Labor Day in the City

Last night was GNO (Girls Night Out), one of my favorite monthly activities - something that we try to do more often than we write our rent checks, but it had been a while since the last one. It isn’t easy to sync up 4 very busy girls’ schedules, I thought as I rushed to the restaurant so I didn’t win the title of the last one there.

Over sushi and saki we caught up on everyone’s lives. “Are you going away for the holiday,” Alissa asked the group as she pinched a piece of tuna with her chopsticks. Holiday? I seemed to have completely forgotten about Labor Day weekend, having it get lost around my swirling wedding to-do list.

“No, staying right here,” Debra answered.

“Just sleeping in and getting some errands done. Not sure what else I’m going to do,” Jodi said as she handed the waiter her empty Sakitini glass in exchange for a full fresh one.

“I’m here too!” I answered.

As holiday weekends go, I find it far better to stay put and enjoy “everything that Manhattan has to offer” (Oh, how that is the most overused line on every dating website) than to try to fight the crowds at airports, Hamtpon jitneys and vacation destinations….and it seems a decent amount of others are in agreement with this fact.

So, if you find yourself in New York City or the Upper East Side this weekend with no specific plans, fret not, and check out one of these often overlooked activities that don’t require any more travel than well-worn flip flops or a Metro card:

US Open: Take 4/5/6 train to Grand Central and switch to the 7 train. Twenty minutes later you will be steps away from the world’s top tennis players. Matches continue all day, on the outside small-stadium courts to the two large center courts (Arthur Ashe and Armstrong). Once inside the grounds you can wander around all of the on-going matches.

Central Park Boathouse: The mass exodus of holiday travelers leaves open the usually overflowing attractions like the Central Park Boathouse. Dine al-fresco at sunset and watch the paddleboats float by, or be extra adventurous and hop a ride on a gondola. It’s okay to be a tourist in your own city on a holiday weekend.

Apple Store: Check out the latest iPhone or MAC at the open 24/7 Apple Store on 59th and 5th Avenue. Like an arcade for adults without the need for quarters, you can submerge yourself in a techie heaven for the afternoon before taking your iPOD, book and towel to Central Park, which is literally steps from the Apple store.

Nanny Diaries: Scarlet Johansson and Laura Linney star in the movie version of this top-selling novel set on the Upper East Side. Mary Poppins meets the Devil Wears Prada in this hilarious film about what it is like to take care of someone else’s spoiled offspring.

Metropolitan Museum: Maybe the last time you went to a museum was a class trip where your name tag was pinned to your zip-up Members Only windbreaker, but a dose of culture every so often is a great thing. Check out the Egyptian Art exhibition.

Two to Tango: Join Madonna’s tango coaches at the 92nd Street Y to learn the Argentine Dance of love. Dip, spin and twirl like you are on Dancing With the Stars, learning to Tango is hot and a talent you can use to impress your white-man's-overbite-dancing friends.

Century 21: Why pay Upper East Side prices for designer goods when a short subway ride down to Century 21 will save you a lot more than your Metro card fare on big name designer handbags, shoes and clothing. Before you know it, corduroy and velvet blazers will replace tank-tops and shorts as summer officially ends. A new luxe piece at a low price just may make the drop in mercury a little more palatable.

Geek Chic

“Oh SHIT,” I said as I slapped the computer monitor. I shook it, slapped it a few more times knowing that my method of fixing technical problems was about as effective as putting toothpaste on a zit to make it go away. I yelled for M who came running into the room. “Did you reboot it?” he asked the obvious as we tried to figure out why the computer was completely frozen. We attempted our pathetic versions of the technical fix to no avail. “I think it’s time this guy retires to the computer graveyard in the sky.”

It was a 7-year-old computer, long past its prime and no longer state-of the-art which was incentive enough to make an upgrade. So Saturday morning, M and I hopped on the 4 train to 86th Street and Best Buy. “We just need a basic PC, no fancy stuff, no bells and whistles. Don’t let them try to sell us some crazy expensive new computer. We just want the bottom of the line basic one.” I warned M knowing how he can be swayed when under the guidance of a persuasive sales rep.

But, after 5 minutes of playing with the new MAC and our sales rep, Sergio’s insistence that Apple blows away PC, we were both sold. “Just look at it,” I said to M as I gazed at the sleek, all-in-one, translucent iMAC far different than the boring black tower of the PC that hides under a desk. “It’s like a piece of art. It’s just beautiful.” I was having a religious conversion, eschewing my loyalty to PC in favor of this modern-day marvel. “We have to get it.” I was eating my earlier words as we stood on line to check out.

“Would you like Geek Squad to come and install that?” Sergio asked as he filled out the forms and rung us up.

“No. I can set it up.” M, always wearing his machismo like a badge of honor believed installing the new computer is as simple as changing a light bulb. “We will be up and running by lunchtime.”

Six hours, five phone calls to computer-savvy relatives and about 100 curse words later – M sat perplexed on the sofa. “Fuck this shit. Get me the number of the Dork Brigade or the Nerd Herd, whatever that thing is called.” I was about to go Google the number for Geek Squad until I realized we were without a computer hook up. Completely unfamiliar with how things got done before the Internet, I had to stop and recall the old-days – horse and buggy and 411.

“They can’t come until Tuesday,” M said sounding depressed. I think he was more upset with the fact he couldn’t play with his new purchase than the fact that we would be without a computer for a few days. “I bet it takes the guy like 2 minutes to figure out why we can’t get an Internet connection. I’m going to ask the geek if I can give him a wedgie so I get my money’s worth,” M said joking around. “Ok meathead. Maybe he’ll let you tape him to a flagpole like the good old days of college wrestling.”

Tuesday morning, right on time at 9 am, the Geek Squad rolled up in his Geekmobile. (The do, in fact, drive the VW bugs with the Geek Squad logo.) In a matter of minutes, the Geek had configured the computer so that it was surfing the Web explaining why we had the problem in the first place in words and a language I didn’t understand. “Ok, so it’s fixed? We are good? Just tell me in English that this thing works?”

Andrew, our special geek, couldn’t have been nicer or more helpful. He loaded the conversion software for our Office documents and downloaded a few web browsers for us. “MAC is the way to go. You are going to love this computer. It may take a little while to get used to the change, but once you go MAC you never go back,” Andrew said as he wrapped the cords of our old computer and heaved them into a junk pile.

After 24 hours of being an Apple user, I think we are fully converted to the cooler-side of geek. I am even ready for a designer pocket protector this fall ;-)

Good Medicine

The other morning M and I woke up to a retching sound followed by the sound of vomit hitting the floor. Bolting out of bed, I nearly landed in it as I went to check on Chief and get my trusty bottle of Lysol and paper towels. “He’s sick again,” I said to M who went to get the cleaning bucket, but came back with a granola bar and some dish soap. Always the calming voice of reason to my alarmist mentality, M assured me that Chief just had an ordinary upset stomach. “Just give him rice today. He’ll be fine by tomorrow.” But after 3 days of rice and Pepto, I was running out of paper towels and patience.

“We have to take him to the vet,” I called M at work and pleaded with him to come home and help me get Chief there. Being as smart as he is, Chief knows the direction to the vet’s office and once he has determined that is where we are headed he will sit on the sidewalk and refuse to move no matter how hard I yank his leash or try to entice him with treats. A stubborn 200lb dog is not a one man job.

“I made him an appointment at the New York Animal Medical Center,” I told M. “It’s in the opposite direction of the other vet so he won’t know where we are going. Plus, it’s closer. It’s on 62nd and York. And I made the appointment for 7:30 so you HAVE to come with me since you will be home from work!”

In the sterile ER-like waiting room, we filled out paperwork. Chief panting out of nerves lay on M’s feet as I filled out the questionnaire. The waiting area was crowded with nervous pet owners and even more scared animals. Cages of all sizes covered the floor, a tiny Dachshund shook in his owner’s arms as he assessed his surroundings and some kind of bird on a leash squawked angry cries of discomfort from the perch of a woman’s shoulder. We waited patiently until the vet called us. “I saw you guys waiting out there. I was hoping I would get the English Mastiff’s case,” the vet said as she led us back behind the glass partition and into an exam room.

Dr. Branter was young, probably still in her twenties she was perky and warm with a smile that sparkled and a bouncing brown ponytail. “I love this breed,” she said as she rubbed Chief’s ears putting him at ease. After we gave her a history of this stomach ailment and an elongated medical history of Chief’s eight years she began to examine him as he inched his way to the door hoping he could make a quick escape. “It’s probably just a fungal infection in his upper GI track, but I am going to take some blood just to be sure. At his age, you want to rule out anything more serious.” She led Chief away, presumably to get some help holding him while they drew blood and directed us back to the waiting area.

“I hope that dog doesn’t sleep in bed with you,” the woman holding the Dachshund said when we sat back down. “Maxy here, he is tiny,” she said pointing to dog who buried his head in her lap. He likes to sleep on my pillow, right next to my face so he can feel my breath. Poor guy is fifteen years old. Can’t walk too well anymore, but at least he is easy to carry. Just had surgery last week, they are going to take his stitches out today.” She nuzzled him close to her face, gently caressing his plum-sized head. “What’s your big fella in for?” We started talking about Chief’s stomach problems when a couple with two cats in a carrier piped in. “We had a Great Dane years ago, before we moved back into the city. The bigger they are the sweeter, but the big dogs often have stomach problems,” the man said as he looked into the plastic carrying case and at the two tabby-colored cats inside. “We had to downgrade size wise in the city. We have these two rascals and a Beagle at home. Love them like they are our kids.”

We had to wait nearly a half-hour for Chief to have his blood drawn and for the pharmacy to fill his prescription (which is less time than it takes Duane Reade to fill mine), the entire time striking up conversation with all of the other nervous pet owners. The camaraderie and conversation we shared made time fly and made all of us feel a little more at ease in an uncomfortable and unejoyable locale. When the door swung open, Chief bounded out pulling the vet in tow. “Two days on the pills and he will be back to himself,” she said handing M the leash.

The next morning, I sat in the waiting room of my endocrinologist’s office for 45 minutes waiting for my 11am appointment. The sparsely decorated room was packed as I tried to estimate how many people were before me. I thought it would make much more sense to run the doctor’s office like a deli counter. Every person would pull a number from the machine when they arrived and the electronic ticker would show what number was next. It would be far better than this system. I perused the horrible magazines which are the only ones ever available in doctors’ waiting rooms – how hard would it be to get Vogue or Vanity Fair? I didn’t chat with the person to my left – he was playing with his shoe laces. I didn’t strike up a dialogue with the woman on my right – she was balancing her checkbook and scribbling notes on a gum wrapper. And as I waited to be pricked in the arm with a needle as the phlebotomist/vampire stabbed me, I wished that the friendship borne of ill pets was replicated in that of humans. It would make going to the doctor a little less scary.

Wholesome as American Pie

What’s more wholesome than a good ole Saturday night date of dinner and a movie?

“I don’t want to change out of sweatpants,” I said to M. “I’m utterly exhausted. Let’s just kick it, grab dinner somewhere local and see a movie.” I could tell as he lay there in his lacrosse shorts, Chief at the foot of the bed, he was happy with my plan for our evening activity. “Baseball hat it is,” he said reaching for his blue cap before we headed out the door.

After a very quick dinner we raced to 64th and 2nd to make the movie which started at 10:10pm. As a kid, my mother would bring air-popped popcorn in trusty little Ziploc bags to the theater. “A large tub of that movie theater popcorn will kill you before you are old enough to drive,” she has been known to say. Sometimes, I ignore the echoes of Movies-past in my mind, load up on the butter so it’s swimming in a pool of yellow heart-clogging oil and order the biggest bucket that can be had, but not with a wedding dress to fit into in a few short weeks. M and I stopped at the local bodega and loaded up on seltzer, diet Dr. Pepper and baked Doritos. “For the first time I can honestly say that piece of luggage which you call a purse is actually useful,” he said shoving our contraband into my bag. We managed to get two cups of Tasti D (with lids) in as well before we rushed to buy the tickets across the street.

The line was huge. “We should have ordered them online,” I said as we assessed how crowded the theater would be. Neither of us thought “Superbad” was going to draw a super crowd. It was a late show on the Upper East Side, how bad could it be? Once inside the sprawling theater it was a free-for-all to find seats. The lower level was completely full so we trudged up the stairs and grabbed the end seats in the second to last row. We were just in time, moments later hordes of teenagers poured in – some with skateboards in hand, others making out as if the lights were already out.

“Is that seat taken?” they asked us pointing to the two empty seats between us and a woman to our left. We shrugged and the woman responded shooing them away explaining that the seats were taken. With no where to sit, people began to fill the aisles, setting up camp with their jumbo popcorns and hotdogs on the floor. “I bet that woman isn’t saving those seats for anyone. I bet she just doesn’t want people sitting next to her,” I said to M. It was rude, but just as rude as the people who used outside voices to talk to people six inches from them.

The theater was swarming with ushers. “Hide that!” M nudged me as I dove into my O’Henry frozen yogurt and settled into watch the dancing concession stand promo on the screen. “That guy is watching.” He motioned to the usher who looked like a proctor during the SATs watching for cheaters. I hid the smuggled booty under my chair. “Movie theaters need to sell more wholesome food. We live in a nation of junk food – school lunch rooms, movie theaters, stadiums. It wouldn’t kill them to offer non-artery blocking things. I mean, I’m not saying they should have fresh fruit salad and alfalfa sprouts, but something!”

The show was completely sold out when the lights finally dimmed, the previews began and the Doritos opened – and for good reason.

“Superbad” was hilarious. Certainly juvenile, the sophomoric humor was offensive, vulgar and pee-in-your pants funny. The movie followed three dorky high school seniors through an evening of trying to buy alcohol underage and get laid. McLovin, the spastic dweeb with the single-name fake ID from Hawaii “McLovin” was almost as funny as the overweight, lazy character Seth who stole the show with his hilarious diatribes on teenage angst which were peppered with constant obscenities that hit the mark.

Compared by critics to “American Pie,” I felt “Superbad” wasn’t quite as funny as its predecessor of teenage comedy – running a little long and beating a dead joke to death. But you can’t help but love the hapless characters whose crude jokes and obsession with sex only paled in comparison to their devotion and friendship towards each other.

Nonetheless, our Saturday night of dinner, a movie and smuggled Tasti D was a little less wholesome (but almost as funny) as American Pie.

Cheese. Love. and Life

“What goes around comes around,” Melissa warned as I alluded to some of the details of the Bachelorette party which I was planning for her.

I happened to be kidding. I really wasn’t planning on hiring 2 male strippers with banana-boat American flag thongs, rubbed down in greasy oil who were going to gyrate on her lap mercilessly until her bra popped off. Nor was I planning to bring midget strippers to the restaurant that would come boom-box in hand, in mini police getups and claim that she was late on parking tickets so they had to take her into custody right before they stripped down to their Batman under-roos and boogied down to “You Can Leave Your Hat On”. I planned a much more dignified Bachelorette party, the kind which she would appreciate and enjoy – which was G rated. (Ok, maybe PG-13)

Melissa’s friends came from all over the country, 13 of them, like the last supper, to celebrate the last of her days as a single woman. We gathered for Greek food at Trata Estiatorio on 71st and 2nd Avenue, where we passed large plates of grilled octopus and squid, pita and traditional dips and sipped Champagne. My Big Fat Greek Bachelorette Party was a big fat success. It was family style, just perfect for the family of friends who shared in her joy. Melissa donned a makeshift veil which I fashioned from a Steelers’ chef’s hat and mesh netting in honor of her marriage to the world’s biggest Steelers fan. She was a good sport even posing for a picture with the Steelers thong on her head and a condom tucked into her cleavage.

Of course there had to a bit of cheesy fun to the night, no Bachelorette party would be complete until the 80s music pumped through a bar and a gaggle of girls could squeal in unison like nails on a chalkboard to Bon Jovi. American Trash (76th and 1st) was the perfect spot for Melissa to let her veil down and pretend to do all the shots people were buying her, which instead went right over her left shoulder onto the floor behind her. “I can’t drink anymore,” she whispered as she dumped a Woo-Woo into a water glass on the bar.

But the night wasn’t about who could get the drunkest, that’s college, we have long since outgrown that version of celebrating. It was a celebration of Melissa’s past, present and future which we toasted to and honored with a book created by all of her friends. Everyone offered words of wisdom on marriage and love, they offered their memories of times spent with Melissa, they bedazzled, glued, glittered and stickered pictures documenting Melissa’s world. And we packaged it up and gave it to a teary eyed Melissa along with a dozen decorated bananas.

We lasted until 3 am when the crowd began to tire and our shoes were all sticky with discarded alcohol. “Pizza?” Rachel suggested. We trudged over to Figaro’s and ordered up some slices. “Who’s getting married?” a single guy dining alone at the next table asked. As if the veil wasn’t a giveaway, we motioned to Melissa. “Congratulations,” he said, a piece of cheese and oil dripping onto his plate from his folded slice of pepperoni pizza. “You’re a lucky girl. You’ve got some great friends and I am sure, a great guy. Cherish all of that. Really really cherish it. Both are hard to find and even harder to hold onto.” We smiled, thanked him. It was cheesy words of wisdom, the kind which don’t seem rare at 3 am at a pizza parlor on the Upper East Side, but resonate with a truth we all grasped.

My Little Gotham

“I’ll have a double-shot-Grande-nonfat-sugar-free-vanilla-iced-latte.” These are usually the first words of my day.

It takes me three or four attempts to spit that baby out; correcting myself, repeating part of the order and trying to remember if I have left out an essential part. “Oh no, did I forget the iced? I meant an ICED latte.” I apologize as I hand back to the barista the piping hot cup of coffee which doesn’t go well with the steamy frothy 90 degree heat outside.

I am an addict. Caffeine is my drug of choice and Starbucks my dealer. Walk by any given Starbucks at 9 am and there is a line of weary huddled masses of subway-travel-worn people piled out the door. There are 171 Starbucks in NewYork City – of which, at one point or another, I have been in at least half. It’s not hard to find a Starbucks – kind of like playing pin the tail on donkey; close your eyes, spin around and point and sure enough, there will be a Starbucks. Starbucks works exceptionally hard trying to find new and creative ways to bring more people to their front step, quickly becoming one of the world’s most recognized brands in the elite echelon of mega-giants like McDonald’s and Coca Cola. From airports in Taipei to JFK, Starbucks is there. But to me, Starbucks misses the mark. It just doesn’t feel like home, a place where I would want to come and stay for hours.

In college, I chose to do my work at a coffee shop as opposed to the ugly monstrosity of a library we had at Michigan. I found it comforting; the smooth jazz playing softly in the background, the smell of cherry tobacco hand-rolled cigarettes which the philosophy majors all smoked while they argued existentialism, the community which co-existed at Rendez Vous Café, to me, encouraged academia more than the musty stacks of mildewed books at the library. Rendez Vous was a small, family owned and operated cafe that stayed open late, offered freshly-squeezed juices and an amazing homemade spinach pie. Latte after latte, I would pour over notes, hand-write essays (before the days of laptops) and use color-coded index cards to create study guides. We would sit for hours in our ripped Levis, oversized flannel shirts and bodysuits drinking spiced lattes; sometimes wasting time gossiping but at least part of the time, getting work done. It was one of the things about Ann Arbor which I thought would never be replicated in the “real world”.

So it was very fitting when my old college roommate, Marie, introduced me to Gotham Coffee on 68th and 2nd Avenue. Gotham is the anti-Starbucks. It is everything Starbucks tries to be, but could never be. A quaint slice of this New York City, Gotham feels very un-Gotham like with an country-urban flavor which percolates from the coffee drinks down to the decor. Gotham Coffee House offers a full menu of freshly made fare unlike the plastic-packaged food at Starbucks. A chandelier illuminates from overhead and framed black and white photos of New York City hang side by side with burlap coffee bags on the walls. The coffee house is small and cozy, but always packed with students, mothers and babies and those who live by laptop from a remote office. From Belgian waffles to vegan scones to the gourmet paninis, Gotham’s menu goes far beyond the Starbucks’ rubbery chicken in the time and date stamped wrappers which look more like medical specimens than lunch. There is no Grande, Tall, Venti BS – it’s large or small. And best of all, Gotham offers free WiFi unlike its behemoth competitor which requires a T-Mobile connection. On premise, they serve Hale and Hearty soups and have a case of freshly bakes pies and cakes (pecan, French apple, carrot).

So I have traded in Starbucks, the big city’s answer to the coffee craze, for a simpler piece of Gotham. I don’t think I am going to give up my addiction to caffeine anytime soon, but at least I have found a dealer which I like a lot better.

Kernel of Info

In the beginning, everything is a mystery. When M and I started dating, started to learn each others’ likes and dislikes, our personality glitches and our idiosyncrasies, it seemed the learning curve was steep. “How do you take your coffee?” I asked, the first time I went to Starbucks to pick up some java – not even sure if he liked coffee. I approached each question with rabid curiosity hoping to learn more about this man with whom I was falling in love. Within the first few months, certain things became apparent: M hated fried food, had to sleep with the air conditioning on high even if it was cold out, hated small talk, was ferociously loyal, was a texter not a talker, loved dogs and loved tennis. In the beginning you store this information like pieces of a puzzle, trying to construct, in your own mind, the full picture of the person.

I didn’t take too long to piece M together, to be able to get a clear picture of who he is and to anticipate his actions. In the year that we have lived together, I have learned his inner-workings, what makes him tick. I was pretty sure there were no more mysteries.

M can fall into a deep sleep for 15 minutes after work, awake without an alarm and have the energy to go the gym. He is always late, unless you lie to him and tell him that he has to be somewhere 15 minutes earlier than he really does…which I do all the time, and he still he hasn’t figured it out yet. M doesn’t fold his t-shirts, instead he rolls them like sausages and shoves them into the drawer. “You get more room this way,” he claims. He eats cereal with a teaspoon which he holds like a shovel, he says to make him eat less, but he always has a second bowl. He refuses to wear sunblock, even when I tell him that he will burn, “I am olive. I don’t burn. It’s greasy, forget it.” Sure enough, hours later with angry red skin and a farmer’s tan, he informs me that I am right. He will trade dessert for a tuna roll any day of the week, but inevitably the box of Skinny Cows in the freezer is gone a day after I buy them. I know M.

I made dinner the other night. It’s a new thing for me – experimenting with recipes and visiting Cooks.com, sometimes I need to look in the mirror to make sure it is still me in there. Gathering the ingredients to make Chicken Lettuce Wraps, I put everything out on my six inches of counter space. I altered the recipe a bit adding Oyster Mushrooms, baby corn and broccoli, exchanging oyster sauce for soy sauce. I was about to dump the vegetables into the hot wok, the sesame oil crackling when M appeared over my shoulder. “Ew, what are you doing? I hate hate hate baby corn,” he said as if I just spiked his dinner with rat poison and cat piss. “You hate baby corn?” I asked him somewhat surprised by this unknown factoid, “But you always eat regular corn. How is this any different? I never knew ….”

One by one, I removed all the cut-up pieces of baby corn from the mix as M continued to rant about his hatred of baby corn. “It is vile. It is one of the nastiest vegetables in the world. I can’t believe anyone likes baby corn. If there was nothing else to eat, I would eat handfuls of dirt and dried twigs before I would eat baby corn.”

I may not have known M’s hatred of baby corn, but I certainly wasn’t surprised by his colorful commentary on it. I guess there will always be some surprises.