I was almost at bar two, right?

Okay, we’re skipping down the street, keeping up the song, crossing our fingers for white boy Rob’s safety and still pissed at Sax man for the 30 minute runaround. Alas, we arrive at Baramundi where we meet an old face and a few of that old face’s friends. Schmooze schmooze, booze booze and we’re on our way. Old face was in the mood for dancing, and no one was about to stop him, so the caravan moved to Pianos, a nearby swanky establishment that I’d been intending to hit. Again, schmooze schmooze, booze booze, groove groove.

At some point we decided it was time to go. It was probably time to go well before that point, but it’s too easy to get caught up in the New York step.

We all shot our hands in the air for a taxi- no luck, all taken. We got separated from Old face and friend, walked God knows how long and in God knows what direction...though I was sure we were heading west. Well, God knows when later, we wound up facing the Manhattan Bridge...which is as east as the city grid gets:

At first we had no idea what we were looking at, and Hayley swore we'd reached Washington Square Park. This place (basically in our backyard):

But again, that park is way west, and we were way east. I mean it totally looks the same, especially to three girls who'd been havin’ a night. Anyways, thank heaven for Charles, our knight in shining armor slash Prince Charming slash the most strapping man we'd ever seen- yes, he gave Sexy Saxy from earlier in the night a run for that money he'd earned pissing on George Clooney's face.

Anyways, with his good looks came also good luck, as a vacant taxi finally rounded the corner. Leah, Hayley and I piled in, all reassuring each other that Charles was in fact the best looking man any of us had ever seen. Our chauffeur was about to peel out to the West Village when out of left field, little Hayley Lynn grew a pair of balls, ran out of the cab and told Charles in the frankest of manners, "You need my number." Go girl, go.

Getting back into the car, our shrieks were that of a 12-year-old Justin Bieber fan- as if none of us had ever been kissed by a boy, and as if screaming, crying and hyperventilating would make dream-boy Biebs stop in his tracks and take our never-been-kissed virginity.

Mid-freak out, Old face called questioning our separation. "Whatever, whatever, no time for that. We're excited and hungry- join us, Old face, for a late night binge." He suggested a diner, which sounded like a delicious mess of sobering food. Perfect, see you at 14th and 9th. Next thing you know, we're on a wait list (at 4:45 am, mind you) to get into THE Diner, a posh restaurant in the middle of the Meatpacking District (New York's hottest of hot spots). This could do too.

By the time we were finished hoarding our comfort food, the sun had come up and the collective scent of the New York bagel was diffusing through the streets of our walk home.

Leah spent the "night," and we had a few hours of sleep before heading to the Frying Pan- been there, done that, told you about it. It's that bar of a boat on the Hudson:

After FP, Leah and I went on a wild goose hunt for din din. We both had our hearts set on the same carb-friendly dish: a cheesy, greasy, disgusting, full plate of pasta. We circled my neighborhood in search of, though living in the West Village hardly calls for a grungy food selection. In the hour of scour (heehee), there were so many times one of us wanted to quit, but thank God we had each other to keep afloat our dream, and alas, we found our spot-a pizza joint that also had a full menu of pasta- baked ziti, lasagne, alfredo, a la vodka, you name it, Alfonso's cookin it. I got the ziti, Leah got the alfredo, the world got two extremely satisfied eaters.

In our gluttonous state, we had one of our common heart to hearts. Leah and I have been friends since this:

Leah is a remarkable friend, well aware of her selfish, princess-ness, but remarkable. I count the blessings I have in my friends often, and Leah is no stranger to those blessings. I have no idea what I did to deserve such purely, good people as friends. Seriously, no idea. Whoever is responsible for this phenomenon, I owe ya one, man.

On that cheesy plate of pasta, and note, I leave you.

p.s. I'm planning to embellish on my feeling of being surrounded by angels as friends. I'm just not in as mushy of a mood as that calls for, and more in the mood for a second round of mushy pasta. LEAH!?!

Sax is Sex

It’s pouring, my windows are open and the rain's tune is competing with a playlist of Tracy Chapman-a peaceful competition leaving me wholly happy. Clam happy. Happy, happy hippo. Or is that hungry, hungry hippo?

Either way, it’s an entirely happier state than my previous Sunday when I, stupidly without tissues, saw Eat, Pray, Love- sleeves are in the wash. In recollection, I opened up my version of such a diary, Two Girls, One Backpack, and compared notes, tissues alongside.

I’m no Elizabeth Gilbert (author of). I’m not in my thirties, not in any sort of marriage (happy or unhappy), not a renowned writer (yet), not facing the age of baby poppin’ (fingers crossed), and most importantly, not blonde (these days). But I do know if I were Elizabeth Gilbert, the stunning Julia Roberts would be the appropriate actress to tell my story. And I also do know that in a heartbeat, a taxi honk, a New York minute, an “I’m at your door, buzz me”, I’d give up anything and everything to be on an introspective wander among rice fields and linguini.

Anyways, that was last weekend. This weekend, on my part, was a ton less tearful.

A few friends from work are in a band called Bad Man Yells. They are jazzy, soulful, way talented, and I’ve been meaning to go to a show of theirs. I finally came around to it on Friday. They were playing at a bar in the Lower East Side (New York’s trendiest of slums) so I went fishing for a posse. Leah and Hayley bit, and so began my unending evening, night and morning with the tiny two.

So there are 5 boys/men/whatever in the band. I work with 3 of them (drums, guitar, bass), had previously met the 4^th (keyboard/vocals), and shook hands with the 5^th (sax [is sex]) pre-show. Live music is one of New York’s most abundant gems, though I’ve shamefully been slow to pursue its’ remedial energy. I’ve really gotta start doing all the things I say “I really gotta start doing…” Hopefully, Bad Man Yells and their genius set was the catalyst to a volume crank of New York’s intended noise, rather than its’ candid sound of honks, sirens and street crowd. We’ll see.

And if you’re wondering what this sax is sex line is, I’ll tell you. Playing the saxophone is sexy. Straight to the point, bottom line, no questions asked, no further detail. Don’t get me wrong, Kevin is originally a fine looking man, but put a sax to anyone’s lips and you’re basically pissing on George Clooney.

Leah, Hayley and I were having a fab time jamming, and continued having a fab time jamming post-Bad Man Yells, though the following band was absolutely horrible. By song two, we were the only ones left in the bar, but I refused to leave until their set was over…I couldn’t make them feel as bad as they sounded, and plus- their clank was a doozy to break it down to.

At 11ish, a $5 chicken wing sign seriously challenged any self-control that had once been added to that “I really gotta start” list. Brought me back to Gainesville Mondays, a favorite night of mine at Mothers joined by 25 cent wings and my strapping MBA boys. Any Gainesville habit reappearing in New York is not a sign of progess, but with Gator Football in two weeks (heck yes) strengthening my inevitable relationship with chicken wings, I figured why not have some pre-season fun. And so the order was placed. And gone in 60 seconds- take that Nicolas Cage.

Not the only slightly less classy act of the night. Around midnight, we received an invite to a venue change. Leah and I made the initiating step outside, but a few of the stragglers were taking sweeter time. In musical spirit, the two of us began belting familiar ballads of Boyz II Men, perhaps giving headache to the window of people who yelled some snarky comment from 3 floors up. To save us, Boyz II GarbageMen rounded the corner. The perfect out for two slightly less classy and slighty vodka-inspired ladies. We put on our citizen badges, ran over to a nearby collection of trash and took turns slinging the bags into an abyss of New York's dump. When we'd slung the street clean, we hopped aboard the garbage truck and down the block we went. Rollercoaster of love, add stink.

After our spin around, we found the nearest restaurant and sprinted to their bathroom. As if the bathroom was waiting for two stinky girls, there was a fresh bottle of febreeze, of which is most likely empty from the excess we sprayed.

With a fresh start, we rounded the gang and headed to bar two of the evening. Sir Saxophone happened to live on the bar's block so he confidently led the way. While gallivanting, I asked him if he intentionally played the sax to attract the ladies. Rethinking that, his talent definitely couldn't have happened over night. He had to have picked up the instrument pre-puberty, and dear Lord, I hope sex appeal wasnt in his thought at that age. Anyways, I got over tooting his horn (ha, ha...get it?) when someone realized we were going in the complete wrong direction. What should have taken us 4 minutes, turned into 30 (literally guys, I timed it off my text messages).

In this whole "we're not lost, it was the smallest of detours," we ran into Rob, a completely passed-out-on-the-sidewalk southern boy, just asking to be mugged. As fellow southerners, we felt compelled to help the sorry chap up and get him to safety. Mission failed as he disappeared into the sea of traffic-jammed taxis. So long white boy, we did what we folk could.

Carry on.

Actually, coinciding with our night, this post is getting too long. There is a second chapter, but because you all probably have some form of self-diagnosed ADD, and lord knows I could write a bible, I'll cut it here.

Ciao for now.

I told you it was coming. Here is the Sarasota weekend in review:

My Delta flight on Friday was a connecting flight. NYC-ATL-SRQ. I got to the airport well on time, but my aircraft did not. It was delayed, and delayed so much that I would miss the second leg (nightmare, as there were no more flights to SRQ from ATL that day).

Livid, I studied those schedule screens for an understudy flight. I saw a direct flight to Tampa (45 mins further away from Sarasota) departing in 15 minutes and thought- THAT'S MINE. I scanned the terminal for the friendliest-looking Delta rep. And by friendliest-looking, I mean most easily persuaded by a smile with a side of dimple. I'm not usually a Delta fan (and actually distinctly remember telling my dad in the brattiest of tones, "remind me never to fly Delta again" after a miserable flight to LA a few summers back) so my hope was far from high. This man, this little Hispanic Delta man though, oh did he turn my frown upside down. In a matter of minutes, and a few fervid punches to his keyboard, out popped my new boarding pass to Tampa. "ALL YOURS," he said. Victory, home here I come, 4 hours early!

My sister picked me up from the airport and we met Mr. and Mrs. Tasman at our favorite Asian restaurant- Pacific Rim. Pineapple fried rice with brown rice please. And a boat of Sushi-again, please.

Happily stuffed, I fell asleep before you could say, “Pineapple fried rice with brown rice please. And a boat of Sushi-again, please.”

My sister’s excitement to graduate from college that Saturday morning (the reason I went home) woke me up at 6:30 am. So much for kicking exhaustion in the butt.

She walked across the stage so effortlessly, though her college years were far from that manner. Alyssa’s dedication is with notable excellence, and I admire her perseverance and commitment to that now proudly held diploma. Graduating is one of those compound, “phews!” You’re certainly glad that’s over, but in that same breath of accomplishment, NOW WHAT? Who knows what is to come of her future, just as who knows what is to come of mine, yours and our neighbors’. But, I know that if one route fails, Alyssa will re-navigate until she’s found her perfect way (temper tantrums to be expected….love you!).

After the graduation, we went to lunch on Longboat Key via boat. Welcome back, tan.
On full stomachs, we pulled out the new water skis and gave them a run around Skiers’ Island.

Then it was roller derby time. My parents have owned a skating rink for some 15 years, and just in this past year did roller derby find its way to our floor. A team of rugged, rugged women take their anger out as they pound and pummel eachother. Men onlookers wish they were in the middle, and most of the women onlookers do too. It's an interesting crowd, with lots of tattoos and even more illegitamate children running around.

Post-derby, my dad and I showed face at a family friend's graduation party. She was graduating from Physician's Assistant school at the University of Florida (Go Gators, love the new haircut Tebow). Her dad also took the Med path and is a cardiovascular surgeon. This family was the first we made friends with when we moved to Florida from NY (yes, Nia, I was born in New York). We met in the buffet line at Applebees. The story goes something like one family was admiring how well behaved the other family's children were. I can't recall which kids were God sent, maybe grad girl Laurie as seen below:



That IS a 24 year old, soon to be prescribing your medicine, doing a keg stand. And the man on the right is totally her dad, been cutting you open since 1998.

Sunday was back to celebrating Alyssa's graduation. In December, for my grad, my parents took me to a chain restaurant for lunch. For my sister's graduation, my parents rented a yacht for lunch with 30 of her friends...I'm not entirely bitter, only because I had 3 of my friends join as well:

-Beth of "Two Girls, One Backpack"
-Jeff of "We met at an arcade, she was impressed by my sword so I took her on a date, but now were just friends"
-Billy of "Is the ping pong tournament biz cash?"
(final score: 21 to 2 don't matter what you're wearing boy)

Jeff and Billy are both in the MBA program at UF, are incredibly hilarious (Billy more than Jeff), have wonderful teeth (Jeff more than Billy) and are two of the best boys I know. I would take either of their hands in marriage, though to Mommy and Daddy Tasman's bewilderment, I would never, ever date them.

Here are the lovable goons:

Monday was another boating day, skiing day and tanning day. My body's already poor condition is that much worse, as every muscle in me feels overworked and underpaid- they are screaming to be gifted with some yoga.

And sitting on the plane home didn't help the spine either. The second leg of my connecting flight brought back that original hate I felt toward Delta. I boarded a sweltering hot plane and sat at the gate for over an hour waiting for maintenance to fix the heat and "just a handful of other issues." Not a good word choice to a plane full of sweaty, impatient passengers (from Atlanta...).

But alas, New York sweet New York.

From the land of exhaustion.

The Sand Man and I aren't on speaking terms these days. He says I don't pay him enough attention. I tell him I'm busy, take a number, boy.

That being said, I guess it's no surprise that when the plane shoved off from New York to Florida on Friday, I was hit with an onset of exhaustion. It was an exhaustion build-up that kicked me in the face the second New York and I parted ways. I thought this weekend in Sarasota would cure this non-alcohol-induced life hangover (Let me be more correct and say not-entirely-alcohol-induced life hangover), but here I am again, back on the plane, stressed out, heavy-eyed and energyless.

Such lack of strength can be a compilation of too much work, too much play, too much running on top of shin splits, drinking on top of hangovers (this time I do mean alcohol-induced) and dancing on top of bars. Kidding, but I couldn't think of another "on top".

(real life interjection: I totally just had the flight attendant deliver me a single dose packet of aspirin)

Anyways this just goes to show how easy it is to get caught up in New York City. I'd been going and going, more reluctant to stop than the energizer bunny, and like that same energizer bunny, didn't realize what a disruptive toll the going and going was taking. It was only until I hard stopped the noise that I realized how loud it was in the first place.

And three days in paradise is no band-aid.

This weekend was supposed to reunite me and the Sand Man, but no such luck. We are still on the outs, but for good reason (summary weekend post to come, stay tuned). And though I'd like to say I'm going to make an honest attempt to quiet down, my company is on rapid fire and my entire address book is making their way to the city in the coming weekends for either a visit or a "permanent" move. Btw, did anyone look into a group travel discount?

Either way, I welcome all with open arms, weak arms, but none the less, open.

This post is rated R.

Mom and Dad, that’s fair warning. You should probably go back to watering the cactus garden.

Fine, read what you will. So, Saturday was quite the night. Nia and I started out at a friend of a friend’s apartment-warming party on Wall Street. This apartment was all too debonair, and the wine and cheese was all too perfect a compliment. Nia and I spent the majority of the party attached to the cheese platter, and befriended those like-minded people who loitered round the hors d’oeuvres as well. Good people.

Coincidently (really it was a coincidence), we headed out as the cheese dwindled. Another friend of a friend that I’d met a few weeks back had tickets to an 80’s cover band at Canal Room.

Here’s why I love Nia: I was taller than the two boys we met there, and that’s always just plain awkward. So with no sigh or rolled eye, Nia traded her flats for my heels.

So, an hour in to the jumping and jamming, we had to give up. The energy level of the band, and these boys, was too much for our old souls. Winding through Soho to get back home, we ran into a distressed-looking guy, heavily concentrated on his Blackberry. Of course my curiosity (some call it nosiness) was peaked, so I asked him what was up with the face and the phone. Here comes the Rated R part, though it's still censored…

He says to us this: “A girl I know is in Mexico and she sent me a sexy text message asking me to send her a sexy picture of myself, what on earth do I do?”

(Bahaha) “Take a picture, bro”

“Really...well, uh... will you take one of me?” (as he sticks the phone in Nia's face).

“Uhhh… sure...smile…”

And just as Nia is about to snap, the kid rips his shirt off!!!

There we are, standing in the middle of a Soho street, with a half naked man asking us to take a picture of his half naked body to send to his… half naked girl.

And here it is.

One in the light...

Long story short, he’s a personal trainer with not many friends in the city (…couldn’t imagine why his friend-keeping capabilities are lacking). After the photo shoot, he was eager to grab a drink with us, but surprisingly, something had turned us off about him, so we continued on our way back to my apartment.

The kid was relentless. He kept walking with us as we headed north, pointing out potential bars for this undesired drink. Eventually I pretended as if my “boyfriend” was calling me, freaking out for me being out on a Saturday night. We thought the whole "big bad boyfriend" scheme would scare him, but instead, he says, “No one should treat a woman like that… let’s talk about it over a drink.”

Oy, kid. Come on.

Nia and I were pressed for escape options, so we decided to be mature women about the situation and on the count of one, two, three we just cold sprinted up 7th Avenue, leaving him and his pornographic phone in the dust.

Though we’d lost him after the 2nd block, we ran the rest of the half mile back to my place and up my 3 flights of stairs. Adrenaline at an all-time high and with such a good story behind us, we stood at my door catching our breath. Mid breath-catch, a few other building dwellers were on their way past my floor and invited us to join them on the roof. At any given time, there are a handful of people on my roof- it’s a building of young professionals, I love it. Expecting a few people to share our story with, we popped open the rooftop door.

200 people and a legit DJ. On my roof. So crazy, and so fun.

I LOVE New York.