Just beneath the surface of normal

Delayed Live-Blogging: NYC


Monday, 4:04pm – I’m writing this from a hotel room in Manhattan. Jim had to travel for work this week and Corinne is with her dad, so I would have been alone on my birthday, which would have sucked, so I tagged along.  But Jim won’t let me blog or tweet about being in New York until we get home, because he’s pretty sure that burglars scan Twitter, Facebook, and my barely-read blog looking for proof that we’re out of town so that they can go burglarize our crumbling old house in a blue-collar neighborhood and take our thousand-pound antique piano. So since I can’t write about it as I go, I’m going to collect my thoughts here and post them all at once when I return.

Here is the view from my hotel room:

How unfair is it that I can’t share this view as it’s happening?! Also, the park down there is Irish soil. So it’s like I can go across the street and visit Ireland whenever I want.

So today Jim went to work & I puttered around, then went to Thrift Shop Row on 23rd Street. OMG, you would not BELIEVE how expensive thrift stores are here! I guess because there’s so much designer everything. Also, all the shoes are heels. How do these women walk all the fuck over the place in heels? They’re insane, that’s how. They must all have epidurals or foot botox to numb the pain or something.

But so I was walking down 23rd street and I saw this no fewer than half a dozen times:

Tights, shoes, coat…no visible skirt. Who decided this was a good idea?

Usually when I go to New York, I worry endlessly about being judged a behind-the-times nerd who can’t keep up with their evanescent metropolitan chic. The fashion in boots has changed almost entirely in the two months since I was here last (WTF, New York? Boots are expensive!). But when you start dressing like you forgot to put something on this morning? I reserve the right to feel smug and not worry too much about wearing comfortable shoes. I guess skipping out on wearing bottoms is how you afford all those fucking boots. Personally?That’s not a battle I’m willing to pick.

Monday, 7:00pm – met Jim’s Project Manager for dinner at City Hall. He is delightfully nerdy and hilariously inappropriate. We were joking about blow-jobs within an hour. I want to keep him, but he lives in Arkansas and Jim says we have to let him go home.

Tuesday, 1:47am – Dear City That Never Sleeps: you might get more sleep if your garbage trucks didn’t pick up at 2 o’clock in the fucking morning. I’m on the 9th floor and they sound like they’re inside the room; are those even trash trucks I’m hearing or have the Decepticons invaded?

Tuesday, 4:09am – I don’t think that coffee after dinner was decaf. It may be that I spend my birthday in bed.

Tuesday, 5:04pm – well, it was a beautiful day as best I could tell from being mostly too tired to leave the room after sleeping so badly last night. For what it’s worth, I did invite The Bloggess to go do weird stuff in NYC if she was bored. She wasn’t, but she was very polite about it. It was probably for the best because I was too tired to be properly entertaining.

Tuesday, 6:20pm – The hotel sent me up a complimentary bottle of Prosecco. We opened it and drank a bit. I couldn’t get the cork back in, so I stuffed the corner of a hand towel into the bottle to hold in the bubbles. Classy.

This is why I tag along on business trips. I wish I had photographed my towel hack. What was I thinking?

Tuesday: 8:30pm – Stuffed myself ridiculous on the excellent fare at the North End Grill, and I drank two scotch bonnets (a single malt cocktail with honey and stuff, not liquefied hot peppers) and they brought me birthday dessert of butterscotch pots de creme (which is really just a fancy way of saying pudding, but nobody would spend ten bucks on pudding…unless it’s FRENCH pudding!) with a candle and a beautifully-scripted greeting:

And this is why I have no shame in telling anyone who will listen that it’s my birthday. They may pity my gaucheness? But free dessert, motherfuckers: I win.

The best part? Those are SINGLE MALT-MALLOWS, bitches! Whoever invented booze-flavored marshmallows should be sainted.

Wednesday, 7:50am – The Prosecco is still fizzy. No point in wasting a free fifteen dollar bottle of sparkling wine. Bought a $5 glass of OJ from the hotel and set in to finishing that bitch off.

I hereby decree that the morning after birthdays shall be mimosa time.

Wednesday, 9:37am – WHY are champagne bottles so damn BIG? I am awfully shitfaced for this early in the morning. Still approximately two glasses to go. I think I’ll have a nap, then finish it off.

Wednesday, 11:45am – FINISHED! I win the Most Mentally Disturbed, But Frugal prize. I’d like to thank everyone on Facebook who supported me in achieving this great achievement. I swear I’m not an alcoholic – I hardly ever drink, and I think I’ve only even had enough to get sick like once in my life. I have mostly-full bottles in my liquor cabinet that date back to the mid-nineties. I don’t even know if they’re still safe to drink, they’re so old. But I don’t waste free shit. Thank you for your thunderous applause. You’re too kind.

Wednesday 2:00pm – I had to go buy leggings so I could give the Bloggess a panty hat at her book signing later. I bundled up and walked like a mime against the tropical storm-force winds to Century 21, a giant 6-story department store where all tourists go to shop. It’s a weird place, populated mainly by Asian and European tourists with no sense of foot traffic and marginal fluency in the English language. But they’re cheap and near the hotel (though I had to walk all the way around the World Trade Center construction site, which makes it farther than it needs to be. Not that I’m trying to disrespect the victims of a horrible tragedy with my inane whining about weather or anything. What I mean is that when the winds are gusting to 45 miles an hour, you curse the terrorists all over again). I also got warm hat-hats, because it’s cold and we were going to have to take a train to the Upper West Side and I wasn’t going to ride the subway with a panty on my head before its big debut so I just wore it as a scarf (plus Jim’s new hat has ears on it, which is awesome; and he says panty hats are for girls, which is less so). Turns out it was only cold and windy down in the financial district. I’m pretty sure Dante said the lowest level of hell is the coldest part, too. Coincidence?

Wednesday, 5:27pm – Jim came back to the room and told me that his PM isn’t feeling well and is bailing on coming to the book signing with us. I am sad. I told Jim to tell him I said he’s a pussy and should just suck it up and ignore his debilitating back arthritis. He refused because he is unhelpful. But that’s okay; I can do inappropriate all by myself.

Wednesday, 6:50pm – We arrived at the Barnes and Noble on the Upper West Side. The only remaining seats had views partially obstructed by support beams. I found one in the back with a decent view, so of course a tall blonde with a top bun sits down right in front of me and her short friend sits in front of Jim, so I’m all weaving side to side to see around her anyway. Sigh. I made up for it by getting increasingly anxious about meeting someone I admire and began nodding vigorously to everything Jenny said, like a very agreeable bobblehead on cocaine. I was last in line, and she was very friendly and relaxed and funny and I was forced to wonder if she was really as likeably crazy as she made herself sound, or if I really am the only one. But she was game for panty hats, and her assistant took a picture of us, in which Jenny looked like a model and I looked like Dieter from Sprockets. We got downstairs before I realized that the picture didn’t save and I had to go back up and beg for another picture, which I already posted. She is the best sport EVER, putting leggings on her head twice in one night, and she appeared to be happy to be given leggings, so that was nice. She has clearly spent time in the mirror practicing photogenic poses, and if I’m going to get published I’d better start logging some hours in front of a mirror too, because seriously, I take TERRIBLE pictures.

I don’t remember that much else interesting happened after that, but I can say for certain that even though it’s not a fancy, modern, 9th floor hotel room facing the Hudson river, where people clean up after you and the cabinet re-spawns candy bars every day, there’s no place like your own bed.

Also, I think I might have gotten addicted to napping.


2 thoughts on “Delayed Live-Blogging: NYC

  1. Maybe someday I can visit the East Coast. Or any coast. Before that, I hope, you can visit Ireland for real.

  2. I’ve got the same policy about public knowledge of travel, for the same reason.
    It is possible that someone you friended two years ago fell on hard times, and is now not so ethically constrained.

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