Well, hello, dear handful of friend-readers! I think you know that I recently flew (read: popped Xanax, clutched the arms of the seat, and passed out) on a JetBlue airplane to New York City. Most of you know that I don't care to fly in the air, or otherwise. I also still have a breastfeeding baby at home who has demonstrated nothing but disdain for drinking out of a bottle. I mean, how uncivilized. We may as well just give her a can of Diet Coke and a Twinkie and call it a gourmet meal, as long we're offering her crap. So there was just a wee bit of anxiety as the dates of my departure drew near. Joe helped push me out of the nest assured me that everyone would survive.
I was invited by this person:
I am not sure if this is her favorite photo of herself, but I think it's so feminine and pretty and sweet. Like her. This is Jessica, in case you don't already know. She's famous. She lives with her cute husband, Cyrus, and her sweet baby Walter.
I arrived at JFK at around 7am on Friday morning, and hopped in a cab to Jessica's house. She lives in the West Village, which, until I was actually in Manhattan, meant literally nothing to me. I get it now. It's so old fashioned and cool and darling and quaint and still everything is so vast at the same time. The streets intertwine and curve around, and directionally, I was stupefied. So I just followed Jessica around and didn't really pay attention to the street names, like when I am the passenger in a car.
I got to her building, buzzed her apartment, and then jammed up to the 6th floor (all stairs. Feel the burn.)and knocked on her door. She has been living NOT in my city for several years now (four! Gross!) and in New York for two of them and the only times I have seen her are in Seattle or when she visits Portland. I do get to see her frequently, but actually knocking on HER door in New York City was really cool.
She greeted me, we hugged, I took off my shoes in accordance with the row of shoes lined up next to the front door (they so brilliantly realized that walking around the apartment in their shoes was getting "New York on the floor". Good point.) and we had coffee. I even got to hear her operatic neighbor warming up her vocal chords for the day and it really does sound like Snow White hailing woodland creatures and birdies.
After a shower and an outfit selection, we hit the 'hood for some lunch at Mary's Fish Camp. We had lobster rolls, which is basically a whole lobster tail, some mayonnaise, a bun, and some fancy greens perched atop. It was the most delicious thing I have ever eaten.
After lunch, we went to a few shoe stores. One of them had the cutest ever, and I hate myself for not buying them. Feck.
After shoes, came the bigguns: H&M, Top Shop, All Saints (I curse that store for having everything I want and nothing I could afford).
We had big plans to go to a hip hop class at Broadway Dance Center, but the shopping and my non-sleep got the better of us so we skipped it in favor of drinking and eating.
After a pit stop back on Charles Street to let Walter out and pick up Cyrus, we headed to hmmm. Uh oh. Where? Oh yes! We actually did NOT pick up Cyrus. We freshened up and went to a little bar called Orient Express. As in "MURDER ON THE...". Except in this case, the bar wasn't at all murder-y. It was just shaped like the inside of a train car and decorated like one, with old timey luggage and racks, and the drinks on the menu had Christie-esque names. My kinda joint.
Whilst enjoying our cocktails and chatting, in walks the famous Amy Collingwood, or A-Coll, as she is lovingly referred to by her fans. Not to be outdone by A-Coll's magnetic and flashy appearance, her boots held a competition with her face. Of course, the face won, but the boots. Oh, those boots. Cowgirl kind with Swarovski crystals practically pouring out of them all over the place. She's lucky she's so pretty, because those boots were vying for attention in a serious way.
Back to us, we drank another cocktail (except Amy, who had inconveniently for opted for teetotaling during the month of September) and then made our way to dinner, where we DID meet Cyrus! It was pizza. It. Was. Pizza. Holy God.
After The Pizza (and bottle of wine), Cyrus left us to our own girlie devices and we sauntered to The Bar Where Everyone Sings Show Tunes While Some Guy Plays the Piano. I don't know the name of it, but our server was Barry or Gary or Larry. He was delightful and funny and brought us beers. It was small, it was underground, and it was so heartfelt and fun and sincere in the way that everyone was having fun singing to their favorite Broadway shows. We stayed for a million songs and then headed to another sing some songs bar, but that was way more 80's in an awesomely bad way. More beers. (I would love to insert a photo here of me punching Jess in the face, but I have not uploaded those onto my computer yet.)
In between those places, however, we were serenaded by a homelessy type man in a sombrero who made us laugh and laugh. He had one more to sing us, but couldn't remember it so he told us to hold on while he thought of it. 15 minutes later, it was still a mystery.
After the Awesomely Bad 80's Keyboard Singing Place, we parted ways with A-Coll and enjoyed a mini-break on a stoop before walking home. Upon the ground was a silver treaure. We actually picked it up and took it home for further deliberation on what to do with it. More on that later.
I somehow remember crawling onto my bed with Mr. Walter, and waking up to a quiet house... Day Two's journey was about to begin...
MORE MORE!
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