20 Somethings I would tell my 20 Something Self About Living in NY

1. Stay out past your bedtime. You’re paying nearly two grand for a one room shack in the less than glamorous part of a neighborhood your parents warned you against when you were a kid. There’s no luxury in our homes in NYC- we find our wealth in the unexpected rooftop parties, the “I swore I wouldn’t drink tequila” shots at 4am and the sunrise over the east river. Don’t go home. Go out until you’ve got no energy, no money, no problems but the simple question of “How will I survive work today?” Don’t worry, you will.   

  2. Keep a few singles in your pocket at all times. In a world run on the credit card it seems like a silly things to do and most New Yorkers NEVER carry cash for fear of A. losing their bags or B. having them stolen (which have both happened to everyone) However, a few singles could be the bottle of water you’re dying for at the bodega who has a ten dollar minimum, the tip for an unexpected taxi ride, beer or doorman or the least you can do when that homeless man walks by with no shoes on, dragging a suitcase behind him with death over his shoulder. And you don’t normally give out to the homeless but when something inside you breaks looking into the face of someone who has lost EVERYTHING you press the few singles into his palm wishing it were a hundred. Carry singles. 

3.       Don’t assume the world is out to get you. Because in reality it probably isn’t…it’s just that New Yorkers are prone to mistrust having been abused for so long by the comrades we share our city with. We are rude, distrustful, impatient and mean. And when you feel the subtle flush creeping out into your finger tips just looking and the idiot in the doorway of the subway who refuses to move even with the Bitch Stare and a curt “excuse me” try to stay calm. He wasn’t sent to ruin your entire day and before the day is over you’ll encounter something much worse. Move on.

4.    Walk everywhere. If it’s not raining or snowing and even if it is, walk. There is seldom anything more moving in this life than a city street hushed by a torrential snow storm. City blocks turn into seconds once you get your stride down. New Yorkers walk faster than most people run. So walk. It’s likely that you’ll leave NYC someday so catch all the mornings on 34^th street you can, all the drunken stumbles, the broken high heels and the blisters. The scars will always bring you your memories even after you’ve left.

5.     Once in a while walk around by yourself with your headphones on. It’s strangely exhilarating to feel “alone” in a city of millions of people. 

6.       Don’t be a New York snob. And don’t act like you don’t know what that means. When your friends from out of town visit don’t roll your eyes and sigh exaggeratedly when they want to see Times Square. Of course they do! They’ve never been here and once upon a time you wanted to see it too. So don’t deny them what you’ve had for so long. Go back to Times Square (yes, even on a Saturday) and climb the Empire State and jostle through the crowd of Rockefeller Center. All those great places and swarms of people are what made this city. Go to them lovingly like an old flame and take your friends to an obscure underground bar after to prove your street cred. 

7.       Once in a while leave New York. Go travel to another wild city, talk to strangers and eat weird food.  Visit your parents in their sweet suburb and enjoy a little silence. You’ll prattle on with old high school friends about how it’s so expensive in NYC and everyone is hot wired to be super efficient and everything is so dirty but there’s that gleam in your eye about it and you’ll spring to it’s defense should anyone else utter a word against it. You’re a New Yorker now and you proudly wear that badge when your away from it should anyone ask.  There’s nothing and I mean nothing half so soothing as flying onto the tarmac at JFK with the NYC skyline in the background. Go away. You’ll always find your way back.  

8.       One night stands are like snow storms. Inevitably, t hey happen once in a while and are beautiful while you’re caught up in the middle. But after the snow settles and is trampled by a million muddy boots the glitter becomes grimy and you need to go home and take a shower. 

9.       Join a gym. Yes you’re walking everywhere and probably getting more exercise than you ever have in your life. But you need a gym. A- it will motivate you to get your lazy ass up after a night of furtive drinking and go for a run (I understand this is not probable which is why we have reason B) B- It gives you a place to pee, shower and change before happy hour (the most commonly used reason for gym memberships in NYC) 

10.   Money can buy happiness in NYC and don’t let anyone fool you into believing otherwise. No, it can’t mend a broken heart or snuggle or tell you everything will be okay. But it can buy those cocktails at the hot new bar in the village with your friends, Yankee tickets to the opening game, those stilettos you’ve visited in Bloomingdales everyday for two months and the souped up laptop you’ve coveted since its debut. Chances are you won’t remember the $100 you put into your savings account in July of 2013, but you’ll always remember the homerun Jeter hit in the bottom of the ninth, the laughter of your friends after a broken heart in your favorite bar and the night you met your boyfriend in your new shoes. Saving is great, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes spending is great too.

11.   Go to museums, Broadway shows, fashion shows, sports games, concerts and cabarets WHENEVER you can. You’ll rarely regret it.

12.   Visit the Strand Book Store. They have literally thousands of books- old, rare, out of print, new and used. It’s a wonder to just see the volumes and volumes of bound leather and torn pages and the doggy eared folds from people who enjoyed them too once upon time. Don’t give your entire life over to your laptop and kindle and cell phone. There is something universally sacred in the weight of a real book and the smell of the dusty pages.  Try not to let technology rob you of those prayers.

13.   Beer before liquor never been sicker sort of looses meaning 8 pitchers of beer in. By that time shots of jager go down like orange juice…and you can’t remember climbing onto the bar to dance but you’re best friend has a picture of it. Try not to forget your shoes in that random diner you’ll end up at around 5am. 

14.   If you’re not a violent person before your first cup of coffee try to catch the sunrise at least once in Manhattan. When the first rays strike off the glass and chrome the whole city is lit up in a silver gold glow that mere words can’t describe. Everything glitters. And for a few brief moments before New York wrestles itself awake there is the silence of peace that sets everything in the world to rights. It is actual magic.

15.   Learn how to cook. You will save hundreds of dollars (that you can later spend on Knicks Tickets)

16.   Try not to walk around glued to the screen of your phone. Yeah Angry Birds is totally important, I get it. But there’s a lot to see in NYC and if you’re more focused on flinging birds into a digital sky you’ll miss it. All the strange shops and wonderful smells and interesting people. You need eyes to see that. Plus, the rest of us are tired of you walking into us.

17.   Smile a lot. I know that contradicts your entire bitchy New York attitude but it makes the rest of the world more open to you. A smile may fix someone else’s day without you even doing anything. It’s also better than the painful looking grimace most people adorn while aimlessly walking. Think about what you’re presenting to others…a smile goes a long way. (On a side note this also encourages strange men to shout inappropriate things at you. A simple good morning is enough of a response. I’ve always been wary to ignore those sort of things with strangers because you never know when someone is going to snap. If they say it nicely a polite response won’t kill you. Just say thanks and smile and walk on)

18.   Wear those weird pants with the strange print and the mini skirt with the ruffles and the 80’stee shirt and bizarre sneakers. One of the best things about fashion in NYC is that there are pretty much no rules...and there’s a 100% chance you’ll run into something MUCH weirder before lunch time. Try not to compare yourself to others so much and you’ll stand out more for it. So don’t feel shy about trying the new odd thing in that store window…you may regret it in 10 years but chances are you’ll regret all your fashion choices anyway. 

19.   Make mistakes. At work, in relationships, at home, with your friends and parents. It’s the only way to learn how to do things right. At least you can take something away from your mistakes.

20.   Try to be a good person. This world is full of horrors. You can’t changes everything or save everyone but you can do your best to be kind and helpful when someone needs it. That’s the best any of us can hope for.

Why I Should Be The Next President of The United States of America

There's a lot of political unrest these days (mostly on facebook) about what's going to happen this November in the Presidential Election in regards to our healthcare, marriage laws and foreign policy. I know you're having a very difficult time decided between the red crap or the blue crap so I decided I would gallantly come to your rescue.

Personally, I think I would be a slamming President. I've got a degree from a school that's VERY difficult to get into, I smile a lot when I lie to people and I didn't get above a 1200 on my SATs. Aren't those all prerequisites?

So, here are 5 very good reasons why you should screw the other guys and vote for me instead. You can thank me later.

1. I would bring home all the troops serving overseas and basically everywhere besides America and start keeping our nose out of other people's business. You want your country to go down in flames? Great! Hope that works out for you. Our new foreign policy would include me not speaking to other countries for weeks (so they know I'm mad at them) and selling that peace rug they sent us to buy my Cabinet new Gucci Slingbacks.

2. My Secret Service Team would be a mix from the cast of Magic Mike and 300 and the new uniform would be an American flag Speedo so the country knows I'm very patriotic. And don't even tell me you wouldn't love to see Channing Tatum in a speedo holding the Presidential Purse.

3.In addition to casual Fridays in the workplace, I will implement Topless Tuesdays which will apply to corporate offices, food stores, department stores, boutiques and restaurants. This law will simultaneously reinvigorate the failing economy and give our senior citizens something to look forward to besides Veterans Day and death. Another small  (but no less important) clause to this amendment will be that women over the age of 13 will not legally be allowed to leave their house without a bra on. It's for your own good, America.

4. Under my term as President all American Citizens will be created equal in the eyes of the law. All straight, gay, black, white, Asian, Indian, Spanish, tall, short, skinny and fat. EVERYONE will have the right to get married, get divorced, buy a house and have a job. Sorry guys, there's nothing funny about this one, it's just common sense.

5. And lastly (and perhaps most important!) I will make the pantsuit illegal! Dress code for the new President will be comprised of skinny jeans, blousy tops, stilettos, and fancy Chanel jackets (plus yoga pants for when I'm tired and cranky). If you see anyone in a pantsuit you reserve the right to bear arms against them and/or throw a tomato at their butt.You're welcome, America.

Okay so maybe my ideas are a little far fetched, but at least I've got a solid and truthful campaign, which seems to be a more stable platform than what the other guys are standing on. I think Amendment number 2 will at least fetch me a VP Spot. :)

Don't forget to vote! Jennie K Hurd, Novemeber 2012.
'Merica!

Love

I am sorry I haven’t written in a while. When the disaster of tragedy slams into you with such force, it’s like nothing looks or feels or tastes right. I feel like everything about me dissolved into ashes. The way I thought, the person I am, what I liked and how I acted…and now that I’m here nearly a year after it all I can see the change I underwent to transform myself into a better person, subconsciously maybe. Healing after loss is not the flitting passing of words, or empty promises from friends of how it’ll all be okay but more the stark truth of looking at yourself in the mirror every morning after having survived another night. I am not as eloquent with words when speaking of my problems- in fact I don’t, which ends me up in a mess deeper than the original problem. So I took my own time to learn how to speak, to be brave in the darkness and put more than tears to these empty, awful, unending feelings. And it took time. And it will take even more time. But at least now I know that there could be no light without darkness and in the end some of these awful things make the lights in our lives burn brighter. 

For this post I won’t give in the consistent calling, the internal struggle to tell you so much about how I feel terrible most days. That begging to vocalize the darkness. I’m going to tell you instead about love, which we all need a little more of, and someone who strongly, silently stood behind me when I thought I was standing alone. Though words cannot begin to describe the intensity of the last few months, or how I feel, there must be something said for the man who kept vigil, watching me and doing everything in his power to protect me. Philip Jason, thank you for being who you are. I love you dearly, and this one’s for you.

Most of you probably know Philip Jason. If not, you’re going to get a little insight on the man. Please, hold your applause. :) 

 

Although blessed with the sort of inner beauty few people are born with, I’m pretty fond of your outer beauty too…and since we all know how much you love attention,(jk…sort of)  I thought everyone else should know too. 

For everyone else: Philip Jason (yes I always call him by his full name, if not the sort of pet names that irritate our friends, and then Phil only when he’s in trouble) is just over 6 feet tall, lean perhaps to the point of skinny, with denim blue eyes that light up when he’s smiling and blond eyelashes and eyebrows. Although of Latin descent (which no one believes), his skin is a creamy alabaster not exactly prone to sun-tanning. He might’ve been a vampire in a past life. His hair has gone from brown to gold in the summer sun which has also painted a lovely smattering of freckles on his broad shoulders. Unexplainably, his moustache and goatee glint red and auburn. Of the many men I have known, he is by far the most beautiful.

For Philip Jason: This October will be the 9^th year you and I have been together. 9 crazy, exciting, roller coaster, explosive years that have seen so much loss, love, sorrow and joy I’d need several computers to catalogue it all. We ourselves have had our own ups and downs, but now that we’ve come to this unexpected crossroad I can say without fear or doubt that you really are the most amazing man I’ve ever known and something unexplainable will eternally link me to you, wherever this life takes me. Your bravery is more pronounced than anyone gives you credit for. Your kindness towards me and others is emotionally overwhelming and I know I can always depend on your humor to lift me when I’m feeling down or scared. I think Winnie the Pooh said it best, “If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus one day, so I never have to live without you”. Fairy tale bears tell wise tales.

I wish I could explain with more finesse the depths of what I know of as love. Maybe it’s not how you see love, or the way you respond to others, but we all in this tiny world must share some sort of feeling of awe when we look into someone else’s eyes and it makes us want to be better people. Is there nothing more surprising and spectacular than that overwhelming sensation to move mountains and change history for someone else? From a simple look? For me, it is truth and honesty in its purest form. That I choose to stand out in the open of this turbulent war field, with the wreckage of so many before us, hand clasped with the one person I know feels poignantly brave, simply from my presence. At the risk of sounding ridiculous, it’s almost as if the shells fly past us, the smoke but warms our skin and while the rest of the lost world is scrambling to find purchase, we are able to turn to one another and smile because in this desolate landscape we both know we’ve already had our victory. Love isn’t the glitter of fairy tale books or the made up magic of Hollywood, but more the raw and terrifying truth that everything you are is inside someone else.

If you, like me, have had the joyous experience to literally grow up with the person you love, I’m sure you can relate to what I’m trying to say. I don’t find fault with my friends and relatives who chose to be single in those years of summer boys and high school, dating around, trying out different guys and coming home to tell me after numerous dates that I was being naïve to think true love had found me at 17. Maybe, to them, I was. But I think when you’re young you are naïve about everything in life, and so looking back I’m glad I had the chance to learn those truths, both comforting and terrifying, at Philip Jason’s side, who being both older and perhaps wiser (sometimes ;)) had enough strength and patience to help me learn. After nine years we are still eager to learn and love is what brought us here. 

I can’t pin point the time or date, or tell you exactly what happened, and I’m sure so many people don’t believe in “love at first sight” but there must be something said about those early years and the first time we met. A party. With all our friends and lots of alcohol… Of course in my mind, it’s now a movie set, where the lights are dimmed and the edges fade out, and all I can really remember is when he walked into the room something inside me lit up while everything else simultaneously fell away. Something in me just felt right when he was there…it sounds monumentally cheesy in written description but in truth it was simple, and pure and young. When my friends said summer flings happen, true love won’t last and many men will be vying for my attention I smiled knowingly at them and turned to Philip Jason. In retrospect, it seems like much of that part of life was an inconsistent explosion of where to run to next…a desperate survival tactic to remain normal. How could I not have clung to the one amazingly reliable thing I knew? How could I believe there was something better than his whispers of love in the darkness, the way he held me when I was scared, the smile on his lovely sleeping face? How could there possibly be anything more awe inspiring than his throaty laugh, the nape of his neck and his voice like tinted glass? There simply wasn’t and while everyone was telling me their version of truth, I knew inside I was already aware. I think young love, though naïve, when it grows becomes unbreakable. 

After the unbelievable amount of time, and dedication and love and sorrow and excitement, we are still here, darling, stronger, smarter and closer than ever. So let our friends make fun of our pet names, let them tell us all good things must come to an end and let those who don’t understand be, for we know it’s only because they’ve never known a  love like ours. I will love you unconditionally, faithfully and honestly until my dying day. Until forever…always and forever.

Pepper

Sometimes words just don't sum up the entirety of your emotions. Most times actually. Three days ago you walked out of my life and into eternity, or heaven or whatever that glimmer of hope is called. More than ever I look up into the sky and fantasize about where you are and what you're doing and how bad Nan is beating you with her wooden spoon. Since I was never so good with words as you and prayers are too often neglected, you should just know that I miss you so much. And while I know now, truly, that you will never read this, I promise to remember what I wrote, so I can tell you someday. Take comfort in the fact, cousin, that others will read and remember and through us all your life, and love and fiery spirit will never die. I love you so very much.

You're favorite color is purple. You hate ladybugs, but not so much as you hate spiders. Whenever one dared to come within 10 feet of you, you would scream bloody murder and try to bash the bug with whatever was closest to you- wine bottle, flip flop, Phil's hat. You loved to dance. I've spent more time with you in the clubs of Manhattan and Boston than anyone else- and I'm pretty sure you've tried to fight at least three people in each. You hate sushi. You won't even try it anymore, even though I've promised not to feed you raw fish. You played the flute like an angel when we were kids- all Ashley and I could ever do was screech on our violins and clarinets. We were a great band.

You rode horses and played tennis. We would visit One-Eye with Nan and feed him carrots. We picked blackberries in Southold and climbed that big pine tree to get away from Stinkweed. It never worked.
You put that silly crown in your hair whenever we go dancing. We nicknamed you Princess Sparkle. You love high heels but rarely wear them out, because you've fallen down more staircases than you've climbed. Your solution is to put me in the highest heels we can find, so you can still play dress up. We never exercised even though we always had grand ideas of being skinny. You drink more coffee than anyone I've ever met - except maybe Ashley or Rachel. Coffee flavored coffee. We'd look into my fancy stand mirror and each tell the other how pretty she is. Duh.

Your hair is never brushed- Don't even think you own a comb. You've got that golden mermaid hair that always seems like you just left the beach- or a hurricane. You bought anything covered in sequins. You're toes were always painted a bright shade. Everything we did, we did in cousin colors. We rode the roller coasters of six flags together for the first time last summer when you finally got me on one. You told me I was a big brave dog. You read more books than even me. We share the same deep seated hatred for the kindle and all other electronic devices threatening to extinguish our book stores. Except of course your Iphone 4 which went everywhere with you.

We've eaten too many cupcakes. Drank too many shots. Lo and behold we're hung over again- laughing on my couch at Phil and Rob playing the wii- drinking coffee black and eating bagels. Ignoring the phone calls from our parents who will yell at us for drinking too much again and ask us when are we coming home?

We slid down every slide in Splish Splash with Aunt Marg- and the torpedo. We swim in the ocean at Montauk together- try to trick Ashley into the surf where we lie about the temperature of the water. We both know it's freezing. We caught crabs off the docks in Greenport before you were an animal rights activist and decided fishing was "Small Aquatic Animal Torture". Sharkpartied- seperate but equal. You hoped for world peace, but started fights in every bar we went to. You loved to eat Greek food and we found ourselves in every Greek diner at 4am in NYC. You spent all your money on cigarettes which were never far from your favorite white leather bag. My fire escape is your smoke break room. No sis, I don't know where your lighter is.

We both suck at Mini golf- but we give it a shot every time we pass a course. You loved summer and dragged Ashley and I to the beach at least once a week. All your jewelry has small sea creatures and pearls on it. We went snowboarding once- after the second try we snowboarded into a fence and decided maybe we need some lessons. You laugh really hard sometimes and sound like Lisa Simpson- which makes all of us laugh. You make the best Schuma of anyone in the Antorino family. You are tone deaf but somehow made it into the all county chorus. I bet they never heard you sing kareoke.We vacationed at that old house in Montauk with the tiny TV and the huge back yard. You played cards like a fiend and I could never beat you. You love fascinators with large rhinestones and obnoxious feathers. We wore toe socks in your oldhouse and slid across the long hallway floor into your kitchen, Tom Cruise style. All your gloves had removable thumbs so you could text. We ate Pinkberry in K-Town by my old job assuming it was better for us than Hagen-Daz. It wasn't.

Nan bought us negligees in our colors for sleepovers in the thicket. We were pretty sure we were movie stars. We baked a lot- it never tasted good, especially the apple pie we fed to poor Pop. We rode our bikes down to the light house and climbed the 100 steps. We stood on Dead Mans Cliff dreaming of the sea. We opened lemonade stands for 25c a cup. We tried to sell potatoes to Stanley- even though we got them from his field. We chased chickens and drank tea with too much sugar and honey. We played on your tire swing and ran from your evil pet goat- Sparkles. We were amazing at Bomber Man, square controller. Aunt Marg helped us put on shows for Nans old biddy friends. You always had the best CD's. We listened to the Police on repeat for years. You always made us laugh.

You were such a good person. You were always always there for me. You smile a lot. I miss that most of all.

You were our Pepper, our sunshine, the light that led us through stormy nights, the funny wit that made us smile, the beautiful girl that told us to chase our dreams. Keep that seat on your left open for me, and the one on the right free for Ashley- I know someday, we'll all be together again. I love you so very much. Don't forget about me. Keep me in your heart and I'll keep you in mine. Someday we'll be three little girls sharing our secrets with each other again.

Hot Town, Summer in the City

It was snowing. For 115 days straight. You couldn't go outside because your apartment door was barricaded by a mountain of ice (Thank you NYC street cleaners) or if you could scale the conglomerate of snowy madness, your eyelashes immediately froze together, blinding you until you could stumble into the closest bar/retail shop/ ace hardware so you could reclaim your vision/dignity.
And much to others chagrin, you bitched about it on Facebook for 115 days.

New York is the kind of city that likes things done in a hurry- our food, our clothes, our telephone calls and even our seasons...We sort of skip Spring every year in a mad dash to get to the 4 months of elusive magic we refer to as summer. So the ice has melted, the rain has ceased and summer is miraculously, finally here. Lo and behold, you are still bitching. You people are very hard to please.

Mind you, friends who actually know me, lovingly refer to me as the Polar Bear. My body temp normally runs a bit warmer than yours, I rock tank tops in December like they're parkas, and if I don't have an umbrella at the beach for shade I immediately pass out from heat stroke in approximately 20 minutes. It's a great time for everyone... I make lots of friends at the beach.

So, you can generally assume I feel your summer pain. Yes, the city is hot. I do agree. But 99% of our indoor dwellings have AC and if you don't, go sit inside the nearest Old Navy...they have so much AC they keep their doors open in 92* weather. It's so good for the environment and everyone walking past their doors gets that "Holy Crap That's a Cold Store" wind blast. It's not that I don't get what you're saying- it's just that you were complaining about the reverse 5 months ago, and frankly, though I love most (okay some) of you, I'm sort of kind of sick of the bitching. So coming from the Polar Bear, who just loves summer I've developed some general ways to beat the heat in NYC, short of moving to North Carolina... where incidentally, it's hotter.

1. Naked Freezer Trick
This one is awesome. Ok, if you don't have an AC first off let me congratulate you for surviving to your mid-twenties... Quite a feat in Manhattan during July. No seriously, you should legally be dead. Your organs are cooking from the inside out....but I digress. You've just gotten home from work, your covered in the general filth of NYC...some depressing mixture of sweat, dirt and that indian dude on the subway who sneezed right on your arm. So gross right now. Think cool thoughts because this one needs to be done quickly. Turn your shower on to cold. Not luke warm, fucking Antarctica in February, no hot-water-needed cold. Discard all clothing...and leave it on the bathroom floor- there's no time for formalities, and your girlfriend will probably pick it up later anyways. Jump under the shower only long enough to wet your hair completely, and if you survive the shock from you body temperature plummeting from 102 to 68 in 3.9 seconds, run into the kitchen soaking wet and open your freezer, then stick your head inside. This is double summer fun! Not only will your hair turn into icicles but all the water you just sloshed through your kitchen will freeze in the AC making an indoor Ice Rink. Fuck Bryant Park! Your girlfriend will be so excited when she gets home! ...Ice Rink and naked people in the kitchen? She'll probably want to have sex! So try Number 2 next :)

2. Summer Ice Sexcapades
It's Saturday and your AC is broken- again. You're trying to decide whether to go the Union Square greenmarket for fresh air or HBO on Demand that episode of Game of Thrones you missed.... It's so fucking hot you're delirious, you've created a sweat puddle on your sheets (seriously, the only thing worse than a wet spot) and your partners breathing is so shallow in the horrific morning heat you need to check her pulse....didn't you read somewhere online about how your organs could cook from the inside out? Well, now that you're feeling all sexy, there's only one good way to spend this morning...Icy Summer Sexcapades. Oh yeah, it's business time. Go to the kitchen and get a tray of ice. Bring said tray back into the bedroom. Unload tray on top of said possibly dead girlfriend. She'll be so shocked by the cold ice, she'll confuse her shock with horniness and rip off your clothes. Ta da! Then you can spend the morning having  sweaty, grimy porno sex. I mean your sheets are already wet...might as well get as much out of them as possible before they have to be washed, right? Please note: If you don't have any ice, a bag of frozen peas will do... but I can't be held responsible for the scattering of said peas beneath the bed or stuck in your butt- or how you will explain that schmear of green to the people doing their laundry next to you tonight.

3. Slip and Slide Water balloon Twister.
This is a fantastic game. I recommend you play outside, but if you have no rooftop access, you can play in a large bathroom, or a friends really shitty apartment. You've already got an ice rink in your kitchen, so don't volunteer for everything right away. You're going to need one Twister game, one pack of water balloons, Dixie Cups, like 15 or so gallons of water and about 3 bottles of grey goose (or Gerogi..you know whatever's on hand) Fill the waterballoons with frigid water and an ice cube. Pour vodka into dixie cups and place on every colored dot of the twister game. Line up your friends. Four people get to play, one person spins and one person is the sniper. Please note: All your dude friends will think they will make the best sniper, because they had a dream about serving on Seal Team 6 when they were 5, so just go ahead and designate whoever you think will suck the most. Spin the spinner. Whenever someone goes to put a hand or foot on a color, two things need to happen simultaneously. They need to do the shot of the color they land on and the sniper needs to rapid-fire ice balloons at them. This will eventually (and by eventually, I mean like turn 3) lead to a mixture of water and vodka and sweat and possibly blood all over the twister game, which is where the slip and slide comes in. Whoa! Don't get too tangled! The person who doesn't fall off the roof, loose any teeth or end up in the hospital for liver damage is the winner!

4. City Swims Entrepreneur
This one is good for all you teachers who need to make a little more cash over the summer. Go to Walmart...maybe you should bring a gun with you, just in case. And buy one of those kid plastic pools. Bring the pool back to your apartment and place it on the sidewalk outside. Steal your neighbors hose to fill it up and add some ice cubes, then set up a payment booth....it might help if you have some of those fake palm trees or a red shirt and a whistle. Charge people $5 to strip to their skivvies and sit in the pool! This is totally legal by the way. Please note: There's a 5 minute limit in the pool... and the great part is when the water gets brown and gritty from everyones sweat and grime you can just add some jell-o mix! I'm partial to Strawberry Kiwi by the way. Ta da! Now the pool is filled with tasty gritty sweat jell-o! Now it's a cocktail party! The chicks will be lining up down the block.

5. Rock Those Cut-Off Shorts from 1997
If you want to feel really good about yourself go to Disney World...seriously, ugliest people in the world- where do they come from?! Ugh, no wonder Europe hates us so much- we're awful looking as a nation. Well, the same general principle applies to NYC in the summertime. For some ungodly reason, chicks deem it complete proper to wear belly shirts when they're 300 pounds just because it's hot out. So now I get to sit next to the sweaty bulge, leaking out of her tank top in many directions, covered in a sticky glaze on the subway. It's so appealing. Or the gentleman in short shorts...like really very short, I think-that-may-be-your-ballsac-sir shorts. I like to throw out my fashion code during the summer, under the general principle that no matter what I wear, or how I ignore my hair, there will always be at least one ogre on the subway with hobbit feet, to make me appear better looking. In fact, I suggest sitting close to these people to enhance your better qualities. Next to a hobbit, you go from a 6 to a 9 instantaneously! All the better if they've got a butt that's eating their shorts, or a large boob sweat stain, or toenails that need a hedge clipper to go through them. I find that bright colors enhance this process so I tend to lean towards my clothes from the early 90's for this one... Cut-off shirts with the denim fringe, and maybe some neon tights with polka dots, side shoulder t shirt with rock emblem and a gigantic side ponytail held up with a scrunchie. Ultimate summer look.

And that my friends is how you survive a Summer in the City. Although I am open to your suggestions and comments, I will not be held responsible for any injury attained in the process of my guidelines. If you can't celebrate summer safely, you should move to the midwest with all the boring people. So go have some sexy, icy, slutty summer fun :)
And seriously, stop bitching about the heat. No really, it's annoying. Seriously? Seriously.

Every Good Boy Does Fine

Apologies for not having written in so long- it's been a crazy few months. Expect blogs to follow on Miami and Disney World, two of my favorite places in America- but that's another story for another time. :) On to the next one.

Last summer I took up the harp. Let me first paint some inspiring images of my 5 foot flat sister and I carrying a 5 foot harp down the streets of Spanish Harlem. Two little white girls in 6 inch stilettos, hair tossed furiously in the wind on either side of a magnificent 32 string wooden harp, as equally large and heavy as either of us, while the boys on the corner fought an internal battle to holler obscenities or laugh. Most times they laughed.

I have this relationship with music unique to any relationship I have with anyone or anything else in my life. And before I go into the details of my feelings on it, this blog is mainly to clarify, at the risk of sounding about 112 years old, that the music of our generation has largely gone to shit. Please, by all means, begin preparing your arguments.

Music is one of those intangible things that has this unbelievably profound effect on me. I've been told it's because I'm an artist and an aquarius and a female and my emotional involvement with so few things in my life is counterbalanced with my turbulent relationship with music. It's as if when the chords are right and the notes are hit soft but sharp something chemical unwinds in my body, breaks me up into millions of pieces, dissolves all feelings and ideas I had in the past 24 hours and remakes my thoughts about the perfection of the world and how I can capture it. The best songs will illuminate my most obscure ideas, make me the woman you'll fall in love with when we dance, eyes turning liquid amber, swaying my body into this perfect love affair with the rhythm until all those notes explode into the air where they'll evaporate with my sweat. In the right strings, and keys and melodies, my whole being is broken down and defenseless and the only thing left is my will power to stand transfixed by its perfection until the bridge eclipses the mood and I'm left speechless. And the description just isn't enough to explain how deep it gets into my soul, how entirely it stops and moves me, and easily dissolves this cold mentality to tears in it's complete perfection. Good music is the only media that has a totally devastating effect over me, and when the music is good every fiber in my being ceases to move for a few magical minutes to simply be a part of something of such near perfection.  It's love/hate but so often it is love...which brings me back to the silly harp and my desire to play an active part in that relationship.

I've always liked learning new things. I have this incredible respect for my friends and peers who are A- Athletes or B- Musicians. While anyone who knows me and my shoe fetish would easily write off my ability to ever be an athlete, I settled to learn what might come easier to an artist- music. I relearned my second grade music theory, studied hard, and plucked notes with soft pad of my thumb while the comforting heavy weight of the wooden harp rested gently against my shoulder, humming and twanging in my sunlit apartment. I wasn't very good...but I wasn't a musical loss either. And while the lessons became more frequent and I more able, the general expense eventually became too luxurious and I was sadly forced to give it up. But not before my teacher told me that while I had years of practice to go through, and I might never be a true harpist, I had the ears and fingers of a musician and that alone was worth more than the lessons. So while I unhappily returned my lovely harp to Spanish Harlem, I took away to the small comfort that I had the ability to recognize beauty in music, relate to it and maybe someday create that beauty on my own. Almost as good a feeling of finding middle C with your eyes closed.

Which in full circle brings me to where we are today. What the fuck? I think that about sums it up.
I do agree that there are  a few bands out there creating music for the scale and beauty of music alone, for the internal pleasure it brings out in the human race and the few young hopeful musicians they themselves inspire. Can someone please explain to me what the hell everyone else is doing?
While I recognize that  different genres evoke different ideas of musical sensitivity and greatness I cannot seriously look at someone who considers themselves an artist that neither wrote, nor sung the song they are paid to sing for 2 million dollars. And I am not attacking (although I probably should) people like Britney Spears or whats her name, Ketchup, Kesha? Because largely I don't think these people consider themselves musical artists. They're performers, paid to lip sync over terrible digital tracks so when I'm drunk in the club I can shake my ass to a fun beat. I doubt they have interviews with radio stations about the intellectual musical audience they want to reach and what kind of message the power of the lyrics they didn't write has over the general population. They're ratings go up, their talent goes down, their concerts are sold out and while we look on with a "Well that's weird, they sort of suck" expression, I doubt their fans go for the incredibly inspiring musical composition.

I'm talking more about people on stations like Z100 who do all of the aforementioned and actually take themselves seriously, wondering why no one else does. I'm sorry Rhianna. A- Every song you didn't write sounds the same. B- Your voice isn't that great and C- You're the only one in the world that considers you a serious musical artist. Same for T Pain- stop whining you idiot, you're a millionaire, and loose a little auto-tune, no one can freaking understand a word you're saying. Plus, you're just not a very good rapper. I'd like to add Kanye West to this group as a person- because generally when he speaks I loose brian cells, but I hate to admit his music is sort of catchy...Still not a real artist in my mind, though.

Is it just me? Is anyone else sort of sad about what popular music has become? I grew up listening to the Beatles, and Aerosmith and the Rolling Stones. Some of the greatest bands of the century, who wrote their own music and did about 2,000 tabs of acid to get there! That's musical dedication! Once upon a time there was music for the sake of music. Of well writing chords, played in tune with perfectly sung lyrics to create these 2 minute masterpieces our grandchildren will still be singing. Aerosmith alone, while you may not love them as a band, has been creating music for their fans for over forty years. How many bands can you list that both you and your dad saw in concert when you were both 20 something? And the Beatles just may be the greatest band that ever lived...before auto-tune, and digital reproduction and ITunes. Will our kids look back on our generation with raised eyebrows, wondering what went wrong? Because when I listen to the radio, that's sort of how I feel.

I look at my friends who have tangible musical talent, sitting with their guitars or bass, on the bench of the piano. And all I can wonder is how the hell are these people with so much talent not famous while California King Bed plays for 7 millionth time in the background and I fight the desire to break every window in the room. I have hope for our generation musically speaking. I know there are bands moving forward, creating great music, making mental memories for normal people like me, even if they're not the most famous or the highest paid, or played on Z100- which in today's musical world is sort of a compliment.

And I will continue to hear my friends acapella with awe, the group of chorus kids from the middle school in a perfect harmony, the gentle pluck of the guitar strings that bring me to my knees, the soft thrum of the piano keys... And even if they're somehow not famous, I will know inside that our generation isn't lost in a sad digital music flurry- but that what is best from our generation just needs to be searched for a bit harder. That it is out there. That I'm not the only one who feels this way about the perfection of music, and more importantly that I'm not alone in my endless search for it.

Oops, I didn't Know We Couldn't Talk About Sex

Parents, colleagues, relatives-of-any-sort, in laws and professors, please be forewarned; this blog is about sex. Read at your own risk.


As a slightly late (two years perhaps?) follow-up to my "Advice for Men", which was a bit harsh I admit, I have decided to finally write the blog so many of you have been expecting of me since the day this page went up. Don't act so surprised.

I've spent a lot of time outside of America...and for a country so ingrained in preaching nonsense about liberty (even though we don't allow gay people to get married...but that's for another blog), we have a particularly difficult time with sex and nudity. Londoners are naughty in a sexy office girl sort of way. South Americans, and the Spanish, bottle the smell of sex for cologne. Australians could hum and charm the panties right off you. And oh, Paris. Parisians have 40-foot billboards with gorgeous naked actresses draped across couches, shimmering in the lights, eye fucking the camera. Somehow, the ad is for perfume. Every American in a forty foot vicinity can be easily identified because they're the ones craning their necks skyward, eyes a goggle, mouths agape like drowning turkeys. The Parisians shake their heads, walk away and hate America just a tiny bit more. Ah, who doesn't love the French?

I never understood this- but if any of you know anything about me, and many of you do, you'll know sex, nudity and the idea of porn are slightly skewed in my view. I'm a designer of Intimate Apparel for Playboy. I'm relatively unfazed by naked women (or men) at this point. Half my day is spent airbrushing clothes off women, so I can redress them in my designs. My kitchen cabinets are decorated with the luscious half-naked models of Agent Provocateur (a lame attempt to get my boyfriend to do the dishes) and nearly every scrap of "girly" magazine reading material, poster or movie in our house belongs to me and not my boyfriend. It's mostly research in my head, but who doesn't like to look up from their bed and see a poster of Kate Moss in her knickers? She's beautiful and sultry and stirring in a photograph where she's not even looking into the camera- she inspires the sexiness in us all. And oh, sexiness, dear America, for therin lies the problem.

What's the deal America? Seriously? It's just sex and if many of you can remember the first time, hell the first few times you had sex, you'll recall it doesn't inspire sexiness in your thoughts as much as hysteria. Men might have a slightly more skewed perception of their first times...I assume of course they're 16-year-old selves are so thrilled with the idea of finally getting laid they mostly forget what the hell to do, not that they knew in the first place. Look guys, you've been jerking off in the shower since what, like the 3rd grade? Most girls at that age have only a slight idea of what an orgasm is, few have actually had one and even less believe it's going to happen right now. So thank you for putting the condom on backwards, and no that's my belly button, and holy crap my leg doesn't bend that way, not to mention this hurts like fucking hell and I will never understand how people consider this fun. Yes, ow, I love you too.

Laughing at the handful of first times makes me happily realize how naive and open we all were once upon a time. Eager to please, you probably scoured all the porn you could get your hands on, looking for advice or tips. (even if your parents didn't subscribe, so it was caught fleetingly between the flickering channels and white noise...before internet porn all those born after 1990) Because who of us really ever went to our parents to say, Gee Mom could you teach me how to give a killer blow job? Grade school didn't teach us how to balance our checkbooks either- life lessons that were easily overlooked... And if you went to a school that preached abstinence, like mine (which incidentally saw at least three girls drop out from pregnancy a year) you'd have to experience the joy of lying in bed your first time, praying to god he had a condom and he knew how the hell to put it on. Sexy, right?

I'm certainly not preaching to anyone, and not nearly suggesting you go out and screw all the guys/girls you can. I don't have enough experience in sex or life to tell anyone what to do, I'm simply saying that after a few years of practice, I can sincerely say sex is a hell of a lot more fun than it first was. And if we're basing the scale of fun on the rate of progression, it's bound to be the highlight of my life- and looking back, well there are worse things to highlight one's life. I've done a lot of independent study on the psyche of men, women and sex in general, and I have learned a few things of my own. One is that sex is exercise, it releases endorphins in the brain, (same as chocolate!) makes you feel better about yourself, and apparently, people who have sex 3 times a week burn around 7500 calories in a year- approximately the equivalent of jogging 75 miles- Haha, which would you rather do? The other thing I learned is that too frequently men and mostly women turn down their partners ideas in bed because they're scared, embarrassed or fearful of unknown territory. And while I haven't gone out of my way to seduce the men of Manhattan, I have tried to keep up an active, healthy and diverse sex life, which makes me knowledgeable enough to safely say, relax, and if it feels good, do it. Jokingly, I used to tell my boyfriend I will try absolutely anything once, or until I get it right. Now, after years of coming up with fun new ways to keep our sex life inventive and exhausting, I can say there must be some truth in jest.

So what's all the embarrassment about? Why should something that feels so good cause so much guilt? I have no answer here. But my books about sex, 365 different positions, advice on the perfect lingerie and how to give the best blow job he's ever had are proudly on display on our bedside tables. So what, we've got a stripper pole? It's a hell of a lot harder than it looks, and let me tell you something, more often than not, not very sexy. How appealing does a six inch bruise on your inner thigh while your clinging on upside down for dear life sound? Yeah, that's what I thought...explains black lights in strip clubs. I've got every postcard Agent Provocateur ever sent me up as decoration. There's a whole dresser of drawers devoted to my lingerie, my sex-only lingerie and if you went through my top bedroom drawers you'd find more plastic than lace, and lord knows, you'd certainly be more embarrassed than me. You know how some people keep a little black box full of naughty toys and handcuffs that they tell their sister to go find, should they die, and destroy it? Let's just say, Ashley would have to burn down our entire house.

So why would I tell you this? Perhaps perfect strangers, since the entire world wide web is at liberty to read my blog. To make one tiny dent in your conscience and the ideas you have about sex. If one more person in the world is just a little more open to trying something new, or one more person sheds those cumbersome feelings of shame over sex, it will have been worth the write. I design lingerie for Playboy for Christ sake...it's not too hard to guess what's in my top drawer.

So go get laid. Burn calories, shed inhibition, smile happily, drowsily, stupidly. Relax, it's just sex.