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.