Allow me to exaggerate a memory or two...

Following a failed attempt at a cartwheel in a park, my glasses found themselves fastened together with superglue. I received a lot of crap for this but didn’t actually care because they still helped me to see, which is exactly the kind of thing glasses should do. And though I live in New York, I’m mostly still a hick from Alabama who cares more for functionality and comfort and overall look than labels.

Seriously. If I feel like splurging, you’ll find me at Macy’s, as opposed to Target or Old Navy. The only labels I own were purchased in Chinatown, so I’ll give you a couple guesses as to their level of authenticity.

And I had contacts anyhow, so this whole conversation was pointless. Until, of course, the seasons shifted and the allergies attacked and I found myself with chronic dry eye and non-existent desire to poke myself in said dry eyes, pre-mascara in the mornings. Fine. Time to make room in the monthly budget for something more important than wine and new shoes. (Ok, so perhaps New York is rubbing off on me afterall..) So I headed to Cohen’s Fashion Optical, lured in by the promise of $100 glasses. I gave myself a very strict talking to prior to my arrival. I was to seek aforementioned functionality and comfort and, if necessary, compromise style.
But then I saw the sad little $100 glasses case. I think, in actuality, this case is not where glasses come to find their new homes, but rather a glasses graveyard. This case is where ugly, outdated glasses come to die. I knew no mate for me waited inside that case, what, with their rhinestone embellishments and golden feathering. (I am NOT kidding.) And frankly, by the time they add in all the things you need to get the glasses out the door (you know, like lenses and an eye exam) it’s gonna go over $200. So I wandered to the next counter. And the next. Ah yes, and that display, too.

Oh, why hello Gucci, Armani. Hi Coach! What’s up, Calvin, Ralph? Heeeey Dior! Yves Saint Laurent, great to see you! You too, Fendi. And then I saw them. Purple and Prada. The saleslady sensed my weakness and had them ‘round my ears and perched on my nose before I could say “STOPITICANTAFFORDPRADAAREYOUCRAZYGETTHESEOFFME.” And you know that moment in a movie when something big happens and everything is in slow motion and everything is quiet but the manufactured sound of a heart beating? That happened, as I leaned forward to peer into the mirror. I gasped. Saleslady gasped. Other sales dude, who REALLY thought I belonged in Coach gasped. The lady with her ADHD 9 year old son gasped. These glasses had to be mine, y’all. So they are now. (Forgive the bad cell phone picture - it's all I got for the moment.)
And that is what I am up to. While my friends wander the world and prepare to be parents and attack academia and fantasize about farmland and lots of other very important things, I am here in New York, purchasing Prada.

Think of me as programmable soda.

Christmas has done come and gone and I've invaded and retreated from the South (and ingested a whole lot of fried and sugared things). Other than a blissful couple days with Lori and her family followed by a couple more oddly peaceful days with my own, I have nothing to report. I hate to admit it, but Christmastime loses a lil somethin'somethin' without little ones running about. Perhaps one day...

I've been trying to find the words to adequately reflect on the past year and eloquently pose my hopes and dreams for the next. I think 2008 can by summed up as the "Woah. Didn't see that coming" kind of year, and I'm at peace with that. No one ever thought I'd last over a year in New York City, much less going strong on nearly two and a half. No one ever thought I'd fall into a career path and advance to management at the tender young age of 26. No one ever thought I'd conquer my alone-aphobia. Or that I'd try to move back to North Carolina and fail. No one ever thought I'd suddenly start to get along with, and respect, certain members of my family. No one ever thought I'd finally mature and leave the petulant child act behind.

Maybe I'm not giving anyone enough credit. Maybe what I mean by "no one" is "I."

At any rate, I stand ready to step into 2009 without any resemblance of a plan. Usually there's a list. (And dammit, I usually stick to that list, too.) But seeing how every plan I make seems to unravel, I refuse to make one for the year. Let 2009 be the year I love deeper and laugh louder and fall harder and surrender to God's will better than I ever have before. Perhaps that's the chicken's way out but I don't care because there doesn't really seem to be any other way for me to be.

Currently occupying the coveted background of my blackberry is my most favorite picture of this year. It serves as a constant reminder to always question, always wonder.

Where AM I going? I'm not entirely sure, yet I do have a very good feeling about 2009. It just feels like the kind of year where what I want and what I need are going to find each other and fuse together. I. Can't. Wait. I am going to be happy.

Time is gonna take my mind and carry it far away, where I can fly.

Things.

1) I love this weather. (Rain aside.) Love love love love love love love. 72 degrees and sunny today? And tomorrow? Yes, please.

2) New York Fashion Week is detrimental to my ordinarily acceptable self esteem. Everywhere I look, there's some tall wispy thing with slim hips, perfect hair and a blank expression.

3) Dinner parties are fun. Especially when your roommate fries okra and everyone talks Southern. Y'all come back now, y'hear?

4) I'm teaching the Brooklyn and the Queens and the Staten Island boys I know to talk Southern. It's really funny to hear their gruff voices say things like "yonder" and "fixin' to." Bless their hearts.


A story.

So, at one of the properties where I work, we maintain all guest requests in an online system. It's a large property with many concierges on board, so it's the easiest way to log Mr. Whatsidoosie's Nobu reservation, Miss Thingamajig's towncar confirmation number, and the So-and-So's theatre tickets. One relatively boring day, a colleague and I discovered the plethora of titles one may assign in the system. Mr. Mrs. The Honorable. Duchess. Princess. King. Sir. Captain. Countess. Etc. Because I have the maturity level of a 10 year old (with a humor level to match), I spent the day assigning guests as all kinds of fabulous things. After I left, a guest came down for confirmation of his dinner reservation at Morimoto. One of my fellow concierges, though in on the joke, printed out the confirmation and handed it to the gentleman. Much to all of our chagrin, I had entered him in as "Lord."

Good news. He laughed.

It's a goooood life. A gooood life. A gooood night, to be alive.

Sometimes, my job is really super extra rough on me. I mean, it's pretty much a requirement that in my free time I need to check out restaurants and neighborhoods and attend shows and go out to clubs and have fun. Sigh. I mean, I guess if I HAVE to.

Saturday night has since been labeled as "Concierges Gone Wild." Adrian, Megan and I took it upon ourselves to head out to a club, all for the good of our job and comfort of our guests.

We are so, so very selfless. True story.

Now. I am NOT a club girl. As a rule, I refuse to lower my standards to give business to places that won't allow me to wear flip flops. I am a football game at a sports bar with cheap beer kind of girl. But whatever. I had some $10 hot pink shoes that were itching to get out onto the New York streets. And it's fun to go shake what my mama gave me (is that how the saying goes?) every now and again. But shhhh. Don't tell anyone I had a good time - it'll ruin my rep.

When you're at a posh night club, you should definitely be sure to do the following things:

Take silly pictures.


Sprinkle in some America's Next Top Model practice.



Be as ridiculously good looking as humanly possible.

(Or at least sit next to people who are so that their beauty will reflect onto you a little bit.)

Woo people with your amazing eyebrow abilities.


Oh yeah! And DANCE!

(until you're reduced to a hot and sweaty mess.)

And finally, hop in a cab. And be happy.

And exhausted.

Don't you let me dissolve completely.

Walking through Times Square has become an art. Keep your eyes forward, smile at no one, AND RESIST THE TEMPTATION TO RESPOND TO WHAT WOULD BE A COMMONPLACE GREETING ANYWHERE ELSE. (You Yankees can snicker all you want, but even after two years this is all so very difficult for a girl from Alabama/North Carolina.) Everyone wants money from you. Everyone. They're either going to beg you for money...or they're going to beg you for money through the guise of crummy comedy club tickets.

Tonight, while avoiding the gazes and pleas, I was initially addresses as "sweetie." My fixed stare did not falter and within two seconds, this became "Fine, you fat bitch." Now, typically the beggars (I'm sorry - salesmen?) ignore you if you ignore them. This was a new experience for me.

Let's not even touch the fact that the man who called me a fat bitch was easily twice my size. Easily.
Um, whoops. Guess I just did.

Whatever. Blip on the radar. Scene change: a wine bar on 9th Avenue, 30 minutes later. Sidewalk seating, perfect views of foot traffic and Hell's Kitchen at night. Halfway into my half liter of house red, a homeless man wordlessly approaches my table, picks up my glass of wine, and throws it down his own throat. A "whoa" is all that manages to escape my lips, followed by a brief moment of silence and finally laughter from all those bearing witness. (And a free replacement glass of wine, thank goodness.)

What in the world?
This town is insane.

We are the color. And the blush, that faded into black.

Here in New York, they kiss on one cheek. Two would be both pretentious and European. When the opposite traffic light turns yellow, your foot had best be moving steadily from brake to gas, lest you be taunted with unnecessary horn honking from behind. Instead of “bless his heart” and “I’m not being ugly, but,” conversations are littered with “FUCKIN’ A!” and “Fah-getaboutit!” They’ll pay $75 for a burger, yet insist on turkey sandwiches from the filthiest, grimiest deli on the block. You’re a snob if you buy coffee from Starbucks instead of aforementioned deli, (but Dunkin’ Donuts is acceptable) yet completely tacky for purchasing a knock off handbag. Kids don’t have play groups – they’ve just got their cousins. And Football? Fah-getabout it. It’s all about baseball here.

It’s a city as cold as its Februaries and abrasive as its sidewalks. Which is why every time I hear the city’s nightly mantra, I can’t help but grin and grant a couple grace points.

Get home safe.

Not “y’all come back now, y’hear?” or “love you” or “so long” or “cheers” or “good night.” And it doesn’t matter your relationship to the person bidding you adieu. It’s your coworker, your best friend, your cousin, your teacher, the guy at the deli, or the stranger on the train. And it’s simultaneously necessary and comforting.

Get home safe.

Whoever you are, whenever you leave, whatever you do – you WILL hear this phrase. You will repeat back. And then you’ll kiss on one cheek and hail a cab, head for the subway, or check for a bus.

Get home safe.

Thank you, New York. That was always the plan.

But time makes you bolder, children get older. I'm getting older, too.

It's Sunday. I had a reckless on Friday. I am STILL paying for it. Dearly. What's up, body? You used to be able to throw back whatever I tossed your way with little consequence.

The evening started nicely. Concierge event at Bryant Park Grill. I'm sorry, did someone say free booze, free food, and goodie bags? Yes, please. So after abusing the bar privileges there, we headed to Mean Fiddler. Which happens to be next to the Brooks Atkinson, home of Grease. Being the tool that I am, I "just happened" to be outside after curtain, so as to get a glimpse of Taylor Hicks. Hey, we Birminghamians must stick together. Don't judge me. Don't you dare judge me!

Photographic evidence of my ridiculousness...


Then it was back into the bar for countless more rounds. Which turned into dancing on the bar. (Seriously, who AM I?) Which turned into several rounds of free shots, because that's apparently what bartenders do for the girls who dance on their bars.

In skirts.
(Thankfully mine was a big, poofy one. Lots of coverage. Little leg. Hot.)

Somewhere before dawn, I made the drunken stumble to the subway. (Without my goodie bag from Bryant Park Grill! Blast! I was looking forward to my champagne, chocolate, and gift certificate!) A group of girls attacked me for directions to Union Square. Do I just have "I help idiot tourists for a living. Please. Ask me something." branded on my forehead? I made it safely to Brooklyn before deciding a nice 30 minute walk was in order, so I hopped off 3 stops early. I vaguely remember stopping for some Gatorade and being VERY aware that it was red and I was wearing white and should therefore be quite careful. And that's pretty much it. Until the next morning when I rolled over at 8:15, feeling like death warmed over and then placed back in the fridge to mold and rot for a few months.

I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I dragged my pathetic self into work 2 hours late. Of course, along the way I stopped at the deli 'round the corner from my apt for some coffee. Where I ran into Harold Dieterle (of Bravo's Top Chef), chatting up the deli owner's son.

Hello, Pretty.


Of course, I've known for awhile that Harold lives in my 'hood. I've been anxiously awaiting the day I can tell him his panna cotta is perfection and ask how he manages to live in a neighborhood with no decent grocery stores. But no. I have to run into him while existing as my least fabulous self. Le sigh.

I spent the majority of yesterday with a scowl on my face and a personal death-wish in my heart. And although I got a good 10 hours of sleep last night, my head is still swimming today. Dude, I'm old. It's official.

It was the waking of wild winds, blew down the doors to let me in.

There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something...commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion.
(E.B. White)


This morning, I decided that I simply could not get on board my subway without a large cup of my favorite coffee in hand. So, I made the detour. Upon entering my station, I heard the familiar roar of a Manhattan-bound train, so I sprinted through the turnstile, down the stairs, and into the last doors of the final car as the "BING-BONG!" sounded. There, I proceeded to fall directly into the lap of a fellow commuter. Happy Monday, sir! As a reward for you making your way out of bed and into the wild concrete jungle, you were given the chance to grope me! All before 9 AM!

Embarrassed that I must have appeared a novice on the subway, I took my seat, sipped my coffee, and looked up to see White's words, posted above. I couldn't help but immediately start to giggle. We settlers do bring passion, and very little shame to boot.

Like a heart needs a beat.

I'm used to oddball dreams. With a mind as restless and an imagination as overactive as mine, they occur often. I usually wake up, roll my eyes, WTF myself, and carry on with my day.

Last night I dreamed that I got a call on my cell phone from the director of Wicked. Elphaba was out and none of the standbys or understudies were prepared. Could I get to the theatre and go on? I stammered that I'd only seen the show twice. I know no numbers, no cues, no lines, no choreography, no nothing. Certainly an unprepared standby would be a better bet than me. He said get to the theatre. I arrive, assuming there would be people there to help me. I was pointed in the direction of a black dress and some green paint. I tried my best, but every time I would slap some on, it would melt right off. Finally I found a darker color and did a botch job, panicking more and more that I still had no direction on what I would actually be doing once I got that whole verdigris thing under control. Someone came and briefed me about the scene I would enter into - I was expected to wing it from there.

As I rounded the corner to the stage, a boat drove by and splashed water all over me. The makeup was gone and I was trembling with fear. Unprepared, and now not even green, how in the HELL did anyone expect me to perform? No one cared. I was thrust onto stage, fully aware that the audience would probably stage a mutiny when they realized they would be stuck with an untrained white girl for the duration of the performance.

Here's the part of the story where you expect me to report my initial shortcomings followed by a sudden explosion of talent and energy. It saddens me to report such combustion never occurred. I just sucked. Plain and simple. The whole performance, I got worse and worse. And while I have no intention of getting bent out of shape over a DREAM...I don't know. I've felt like a bit of a failure eversince.

I blame hormones and general discomfort.

It's hard for thee to kick against the pricks.

Let me begin this post by making one thing very clear: I am NOT an ass girl. I am a pretty eyes or sharp wit or brilliant personality girl. Being of huggable size has taught me not to be too drawn to hard bodies or cut shoulders or perfect legs, as many of my female counterparts will rattle off when you pose the "what do you notice first in the opposite sex?" question.

All that being said, oh my sweet LORD, I was attacked by the hottest ass I have EVER seen on the subway this morning. Mr. Hotass walks on the subway, and like a moth to the flame, my eyes were immediately drawn to how lovely a behind he had. That sweet, sweet derriere then decided to plant itself DIRECTLY in front of me. Mere inches. There it stayed for the ENTIRE train ride. I probably blushed and giggled a lot - I'm not sure. And as the car filled more and more at each stop, aforementioned heavenly booty got closer and closer.

As if Mr. Hotass wasn't enough for my feeble, understimulated brain, luck smiled upon me and boxed me in by 3 other amazingly attractive men. So let's review. One 40 minute subway commute. One perfect butt. And three other veritable Adonises, all making direct contact with various portions of my leg.

I am fully convinced that God was having a LOT of fun with me this morning.

Lovin' would be easy if your colors were like my dream.

I arrived at work with a mind full of "I hate tourists" rants. Mostly because it's raining. And New York City sucks in the rain. And tourists should not be allowed the awesome responsibility of navigating Times Square with umbrellas. And it was a rough weekend, overflowing with cheap, sleazy people who seemed hellbent on making my days nothing short of torture.

(I would like to interupt this regularly schedule blog post for a late breaking Life-In-The-Hospitality-Industry story: one of my coworkers just witnessed a woman peeing. In the middle of the hotel lobby. That's right. When the security guards would not allow her into the lobby bathrooms, as they are for guests only, she dropped trou in the middle of it all, popped a squat, let loose, and finished with a "Guess you should have let me use your toilets!" Wow.)

So ignoring the fact that some people are just plain ridiculous and it's my job to stand here, smile a-blazin', ready help where it's needed, I bring you my latest amazing tip. Now. In my 5 months as a concierge I have received: loose change. A $100 bill. A $50 check. Business cards a plenty, of people who like my personality and want me to come sell their mediocre products. A bottle of wine. A gyro. A cannoli. Offers of leftover pizza. Hand-written thank-you notes. Compliments. Hell, even insults.

But today's tip takes the cake.

Money does not make the world go round. But kindness does.