Shag-a-delic

I already gave my review of August: Osage County from a couple of weekends ago in New York, but I didn't ever come back to recount the REST of that day. And it was a very good day. Until literally the very last moment.

After the show, we headed down towards the Village since we knew we'd later be meeting up with Stacy at The Pinch for her birthday. We called Ally to come meet us and at Nick's suggestion, we popped into a fun, funky bar called Shag to grab a drink before landing somewhere else for a proper dinner.

But Shag wound up being such a fun surprise (with an equally fun bartender who took a liking to us, especially after the loud obnoxious foursome from Louisville departed) that we ended up bunking in for over three hours. A few drinks, one round of shots (compliments of our new favourite bartender) and two Pu Pu Platters* later, it was nearly time to make our way to the birthday festivities.

We were still running a bit on the early side for The Pinch, so we killed some time in the Marc Jacobs store AND had our group photo taken with a giant skunk in the MJ window display. We made a small stop-over for freshmade crepes and then finally landed at The Pinch with Stacy and her crew.

By this time it was around 11 pm and since Nick, Oda and I had been out-and-about since literally 1:30 in the afternoon (and probably peaked at Shag around 8 pm as a result), we were fading fast and after a drink with the birthday girl, the three of us headed back uptown.... but not without walking at LEAST a mile (ok, perhaps I exaggerate, but not much!) trying to actually get to the right subway platform. Once landing in midtown, we walked for what felt like ANOTHER mile before I could find a cab to take me the last few blocks to my building. (Too shady to be walking around at midnight by myself.)

My feet (which were in high-heeled boots) were killing me by this time and when I finally got a cab, I gratefully sank into the backseat and my thoughts immediately went to how wonderful it was going to feel to peel back the covers and slip into bed in about 2.5 minutes. I paid the cab driver and walked into my building, saying hello to the new doorman, Norman, as I passed by the front desk.

"Oh, just one thing, Shari," said Norman.

I slowed my pace as he continued "There's no elevator service at the moment." He then added "At all" for emphasis.

I stared at him for a couple of seconds, having not yet processed what he just said.

"What do you mean, no elevator service?" I asked.

"They're both out of commission right now -- we've called the repair service and they should be here in a couple of hours."

A couple of hours. I shuffled off across the lobby to the stairwell entrance.

I opened the door and stared up the first flight of stairs. They stared back unblinkingly. My high-heeled feet were already protesting after the gauntlet they'd been through in simply trying to get home from the Village.

I sighed, peeled off my heavy winter coat and started up the stairs.

Did I mention I live on the 17th floor?


* A surprisingly tasty medley of edamame, mini burgers, grilled cheese sandwich wedges, chicken taquitos and our favourite, "Pigs in Bondage", served on a three-tier tower.

Vintage Country, Y'All

On a complete whim in Starbuck's today, I bought* a CD called "Vintage Country". You know how S'buck's always has random CD's lying around as part of their music merchandising program? Yep, I'm a proud victim of the impulse purchase.

I think it was Lynn Anderson's "Rose Garden" that really sealed the deal for me.

* Technically, Special K hip-checked me out of the way at the counter and paid for the CD. Aw, what a guy -- catering to my classic country whims even after he found out that I knew the lyrics to a bunch of Tom T. Hall songs.

Finally, a Sushi Chef Who Understands Me

While I really enjoy going out for sushi, the biggest challenge for me is that the pieces are always way too big and by the time you get a whole piece of a roll in your mouth, you can barely even chew the thing. I avoided having sushi with Special K when we first started dating until I was sure I'd captured his fancy enough that he could overlook my bulging chipmunk-like cheeks when trying to throw down a rainbow roll.

I almost always either have to pick the roll pieces apart and eat them in smaller bites (which makes a mess of the roll) or I have to ask for a knife and fork to cut the roll pieces in half at which point the restaurant staff rolls their eyes and whispers "rookie!" in hushed Japanese. Honestly, I can eat with chopsticks -- I just need smaller portions!

Tonight, I decided to grab some dinner at the highly recommended sushi place across from my hotel (in La Jolla, CA) and I could have just about hugged my sushi chef when he recommended a roll I should try and then gave a knowing little nod and said "And I'll cut the pieces smaller for you if you want." Yay! Honestly, it seems like such a small thing, but it made SUCH a big difference to my dining experience. I have now reserved a permanent spot at the sushi bar in front of Chef Aaron's station.

I also took the opportunity to clarify the whole story about the fish that can be lethal if it's prepared incorrectly. Fact or fiction? Definitely fact. Aaron explained that the dish is called "fugu" which is Japanese for pufferfish or blowfish. You have to be specially certified in Japan to even prepare it and in the US, it's not even legal. Essentially, blowfish contain an element called tetrodotoxin that is toxic if consumed -- it paralyzes the muscles while the victim stays fully conscious and eventually dies from asphyxiation. Non-lethal traces of the chemical can also impact the brain like an hallucinogenic.

The thought that occurred to both of us that a heck of a lot of Japanese must have perished over the centuries through the trial and error of perfecting the preparation of fugu!

Twitterpated

I have a lot of random thoughts. Instead of continuing to torture Special K and his inbox every time I have one of those thoughts, I've decided to try out Twitter. My "tweets" are now added to this blog (see the left rail below the blog archive) and if any of you are also on Twitter, let me know so we can connect.

Tweet, tweet!

Dove Girl Strikes Again!

I think the next time I'm asked the question, "What superhero would you be?", my answer is clear. Well, of COURSE, I'd be "Dove Girl"! My mission would be to fight dull, fly-away hair and the frizzies. And I'd be lucky enough to have a whole other army of Dove Girls fighting the good fight alongside me. How much better can it get as a superhero??

All kidding aside, I was so surprised when one of my colleagues emailed me at the beginning of last week and said that my Dove photo had appeared in a new insert in Marie Claire magazine (subscriber copies of the April 2008 issue). Marie Claire published a small format insert entitled "Guide to Looking Good at the Office" and Dove sponsored it. Unbeknownst to me, they used my photo from last fall's print ad in the booklet (that's the image I uploaded).

It's kind of exciting to just randomly pop up like this!

August: Osage County

Last Saturday, Nick, Oda and I tried our luck at the TKTS booth and wound up with tickets to see August: Osage County, a relatively new addition to the Broadway line-up, straight from Chicago's Steppenwolf Theater.

We'd all heard good things about the play, but we had no idea what a treat we were in for. The play is long -- a grand total of three and a half hours (with two intermissions) -- but the acting and storyline become so riveting that you aren't even conscious of the time passing.

The play is set in Osage County, Oklahoma and chronicles the dysfunctional dynamics of an extended family that hit their dramatic peak upon the mysterious disappearance of the family patriarch. As the play unfolds, we witness many darkly humorous and plain tragic moments as the family gathers around their pill-popping, cancer-stricken mother.

It was like "Jerry Springer" meets "Intervention" meets "To Catch a Predator", and while it started out a bit slow (the jury was still out at the first intermission), the second and third acts take on tremendous momentum and catapult the audience smack into the middle of the family drama, along with all of its surprises and its moments of predictability.

On a side note, Nick forwarded a great article from the Chicago Tribune (click here to read) which gave an interesting insider peak into the lives of the ensemble cast from the Steppenwolf Theater as they struggled with the decision whether to come to Broadway or not. Turns out that Broadway is not the be-all and end-all for every stage actor and musical theater performer.

Potty Mouth

There's a whole underground transportation system in New York and I'm not talking about the subway. Technically, towncars are not allowed to solicit customers in the city -- since towncars are unmetered, only cabs are allowed to stop and pick up someone who's hailing a ride.

But oftentimes, you'll encounter a towncar driver who's probably just brought someone into the city from the airport and who likely doesn't have another scheduled fare back out of the city. In that case, some drivers will try to be opportunistic and scam a fare here and there.

You can hop into a towncar if you want, but you have to aggressively negotiate your rate BEFORE you get in. So, it's imperative that you know what it would normally cost to take a cab, so that the towncar driver doesn't completely scam you. Granted, you can't expect the price to be quite as low as a cab, but it shouldn't be significantly higher. Make sure you have a solid agreement on the price before you get in the car, or the driver may try to raise the price once he gets you to your destination.

So, tonight when I left the office, it was still raining and since I was dragging half my office with me (I'm traveling again tomorrow), I decided to grab a cab instead of walking. As I was standing in front of the Ed Sullivan Theater looking up Broadway for a cab with its "I'm vacant!" lights on, a silver Lincoln Towncar pulled over.

The driver rolls down the window and and motions me to the car. I politely shake my head in decline and say no thanks.

"Hey, get in the car!"

"No, I'm fine, thanks" and I move past the towncar, looking up the block for a cab.

"Just get in the f*cking car!"

Yeah, that makes me want to hitch a ride home with you even more.

I told him that he should pay me for the privilege of driving me home. He called me a name (a nasty one, natch) and screeched away... just as a cab came around the corner, driven by what turned out to be a very pleasant and polite driver. And I made it home for less than ten dollars.

Luck 'O the Irish ... Old School

Well, I missed the St. Patrick's Day parade on Fifth Avenue today (darn that day job of mine!), but I made up for it tonight by meeting Nick, Reny, Sia and Jay at the Landmark Tavern down on 11th Avenue and 46th Street.

A lively, unpretentious neighbourhood gastropub, the Landmark Tavern has been open since 1868 and even though it is on what is now 11th Avenue, it used to sit right on the shores of the Hudson to better serve the dock workers. (In those days, there was no 12th Avenue -- the shores of the island of Manhattan have been built up to create more real estate.) It's one of the oldest, continually operating establishments in New York City.

The man who originally built and operated the pub built a second and third storey above the saloon where his family could live -- the space remained as such until prohibition when the third floor was conveniently converted into a speakeasy.

When I arrived tonight, Nick offered to grab me a beer from the bar. I quietly admitted that I don't actually even like beer (something you want to keep fairly quiet in an Irish pub on St. Patty's Day), and Nick admonished me with "You're not going to make me order one of those fruity drinks in a martini glass, are you??"

Um, not any more I'm not. Rum and coke, please.

Fortune Fish Says.... You Ate Too Much

Last night, we had dinner at The Mermaid Inn on Amsterdam between 87th and 88th. Excellent seafood restaurant with a really solid menu and a few interesting twists on things. (The seared calmari salad with wild mushrooms, frisee and feta was amazing.)

The most random part of the meal was at the end when our waitress brought us two little cups of chocoate mousse (the mini desserts are on the house with every meal) and our fortune fishes. That's right, our fortune fishes. (Well, you can't expect a seafood restaurant to have fortune cookies now, can you?)

The fortune fish comes in a little plastic envelope ("open it like you would a pillowcase", our waitress explained) and when you hold the thin-as-paper, red translucent plastic fish in your hand, you watch it intently and then use the legend on the envelop to interpret what its movements mean.

If it moves its head, you're jealous. It it moves its tail, you're indifferent. If the sides curl up, you're fickle and it it's completely motionless... well, it's dead.

Mine moved its head AND its tail and Chet's threw itself unceremoniously into his cappuccino. We're not sure what that says about Chet's fortune, but I do plan to track down our cab driver with proof now that fish DO drown.

Comedian in a Cab

When you are catching a cab in NYC, you have no choice but to subscribe to the Forrest Gump "life is like a box of chocolates" philosophy -- when you hop into one of those bright yellow sedans, you honestly never know what you're going to get.

Yesterday after work, Chet (good friend in town from SoCal) met me outside my office and we hailed a cab to the Upper West Side to grab some dinner. More often than not, cab drivers get your desired coordinates from you when you get in and then they turn their attention back to the cell phone conversation that you interrupted when you hailed them in the first place.

Our luck-of-the-draw cab driver last night was the complete antithesis of this. An Indian man with a strong accent, he must have been a stand-up comedian or entertainer in a former life. Honestly, if he didn't have to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes [mostly] on the road, I think he would have been doing sleight of hand magic tricks too.

As soon as Chet and I piled in the back seat, he immediately started in about how smart we were to have hailed him on the right side of the street because it made it much easier for him to take us where we wanted to go.

Then he proposes to test us and see which one of us is smarter.

Oh boy, here we go.

His first riddle is for Chet and after a moment of thoughtful consideration, Chet nails the correct answer and impresses the driver (who is deftly weaving through traffic on Amsterdam while sitting half-turned around in his seat, looking back at us). The driver then turns to me and says "Ok, your turn! I always get funny answers from New York girls!" I refrain from explaining that I'm not exactly a "New York girl" and wait for the riddle. Thankfully, I get the answer right and then he finishes his round-robin riddle fest with a question for both of us -- which we both answer and my answer is deemed "interesting" and Chet's is actually deemed "accurate". (I still maintain that fish can indeed drown.)

We were still a few blocks away from our destination, so I said "Hey, I have a question for YOU now. Do you know where someone can catch a good Bollywood movie in this city??"

Achah.

Stump NYC

When I was in college, we used to frequent an improv theatre where one of the regular skits was something called "Stump Vanessa" where the players would attempt to stump their sound engineer (obstensibly, a woman named Vanessa) by calling out situations and suggestions and seeing if she could quickly find an appropriate sound that matched each situation. I don't recall Vanessa ever being stumped.

I sort of consider New York City a mega-metropolitan version of Vanessa. There's nothing you could ask for that NYC could not provide -- and usually in a readily accessible and available fashion.

Until last night.

We were simply looking for a Bollywood movie (ANY Bollywood movie, not necessarily anything in particular) to go to. We'd found a movie called "Jodhaa Akbar" that was 3.5 hours long and the reviews said it was an "epic bore" with pedestrian acting and terrible music.

Perfect! Just what we're looking for.

Except that it wasn't where we were looking for it.

I could have sworn that on Tuesday, I had located online listings that showed Jodhaa playing at a midtown Manhattan theatre, but by yesterday, the listing no longer reflected that. In fact, Jodhaa was not playing anywhere in Manhattan -- nor was any other Bollywood, Hindi or Tamil movie for that matter. We'd either have to venture to Queens or New Jersey if we wanted our sari and dupatta fix.

Since we weren't that ambitious, we opted for the easier path and just had Indian food on the UWS instead. (We went to the Earthen Oven on Columbus at 72nd -- for those of you looking for decent Indian food in the city, I would definitely recommend this place.)

I can't believe I actually stumped New York. NYC has nothing on Vanessa.

Hello New York City!

After almost exactly one month, I am finally back in NYC. I was greeted by a stack of mail about a foot and a half tall and one pretty sour carton of milk that I forgot to dispose of before I left. (Oops.) Also, my building's resident manager is no longer employed here and there are new doormen galore. (A coup in my absence perhaps?)

Bouncing around California the last few weeks has made me used to the 60 and 70-degree weather again and while it was in the balmy 40's when I landed in New York late this afternoon, it still made me wind my scarf more snugly around my neck and dig my gloves out of my suitcase where they've been stashed since I left on Valentine's Day.

I know I'm fortunate to have missed the last couple of storms that passed through the northeast, but the thing about New York is that March and April can actually be WORSE than January and February. It's true that we likely won't get any crazy 20 degree days at this point, but we are VERY likely to still be subject to severe, hard-hitting storms. What makes it worse than having those same storms in January or February is the psychology behind what "March" means on the calendar. It's supposed to mean that spring is practically here with its warmer, sunnier days (home of the vernal equinox and all that) and so when it does snow in March, it's a much harder blow to the psyche.

It was about this time last year when I had to walk home from an evening event during one of the notorious "wintry mix" storms. Luckily, it looks like the weather forecast for the next week or so is pretty good with just a bit of rain on the horizon. Which means that my "wintry mixes" can take their MUCH more appreciated form in frosty martini glasses. Cheers!

Pack a Lunch -- It's a Long Trip

Another week rolls around and with it, another chapter in my ongoing saga with American Airlines. Yes, that’s right – the adventure continues!

Remember last week when they cancelled one of my reservations on my multi-leg travel itinerary? You think you know what’s coming, but I promise this is even better.

Once again, I tried to check in online on Sunday for my Monday morning flight. This time, when I got the error message on the screen, I resignedly started to push my chair back from the desk to go track down my phone, when something caught my eye and I scooted my chair back in so I could take a closer look.

There was my flight reservation… sort of. But there was something not quite right with the dates. I was booked on a flight from Orange County to San Jose LAST Monday, AND again THIS Monday. Two separate flights. (And I had been to San Diego in the meantime.)

As I looked at my flight details on the screen, I couldn’t believe it: The itinerary actually said that I only had one flight and it was leaving Orange County on Monday, March 3 but not arriving in San Jose until Monday, March 10. Wha??

I clicked on the “view details” button, hoping for a little enlightenment and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at what I saw. (Screen shot posted here for proof.) Sure enough, there it was: “Travel time: 168 hours 15 mins”

Right below that was “Economy Class Meal: Food for purchase”.

Well, thank GOD for that. At least if American Airlines is going to put me on a 168 hour flight, they will be gracious enough to allow me the privilege of purchasing a bag of mixed nuts for $5.00.

Orange County to San Jose in 168 hours (and 15 minutes). What, were they just planning on taxiing the plane all the way up the 101 Freeway?

An Open Letter to American Airlines

Now, let me ask you this. If you book (and PAY FOR) an airline reservation AND you get an itinerary confirming said (paid for) reservation, wouldn’t you assume that you actually had a ticket for the particular flight in question? Call me crazy, but in my naivete, I actually believed that this is the way the system worked. Apparently, I was mistaken.

Yesterday, I plunked myself down in front of the computer to do what normally takes about 95 seconds – checking in online for a flight the next day. The American Airlines site’s inability to recognize my itinerary’s unique record locator number was my first clue that something was amiss.

After a couple of phone calls and over an hour of my precious Sunday, here is what I found out. Because I had the exact same flight booked today as I do next Monday morning (from Orange County to San Jose), American Airlines took it upon themselves to CANCEL one of those reservations, believing in their infinite wisdom that I either (a.) made a mistake and didn’t have a clear handle on my own travel needs (because clearly, no one goes to the same city two weeks in a row for business!) or (b.) (and perhaps more likely) that I was somehow trying to scam them out of precious ticket fares by nefariously booking multiple trip legs on the same itinerary. (I booked a total of four legs on this single itinerary.)

My travel agent gave a less than satisfactory explanation for the whole situation, going as far to say that this was MY fault for booking my flights the way that I did. She actually said “Don’t you think it’s reasonable that an airline would cancel your reservation when they see you had booked more than one flight?”

Come again?

Using that logic, the airline would only ever allow people to book one-way trips.

With my patience rapidly waning, I not-so-calmly explained in a not-so-soft voice that as a customer, I actually thought it was reasonable for an airline to graciously KEEP the reservation that I had so graciously paid that airline for.

Thankfully, I was able to get on my originally scheduled flight this morning, but when I was at the airport checking in (since I couldn’t check in online), I asked the agent to confirm the other three legs of my trip and guess what she found out?

Yep, that’s right, American Airlines had cancelled ANOTHER one of my reservations.

I think it’s reasonable to expect that JetBlue and Virgin America will be getting a LOT more of my business from now on.