DRESS THE PART
Though I hated my mother for not allowing me to wear jeans as a kid, the woman repeatedly forcing me into Esprit outfits, her fashion snobbery meant I'm always put together as an adult. People often compliment my sense of style, as if pairing a necklace and belt are on par with curing cancer. But I still stumble. While in Los Angeles last month, I was told I looked more East Hampton than West Hollywood. I'm uncertain if that was a compliment or an insult. Anyway, with a closet full of clothes, I still had nothing to wear for my rendezvous with Pete. In a panic, I texted a good friend for guidance:
I need a dress that says I'm classy and that even though I swallow I also appreciate caviar. I guess I should hit Saks?
By the way, I found the perfect dress at the first boutique I visited with Leslie. Paired with a four-inch, tan, leather sandal, it totally delivered the message I was going for.
This past weekend, I was in NYC helping a coworker. To make the trip worthwhile, I arrived Thursday. This meant activities like coffee with one friend and a dinner with another were possible. I also snuck in a visit to the iconic bookstore the Strand and the farmer's market at Union Square, two places I frequented back when the city was a hop up the highway.
My hotel was located at 29th & Madison, close enough to transportation to access other corners of the city and far enough away from confused tourists littering the lobby. After dinner on the Upper East Side Thursday evening, I strolled over sixty blocks back to my hotel. A gentle breeze, dry air, a clear sky, and passerbys all made the walk enjoyable. Yes, some blocks smelled like stale pee. Much of the walk required sidestepping people with their noses buried in their phones. I wouldn't have traded that evening walk for the world. Sure, there is an ease to life in the South. The people are nicer and the cost of living is nominal. But I really do feel at home in a bustling city.
SELL! BUY! SELL!
Since the start of the year, I've become more dependent on a car service for work. It makes life easier and my company doesn't have a problem with it. We aren't allowed to be on the phone for any reason while driving, even hands free. Plus, landing at eleven o'clock in the evening and wandering a dark parking deck alone isn't always the smartest thing. Using a car service makes me more available to work and less available to be killed. We call this a win-win.
I've probably used a car service thirty times in the last few months. Sometimes the car is something pimpy like an Escalade. When those pull up, I start singing Kanye West. "Everybody knows I'm a mother fuckin' monster, uhh." More often than not, the car is a Lincoln Town Car. A traditional, black-paint, tinted-window Town Car. I crawl into the back, stretch my legs out in front of me, eye the Wall Street Journal on the seat beside me, and quote Gordon Gekko. "The point is ladies and gentlemen that greed, for lack of a better word, is good," I quietly say to myself. Then I giggle and start playing with all of the buttons.