Since I've moved back to working in the city after nearly 3 years of being in a daze from driving 3 hours a day, I have totally and completely enjoyed my short commute on a bus, lunch options everywhere and the decrease of fat smokers blocking the building's entrance.
One of the great joys of being back is that I've run into people I haven't seen in a long time. I can go to parties at night (well, ok they are work related because I have no actual friends, but it was impossible to get back into the city in time to make most of them), I can walk home from work if I feel like it, and, most importantly, I have more time to have a headache and complain.
The past 2 days were a culmination of most of the things I love and am still not jaded to not appreciate their special-sauceness.
I wandered out of my office to get lunch from my favorite Egyptian meat and rice guy, and found the cart missing. It was horrifying. In their place was a notice of a missing young man, really sad. His photo looks like every young man I've ever known. He is Mr. Next Door Neighbor's 25 year old son. I hope he is found. I also hope we find our Egyptian meat and rice guys.
So that left me sad. But then I was immediately brightened by the fact that there is another street cart just one block away. And while they don't have that delicious mysterious meat with white sauce that I love so much, they do have shish kabob for a mere $3 investment and a 10 minute wait.
The joy of having a choice for lunch and I don't have to drive anywhere for it was on my mind as I wandered back to my block where I intended to enjoy my meat on a stick on the lovely roof deck overlooking the river and the Statue of Liberty that my company thoughtfully provides. Which is when I ran into an old college friend who I haven't seen in many, many years. At one point we were very good friends, something bad happened that I was never sure what, and then we weren't friends any longer. That was in 1990. But we both still go to the same hair dresser, so we've heard about each other's lives over the years from Michael. She also pointed out that we now have the same exact hair cut, which I will have to discuss with Michael next time I see him. He can't be giving my haircut to everybody. We also confirmed that we look exactly the same, which is a relief because surely nobody lies about that. Turns out she works directly across the street from me. That we haven't run into each other before is a testament to how rarely I leave my office, no less my chair, for the entire day. I don't like moving around that much when instead I could be making colorful graphs.
Then, to make my week even more special, I was invited to a small dinner at Soho House, which is a members only club that I never had any interest in going to until I was invited. If you were wondering where all the girls who buy the Sex and the City clothes are, they are at Soho House. All of them, and all at once, along with the young boys they attract. For $1400 a year if you are under 30 and single, this is surely the place to get laid. Probably in the gym.
The food was truly awful and for the first time in my life I returned my main course, it was inedible. The salmon replacement was mediocre. Soho House overlooks the (former) meat packing district, and has a pool and lounge chairs for the resting class to relax in after a hard day of putting on makeup and finding just the right scrunch with the hair gel.
While the rooftop pool bar was fascinating, street level is even more weird. Walking through the cobblestone streets lined with fancy restaurants and cafes and young people who have not a wrinkle on their face, nor a care in the world, in giant sun dresses and giant sunglasses is akin to walking through a movie set. Or, what I imagine a movie set to be like. It was kind of like Vancouver, it feels sort of familiar, but not quite. You've seen it on tv, so it is vaguely familiar. Kind of like the New York area of Universal Studios Orlando or New York New York Hotel in Las Vegas.
Then, tonight, yet another party on a rooftop, this time at Highbar. It was just like Soho House, but no pool, and in midtown, with views of the NY Times building and other large buildings, exactly the way midtown should be. The waitresses at this place were creepy stepford wives dressed as whores. It was nearly impossible to get a teeny burger as they appeared to be keeping them for the guys that attracted their attention, and actually and literally shooing away my hands from the food. I had to resort to stealing undressed tuna burgers from the chef, who got really annoyed. But give a girl some drinks with no food, and what do you expect?
And the final touch, standing just next to us, (on the right in the photo if you couldn't tell), was Monica Lewinsky or her twin sister. The necklace she was wearing was engraved with an "M." Could it be she is now a low level media buyer?