbert, but I am frustrated that a new kid just moved into the cubicle across from mine. He seems like a nice dude and all, but that cube is generally the only vantage point to see into the world that is my cube. I need my privacy. My cubicle etiquette sucks, and I don't need him getting insight into that. I have piles of status forms and post-its everywhere. I like to take my shoes off and put my feet up. The cleaning lady has to remind me every night to throw out my cocoa cup from 10am that morning (thank Allah for this woman, because otherwise I'd def have piles of those too). If I had a particularly squished train ride that morning, I occasionally apply perfume to strategic points before meetings. Not to mention, I am constantly playing/making popping noises with Silly Putty for approximately five hours a day. My cube is my space, and it turns out I'm not so good at adapting to be stationary and polite in semi-public for most of my waking hours. Poor kid doesn't know what he's getting himself into.

The Weekend

I woke up at 3pm today. Haven't done that for awhile. Still, it's going to take more than that to get me over this weekend. This is gonna be a long one, folks. Get your popcorn ready.

It started off with the Jets Kickoff at the South Street Seaport after work Friday. I'm not really a Jets fan (except for Mark Sanchez, who, for obvious reasons, I am a HUGE fan of), but I met up with some friends, and strangely, Good Charlotte was there (click on the image below (or just look at it and be impressed by the wannabe BAMFness) to see some of the show, thanks to Big Ant. Thanks buddy, for being hardcore enough to record Good Charlotte and post it to YouTube).

I was quite the little Good Charlotte fan back in the day. I actually found my Good Charlotte buttons and hat last weekend when I was in Ohio, and made the life-changing decision not to bring them back to NYC with me. Ah, well. Anyway, I was amused that the band finished with "Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous," which was a big hit back in my crowd-surfing days. I also really enjoyed all the jaded Jets fans who just wanted Good Charlotte to shut the hell up.

After the Seaport it was to Little Italy for dinner, where our (not at all Italian) server explained in broken English about how the streets in Little Italy are shut down every weekend. I still don't think this is true, but we'll have to agree to disagree. While we were down there, I obvs had to run to Ten Ren to get a btea (read: bubble tea, to you n00bs) from what I am convinced is the best btea place in the U.S.

Post-dinner, we headed to Union Square for Trader Joe's Wine Shop. As my friends were leaving to head back to the Isle (good god I can't believe you got me to start saying that), we caught a show by that dude who makes a big spectacle out of jumping over people and panhandling in Union Square. He only actually jumps twice, but it takes a long effing time. And people actually stay to watch. This man has amazing entertainment power.

After the show, I ended up going three avenues out of my way (and then having to walk them back) on the walk to St. Mark's to meet up with some others. There was bar hopping (one of the bars was playing Star Wars on the wall!!!) and we ended up at the Sing Sing, of course. A couple rowdy ballads and a few spilled beers later, most of the group headed to bufu Queens, while my friend and I made our own cotton candy at a cutesy bai ren (translation: not for Asian people) type Japanese place. We each paid a dollar for enough sugar to make about 5 sticks of cotton candy. There's nothing not to love about spinning your own 3am post-karaoke cotton candy, while making ironic friends with scenesters.

My Saturday afternoon was an exploration of Riverbank Park. Turns out it's huge. Who knew? We walked probably 50 blocks down (and back later), but it's a really cool park; it has court space for every kind of sport you can think of, including ones on broomsticks. Juuust kidding, the Quidditch (yes, this team is actually called "The Group that Shall Not Be Named") players don't have a real playing area, and they are stuck playing in an untreed grassy patch.

They don't seem to mind, though. Because there are no official Quidditch pitch boundaries, the Snitch has more places to hide. For this practice, the Snitch was a girl running around with a gold cape, due to the lack of semi-conscious flying golden balls in reality. This is one of the many downfalls of playing a fictional magical game in real life, others being those pesky high designer broomstick prices and complete lack of non-Quidditch friends.

(The Snitch is running off to hide, while the coach dude smiles with Quidditch enthusiasm.)

We ended up talking to the coach-type man for awhile (at least, I think he was a coach. He had a whistle and acted important, but with Quidditch players, you never really know). Two of my favorite questions we asked him:

Me: So, these designer broomsticks, are they functional, too?
Quidditch coach guy: What do you mean?
Me: Like, to sweep things.

and

My friend: When you have formal matches, do the players wear robes?

I'm still chuckling.

Tomorrow is my friend's birthday (the same friend from the cotton candy on Friday), so after the park I met her for shabu shabu at Quickly (probably my number two place for btea in Ctown). If you haven't had shabu shabu, that sucks. Your life is not as amazing as it could be.

You get your own pot of boiling broth, and a mammoth pile of your chosen raw meats/veggies/noodles to throw in it. There's a station for you to make your own crazy sauces (or you can do as I do and have your Asian friends make them for you). At Quickly, you also get a btea with your shabu shabu; I've heard of hot pot buffets where they actually have tapioca and various teas at the buffet, too (aka HEAVEN).

Stuffed with delic food, we went to celebrate her birthday at KTV. Obviously. Where else can you play Chinese drinking games, get completely obliterated, stuff your face, scream your heart out, shamelessly belt out some Taylor Swift, and totally destroy the room (with the approval -- and help -- of the establishment's owner)?

Two nights of karaoke in a row, you ask? My friends, do not doubt me. Put a microphone in my hand, and I am instant diva. I even had my full voice today. Is there such thing as a professional karaoke singer? I may be no William Hung, but I can hold my own.

The Return

I apologize for not being around so much. It's been a little busy, what with a crazy apartment situation (one of my new roommates is afraid of cats. She is a sweet girl, but our apartment HAS TWO CATS. It's an issue) working fifty hours a week plus seven and a half hours of commuting, and jetting off to the exotic land of Ohio, where one can bump into seven different old friends/acquaintances within two hours of landing (no joke, this happened).

If you know me, you might say, "Staci, apologizing for something? Nooo." But I am. I'm sorry that my life's so exciting that I have no time to blog about it. I'm sorry that I went to a crazy good school and immediately after moved all by myself to the most hectic city in the U.S. I'm sorry that I found myself an awesome apartment in a cool neighborhood where I'm called "mamacita" daily. I'm sorry I work for the kind of company that throws us random beer bashes in the conference room or rents out trendy hotel bars for us for the night. I really apologize profusely for how incredibly cool I am. I do.

But -- I work my ass off.

The Airport

Oh Earl. I am so not sad to miss you.

I've decided that the airport is the only place I've found so far in New York where the strangers who start casual conversation with you are not necessarily drunk or crazy. The woman sitting across from me who works at an animal travel agency, Jet-A-Pet, is definitely crazy, though.

Later edit: While I was sitting in an area between several gates, I noticed a girl sitting near me who looked oddly familiar. Turned out to be the chick who plays Vanessa in Gossip Girl.

She's really skinny in person. Like REALLY. I don't remember her being that teeny in the show when I used to watch, back when I was a kid. Crazy cam weight? Or stresses of the biz? You decide.

The Morning

ATTENTION, NEW YORK:

I am setting down a few rules in order to make mornings safer and more pleasant for everyone.

1. Do not look at me before 9am. Man who sits on his lawn chair next to the phone kiosk every morning, I'm talking to you.

2. Do not talk to me before 10am. This includes our CEO, even if we are alone on the same elevator. Especially if we are alone on the same elevator. Sorry, Alan. It's not a great time for me.

3. Do not request things from me before 11am. I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT.

4. Do not, by any means, hit on me before noon. Harlem men, downtown construction workers, building security guards, I know that this is very difficult for all of you. But, I am warning you, Mama didn't raise no morning rose. Don't do it. Keep it to yourself -- until 12:01.

The Library

I am a loyal patron (great, this intro makes me sounds like an old man) of the Mid-Manhattan branch of NYC's library system, even though they suck at alphabetizing and actually having books that are in the system and all those things a library is supposed to do. My loyalty is pretty much solely based off the fact that they are open latest out of all the branches, and that I know how to get there. It's pretty hard to miss; it's right across the street from Bryant Park (no, not the library with the lions -- this one is ACROSS the street. Note the prepositional phrase. Across. The. Street. Not "next to." Here, I'll show you a map:

See? Not the lion one.)

Anyway, the point is not that I'm a huge nerd. The point is that every time I leave the library, without fail, something amazing and only New Yorkish happens right on the corner of 5th and 42nd. One time I saw a guy with only one eyeball trip over a bump in the sidewalk, and then LOOK AROUND (which must have been difficult, considering) to see if anyone had noticed. Um yeah, dude, I think that tripping in public is your biggest awkwardness right now. Seen a mirror, lately? No? Unsurprising*.  I kid you not, this really happened. I couldn't make that up if I tried.

So today when I was leaving the library, a new horrific event was taking place on the same mentioned corner. I noticed that one of those rickshaw carriages that the snarky drivers try to lure unsuspecting tourist couples into was kind of sitting crooked on the sidewalk, and that everyone was giving it a wide berth. Being a nosy person, I scooted right over to check it out. The driver was sitting in the rickshaw cart, which had one back wheel completely broken in half. A crushed bike was lying half under the wheel. I watched as the rickshaw driver raged on (in a very non-English language) at a man standing next to the wreck who must have been the bike's owner, and who kept trying to get close enough to look at the damage. Every time he took a step toward the mess of bike/cart, the driver would start screaming. After a second, the poor big hippie bicycler man stopped, stood frustratedly, and started crying. In the middle of the sidewalk.

Good god I love this city today.

*Caveat: I mean no offense against one-eyed or altogether eyeless people. I'm sure they're just like normal dudes and ladies, just a little sight impaired. But seriously? I think a patch is a better look, don't you?

The Men

Ohhhh the men.

The awful thing about being a woman in NYC is that there are four million other women here. And, Ravi says, New York has the world's most beautiful women. I disagree with this, but there certainly are so many of us that it's hard to be special. Particularly when everyone here dresses to impress. Being a graphic tee (or the old staple wife beater), sneakers and glasses kind of girl myself, I feel like a total schmuck about 90% of the time. The worst is waiting in line for bars/clubs, when other girls are wearing sequined ass-length "dresses" and 4-inch stilettos, and I had felt pretty cute back in my apartment with my denim mini and pink Chucks. Luckily, the bouncers don't seem to care as long as you've got the goods (no, I'm not dumb enough to try this look at a trendy club. Not willing to pay for a trendy club either, or spend my time in the company of trendy club-going douschebags. So no big there). What I'm saying is, walking down the street, a little white girl (even a gorgey one like myself) tends to get lost in the masses.

That, my friends, is one of the many reasons I love Harlem. Call it narcissistic, but there it is. In a mostly Dominican neighborhood, an average-sized, brunette (with a tint of red that I pay a lot for), pale Jew girl like myself is consistently called "bonita" in the streets. On Sunday I was running a couple errands in my p.j.s, because it was Sunday and that's what you do. I was absentmindedly staring up at an awesome-looking sneaker store, and I accidentally got in this dude's way on the sidewalk. If we were in the Financial District near my work, he would a.) walk right into me, or b.) side-step me at the last second while muttering under his breath and checking his Blackberry.

But no, this is Harlem. This adorable man actually apologized to ME. "I'm so sorry, miss." Let's analyze this apology, shall we? (You have no choice, readers.) Firsties, he apologized to me. As if I weren't the bumbling sidewalk etiquette-less idiot. This served the dual purpose of taking away my embarrassment, and also making me fall a little bit in love with him. Secondsies, he wasn't just sorry. He was SO sorry. If it were just a mumbled, "Sorry," I wouldn't have believed him. But he was so sorry. For reals. Thirdsies, he called me "miss." I love that. It's polite, but also a little bit scandalous. It admits, "I'm trying to be appropriate, but I've noticed that you're an attractive young woman. You're not some old crone. I see you."

And you know what, Mr. Blameless Apologizer? I see you, too.

The Heat

Somehow, the lack of air conditioning here is more painful than anywhere else. In Syracuse when I was this hot, I'd just be pantsless (difficult when you have three roommates who you'd like to convince you're a normal person), or I'd sit on the lawn with a book and a daquiri. Here, it'd be more like huddling on the fire escape. Not as refreshing.

Also, in my neighborhood, people seem to take the heat a lot better than I do. In the laundromat today, while I was the most iridescently shiny white girl you'll ever see (I'm so pale I probably blind people when I sweat), my Dominican neighbors seemed perfectly comfy in the sweltering heat. The kids didn't even open up our fire hydrant. I am apparently the only person for whom 90 degrees and lingering humidity (no Syracuse breezes in the big city) is a problem.

I guess I could just buy an A/C.

The Commute

I live at 143rd and Broadway (I know, I know, that REALLY is Harlem. You're about the 20th person to say that to me. You don't have to tell me that, I live here. I should know. Plus, when I told you I lived in Harlem, what did you think I meant? Upper West Side? Not so much). I work at Fulton and Broadway. For those of you who don't know the layout of NYC, a.) how dare you because "The City" is the center of the world (we'll talk about this later) and b.) 143rd St and Fulton St are pretty much the opposite ends of the island, longways.

The commute isn't as bad as you might think. I do have to switch from a local to an express train, but that's just right across the platform. Including walking and elevator time, it takes me about 45 minutes to get to my desk from the time I leave my apartment.

Let me tell you, I LOVE the train. You might think this is weird. Hell, I think it's weird. The train is dirty and smelly, and people are cranky and sometimes a little bit wacko. You never have enough room for your feet so you can stand comfortably without falling when the train jerks. If you get stuck near the door, you are literally crushed in like a cow on a cattle car, with stinky comMOOters (...please don't kill me for this pun) touching you on all sides. Additionally, New Yorkers have this really weird thing about eye contact that I may never understand, but will also certainly talk about more in a future post.

But despite all these caveats (one of my associate director's favorite words, and I still don't know exactly what it means or when I'm using it correctly (but I THINK I just made a caveat for my use of the word "caveat")), I think my time on the train is great. I am, in general, a pretty high-tension person. I am constantly being pulled back and forth between two of my main characteristics: extreme stress and extreme laziness. In fact, usually the laziness causes the stress, because I have to make up for it later. However, on the train, I have to be lazy. I am forced to just chill out, because there is nothing I can do about how long it takes me to get to work. There's no cell service or internet underground (yet), and that means that just about the only things I can do down there are read, listen to music, and people-watch. It's fabulous.

Some of my favorite people-watching games:
-Every time I'm on the train, I have to pick at least one person in my car that I'd sleep with. Emphasis on the "at least." This is actually a problem sometimes, like a couple nights ago when there were only about 15 people in my C train car and the only dudes were old and gross. But we must make do with what we have.
-Watching other people people-watch is a lot of fun, and sometimes you make new friends. The other night I was sitting next to this adorable drunk (or very happy) young Indian couple who kept thinking up good songs from their past and singing them. In super cute Indian accents. With head bobbing. A guy across from me was staring at them. Then he caught my eye, and we both grinned. Boom. Insta-BFF, whom I'll never see or talk to again.
-Watching pervs check girls out can be amusing. If a girl gets on the train with a super low-cut top, instead of watching her (because, honestly, I'm not usually impressed), my eyes immediately go to the dudes around. I particularly like it when their heads actually turn to follow her, since jaded New Yorkers generally refuse to show that they are affected by public spectacle in any way.
-As any huge nerd will admit to, I love judging people by the books they're reading. If they're using a Kindle, I will judge them firstly for that, and then still try to figure out what books they're reading for additional judgment. Apparently "urban erotica" novels are a big thing right now, and I think these women are extremely ballsy for openly reading them on public trains. I keep my romance novels strictly e-book in public so no one will ever know (except now, since I've exposed myself on the internet. GREAT).

As you can see, my train time is filled with personal brain entertainment. Sometimes I'd even rather be on a train alone than with someone else who's jabbering on and distracting me from the awesome public atrocities going on around me. When I think about it, I spend more than 5 hours a week on the train, and that is kind of sad. And by sad, I mean amazing.

To come (in no particular order (is that a caveat???)):
The Work
The People
The Neighborhood