sambuca baby

I'm a spoiled, shithead brat.

While I was looking forward to Mario Batali’s Del Posto, I have to say that I’m decidedly tainted by Per Se perfection.  The atmosphere seemed noisy and distracting.  And while I did enjoy the aromatic White Truffles on EVERYTHING, the tasting menu was meh, until they produced a Butterscotch Semifreddo at the end.

There’s a doctor that dines at Per Se multiple times a week, he says because he simply cannot eat anywhere else.  I’m fairly certain this is my destiny.

People ask me if I'll ever move back to South Carolina.

And the fact is, I view SC as a place of play; of easy times where all I had to do was grow up.  My professional life is ingrained in all that is New York.  It’s seeped with busy frigid mornings and feisty, abrupt people whose hospitality shows through their seams.  It’s hard for me to imagine cupping a bubbling black coffee in the morning sunshine of SC - unless it was Blackberry free and within the rocking comfort of a back-porch beach chair.

Team In Training Kickoff party was tonight! Amazing and can't wait to get started raising money and training in the freezing cold all Winter long. NYC Half-Marathon in March!

Candy Meets Toy Meets Wonder (LAND)

Be forever hesitant when entering the Meatpacking District, unless you have an appetite for European tourists and hotel-bar DJs.  I was exactly this when setting an appointment at Michael Angelo’s Wonderland Beauty Parlor. 

Upon arriving at the West 13th street salon, I was met by a 6 foot Heidi Klum type blockading the entrance.  She was sucking up a cigarette with a thick slime of dye on her roots.  Passing through the doorway, I experienced sensory overload with a tantalizing display of flashing neon lights.  A tractor-sized crystal chandelier hung precariously above the receptionist’s hipster blonde head.  Bright metallic wallpaper stretched high to the ceiling with delectable graphic bananas.  I’m half surprised I didn’t take a lick, the irrefutable Wonka effect was so prevalent.  I could barely stay seated while waiting for my stylist.  The atmosphere was entirely too conducive for playful exploration.  Luckily, the room was filled to the brim with powder pink blushes, gold ornamental piglets, and life-size lollipops.  I couldn’t leave without snatching up a Kabbalah-esque strand of thin, red string bearing the tag “Make A Wish!”. 

The hum of ionic hair dryers in the background was one of the few reminders that I was in a legitmate salon. 

And then… my life became complete when Willy Wonka himself came into view amongst the tall decorative mirrors.  His long hair was onyx black and splayed out on the ends like feathers.  His blazer had leather cuffs and his patent leather shoes were pointed and pink like hard-candied apples.  I was quite sure the pink scarf must be Marc Jacobs and his tight pinstripe pants were complete with fuschia detail.  He was the most spectacular ring master I could possibly envision for such a wondrous land.   

I won’t drone on about how incredible my Reece Witherspoon inspired color and style turned out.  I expected absolutely nothing less from Annastasia, seeing as I have complete faith in anyone with flowing Kardashian hair tucked beneath wide-brim hat and veil.

I wish I was like those girls who can't eat when they're sad. Instead, I tear through half a quesadilla, the corners and crust of Artichoke pizza, and finish it off with green olives straight out of the jar.

When heads began turning towards the door, I naturally followed suit.  Through the window of the subway car I could see a tall man attempting to part the disarray of swinging arms.  It wasn’t the first fight I’d ever witnessed.  Public transportation provides plenty of face time with people and chance events you otherwise may not see when commuting from door to car-door to door. 

As the three parties scrambled on the train platform, I could see that the man was separating two young boys.  They were 12 years old, perhaps.  The African American boy was prevented from boarding the train as the doors closed behind his fluffy-haired, average-looking White opponent.  The latter immediately took refuge behind the thick glass as he flipped the middle finger to those temporarily trapped in the stagnant solitude of the platform. 

And then, in full, un-choreographed unison, the entire train car diverted their attention from the young boy to their iPods and books and Blackberries.  Their comforting distraction.  But I watched him as he made his way towards me.  I watched his glossy, solemn eyes fight the tears he so desperately forced himself to withhold.  I saw his baby pink lips, punched bloody.  The sight of him made me ache and I was happy to be wearing sunglasses as I pressed my eyes tight.

The best thing about Halloween is THE PARTIES!

Siiike, who am I kidding??

IT’S NOT HAVING TO WEAR ANY PANTS!!!

Though some of us definitely should…

Seriously.  Skip the pre-packaged joy.  And wear some pants.