Springtime in New York

Maybe it's arrogant, but I can't help it. It happens every year. Spring makes me feel bad for anyone who doesn't live in New York. Right now, the city is at its absolute best. It's gorgeous out, the weather is perfect, the flowers are in bloom.

And I know some of you (Polly) will brag that you always have nice weather, but I truly believe that this is still better. Because we appreciate it more. After another long, cold, snowy winter (okay, not so snowy this year, but whatever), we have EARNED the spring. We're all so grateful for the warmth and the sun that everyone's a little nicer, a little happier, a little more alive.

I wanted to be outside on Saturday, but didn't want to have to go somewhere (Oh, how I wish I had a backyard), so I got my first pedicure of the season, threw on some flip flops, and just wandered around my neighborhood like a homeless person. I walked aimlessly, stopping into stores where I didn't buy anything, window shopped. It was lovely.

I've already had my first margarita at the restuarant with the best outdoor seating. (When in doubt, if it's between the months of April and October and you can't find me, check there.) And today, I got to wear the favorite of all Bookgirl wardrobe items--open-toed shoes. Sigh. My little toesies were so happy to be free again. It's good to be me this week, my friends. Very, very good to be me.



p.s. Liz, I know how happy the view from my office makes you, so I took the photo from a different angle today so you could see a little of Times Square. Who loves ya, baby?

p.p.s. I know there hasn't been a Weight Watchers update in months, but that's because the numbers were going in the wrong direction. Not exactly brag-worthy. But I weighed in today for the first time in a couple of weeks and lost 4.8 pounds. Did I mention how much I love spring?!?!?

It's Our Anniversary

My Beloved New York City,

You know what today is, don't you? Of course you do. It's our anniversary. Ten years ago today, I gave up my old life to move here and be with you. It wasn't easy at first. There were a lot of tears (all mine) and some cruel tricks (those would be yours).

While I knew Woonsocket and I weren't meant to be together forever, giving up my old love for you was still tough. W might have been all wrong for me, but he was comfortable. And you, well, you challenged me. W never left me stranded on a platform because I wasn't aggresive enough to push my way onto a crowded train. He never dumped me off in Harlem because I was reading a book and didn't notice I was on the wrong subway. That trick you played, New York, the one where I was all dressed up and lost one shoe on your subway, and ended up at work in a velvet dress, blazer, and sneakers, with no shoes to change into? Not cool. And that same day, when that cheap black velvet dress dyed my entire body purple? You laughed, I know you did. And that was all just the first month we were together. You're lucky you shaped up, New York, because I'm not sure how long I could have kept going like that.

But let's not rehash the way you hurt me. Let's focus instead on the good times. And in our ten years together, we sure have had some. There was the cocktail party you made it possible for me to attend, with Arthur Miller and Studs Terkel. The one where I had a whole conversation about John Steinbeck, my all-time favorite author, with his son. It took me weeks to be able to talk about that without giggling like a little girl.

There were nights walking your streets, and mornings when it was already light out as I left the club from the night before. That one time, when you threw in the early-morning snow for dramatic effect--I really appreciated that. There were drunken cab rides, going over the 59th Street bridge, looking at the lights below me, while I dangled my feet out of the cab window and giggled on my cell phone. There have been Broadway shows, perfect days walking along your rivers or sitting in your parks, and more opportunity than I ever could have dreamed of finding with another city.

I don't know what I'd do withhout the people you introduced me to. The friends who taught me that the expression "urban family" is more than just an expression. The roommates who were far better spirited about me coming home late at night and getting into bed with them than I had any right to expect. The road trip friends, and the dancing friends, and the party friends, and the playing Scrabble in a coffee shop friends, and the comfort me when I'm sad friends, and the watch football and eat wings together friends.

New York, for a relationship that I first thought was only temporary, we've sure been through a lot together. You taught me and stretched me, and made me grow up in a way I never would have in that cozy cocoon I was in before you. And I'd like to think that even just a little bit, I've made you better too. Or at least a little bit brighter and filled with a little more laughter.

Happy Anniversary, New York. Love you. Mean it.

Party Like a Rock Star... Sorta

Sarah decided she missed me, and she had the weekend off from the hospital, so she threw the two babies in the van, made her oldest son come along to babysit, and headed down to new York on Saturday for some Bookgirl lovin'.

Her brother-in-law's cousins own Manor, a club downtown, so we decided to do it up big. Phone calls were made, the owners knew we were coming, and VIP status was promised. We slutted Sarah up with my make-up and my roommate's clothes, and we were off.

No velvet ropes for us. We made a phone call when we got out of the cab, and Anthony came out to meet us. After air kisses all around, he brought us to the hostess and made sure she knew that we were special. The hostess got us a waitress. Our importance was reiterated. The waitress brought us to a table right off the dance floor. The tables, of course, were bottle service only, so she set us up with our bottle of Kettle One, our mixers, and left us to have our fun.

The big group next to us thought we were infringing on their space and were none too happy. The drunken suburban asshole who appeared to be their ringleader started with us, letting us know that he "had paid $5,000 to reserve these tables and we should shoo." Proving that he was not only an asshole, he also needed to find something better to do with his money, a charity perhaps. The bouncer got involved and tried to kick us out, until someone told him who we were, at which point he came over to shake our hands and apologize to each of us personally.

Now if the story just ended there, we sound like such rock stars, right? But alas, this was me, Sarah, and Jodie. So the story, well, it doesn't end there. Three intelligent women might have recognized that even though they had a full bottle of vodka, it was not necessarily a good idea to drink it all. But not us. No, we finished it off. And that's where the night took a turn for the sloppy.

I, of course, fell down. Because that's what I do. Jodie made out with a strange Israeli man. And Sarah, well, let's just say I had to undress her when we got home, since she decided to take a shower. Fully clothed. And then couldn't get her clothes off.

But wait. There's more. Sarah's sister has been trying to fix me up with one of the aforementioned cousins. Except he didn't know it. And we were going to do it all subtle-like. But when drunk, our Bookgirl is a talker. I'll tell anyone anything that's on my mind. And while I blessedly don't remember the details, I have a faint recollection of filling him in on the plan. In what I'm sure was a really sexy slur. Classy... Sarah's bit of the memory was him looking at us and saying, repeatedly. "Go home. Just go home." (Sarah, If you remember anything else, or hear anything at a later date from your sister, you're not allowed to tell me. The pool of shame I'm swimming is deep enough, thank you very much.)

So yes, while our big glamorous night may not have ended entirely the way we planned, and my fantasies of spending a happy life together with Cousin James and his Hamptons House are now out of the question, we got to be VIPs for the night. We drank, we laughed, we danced. We partied like rock stars. Sorta.

People to See. Social Butterflying To Do.

I know, I know. I've been lousy at posting lately. I got a disgruntled phone call yesterday telling me the caller was "starting to twitch a little" from lack of blog. I'm so proud. I gave someone the DTs.

Lots of exciting things going on around here lately. I got this email Monday afternoon from one of my coworkers:
SATC is shooting downstairs right now. RUN! ;-)

Yes, they were shooting scenes from the Sex and the City movie in my building. Just about every twenty- and thirty-something woman in the company suddenly found an urgent need to wander outside and get some air. As I was leaving the building with 3 of the marketing girls, we saw 4 of the publicists coming back into the building. As we came back in, we saw another group coming out. I have this mental image of the men walking around, seeing all those empty offices, asking, "Where did all the woman go?"
I know the picture is tiny. Sarah Jessica has on the red dress. The yellow jacket is Kim Catrall.You can just see Cynthia Nixon's hair, and Kristen Davis is on the right with the black flowered sundress and the white purse.

Then Monday night, I got to make sushi. I can't even describe how cool that was. In addition to my two book clubs, I also have a supper club of sorts. (Yes, I'm a joiner.) Six of my college friends and I take turns hosting dinner parties. It started organically shortly after college when we had pasta at my friend Ron's house one night, with jarred sauce, sitting on the floor because he didn't have a dining room table. The events (and the furniture) have gotten a little more elaborate since then, and fortunately our collective culinary skills have improved vastly, but by keeping it to just the seven of us, then the dinners never get too big, and no one ever has to be insulted about not being invited, since it's a set group.

Ron and his fiance just got back from a trip to Japan, and before they left they took a sushi-making class to get into the spirit. So they bought us all the supplies, and taught us how to make our own rolls. It was so much fun, and a lot easier than I thought it would be. I even got to make wasabi paste.

Yesterday, my friend Mandy, another of my very best friends from home, came into the city to meet me for dinner. Her husband's consulting on a project in Connecticut (they live in Mass.) and she drove down to visit him for a couple of days with their daughter Delaney and the new baby we'll get to meet in a couple of months. They came into the city to meet me for dinner, and it was so great to see them. We did the Times Square tourist thing, Delaney and Steve got to ride the giant ferris wheel in Toys R Us (Liz, I'll let you ride it if you're really good), and then we went to Hard Rock for dinner since Steve had never been. It turns out Melissa Etheridge was doing a Breast Cancer event there at the same time, so they were playing it on the screens in the restaurant, and Al Gore was there. I know that after all the celebrities I've met, being just in the same building as Al Gore, not even meeting him, shouldn't excite me, but it did.

Also, I found another reason to love Melissa Etheridge. I think it takes a lot of self-confidence to be a celebrity, and to be that real at the same time. She's a middle-aged woman who looks like a middle-aged woman. She has lines on her face, and is a little overweight, and was wearing what could only accurately be described as mom jeans. She looked great, but she looked like anyone else you could see on the street or at the supermarket. We live in a culture where you're supposed to be impossibly thin and unlined and perfect, no matter what age. And for celebrities, that pressure is multiplied exponentially. I love that she just is who she is. You can like it. You can not like it. I get the impression she doesn't much care.

So yes, a little less blogging this week, but a whole lot of fun. I figured you'd all understand. You know what they say. When Bookgirl ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.


p.s. I got all my hair chopped off yesterday, and I totally love it. I keep doing the hair flip, just so I can feel it.

Remembrance

I am incredibly lucky. For me, unlike so many other New Yorkers, yesterday isn’t a day where I have to remember a loved one, to grieve a family member or friend lost. My family was all tucked away in their safe little suburbs. My friends all got out and got to safety before the buildings came down. I am incredibly lucky.

That first anniversary, a friend from another city sent me one of those “never forget” emails. And I pretty much exploded. Maybe the rest of the country needed to remember, but it wasn’t history here in New York. It was still happening every day. The sights and sounds and smells were still so vivid in my mind that I wasn’t sure I’d ever get them to go away for a little while, let alone forever. We were still having anxiety attacks at too many sets of sirens too close together, having our bags checked every time we entered a public building, passing barriers and police blockades and National Guardsmen every time we left our apartments.

The woman who lived 2 apartments down from me was one of the victims. For months, there were flowers taped around the tree in our front yard, with candles and the missing posters that had been posted around the city for her, as they were for so many others. Each year on the anniversary, someone tapes flowers for her to that tree. For the first few years the missing posters were added. Some years there were yellow ribbons. This year, even though her family has moved from the building, it’s the flowers and a simple note.

For many of us, yesterday was mostly a regular day. We are the lucky ones. We go to work, attend meetings, live our lives. But in our own quiet ways, we remember.

Wretched City

I have two words to describe New York City today. And the first one is Cluster.

There was a big storm during the night. Heavy rain, lightning, the whole bit. It stopped before I left for work, so no problem, right? Wrong.

Every train into, out of, and around the city was flooded. Most of them were closed down. Moments like these make me embarrassed for the city. You want to host the Olympics, but your public transportation system can completely melt down from heavy rain? Seriously?!?!?! With a track record like that, you’re lucky if you can get The Wiggles to perform at Madison Square Garden.

It’s, according to the thermometer in front of the NewsCorp building, 89°. Humidity is about 100%. Which makes the subway platforms, oh, about FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX FREAKING DEGREES!!! At one point, I was sweating so badly, that it was actually dripping off my nose. It’s a classy look, in case any of you are thinking of adopting it for your own. My 25-minute commute took 2 hours. And the question I was asking myself, was, naturally, “Why do I live in this wretched city???”

But of course, dear readers, I have a theory. Did you expect anything less? New York City is never going to be just somewhere you live. Some days it’s a fierce opponent, some days an ally. But it’s always a factor. There will always be those days, what I call the “Why do I live in this wretched city?” moments. And yes, they blow. Hard. But there’s something else, too. There are the “I love New York” moments. And those, well they can be so magical, so absolutely perfect, that it makes it all worth it. Sometimes it’s a big thing, but usually it’s not. Maybe it’s being able to go out for sushi at two in the morning, or a roof party, or free tickets to a Broadway show, or just walking through the Village on a spring evening, feeling sorry for anyone who doesn’t get to be me. As long as I get just one perfect “I love New York” moment for every three “Wretched city” moments, I feel like the balance still tilts in the right direction. Today this is a wretched city, but before long I’ll be loving New York again.

Code What?

If I got my news from any source other than Yahoo!, I might know this, but is there currently a high terror alert for New York City? Because my neighborhood has been crawling with police this week. I mean, traveling on foot in packs of three, posted on street corners, squad cars everywhere. Last night ten of them passed me, lights blazing, sirens blaring. I heard one of the officers on foot explain that they’re a special anti-terrorist squad that travel around the city. I, personally, am choosing to believe last night was just a drill. The good news is that when I went walking at 10:30 Saturday night, I felt really, really safe.

I like the police way better than the National Guard. (Yes, these are actually distinctions that need to be made in a 21st-century New York City.) When you see a lot of cops around, you can just tell yourself, “See? Look how safe we are? All that extra security.” Besides, police are at all sorts of fun stuff. Like parades. And carnivals. And high school dances. And who doesn’t love those things?

But in the first couple years after 9/11, when there were still National Guardsmen everywhere, there was just no way for me to rationalize that into a good thing. And I can rationalize anything. There’s no way to spin the guy next to you in camouflage, carrying a shotgun, into anything other than, “Dude. We really are fucked, aren’t we?”

Too Funny Not to Share

My office faces 6th Ave, and I'm kitty corner to the Fox News studios. One of my friends came into my office yesterday to use my window to check out the Fox News ticker, because Jerry Fallwell had died and he "wanted to see it in the big letters."

I live in a largely Spanish-speaking neighborhood, and last night on my walk home, I saw the funniest t-shirt ever. It had a pitcher of beer on it and said "Pour, Favor." Totally made my day. On that same walk, I saw a Latino guy with a mullet wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt ('nuff said) and a clown riding a bicycle with a large live bird perched on his head and a small dog in a basket in front. It used to be a poofy white dog but now was dyed with brightly colored stripes. Mind you, this wasn't a professional clown. Just someone who likes to dress like one…