No Hablo Espanol

I’ve become what I hate most in this world.

You know those tourists that hold up the line on public buses? They stand in the doorway for way too long, trying to wrap their thick heads around the seemingly simple concept of exact change.

Now I am one of those tourists. Just take me out and shoot me. To be fair, it was pouring rain and I was a little confused. My Spanish interpreter (who also happens to be my sister, as well traveling companion and wedding date) is ill, so I went off to explore Puerto Vallarta on my own.

I boarded a bus in a flurry of rainwater and chaotically handed the driver the first bill I could find: 500 pesos (worth about 50 bucks). After returning a blank stare to his barrage of Spanish, I gratefully accepted the change. Thank god Mexican buses give change.

It was a long and painful journey to the center of town that later involved me getting off at the wrong stop, walking along side a highway for what seemed like hours, getting splashed by passing semis driving through puddles, etc etc, you fill in the pathetically cliché details of an adventure gone wrong.

But eventually, I found what I was looking for: a spectacular Mexican sunset.





And after the sunset I found what I was REALLY looking for: a spectacular Mexican taco. Yum.

Y'all don't mess with it, ya hear?

Next time I’m planning a trip, will someone please remind me NOT to schedule an 8am flight. 8am flights require a 6am wake up. And a 6am wake up requires that I be grumpy for the rest of the day. Even if that day includes a trip to Mexico.

“I’ll just sleep on the plane,” is the myth with which I con myself repeatedly, forgetting that I can hardly sleep in my own bed, much less while sitting straight up next to an old man who laughs out loud at every cheesy sitcom joke from the “Two and a Half Men” episode showing on the small airplane screen.

After a sleepless first leg, I’m now at the Houston Airport wasting time between flights. I’m sitting in the most uncomfortable seats furthest from the giant airport window. These seats are marked “Passengers with Special Needs,” strangely appropriate for me, handicapped by my own dependence on an electrical outlet to plug in my laptop.

The worst thing about the Houston Airport, aside from the fact that it’s named the George Bush Airport (gag) is not how the people here speak. It’s the way I speak when I’m around them – adopting their thick southern drawl as if it’s been dormant inside of me all my life, and was simply hiding throughout my Northern California upbringing.

They probably think I’m making fun of them. Or worse, they think I’m actually from here. I have no idea where it comes from, but I find myself drawing out half my vowels, the questioning lilt of the South weaving itself throughout my syllables as if I done come from these parts.

It infuriates me and yet I can’t seem to control it, my speech has a life of its own. And it only happens when I’m in the South. My voice adopted none of the charming British accent when traveled through England, nor the sexy Scottish Brogue during my year abroad in Scotland.

Nope, just the slow, idiotic cadence of our nation’s president. Can ya’ll believe that?

Who is this girl, and what has she done with Audrey?

Today at lunch, for the first time in my life, I went shopping for a purse. I don't usually wear purses, much less shop for them. Sure, I've purchased a "bag" or two. One time I begrudgingly let someone buy me a purse. But this, this is insane. I'm not sure what's come over me the last few weeks. Somehow, since I moved to New York, I turned into a GIRL.

Maybe it's because tomorrow morning I leave for Mexico to attend a wedding where the guest list is largely comprised of Marina Girls. Marina Girls, for those of you that have never lived in San Francisco, are high-maintenance, yuppy, ex-sorority girls. They are often blonde, and they are usually found in San Francisco’s Marina District, however I have discovered that you can stumble on Marina Girls in every city, state and country. A somewhat harsher definition can be found here.

However, through my friendship with Susan, the bride-to-be, I have found that Marina Girls can also be very caring, intelligent and kind people. See how much I learned by living in San Francisco? Susan says I used to introduce her as: “This my friend Susan, she’s lives in the Marina, but it’s okay – she’s cool.” (Did I really say that out loud? What a bitch I can be.)

So whether it’s because I’m trying to impress these Marina Girls, fit in with them, or simply because I need a receptacle in which to carry my wallet, keys and camera (Cate says the plastic grocery bag I usually carry them in doesn’t match my dress), I decided to buy a purse. A nice purse. A purse that’s not made of thin grocery store plastic.

Which brings us to Audrey, out in Manhattan, shopping for a purse. One little hiccup in the plan: I don’t know how to shop for a purse. Is there an art to it? I just did what made the most sense to me. I emptied the contents of my current bag – phone, wallet, iPod Shuffle, subway map, notepad, a tampon or two, and a pen – into the purse in question and then carried it around the store for a little while.

I don’t think this is what most women do. I got some strange looks. Well, Miss Disapproving Anne Taylor Sales Lady, if I don’t put my stuff in the purse, how do I know it will fit? And if I don’t practice carrying it around, how do I know that it feels right? Don’t worry, I will take the tampons out of the purse when I’m done. OR, maybe I’ll leave them in as a special gift for your next customer.

After trying out a few different purses at multiple stores, I found one that I liked. It’s small, it’s silver, and it has a tassel. It’s very pretty. I’ve named it Peggy.

Peggy and I will be blogging from Mexico amidst the Marina Girls for the next four days, assuming the hotel has wireless Internet. If not, we’ll have to catch up on Tuesday.

Fortress of Muggitude

I don't usually use this forum to promote books or movies or anything else pop-culturey (except for gushing on about a good band occasionally) BUT, I'm reading an amazing book right now. I can't stop thinking about it, and therefore I have to write about it. "Fortress of Solitude" by Jonathan Letham is an extremely well written, moving story, and I'm not just saying that because it takes place on my block in Brooklyn (although that certainly adds to the appeal). Here is proof of how good the book is:

Let me start by saying that the weather in New York has vastly improved since I wrote about the heat. A few thunderstorms late last week broke the unbearability (not a word apparently, but it should be) and made the weather, well, bearable. It's still warm, but it barely breaks the 80's (as opposed to the Bay Area which I hear got hit with temperatures in the 100's, how's that for irony.)

What has not improved, however, is the weather underground. The subway stations still contain the same hot, dead air that entered them during the heat wave and is apparently refusing to leave. Boarding an air-conditioned train after standing on the stifling platform as relieving as peeing after holding it for hours.

Today at lunch I took the train down to the financial district .. On the way back, it took forever for the uptown 3 train to come. On hot subway station time, forever equals about eight minutes. Within these eight minutes, beads of sweat had already pooled in all the areas of my body where they like to pool - between my nose and my lip, under my arms, in a line down the middle of my chest. The train finally arrived, bringing with it the promise of cool air, and more importantly, a seat in which to relax and read my book. This I did, grateful for this momentary escape.

Eleven minutes and half a chapter later, I was back at the hustle and bustle of Penn Station, the stop near my office. Reluctantly, I exited the train mid-chapter, but I couldn't bring myself to walk up the stairs. In an act that shocked all those in Penn Station, including myself, I turned and sat on the bench on the platform. I finished the last three pages of chapter 18 of "Fortress of Solitude" in the heat. In the mugginess. In the foul stench that is Penn Station Platform 3. Because that, my friends, THAT is how fucking good this book is.

He can study the Talmud while I comb his beard.

Ladies and gentlemen, let it be stated for the record that I have still not joined J-Date.

However, in perusing through, I discovered, that you are allowed to create a mini-profile for free. You can’t send emails, read emails, IM anyone, or do anything remotely interesting, but people can check you out. I have been informed that 60 people have viewed me and 7 have emailed. That’s over a 10% response rate. Not too shabby. I cannot, however, see who has emailed nor what they said. That is left up to my imagination until I cough up the $35/month. No thank you, I’m sure the men in my imagination are wittier and cuter anyhow.

This free profile also apparently comes with frequent emails from J-Date to suggest people that the experts at J-Date think you’d “click” with. Yesterday they sent me the profile of this man, aptly named: Jew2539.



Yes, from one glance at this photo, anyone can see that Jew2539 and I are a perfect match. I have no doubt that we’d get along famously. We’ll spend lovely summers at the shore… me in my string bikini and Jew2539 with his sexy black hat and full suit. We’ll eat hot dogs together on the boardwalk and listen to rap music. We’ll go clubbing all night long. I bet Jew2539 is an excellent breakdancer.

Thank you J-Date, thanks for your shrewd intuition. You clearly understand exactly what I’m looking for in a partner. I’ll be sure to join right away.

Note: If anyone happens to know Jew2539 (numbers were changed for his protection) please understand that I mean no offense to him personally. I’m sure he’d be equally appalled by J-Date’s suggested match. For example, in his profile he states: “I try to follow Halacha stringently but within the realms of the community standard.” I am not entirely sure what Halacha is, but if I did know, I doubt I would follow it even remotely stringently.

Vacation?

Last week I realized that my "extended New York vacation" is seeming less and less like a vacation every day that I go to work. In fact, it's starting to seem more and more like real life. Something must be done, I decided. I need a vacation from my vacation.

So, to solve the problem, I bought some plane tickets. This Friday morning I leave for Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. And as a result, I spent the afternoon shopping for clothes to wear in Mexico. Now if you know me, you know that I hate shopping. I don't like spending money. I don't like clothes. Why would I ever want to combine those two horrors into one dreadful activity?

BUT, for some reason, I like spending money on clothes if they're cheap. Yes, in my short time in New York, I have discovered the joys of bargain shopping. It's like making new friends. And their names are H&M and Forever 21. The three of us get along grandly. Those two live across the street from each other and I work just around the corner. We like to have lunch together at least once a week. Usually, I get the tab.

Today I spent my lunch hour at Forever 21. Now, I’ve been to my fair share of Forever 21’s in LA and SF. But the Midtown Manhattan Forever 21 is awesome. And by that I mean it literally inspires awe in those that enter. I watched dumb-struck teenagers wander open-mouthed among three floors of unhealthy thin mannequins flaunting poorly made miniskirts.

After an hour of picking out and trying on clothes, I sidled up to the register to be reminded that, though the clothes may be cheap, when you buy many items, you end up spending lots of money. I left the store with a dress, a skirt, two tank tops, sunglasses, three pairs of underwear, a new bikini, and a pair of lacey leggings with pirates on them.

Now, where am I going to wear lacey pirate leggings? But they were only six dollars. I somehow convinced myself that I would be losing money if I didn’t buy them!

You know the post I wrote last week? The one about being anti-consumerism? This is why. But at least I have lots of fun stuff to wear in Mexico.

J-Date

As much as my Grandmother would like me to be a part of this massive online dating service for Jews, I’m not. But last night, after attending “The Best Emerging Jewish Artists” show at the Museum of Jewish Culture, I thought about it. Perhaps it was because every single comedian on stage made some joke about their J-Date experience and how terrible it was. What I took from that was: Hey, that comedian was on J-Date. And he’s pretty funny and kinda cute.

They also all made jokes about what it’s like to be a stand up comedian in a holocaust museum. Yeah, that never got old.

So last night at 2am, when I was tossing and turning thinking of Hitler and bad shiksa jokes, I actually went against all my prior beliefs and started checking out what the Internet had to offer in the way of future Jewish husbands. Are you reading this Aunt Kathy? Be sure to tell Grandma.

Le me state for the record that I am not, nor have I ever been an Internet dater. (Okay, I met a dude on Friendster once, but we were just friends). Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong it. I know plenty of attractive, smart, confident people that have dated online. It’s just not for me. I prefer to meet men while drunk in dark bars with loud music, it’s so much more personal.

But here’s the handy thing about online dating (I hear), you can specifically pick and choose exactly what you want. And since right now I’m looking for an attractive half-Jew in his early thirties that lives in the West Village, owns a Bernese Mountain Dog and wants to move to San Francisco in a year or two, perhaps J-Date would serve me well. Because I’ve found little success so far hanging out on Greenwich Street and following every man that walks past with a Bernese Mountain Dog. In fact, they’ve all turned out to be married or gay. I could specify on J-Date that I don’t want them to be married OR gay. How ideal.

Then I found out that J-Date is a whopping $34.99/month. Eh, fuck that. The bars are free. And they have vodka.

Heat Wave

Could I possibly have been so brash as to suggest a few weeks prior that New York was hot? Those words that appeared in black and white on my flickering iBook screen to then later be broadcast to the world via the Internet, did they come from my deftly moving fingers?

How dare I be so bold in my assessment? Back then, back in the breezy afternoons of late June, I did not know the meaning of hot. Late June is a refreshing sip of luke-warm mint tea. Mid-July, however, Mid-July is hot coffee being dumped on your skin from all angles.

Mid-July is heat that seeps in through your ears and clouds your brain so you can’t remember where you’re going or what time you’re supposed to be there or why the hell are you outside anyhow when you could be inside an air-conditioned building.

Mid-July is jumping into the first train that arrives at the platform because the thick heat in the subway station has become beyond unbearable, and hoping that it takes you somewhere near where you live.

Mid-July is ducking into the shop on every corner, be it a toy store, a hardware store or a porn shop, it doesn't matter as long as you can feel the air conditioning on your skin for just a brief heavenly moment.

Mid-July is watching the kids on the street take a break from dancing in the cool spray of an unscrewed fire hydrant to crowd the Mr. Softee ice cream van.

I can’t wait for mid-August.

Chicks dig it

It's official. Fair readers, you heard it here first. Or, if you're at all stylish, you heard it here fifth. I can guarantee from numerous credible sources, and through my experience at Coney Island this weekend: the mustache is back in style!

I'm not talking a mustache as part of a full beard. And none of that mustache/goatee action. I mean a genuine, bonafide JUST-STACHE. The mustache from the 70's. The porn star mustache.

This is great news for brave people like my good pal "Gary T." He's been rockin' the mustache on and off for the last six months, with successful results. Believe you me, he's landed some pretty hot chicks while sporting this sexy 'stache.



Thanks Gary T., for letting me use this awesome pic.

Going with the flow

As he was constructing my tuna salad sandwich, the man behind the deli counter told me, "You're so easy going. I like that."

I guess you don't see too much of that laid back attitude around these parts. Like the saying goes, you can take a girl out of California, but... you know the rest. I hope that saying proves true in my case. I like being laid back. Why get your panties in a bunch unnecessarily?

But I can see how living New York makes people uptight. Especially when people are in your god damn way all the fucking time. I mean, keep it moving people! There are too many people walking around Manhattan for you to just stop in the middle of the sidewalk and start digging in your purse, lady. And you, family of Midwest tourists, I don't care if you don't know which way to go. You're in the middle of a subway exit, just pick a direction and stick with it. Check the map later. I have places to be, JEEZ!

So yeah, I can get sucked into the madness as well. It's like roadrage, only you're not in a car, so it's much easier to just reach out and smack people. I find it very effective. Especially on the subway.

July Showers

Water droplets hang in the air, suspended by New York stubbornness. Crowds of people fight their way through the heat outside Penn Station - the density of the air comparable to the densities of their bodies, making their movements almost undetectable. The world moves in slow motion.

The stillness is broken by a flash of lightening that hits the grey sky like a giant fast forward button. Thunder responds, breaking the Matrix-esque suspension and sending the droplets falling towards the dirty pavement.

They fall slowly at first, and then, as they accelerate, they grow. Blueberry-sized balls of water rush to the ground landing on honking taxi cabs, warped umbrellas and the plastic bags and newspapers held above ill-prepared people’s heads. The crowds break and reassemble under awnings and scaffolding. People moving towards shelter like ants towards a discarded apple core.

The rain has no mercy. It drenches the heat-soaked earth, the buildings, the people of Manhattan. They look up in the sky with each crash of thunder. Annoyance. Anger. Perhaps a hint of fear. They don’t believe in God, but clearly, they’re being punished for something.

Nice Key-Cards.

Working in corporate America as I do, things can get dull. All procedures are very buttoned up and official. Employees have to carry around a key-card that you swipe over a reader to get in the front door of the building, go up the elevator and get into the office.

But I've found a new trick to make the day more fun. I store the key-card in my bra. It's handy if I don't have pockets, plus, I can just wave my breasts in front of the reader for entry. I get some strange looks from the other people on the elevator. But I think they're just jealous that they don't have magic boobs like me.

Working out nicely

After a leisurely month of no exercise, I decided it was perhaps time to look into joining a gym. Sure, I bike all over Brooklyn, but with no hills to speak of, it doesn't feel like much of a work out, and the bike lanes don't have air conditioning.

So yesterday I walked into one of Manhattan's swankiest gyms and told them I was possibly interested in becoming a member. I then had to sit through a sales pitch from an attractive, aryan salesman who had probably never sweated a day in his life. I said the all the right things - Yes, I think fitness is very important. Yes, I work at a big corporate company that I would possibly be interested in a corporate membership plan. And yes, I am virtually swimming in disposable income. None of these things are entirely true, but he's a salesman. And you're allowed to lie to salesman because that's what they do for a living.

And at the end of our little 10-minute bullshit session, he gave me a free week-long trial pass. Now I get to work out at a snazzy gym for free all week. I may have to dodge a few more sales pitches, but it's well worth the steamroom, the free towels and showers with shampoo AND conditioner.

Once this week is over, I plan to pretend I want to join Manhattan's 2nd most swanky gym. I wonder how many gyms there are in New York. I assume that there are enough to enable me to workout membership-free for at least the next couple of months.

Let there be music

At last, I have retrieved my iPod Shuffle from the house in Park Slope where I left it a month ago. I thought Speedy had eaten the mini Apple masterpiece, until Itamar discovered it at the bottom of a bag of my sweaty gym clothes that I had left at his house. Yes, this is how I treat nice things.

Now my musical soundtrack can recommence - improving my quality of life immensely. This morning, as I walked down Dean Street to the subway, I wasn't just on my way to work. I was on my way to work... with music. It makes all the difference. I'm now the star of my own movie. And the song dictates the genre.

On the subway, everyone's plugged into their own soundtrack - whether it's upbeat pop, somber folk, angry punk, sultry R&B, soft classical. Everyone's movie is different. So many stories on the same train.

My cheesy Robbie Williams has definitely laid the scene for another exciting day in New York City. So far, it's involved sitting in the office and staring at a computer. Will the excitement never end? Sing it, Robbie!

At what age does one start to recognize (before consumption) that fruity group cocktail (complete with four straws and a flame) are a bad idea? Whatever age it is, apparently I have not yet reached it.



















This was us last night. Needless to say, my Sunday has been less than productive. Actually, I just spent the last three hours in another bar watching the World Cup final. If you care at all what my thoughts are on Italy’s stunning victory, you can read them here.

Spice of Life

Midtown Manhattan is full of little deli/salad bars where working stiffs like me compete to throw together a quasi-healthy and quick lunch. But these "Salad" bars don't stop with the mixed greens and baby corn. Oh no my friends, they offer a grandiose assortment of warm, hearty dinner foods, a full array of ethnic cuisines, tempting trays of tantalizing tastiness from all chefs of all cultures.

This is both heaven and hell for an indecisive, hungry food-lover like myself. I end up paying $12 for my teriyaki tofu basil mozzerella sesame salmon avocado mango grilled chicken cous cous Italian sausage spring roll mashed potato babaganoush ravioli and snap pea salad. But it sure does hit the spot.

Headlining

If there's one thing I hate about advertising, it's the clients. If it weren't for them, ads would actually be good. Clients are the ones that make them boring and lame.

For example, right now I'm writing for this wine company. I wrote a perfectly smart, entertaining and informative brochure for them. Today I received feedback that the clients loved it, but they would like to remove everything that is remotely fun, clever or the least bit edgy.

So I think they'll really like the new headline I just wrote for the cover: WE PUT THE 'HARD ON' IN CHARDONNAY!

I told you so

Dear Big Important Creative Director who trashed my book three weeks ago,

I'm just writing to inform you that yesterday I was offered a full time job as a copywriter at a big, reputable, international ad agency.

And guess what, I turned it down. I'm going to hold out for something a little better. Because I know I can get it.

Thanks for your time,

Audrey

Summer Thunderstorms

A phenomenon I rarely got to experience growing up in California. Though I have fond memories of running through downpours on our family vacations to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

Those memories came back to me this morning as I scurried to the subway through the ocean that was dumping down on Dean Street. Super fun when you're a kid in a bathing suit. Not so fun when you're an adult on your way to work.

Okay, I’m lying. It was fun. It was great – how often do you get to swim to work? But I had to ring out my skirt before entering my building. And my wet flipflops audibly squeaked through the office all day.

A day in the Hamptons

After a day in at the beach in Southampton, I’ve made an important decision – when I have a family, we’re going to summer in the Hamptons. Nay, we will not “vacation” there (people in the Hamptons don’t say that), we shall summer there.

We shall lay in the sun all day. Play in the waves. Eat mussels for dinner and then gelato for dessert as we stroll around the cute little town. Yes, a fabulous way to spend the summer or, if you’re a poor Brooklynite like me, the day, followed by a two-hour train ride home.

Dirty on Purpose

Question: How many layers of dirt can one girl acquire in one day?

Layer 1: Sunscreen (applied in the morning, prior to leaving the house)
Layer 2: Sweat from bike ride to Rockaway Beach
Layer 3: Tire grime and street dirt from same
Layer 4: Salty Atlantic ocean water from swim
Layer 5: Sunscreen (reapplied)
Layer 6: Sand
Layer 7: More sand
Layer 8: Sweat from bike ride up back up through Brooklyn
Layer 9: Dirt from lying in Central Park for afternoon Seu Jorge concert
Layer 10: Light rain from the sunset ride through Central Park and upper Manhattan

Answer: 10.

What an action-packed, city-spanning, fun-filled day of adventure. An ocean swim in the morning, a great bike ride through Brooklyn, and a Central Park concert in the afternoon.

After my bike and I returned home from our ten hours on the town, I took the longest shower of my life – washing that magnificent Sunday off my skin, but keeping it in my thoughts forever.

P.S.1 on a Saturday

Modern Art Museum. Rave.
Strange combo, but the kids seem to love it.



























That's me dancing on the left. In the white tank top. See me? No, your left.
















Just kidding, I wasn't in those photos. Here I am (with Terryl and Cate).

From a Distance

Some things are better admired from afar. Monet paintings. The New York City skyline. Baby Dayliner.

The latter is a singer that I discovered online through some friends in San Francisco. I watched the amateur, low-budget video that Baby Dayliner created a few years back and fell instantly in love with him. Though his dancing was comically awkward, and his appearance strange, his creative lyrics and the smooth, silky voice in which he belted them out more than made up for it. I became a die-hard Baby Dayliner fan.

Which is why, when I moved to New York, the very first thing I did was look up his next show and buy tickets (he lives in New York and is not quite famous enough to tour all over the country yet).

I spent the next three weeks looking forward to the show, like a child counting down days till Disneyland. The big night was last Wednesday. I brought sexy clothes to change into from work, I explained to my boss that I had to leave work early because I had a date… with destiny. I was excited to see him perform. But I was even more excited to talk to him after the show.

What was I expecting? That he’d fall instantly in love with me? That, despite the awkwardness in his videos, he’d be charming and witty in person?

The show was great, don’t get me wrong. He sang all my favorite songs beautifully. But I was disappointed to find that he has a large number of groupies – a following of girls that stood up in front of the stage the whole night singing every lyric to every song. It’s a harsh realization to learn that you’re one of many.

But still, I did not lose hope. After the show, as I was purchasing three of his CDs, I saw Baby Dayliner standing alone by the wall. With my heart pounding, I walked up to him and introduced myself. Shockingly, he recognized me from Myspace.com. Yes, we’d sent a few messages back and forth through the Internet. Dorky, I know.

We then proceeded to have a boring and uneventful three-minute conversation, heavy with small talk and awkward pauses, before he was mobbed by more groupies. He didn’t fall in love with me. He didn’t ask for my number. In fact, he didn’t even smile. So much for making baby Baby Dayliners.

After the disappointing conversation, I was ready to write him off completely, but after a couple days of watching him online again and listening to his CDs (which are excellent, by the way) I’ve decided that I can still love him over the internet. Perhaps that’s the way it was meant to be all along.