Monday was President's Day. A day we are to honor or forefather's with a federal holiday. I bet Washington can rest in peace knowing that I cannot mail a package or visit a public library on this fine holiday. That being said, I guess I should relish my last day with nothing to do. I chose to honor our country by spending some QT in my own little country, Washington Heights. I usually run down to Harlem OR up to Inwood, but I brought out the big guns for this beautiful post snow storm day and went both ways (insert inappropriate sexual joke here).
A quick trip downtown to take care of some business and a brief encounter with a former paramour on the subway platform (which happens weekly now, by the way) and I am on the A train back uptown. Just in time for a reminder that life is good (or at least not THAT bad).
So, I am on the A train, reading my book, minding my own business. That being said, I am also visibly upset. Tears were streaming down my face as I attempted to enjoy the latest Jen Lancaster book. A satirical writer, the humorous words were being read, but certainly not felt. I see out of the corner of my eye that there is a man who has taken something out of his pocket and is doing his best to make it look presentable. Once the tattered white napkin has been smoothed out, and folded neatly into fourths it is handed to me; slipped under my eyes, and directly above my book. I look at the kind man who smiles and without extracting my earbuds I nod and give a smile of appreciation.
A couple minutes later I notice commotion in the same corner of my vision. This time he is scribbling something down in his day planner. Once the words are on the paper he turns the small book to me and has written something along the lines of "If I were your friend, I would never make you cry." A conversation ensues and, Ill be damned if I don't actually stop crying. At least for the duration of the trip home.
As I de-board and head for home I realize that although my weekend blew and no adventure was had. I at least had a nice moment with a stranger on the train.
Day Three
Sunday. The Lord's Day. Valentine's Day.
Day Two
Saturday morning I rise with slightly more east, but greeting a day is a battle, nonetheless. It is definitely after noon by the time I throw on my spandex and lace up my Asics. Another lengthy, if not challenging session at the gym and I am good to go. So good, in fact, that I decide to partake in one of my favorite past times. The movies. And by movies I mean sitting in a darkened theatre personifying gluttony with my massive diet coke and popcorn to match as I stare at the flickering lights projected on screen. What is on the playbill for this evening? Well, with it being Valentine's Day weekend and all I decide to keep the love theme alive and buy a single ticket to "The Lovely Bones." Yeah, so a story about a murdered 14 year old girl might not be the feel good movie of the year, but Tucci is genius and his recent Oscar nod only further solidifies my belief that the Academy is a sucker for prosthetics. I am telling you, grab some veneers, and hair piece, and you are money. Need I remind y'all about Nicki Kidman in "The Hours?"
Thoroughly exhausted by a real nail biter (literally, you should see my hands), I decide to keep it close and visit a favorite local watering hole of mine. Any bar with $7 cocktails and a proprietor named Jimmy works for me. This midtown oasis is like heaven for people like me. Cheap drinks, random crowds of visiting business men, post show theatre geeks, and the occasional straggler, topped with a cheetoh snack mix concoction is sublime, and keeps me coming back here time and time again. A single pink cocktail and I head home to read, sleep, and anxiously await yet another day with nothing to do.
Day One
You know those weekends that are so fantastic that you look back for years to come and think, "Good Times?" This was not one of them.
Today is Valentine's Day. The day that every single woman convinces themselves doesn't matter until the sun sets, the lovers canoodle, and you hold, firmly in hand, a ticket to go see "Valentine's Day." A romantic comedy with a platonic girlfriend on National Single Awareness day is always an delightful treat.
This weekend was supposed to be spent at Mardi Gras having a fantastic time and documenting the debauchery first hand. Not only did the idea of a post Saints Mardi Gras Party excite me, but adding to my "travel blog" made me feel productive and creative. But alas, my trusty travel partner jumped ship, or economy vehicle as the case may be, mere hours before our slated departure. This disappointment was magnified when I came to realize I simply didn't know anyone adventurous enough to drive 20 hours to New Orleans for a little weekend jaunt. I am hoping that this is just because I have befriended a bunch of pansies, and in no way reflects my ever advancing age.
So, my non-Mardi Gras weekend kicked off with a bang, dining with Allison, a girl I met at the gym. Nothing says holiday weekend like sweaty gym socks and inauthentic Asian cuisine.
The following morning I rise to a heavy heart, and suicidal tendencies. Being the logical chick that I am, I decide the best way to combat this is to turn off my phone and stay in bed...until 3 pm. At some point in the late afternoon the Catholic blood that exists only by nature rather than practice starts coursing through my veins, and I am so overwhelmed by guilt that I will myself to get up and drag my ever expanding ass to the gym. Post gym I head out to meet Meghan for dinner and drinks. Lots of drinks.
I know what you guys are thinking. I don't often drink. I have had friends complain for years now that I always seem to be able to pull a drunk story out of my sleeve, but I am so elusive, that the story rarely includes some of my closest pals. This is true. The mood very rarely strikes me. However, after facing the reality that not even I am Destiny's Child Independent Woman enough to enjoy an entire day of driving south solo, I chose to instead relish this city in which I reside. And if alcohol will help me do so, by god I have got to give it a shot (or several).
Megs and I carb up at some SoHo Mexican eatery and a pitcher of margaritas later we head out into the cold. It is this pitcher that I blame for the ease with which the random comedy show guy standing out in the sub zero temps was able to coerce me into his basement cellar off of MacDougal. It is here that I will consume the required 2 drink minimum, $8 Coronas (sticking with the Mexican theme) in addition to being made fun of by each and every comic on stage and then, for an added bonus, by my fellow audience members as well. Awesome, right?
Some friendly ribbing with some choice comics apres show and Megs and I head home at a respectable 2:30 am. Not too bad for a couple of old ladies.
february 2010
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