Wine and Food Heaven

The smell of spices and expertly prepared meat envelops my nose. I am surrounded by tables covered with beautifully crafted dishes. Chefs in uniform diligently serve out more. In ever corner there’s a caterer with cocktails with names like “The Bramble”. And it’s all mine for the taking! How did I get here? Have I died and gone to Food Heaven?

It all started with a drunk Facebook message.

“OMG I drunk Facebooked last night!” My roommate announced one Saturday morning. “This is the problem with having an iPhone! It’s too easy to connect with anyone at any time and make a bad decision!” I made a face, fearing the worst. A text to an old boyfriend, a new boyfriend, something accidentally sent to a parent: my mind was a buzz of worst case scenarios. She showed me the correspondence:

“I can’t believe I did that! I didn’t even finish it! It’s so embarrassing!” Um you messaged our old boss who was like, the chillest person ever. She even signed this “xx”. Plus look at her response! You’re FINE. You’re even surprisingly professional when drunk, I laughed. Two weeks later, I’m working at the New York Food and Wine Festival.

I arrive at 8AM and spend the entire day setting up for The Art of the Taco- Hosted by Bobby Flay. It’s in a huge event space in Soho, 3 connected rooms with high ceilings and windows for the taco tastings and a lower level “Patron Lounge”. The event is sponsored by Patron tequila and The Food Network. The buzz is it’s one of the festival’s most popular events, completely sold out at $200 a ticket. Which is ironically less than I am making for my full day’s work. But it’s not difficult work, in fact it’s rather fun. The crew is really chill, even the stressed out event planner is keeping her cool. In true NYC fashion, one of the caterers is a guy I haven’t seen since 2007 when we did a summer theater program together. He’s lost some weight, gotten a hair cut, I never would have recognized him, had he not stopped dead in his tracks and stared at my face.

I basically spend the whole day moving furniture, setting up displays, and looking for things no one else can find. “We want to fill Patron bottles with soap and put them in the bathroom. Cute, right? Can you find the soap? It should be in one of the 500 boxes littering the event space. I don’t know an approximate location: just look through all of them.” Jobs like this lead me to discovering boxes of Godiva chocolate, left over from the dessert event the night before. I spend the rest of the day sneaking truffles: Coconut Carmel, Midnight Dark, Red Velvet Cake Truffle. Unfortunately, I get in big, big trouble for sneaking. I rue the day I ever found those chocolates, because at the end of our day, I’m invited to stay for the event.

I’m not exactly starving, but that doesn’t stop me from being absolutely ecstatic about this opportunity. Tacos made by top New York City chefs? Open bar of Corona and Patron cocktails? Mingling with major foodies? I am taking full advantage, no matter how full I get. I will eat tacos to the point of puking, if it comes to that. I sign my time sheet, try to jazz up the outfit I spent all day moving furniture in, and take the elevator up into the 3 room event space.

Food heaven. I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten so much, not even in my freshman-15 “OMG the cafeteria has soft serve!” days. I walk you through Food Heaven tomorrow. I even took pictures.

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One Wedding and a Hurricane (Part 2)

“You can’t go.” My roommate said simply, a look of mild horror painted across her face.

The thought hadn’t crossed my mind. But…I have to go. I replied. If I didn’t go, who would? I was in Manhattan, the wedding was in Queens. That’s probably the shortest distance I will ever travel to a wedding. As long as it was still happening, I would be there, or at least get soaked trying. I had even planned to go by subway. This proved impossible when Bloomberg announced New York City’s entire transit system would shut down at 12PM on Saturday. So what did I do? I changed my plan. I would take the subway out to Brooklyn before noon and spend the day with my GBF who was my date for the wedding. Worst case scenario: I’d end up spending the night in Brooklyn and be stranded there until the subways started up again. Not so bad.

I woke up early Saturday morning. Getting to this wedding was going to be an adventure. In this day and age of constant cellphone communication and GPS, having a bona-fide adventure isn’t so easy. After writing down all locations I would be at, my GBF’s cellphone number, and promising I would stay safe, I said good-bye to my trepidatious (and touchingly protective) roommate and headed out into a sunny day. You’d never guess a hurricane was coming. The sun was shining, a few harmless looking clouds streaked the sky, a comfortable breeze ruffled the trees. “The calm before the storm” cliché. Too calm: the streets were deserted, beyond bizarre for Manhattan.

I had an errand to run before heading out to Brooklyn. I had to pick up my dress. Having heard rumors, and perhaps watched one or four rom-coms and as many episodes of Sex and the City on the subject, I’d been led to believe weddings were a great place to meet eligible men. As such, I’d purchased a new dress from Macy’s for the occasion. I had bought it on “pre-sale”: upon purchasing I was told Macy’s was having a huge sale on Saturday and that if I bought it now but picked it up then, I would save an extra 25%. Being hopelessly cheap (don’t tell the eligible men!) brilliantly frugal person I am, I of course jumped at the chance.

Emerging from the subway in Herald Square, something felt off. The streets were not deserted, as they were in my Lincoln Center neighborhood. Instead, droves of tourists wandered around aimlessly, aware they had chosen a horrible weekend to visit New York. I was across the street from Macy’s, trying to figure out what felt strange, when I realized. No one was going in the store. My heart sank. Could it possibly be closed? I’d considered this, but there was no note of it on Macys.com or any social media. Crossing the street, my fears were confirmed. Closed. No way. So much for my perfect get-me-a-man dress. So what did I do? I changed my plan. Raced back home, grabbed a dress out of my closet without over thinking it, and jumped back on the subway, still with plenty of time before the looming Subway Shutdown.

I arrived at my GBF’s place where I joined him and several Manhattan refugees, including my college roommate who was the officiant for the ceremony. I hadn’t seen her for months, so my greeting was especially enthusiastic. When her response was a flapping hand motion, I realized she was on the phone. When she ducked into a bedroom and closed the door, my GBF informed me she was on the phone with the bride. The bride whose pre-wedding jitters had been magnified ten fold by the pending Irene. The bride who was having sympathy heaped on her by any one I’d mentioned my plans to- “You’re going to a wedding!? This weekend!? The poor bride!”

When the officiant emerged from the bedroom, we knew by the look on her face that she didn’t have good news. “I feel so bad for her,” she said, “She’s freaking out! Their venue just canceled.” We all gasped. So what did they do? They changed their plan. “They found an alternative space in Brooklyn, right next to their place. And their figuring out what to do for the reception.” My stomach twisted in commiseration, I couldn’t imagine the stress this was putting our happy couple through! “Well, at least we don’t have to trek out to Queens,” my GBF said, “We can even walk there now, if we have to.” Call her back and ask her if there is anything we can do to help! I said. Next thing I knew, we piled into a cab, and were off to clean up the place where the reception was now taking place. Where are we going exactly? “Somebody’s loft in Brooklyn.” Turned out it was the loft of the groom’s brother’s ex-boyfriend. The ex-boyfriend’s current boyfriend was an arial artist and used the loft they lived in as a living space, classroom studio, and now wedding reception hall. Read that again if you didn’t understand it. Everyone, from friends to 3-degrees-of-seperation-relative-strangers was coming together in an amazing way to make this wedding happen.

Flailing on Sidewalks and with Men

I step out of the door of my apartment. Shoulders back, my mother would be shocked by my perfect posture. The moisture in the air is at just the right percentage to make my hair flow in perfect Taylor Swift-esque waves. Most people complain about this level of humidity, especially in late September, but I relish it.

When I first moved to New York, every day I left my apartment with the giddy feeling of I live in the center of the universe. Anything could happen today. Now into my fourth year here, I’ve left my apartment thousands of times. That feeling has subsided, sometimes replaced by the likes of I live in the center of the universe. It’s exhausting. Why is it so hard to make things happen? Not tonight. Tonight the city is my oyster. Anything could happen. It feels great.

My oyster!

I step out the door of my building. I’m six feet tall. Both metaphorically and literally thanks to an attitude adjustment and surprisingly comfortable strappy sandals. I am so confident in their comfort that I am walking the 18 blocks to the evening’s destination. There is nothing I love more than a New York City walk. Lately though, in true city fashion, I’ve become obsessed with time. You know the cliché that New Yorkers walk faster than anyone else in the entire world? It’s true. Even so, my single gear bicycle is five times faster than a New York native who is late to work. In the interest of fractioning all commute time, I’ve taken to biking every where.

Biking the streets of Manhattan, sometimes I feel I’m in a racing video game. Dodge a jaywalker, get a life. Throw dirty looks at a speeding cab, 100 points. Avoid a series of potholes, move up a level. The stakes are high: no do-overs. The level of concentration required is a hell of a lot higher than any video game. Though I haven’t touched a gaming system in two years I say that with full confidence. “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” is my biking motto (inspired by Mad Eye in Harry Potter). I miss truly taking in my surroundings, people watching, viewing the world and imagining its description in a novel. I really miss that part of a walk and I’m excited for these 18 blocks.

The first person I pass on my walk remarks, “Beautiful outfit.” I smile, Thanks! A black button-up shirt and a red and white polka-dotted skirt pulled together with a red belt; I put thought into this outfit for several reasons. I am going to a big invite-only musical theater party. Which means lots of musical theater fabulousness, thus judging of clothes. Musical theater isn’t quite my thing and when I’m a bit out of my element, I like to look awesome. I’m not feeling so awesome, so looking the part is even more important.

I spent the day watching episodes of Ally McBeal on Netflix. That wasn’t my plan for the day. My plan for the day involved a date. A date that was planned in person and not confirmed 5 million times via text message. In this day and age, that’s a date that’s not happening. But I’m an old-fashioned girl. I keep hoping to find an old-fashioned boy who doesn’t consider his iPhone second only to his penis. What am I thinking, right? This is NYC, the only men like that are homeless.

Dating is really starting to frustrate me in this city. I’m beginning to hope the problem is me. At least I have some control there. On some level, it’s probably true. I pick the wrong men. Scratch that- I pick the wrong boys. I so tired of dating boys. But they are not intimidating, even the wickedly handsome ones, and I exude confidence around them. With men, I’m more unsure. Of course, there’s also the issue of going out to parties celebrating musical theater openings… There might be one single straight male at such an event and chances are I’ll be looking down on him thanks to my shoes.

I’m pondering all of this on my walk when suddenly I eat it. I swallow a scream, amazed at the speed in which my feet fly out from under me. A great thing about working in theater- you learn how to fall so it doesn’t hurt. I purposefully fell several times a day this summer while playing a silly pirate and Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. My hands catch the sidewalk. They smart a bit but the cement does not draw blood. My knee grazes the pavement and is not so lucky. A small trickle of blood runs down, like I nicked myself with a razor. For the first time in months my legs are not covered in bug bites, the scab from a recent spill on my bike fell off today; for a few hours hours I had flawless legs. So much for that.

Ally McBeal and Carrie Bradshaw are always falling down in the world of TV. I always thought it was an element of slapstick. Now I see it’s just the way of life in high-heeled shoes. “Are you alright, miss?” I’m fine. I blame coursing adrenaline for making me snappish. I glare back at the offending side-walk. There is a huge gap of at least an inch between two cracks. That’s what did it and it makes me happy: I didn’t trip over my own feet, phew.

I continue my walk. I see a baseball game in the park across the street. I wait at the light so I can walk by it. I need the ego boost. The men in their blue uniforms seem happy to provide it, many turning their heads as I walk by. Thanks guys. My knee stops bleeding before I reach the woman with the clip board. Things are looking up. I give her my name and walk up the stairs. I spend the rest of the evening schmoozing, drinking free wine, and trying to be the first to appetizer trays.

One Wedding and a Hurricane (Part 1)

When all your friends are in their mid-late 20s it feels like everyone’s getting married!

It’s begun. I turned 25 in July and with that birthday it seems I officially entered the stage of life where all my friends start getting married. I’ve heard 28 year-olds bemoan this predicament with spectacular eye-rolls. But like a kindergartener on her first day of school, I was excited when I got my first wedding invitation.

It was a wedding everyone had seen coming. The bride and the groom were college pals of mine, the relationship dating back (pun intended!) to their respective freshman and junior years. After surviving her study abroad semester and his graduation and subsequent move to New York City without so much as “a break”, it was clear they were in it for the long haul. In my single teenaged years (freshman and sophomore years of college), their compatibility and intense connection made me jealous. In my more recent (read: more mature, thank god) single years, it makes me hopeful. I never knew them before they were a couple, but being together seemed to strengthen them as individuals, an incredible rarity in college relationships. When my invitation arrived in the mail I giddily RSVPed and marked their wedding, August 28th, on my calendar.

Some things you plan madly in advance- like a wedding. Some things you can’t plan in advance- like a hurricane.

It’s like raaaain on your wedding day! We belted into the karaoke microphone, singing Alanis Morrissette’s classic “Ironic”. Only the next day, through the foggy eyes of the mandatory post-bachelorette party hangover, would I realize the true irony of my picking that song. The full realization not hitting until the day of the wedding. Unfortunately, realization was not the only thing that hit on the day of the wedding. So did Hurricane Irene.

Growing up in San Francisco, there are certain natural disasters I am totally prepared for. I knew exactly what to do during the strange east coast earthquake thanks to yearly drills of “Duck and Cover” (picture an entire classroom of students crouched under their desks.) Put me in a fire and I’ll “Stop, Drop, and Roll” all over it. But hurricanes were never covered. So when everyone and the person next to them on the subway started talking about Hurricane Irene, I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t until rumors started flying of the entire New York public transportation system shutting down that I realized it was something serious.

Reflect 9-11-2011

Ten years ago I was a sophomore in high school whose feelings revolved more around getting the day off school than the scope of horror happening across the country. Ten years later, I live in New York City. It only scratches the surface, but I can begin to fathom the magnitude of 9-11-2001.

The moment I step out my door today, and every day, I am surrounded by people who were there. Who lost someone, who saw the billowing clouds of destruction. Who couldn’t think even for a minute it was just a disaster movie they were seeing on the television screen. Whose lives were altered as much as the New York City skyline.

Days like today There is no other day like today (especially today, but it holds true everyday- something it’s easy to take for granted); it brings great perspective.

I ♥ NY.

A Summer Vacation (I’m Not Proud Of)

I have a few announcements. They may come as a shock:

I am not dead.

Nor have I given up blogging.

But I have left New York.

I’ve been gone all summer.

BUT that’s not permanent, in fact I return to NYC in less than a week.

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I hate when I go to one of my favorite blogs, checking in vain for weeks, even months, for an update. The neglect and abandonment are depressing, along with the fear that the final entry at the top of the page is the last one. In this vast cyber world, Abandoned Blogs far outweighs any other genre. It is the trap of a blogger. Your blog, carefully crafted with hundreds of hours devoted to it, could easily land in this category. You are the only thing stopping that.

So here I am, stopping that.

I know I disappoint readers- and thank you to those of you who have voiced your disappointment- but most of all I disappoint myself. I really enjoy blogging, but sometimes I just drop the ball. And once you get out of habit, it’s hard to start-up again. Especially when I know I am going feel the need redeem myself. That’s why I’m starting here. The only way is up.

So…Where the hell have I been? Back in Bumblefuck. Remember that place? I’ve spent all summer as a pirate.

All New Yorkers try to get out of the city in the summer, it’s a cliché. Summer vacation is cliché, right? Let’s think of it that way. But vacation is over, school’s about to start. That feeling of “let’s get back to work” is still ingrained in me and I am going to use it. Stay tuned.

Maid in Manhattan

“Pack it in!” I screech, “Like sardines! Think sardine-y thoughts!” I beckon to the groups tentatively stepping in the small, dark holding room. It’s approximately the size of a closet, with dirty carpet on the floor and flickering (electric) candles on the wall. A claustrophobic’s nightmare. “Get closer to me, I don’t smell! I’ve washed this week, I think,” I pipe, my cockney accent making my voice particularly shrill. Perhaps the group I’m addressing is this: a nuclear family- mom, dad, teenaged son and 8 year-old daughter, a date- a tall, muscular man and his busty girlfriend, and a birthday party- eight 10 year-old girls and a chaperone. Once they’ve all squeezed in, the door closes. It’s very dark, especially to those who’ve been waiting outside in the bright sunlight, which may elicit gasps and giggles (especially from the 10 year-olds).

“Alright, everyone! My name is Minnerva Killgoar [spelled weird to avoid searches] and I’m one of the maids here. I’m actually one of the nicer people you’re going to meet tonight, I’m afraid. Not everyone is as nice as me here, or as pretty. Like our test administrator, Ichabod Gory. He’s rather…icky..as his name might suggest. Oh you didn’t know this was a test? It’s a test of bravery. If you pass, you’ll go in, get seated, have a lovely dinner. If you fail…we may all die here together! There’s no going back! Ichabod, where are you?”

That is some version of the speech I give before “Ichabod Gory” , an animated little skeletal man, appears on the television at the far end of the chamber. He gives a little speech which ends with the initiation of the test: the ceiling of the room begins to lower. I gasp, point to it, and then get everyone to “muster all your bravery into your little finger and point it to the ceiling and say, ‘I AM NOT AFRAID!'” The ceiling stops, Gory announces “You passed”, and I get to heave open the door and pass these people off to the hostess.

Sorry friends, I am not a sexy maid. My costume is nothing like this.
See? Not sexy. This is basically what my costume looks like and yes, it makes me more or less shapeless.

This is the most boring part of my job. I’m doing interactive improv theatre at a theme restaurant in Midtown. I am solely hired as an actor, playing the part of a maid. Occasionally someone will ask me if I can get them a drink refill and my character apologetically says “I’m only a maid here. I’m not qualified to do anything but dust. I tried to bring someone food once and I spilt it all over the walls. They don’t allow me anymore.” I’m thinking to myself “Hell no I’m not bringing you anything. I’m being paid to say and do weird and funny things, and that’s it! HA!”

Minerva is a dodgey cockney maid who often pulls her apron over her head in fright and thinks she has telepathic capabilities. This means she walks up to people and says “I am getting a strong vibe…the universe is telling me you are not from New York City.” Well yeah… I’m working at a tourist trap. She is also fond of approaching bald men and peering into the depths of their bald spots and seeing the future. Dangerous, I know, but I’m great at gauging who can take a joke and who is too self conscious about their thinning hairline. Minerva’s hobby is making grown men scream like little girls, “I believe every strapping, macho looking man has a little girl inside him, just camping out on his solar plexus. I was hoping to make her scream.” 

The walls of the restaurant are adorned with artifacts and experiments. The ambiance is that of a social club for bizarre scientists and explorers. There is a mummy in one corner, a suit of armor in another, a fireplace with a werewolf bust over it, a statue of a Greek god rotating in the middle of the room, a strange zombie band, to name a few. They are all animatronic puppets controlled by an actor in a control booth. I’ll spend an hour out on the floor as my batty maid, then half an hour in the booth being the teenaged werewolf, the crotchety mummy, and all sorts of other weird characters. It is fun and madly different from anything I’ve done before. I’m interacting with people by squinting at them on a little black and white television screen and straining to hear them overhead phones.

I can’t complain. I’d rather do that all day than bring people Pepsi. I’m getting paid to sing like a werewolf practising for his “Twilight the Musical” audition (heaven forbid that actually becomes a musical) and make up amazing dance moves with a feather duster.