City Wendy

Let's Just Say that Batteries WERE included

Last night I waited for nearly an hour in the freezing cold with some other girls who work and write for Nerve trying to get into the Playgirl party where the promise of free drinks and an "infamous goodie bag" kept me standing in line like an asshole for at least the first half of the wait. Only the promise of warmth kept me there the second half as my poor little toes hardened like ice cubes inside my boots. Luckily, once inside, I found all that I'd been waiting for, except, oddly, half-naked men. In fact, all the men there were completely dressed, which was really a bit of a letdown. Not only were they completely dressed, but they seemed overly concerned with how we women were dressed.

"Did you remember to wear a hat?" one balding guy in a polo shirt asked a few of us as we stepped towards the bar.
"Uhm?" I said, "Is that a pick-up line?"
"Well, how about this," he said, "'How did you get an invite to this party?'"
"I'm sleeping with the models," I replied before ordering a free drink at the bar.

A few minutes later, a couple of men at the bar asked me who I think lies more, men or women. I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore them. I mean, seriously? These are the pickup lines people are using? And why were straight guys there anyway? Shouldn't it be just ladies and gay men who show up to a Playgirl party? Unless, I suppose, straight guys are smart enough to realize how the women:men ratio would be highly in their favor.

"Wow," another girl from our group said to me as I took a sip from my drink, "The guys are really taking notice of you."
"It's the boobs," I said glancing down as my cleavage-on-display, "I'm wearing a push-up bra."
And I was wearing a push-up bra with a low-cut shirt, because where else can you get away with such a look and because I didn't figure there would be many people in attendance who would care so much about boobs anyway. I tugged a little self-consciously at the scarf still wrapped around my neck and sucked down my vodka drink.

An hour later, the bar was out of the free booze, the noise and crowd was starting to get to us all, so we decided to grab our goody bags before they were all given away and head out for a bite to eat. Over pizza, we compared our loot, which included all the things you might imagine would be in a Playgirl goodie bag (use your imagination). We made a few trades and decided that the next time we hang out, we'll skip the long line in the cold and cheesy pickup lines inside and go to a dive bar for beers instead.

As we stepped back out into the cold air and tried to figure out exactly where we were (somewhere between Soho and Chinatown), where the nearest subway stop was--and more importantly, where the nearest bathroom was--and whether it was worth it to walk to the Nerve offices several blocks away to use the john, I was suddenly struck with what a New York evening I was having. Even after only 5 months here, it's easy to forget how unique the city is and how it isn't everywhere that you can go to a party on a Thursday night and walk out with a bag full of sex toys and a handful of new friends. But seriously, there really should have been some naked men.

Note: You can read more about our adventures at the Playgirl party at Nerve, which includes a photo of me holding some of the goodie bag loot, which will no doubt make my parents so proud!

Old Sweater, New Sweater

Do you know what's a good time? You and a handful of friends get kind of dressed up and head over to one friend's house for cocktails and amazing homemade hours dourves (goat cheese-stuffed dates! wrapped in basil and prosciutto and warmed in the broiler! Bloody Mary Shrimp Cocktail Salad!). You listen to some Brazilian music and dance around the table a bit and take photos of each other while you're still sober. Then after about an hour and a half you pile in the car (still sober, remember), and head over to another friend's house where you drink wine and eat three kinds of cheese and french bread and fresh fruit. Someone might even dance on the table. More pictures are taken. Another hour and half later, you all bundle up and walk three blocks down street to a third friend's apartment. This one has 4 red lights in the window and looks like a brothel. You don't need to remember the address because you can see it glowing from way down the street. There's a new cocktail at this house--one with ginger beer and something else and it's so strong, you can barely get it down. There's a full bar, though, so you make a White Russian and snack on mini tacos and trail mix. You finally kick off your heels even though they make your outfit and you sneak into your friend's closet where everything is organized by color and pattern and you pull out an argyle sweater and houndstooth blazer. You spend the rest of the evening--or at least the next hour--making John Hughes references, and yes, dancing on the table. At 3 am, you borrow your friend's pumas and walk home in the snow.

My trip to Chicago was lovely. The "progressive cocktail" party was Chad's idea and we had a fucking blast. The weather was perfect all weekend, I caught up with friends, visited my old haunts, and affirmed my decision to move to New York. More than my last visit to Chicago in December, this time I really felt like I didn't live there anymore. And I felt completely fine and at peace with that. This time around, Chicago felt too small to me in a way an old, favorite sweater might. I still love the color and the style, but it just doesn't quite fit anymore, which is fine, because I've found this other sweater. It's totally different and I'm still growing into it--but that's kind of the point. There's room for me to grow now.

Anyway, now I'm back in New York and suddenly very busy. I'm trying to play catch-up with the stuff I pushed aside the last few days, I've got a pseudo freelance job interview this afternoon, the playgirl party tomorrow night and on Friday we're hosting a small leap year party for a few friends (I'm going to try my hand at making those stuffed dates that were so phenomenal that other night). Someone over the weekend told me that my blog doesn't have the bite it used to when I was still single and sort of depressed. I said, "Really? You don't think hearing about hours dourves at a cocktail party is biting?" And then I ate a piece of cheese and turned up the music.

Quick Update

It's been a busy week--I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow and am frantically trying to squeeze 6 days of work into 2 1/2 days so I can relax and enjoy myself while I'm gone and not think about what I have to be doing. Truthfully, I'm hoping to have a mostly Internet-free few days, so that's meant spending way too much time online the last few days, much to Drew's chagrin.

Anyway. It's about 10 degrees in Chicago and I don't know what possessed me to plan a trip there this time of year, but I guess I must miss my friends a bit and need a weekend of goofing off with them to get me through the rest of the season. Not that I'm not making new friends here. Because I am, thank God. I mean, I love Drew and all, but girl needs some other social outlets, you know?

Speaking of social outlets, I'm going to a Playgirl party next week with one of the new friends and we're so excited to see what's in the "infamous goodie bags." Any guesses?

And in completely unrelated news, I'm up to six miles in my half marathon training and whoever said in comments a few weeks back that running is no way to lose weight was RIGHT. Jesus, I'm burning nearly 3,000 calories a week and I haven't lost a pound! Not that I'm necessarily trying to lose weight, but it'd be nice. Still, I suppose it's just as good to be getting toned and in shape and all that. So...when can I expect to happen?

FYI

If you're a reader of Awesome wondering where I've gone, I'm no longer blogging over there. I've moved to Modern Materialist, so join me over there!

B-Complex

I started taking B-Complex vitamins recently because I read somewhere that they help boost serotonin, the feel-good chemical that birth control pills deplete in women. Actually, now that I've typed that out, I'm not positive that's a fact. I may be remembering it wrong. Maybe it's some other chemical it boosts. Or maybe it's something else that birth control pills deplete, like, oh I don't know, general good-will and the desire to wake up in the morning? At any rate, whatever it is the B-Complex vitamins are supposed to do, they seem to be working; I feel good.

The good feeling could, of course, be related to other things in my life, like my better diet lately (fruits! vegetables! limiting cocktails to two max in the evening! Except on the weekends!), continued exercise (up to 6 miles now in the half-marathon training), making new friends, re-connecting with some old friends here in NYC, and getting some work I really enjoy. Oh, and my ticket to China has been purchased, so it's a done deal--I'm heading to Beijing in August and will hopefully be able to catch some of the Olympics before we take off for Shanghai. And next week I'm heading to Chicago for a few days to bring my friends some mid-winter cheer and help us all get through the rest of this season.

Oh, and last weekend, I finally took the bull by the horns and re-organized the giant bookshelf in our bedroom so it looks clean and neat and not like it belongs to some mental history professor. It's color coordinated now! And I know it seems odd, but just that little act made the apartment seem more "mine," and not like I'm still just crashing at Drew's pad. And when I have my things shipped from Illinois next month--I hope--I think that will be the final push in feeling settled here. Well, maybe not the final push, but it will be a great big push, nonetheless. People underestimate the meaning of stuff, I think. On one hand, it's been sort of freeing not having any of my things--I know if I ever lost everything in a fire or a robbery or something like that--God forbid--I wouldn't necessarily lose my identity...I'd be okay, I'd survive. But on the other hand, the stuff that I've dragged around for years and years--that china cabinet I own now that used to belong to my great-grandmother and then sat in my grandparents' basement for several decades--it comforts me. It makes me feel more connected to my past and where I came from and all that stuff (no pun intended).

Anyway, can we talk about Valentine's Day for a minute? Usually, I hate it. Most of us do, right? Because if you're single, it feels like a big thorn in your side, and if you're in a relationship, it either feels like so much pressure or like a big magnifying glass over your ugly, fucked up relationship. So this was Drew's and my first Valentine's Day together--like together-together in the same city, not long-distance like last year, and I wasn't really interested in it. I told Drew to please not get me anything, mostly because I he does so much for me all the time (seriously, the flower guy down the street knows him by name) that I don't need some made-up day for him to do even more. But also because I'm so broke, I knew I wouldn't be able to really reciprocate. But of course, to his credit, he didn't not get me anything. He surprised me with tickets to see Ingrid Michaelson tomorrow night and gave me a necklace and some earrings I'd been admiring online and then happened to see a couple weekends ago in Soho. I may have mentioned to him, "Oh I love those! They're perfect for me for Valentine's Day!" But I swear, there was no ulterior motive. No, actually, I just said I liked them, forgot all about it, and was surprised when he presented them yesterday. Isn't that the best kind of gift--when you really like something, mention it off-handedly and then forget all about it? And while I didn't give Drew anything material, I made all his favorites--banana bread for breakfast, chili for dinner with homemade cornbread and fudge brownies for dessert. I'm no gourmet cook, but luckily I'm not with gourmet-kinda guy. We capped it off with a film at MoMA--which was introduced by the director (Milos Forman) and the leading man, no less. I picked it because I thought it'd be kind of sexy and artsy, and while it was pretty artsy, it was not sexy. It was, however, surprisingly funny and I'd totally recommend it.

Anyhoo, life feels pretty good at the moment. I still feel crippled from time to time with fits of anxiety--mostly revolving around my financial state and how I'll ever make enough dough to crawl out of debt, contribute to raising a family, and create a secure future for myself--but after talking with some artist friends yesterday I realize I'm not alone in that and I guess just knowing there are others in my boat is a little comforting. Anyway, things may be on the upswing on that front too--last night on the way to movie I found $11 on the street! I picked it up and quickly put it in my pocket. I'm going to buy more B-Complex vitamins with it.

Modern Materialist

Hey, remember last week when I mentioned I had a new gig and I'd tell you the details soon? So, check it out: I'm writing a new product blog for Nerve.com called Modern Materialist and we just launched this morning. We'll have regular features, like quick tip of the day, weekly sales, best of etsy, all kinds of stuff, and we'll be updating about a million times a day. So come check it out, leave comments, say 'hello,' tell your friends. And if you have tips, send them my way!

Alphabet: A History (B)

B: Bike
My first big-girl bike is classic: hot pink with a banana seat and shiny steamers on the handle bars. In the parking lot outside our high-rise apartment on Yokota Air Base in Japan, my father holds the back of my seat as I pedal unsteadily. It's a test of patience and stamina for both of us, and not at all unlike our driving lessons years later on winding streets in Germany. When my dad lets go and I finally bike with confidence, I don't want to ever stop. In the evenings after school and work, my whole family bikes together along the tarmac, a seven mile stretch--my dad in the front, my mom in the middle with Allison in a baby seat, and me in the back, my streamers waving in the breeze.

We move so many times--from Japan to Korea to Germany and somewhere along the way, I stop riding. Worse yet, somewhere along the way, I decide bikes are scary. In Springfield, Missouri, my college friends talk about how bikable the town is. They pedal around to each other's houses and the bars downtown and in the summer, they even ride all the way to Fellow's Lake. I'm convinced I'm a klutz and have no balance and don't want to look stupid in front of anyone, so I stick with cars. Once, I try rollerblading on campus and I fall 3 times in five minutes, and declare wheels off-limits for good.

When I'm 24, I move from Missouri to Chicago with my boyfriend. He brings two bikes with him and quickly buys a third. He gets a job making sandwiches at Potbelly and rides the two miles there and back everyday. Soon, he loses 15 pounds and bleaches his hair. In the winter, his shoes and the legs of his pants are covered in salt. He gets promoted once, twice, three times in a year. We move to a bigger apartment. The lakefront is just 3 blocks away now and on an early summer evening, I walk over with my boyfriend and two of the bikes. He rides in front of me and I follow behind, pedalling unsteadily. It's so crowded on the lake path and I lose my balance and give up right away. "I'll just meet you back inside," I yell after him, but I don't think he even hears me. He's already off in the distance.

"I just saw the perfect bike for you," Chad says over the phone late one Spring afternoon. I'm 28 now and single. I've been thinking about getting back on the lake path. I go to Brownstone Antiques in Andersonville and see it: it's turqoise and probably from the early 70's, with a white wicker basket, a headlight and a rearview mirror. I buy it for $45. I spend the whole summer on my new bike, clunking along with my friends down Damen to Wicker Park and Ukrainian Village, I don't know what I was so afraid of before. I ride all the way through Fall and into early winter when I finally switch back to my car until March.

Two summers later I upgrade to a new bike with more than one gear. I ride through my last months in Chicago, memorizing tree-lined streets and Winnemac Park and routes to all my favorite places. When I think of what I'll miss most when I move to New York, this is top of the list. The day the movers come, I'm a nervous wreck. I drug the cats for the plane trip, finish packing my bags, sign a check for storage, and clean my apartment. Later, after the movers leave and I'm hailing a cab for the airport, I realize I've forgotten my bike. I can picture it now leaning against the wall in the foyer.

Alphabet: A History

I'm starting a new feature called "Alphabet: A History," totally ripped off from Amy Krouse Ronsenthal's Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life.

A: Allison
I'm six and we've just moved to Tokyo from Chinhae, Korea. We've left our dogs behind and the only thing that gets me over it is the anticipation of a new baby. Allison is born on a cold day in the middle of winter five months after the move. My first grade class is at a special concert on base for the Air Force band. They're in the middle of my favorite song, "Eye of the Tiger," when I hear the familiar jangle of keys coming down the aisle closer to my seat. My father is the assistant principal at my school and whenever I hear, outside my classroom, the jangle of those keys he wears on his belt, I sit up straight, put my brush away, and fold my hands over my lap. Today when I hear the jangle at the band concert, I swerve in my seat and see my father and even in the dark I can make out his smile.

I spend the night at my friend Kristy's house and her mother braids my hair and I feel like a whole new person. At the hospital the next morning, my mother doesn't mention my braids and I wonder what it will be like sharing her now. My father asks if I want to see my new baby sister and I take a deep breath and nod. He walks me to the nursery and I peer through the window. All the babies look the same to me. "Which one?" I ask. He points to Allison and says, "That's her." I stare and wait, I'm sure something's supposed to happen now. "She has red hair just like you," my father says after a few minutes. "She looks like a bulldog," I reply. A month later I teach her to touch her toes.

Rejected Super Tuesday Tag Lines

        Super Tuesday:

1. Now with 50% more beef!
2. Not Your Mamma's Tuesday!
3. It comes after Monday!
4. Show us Your Tits--We'll Give You Some Beads!
5. Pleasure You Want. Protection You Trust!!
6. Do the Tue.
7. Now 100% all Organic.
8. You break it, you buy it!
9. Tastes like the real thing!
10. Make a run for the border.

Ticker-Tape

Hey, do you feel all that excitement in the air? Well, if you're in NYC surely you feel the reverb of the Giants' big win over the Patriots last night. What, is that me talking football? I know, I know, last week it's basketball and this week it's football--I hardly know myself anymore!! Is this what living with a boy does to a girly girl?? Turns her into some sports-watching, stats-knowing tomboy? Well, in my defense, I didn't even know who the Giants were playing until about halfway through the second quarter, so...And even though we were at a Superbowl party and I was sitting directly in front of the big screen TV, I really didn't watch the game until the final 3 minutes. But I picked a good three minutes to pay attention.

And tomorrow the excitment continues with a Ticker-tape parade, Mardi Gras and Super Tuesday all in one day, followed closely by Ash Wednesday, which everyone knows is the height of excitement!!

And lo! What's that I see outside my window? Why, it's none other that snow! In NYC! I was beginning to think that that just didn't happen here. Apparently, word from Chicago is it's all been going there this winter.

And hey, speaking of excitement, I got a job. Well, it's more of a gig, actually, but one I'm excited about all the same. These last few months of job searching have been incredibly soul-sucking and demoralizing and though I've had some interviews at big, impressive companies that my parents would be proud to tell friends their daughter worked for, I really wondered if I'd be able to fit into corporate life. The thought of being tied to a desk in some office 8--or more--hours a day where I can't control the temperature and the lighting or who's stopping my my cubicle for chit-chat every five minutes isn't exactly my idea of fun, but I still gave it my all to land exactly that kind of job. Because that kind of job? It has a stable paycheck and benefits and all that other stuff that softens the corporate handcuffs and makes life a little more affordable. So I've given it my all over the last few months, but in the end--at least as the end is written today--I just don't fit into those kinds of cuffs. So I'm going to embrace the world of freelancing--something I've been dipping my toes into for the last couple years--and see what happens.  And maybe I'll even give teaching another whirl--see if I can find a class or workshop to get my little hands into. And I'll give you all the details on this new gig I'm excited about in the next week or so. Yay!

AND! Perhaps the most exciting news of the day is that I'm going to China! Well, probably going to China. I guess I shouldn't say anything until the tickets are purchased and it's a definite deal, but what the hell, I can't be expected to keep my big mouth shut about everything! So Drew is going to Beijing in August to cover the Olympics for work and I'm going to tag along. I'll join him towards the tail-end of the Games, take in some events, eat some really good Crab Rangoon, maybe get some clothes tailor-made a la Holly, and then when Drew wraps up his work, we'll take some time to hop around China a bit. I'm so excited and keeping my fingers crossed it all works out and I didn't just jinx it by mentioning anything before it's written in stone. You know, I was born Japan and raised in Asia until I was 13 and though I've never been to China before, there's something sort of sweet going back to the continent, at least, where I spent my formative years. I was in Seoul for the '88 Olympics 20 years ago and I thought that was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so to (probably) have the chance to go to the Olympics again--well, I feel pretty lucky.

Oh! And I lied--that wasn't the most exciting news. The most exciting news is my hair's long enough to pull back in a half ponytail now! Ticker-tape parade for everyone!!!