As I’m sure you can all see, I’m the process of a make-over. It should be done soon. Hopefully, it will be fab. Some of you may hate it. Others may fall even deeper in love. Feel free to leave your opinions and bear with me today as I transform. Content-wise everything will stay the same. The appearance will just be even sexier (I know, we didn’t think it was possible.)
More later…
Saturday night I dressed up as if I were going to the Oscars since a friend of mine was having a black tie themed birthday party. I’ve written before about my strong dislike of costume requirements when going out. Isn’t being a girl with a thimble size closet, pathetic salary, trying to look modelesque in one of the most fashion forward cities in the world hard enough without additional complications?!
So usually I pooh-pooh events that require I waste extra brain cells figuring out how to not look not like a moron while also incorporating a theme like 80s, Egyptian or toga. Yet when the invitation for a black tie birthday party rolled around, I squealed in delight like an over-sugared child. Practically all women have a collection of prom / bridesmaids / wedding / opera gowns which we’ve only got to cavalier around in once. Any opportunity to debut them once again should be taken advantage of.
This story would have ended swimmingly if
Translation: I never made it to my themed birthday party uptown and was dressed in black tie all night for no reason.
At a recent birthday party, I experienced one of the best things of all.
Goodie bags.
No, not gift bags, those promotional pieces of baloney they thrust at you for attending some stuck up, overrated event, but goodie bags. Like the ones you got when you went to your neighbor’s birthday party in third grade. The contents inside included things like plastic flowers, gum, fart bags, party hats with Mickey Mouse on them, and most importantly, celebratory plastic horns so we could make an outrageously annoying amount of noise. In addition to this fun mix, there were tongue tattoos (banana flavored!) and the kind of balloons magicians use to make animals. Naturally, we got too distracted contorting the balloons into different types of phalluses, but other than that and the fact that I was high on white wine, I truly felt like I was eight years old again.
The whole experience brought me back to my actual eighth birthday, one of the few birthdays I didn’t have a tantrum or throw things at my innocent guests. I had a unicorn cake. I wore neon blue spandex pants and nobody judged me for it (just another of the many benefits of being a child). It was a gymnastics party, which in retrospect makes no sense because I never really liked gymnastics, but I guess it was a party theme that got boys more involved than if it were ballet.
What’s awesome about birthdays is that you get to be the center of attention for a prolonged, constant amount of time. People also feel uncomfortable denying you anything, so you just for fun, you can ask for really outrageous things and watch them squirm. But adult birthday parties become cluttered with so many complications, like do I invite all of my ex-boyfriends or just three? Do I serve quiche or sushi? Can I even afford sushi? Do I hire a bartender like some self-righteous, snobby person, that I secretly envy? Or do I just throw down a lot of orange juice and make people stir their own drinks? What assortment of mixers do I need for Bacardi? Should I wear something casual like I’m too cool to worry about the fact that it’s my birthday? Or should I wear something that’s reflective / glittery / neon so that if anyone has any doubt about whose birthday it is, they’ll know it’s me because I look like the human equivalent of a disco ball?
No. When you’re a kid these things don’t matter. You don’t lose sleep about who caters your unicorn cake, you just throw on aquamarine leggings, put obnoxious sparkles in your hair, and you’re ready to rock ‘n roll. And I think that’s the key to a successful adult birthday party, especially in
This is exceedingly difficult because birthdays provoke self reflection, facing the reality that we’re getting older and wrinkly, and are probably the time when were most self-conscious (aside from swimsuit season and what our mother’s in town, of course). So forgoing the billion person blow out in lieu of something more relaxed, with people you can be yourself around, and enjoying the childish stink of a fart bag with, might be the viable way to go. I’m going to keep that in mind for my upcoming summer fiesta, perhaps steering the opposite direction from last year.
Wednesday night Upstairs, the exclusive
Old news.
The charges had something to do with liquor license violations and a legal problem with the sound system. All I focused on was trying to hide my inherent panic: Where would I go to hear Hip Hop and Bruce Springsteen in the same night? Where would men go to meet models age sixteen and under? Where would Leonardo Di Caprio go to schmooze low key with his entourage?
Separately, my Friday night out was a nightlife disaster. A going out abortion. And I still want a do-over. I won’t bore anyone with the tragic details, but I’ll say it started at the Black & Light Ball which while festive, would’ve been much more entertaining had I consumed hallucinogenics, beta-blockers or even just liquor before attending. That’s my own fault for leaving my apartment sober and wearing outrageously uncomfortable shoes.
I then voyaged to Made in
Next I tried my luck at the usually fail-proof Upstairs, only to discover Leonardo Di Caprio happened to be frequenting the place, and therefore the security guards were treating patrons like undervalued cattle. So we made a quick detour to 1Oak, and when it became apparent they weren’t going to let anyone in at 4:15 AM, we drove aimlessly around the city before arriving it home.
Nights out. You can’t win ‘em all.
Just when you think you’ve seen all the weirdness NYC has to offer, you stumble across a party like this.
It’s Friday and my brain has already taken up residence in the weekend. Deep things I’m pondering:
-Where can I buy black skinny jeans this time of year?
-Where can I find someone/something to fund my new outrageously expensive addiction to Amore-Pacific’s skin line? (more about that next week)
-I wonder if I can make the perfect tuna melt, and how much / what type of cheese that would involve…
Recommendations for the weekend?
After a two month hiatus, there’s a Made in
On the cultural side, everyone get your weekly dose of intelligence by attending this exhibit at Moma PS1 about Design and the Elastic Mind. According to my sources, it’s mind blowing – and only around until May 12th.
Since I’m incapable of putting together coherent, non-rambling thoughts today, I leave with some cartoons about our current gas crisis and a list of funnies I found resonated true. Enjoy.
Why do banks charge a fee on 'insufficient funds' when they know there is not enough money?
Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?
Why doesn't glue stick to the bottle?
Why do they use sterilized needles for death by lethal injection?
Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?
Why does Superman stop bullets with his chest, but ducks when you throw a revolver at him?
Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?
Whose idea was it to put an 'S' in the word 'Lisp'?
If people evolved from apes, why are there still apes?
Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you use the bubbles are always white?
Is there ever a day that mattresses are not on sale?
Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?
Why do people keep running over a string a dozen times with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum one more chance?
Why is it that no plastic bag will open from the end on your first try?
How do those dead bugs get into those enclosed light fixtures?
When we are in the supermarket and someone rams our ankle with a shopping cart then apologizes for doing so, why do we say, 'It's all right?' Well, it isn't all right, so why don't we say, 'That hurt, you stupid idiot?'
Why is it that whenever you attempt to catch something that's falling off the table you always manage to knock something else over?
In winter why do we try to keep the house as warm as it was in summer when we complained about the heat?
How come you never hear father-in-law jokes?
And my FAVORITE......
The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four persons is suffering from some sort of mental illness. Think of your three best friends -- if they're okay, then it's you.
Tonight the Starfish Greathearts foundation is hosting their annual fundraiser at 1Oak. The organization raises money for children who have been orphaned by HIV or AIDS in southern
Isn’t this a no-brainer?
Bar shots as a moral statement? You can be proud of the fact you’re a closet alcoholic when you’re drinking for charity!
This whole scenario brings me back to a party I attended during my New Years trip to Punta. Everyone had been festering about how to attend this absurdly exclusive party an Arab billionaire threw religiously every year on the same date at his ginormous ranch hidden miles down unpaved farm roads in San Carlos. This wasn’t the kind of party you could just attend, even if you had the genius to figure out where in the wilderness it was.
Example: You drove through three security check points before even getting out of your car. Before even seeing his house.
Everyone needed the correct yellow entrance bracelet and your car was searched and flagged.
The story of how we managed to get in sans bracelets remains its own separate saga. The point is that once I was enjoying a drink by the white tent and glowing pool, an Argentine friend came up to me and said:
“You know whose party this is, right?”
Me, snarfing my drink: “Yeah. The crazy rich Arab dude's.”
“Yeah but you know who he is, right? [Insert complex Saudi name].”
Me, fishing and devouring my champagne’s strawberry, “[Complex Saudi name], cool. Whatever.”
“His dad’s the largest arms dealer in the world. His family’s essentially funding the war in
Me: “So you’re telling me I’m drinking a blood champagne?”
My friend nodded sympathetically.
Later, I told the story to my girlfriends who got all riled up.
“If we’re in Punta next year we’re not coming to this party.” “We shouldn’t be supporting this kind of people.”
That’s when a male friend of ours chimed in, “Actually, you should drink up.”
Heads turned.
“What?” he continued. “Isn’t it better the guy’s money goes to peace and parties than war? We should take him for every cent he’s got.”
Me: “So you’re saying for every ten Martinis I drink that’s one less landmine he can afford to blow up an innocent child in
“Yes!”
And a lot of drinking ensued.
The logic on this one was a little fuzzy. But the logic on the Starfish event is not. Help children orphaned by AIDS and if you haven’t checked out 1Oak yet, this is probably your best chance.
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