I Have Always Depended on the Kindness of Strangers

in

Sometimes a lady pursuing luxury must endure some not so luxury things. Like, for example, the MegaBus. Don't even get me started. Even after the time (read: every damn time) the WiFi refused to work, to the time the AC refused to work, to the time the outlets (shocker) refused to work: I always decided to try once more. The MegaBus is like taking a jaeger-bomb, or going outdoor camping: it seems like the ONLY idea worth doing/committing yourself to in the moment. And then the next day you're like, "I'm an indoor cat! Where is my shower! And also, my body feels like bad choices and I smell like second Freshman year of college!" But once in a while, you bite the bullet and ride...that's what she said. Last week I decided the very best of ways to get myself and two months worth of clothes from NYC to DC was the MegaBus. Actually to be fair my bank account decided that, but, bygones. So I downsized and arrived at 34th and 11th (beaauutiful country over on that side of the island) with four suitcases, two Lulu bags, a hat box, and a prayer. Yes that was for two months. You guys, I really like hats. I get in the line that (I pray) is marked correctly going to Washington DC. Well, you know, DC and White Plains. Wherever the hell that is. I'm sorry native White Plains-ers, everyone going all the way to DC resents you like a Baldwin brother bringing down the family name. But I digress.

I get in the line and begin to wait untill my bus decides it's time to arrive, angrily and quickly shuffle people on, and perhaps leave at the designated time. It's right around now that I realize there is NO WAY I'm getting let on this bus with as many suitcases as I have in my possession.Time to make friends and play a little game called "Blanche it Out." That's when you Blanche DuBois your way into meeting strangers, and HOPING one of them likes you enough to perhaps show some kindness and pretend one of your suitcases is theirs. Always rely on the kindness of strangers at a MegaBus stop. You will not be disappointed. I scan the line. The girl behind me is crying. "Girl, you good?", I ask, genuinely concerned. "Yeah I'm just saying goodbye to my sister for six months while I travel to Portugal ." "Why do you only have that one bag?", I ask, genuinely concerned. "Well," she says, "I am backpacking."...blank stares back and forth as we begin to understand that we do not understand one another. Silence. "Would you maybe pretend this gray baby suitcase is yours?", I say. "Yes of course," she answers. One down. Three to go.

"Hello sir, would you mind pretending this cheetah print suitcase is yours while we board this bus?", I say to a small Buddhist monk feeding a hotdog to a one-legged pigeon. Now , at this point I should've remembered Buddhists live a humble life void of many earthly possessions. But all I could think was he didn't have a suitcase of his own, he could feasibly take mine, and a pigeon eating a hotdog was silly. He obliged though, and I felt certain I would get on this bus!

That's when the line started moving. The bus was here. Well, not my 2pm bus but the 1:40pm bus. And since it was now 2:15pm someone decided to just join both buses together. Time was running behind, but out, simultaneously. WHAT IS A BIDDIE TO DO!?! My dear friend Derek from college had been waiting for the 1:40pm and we had been chatting. He could now take a suitcase. Boom. Done MegaBus, you saucy minx! You can't rain on my parade!

I proudly show my ticket to the MegaBus employee, gesture towards my ONE suitcase and three bags with pride beaming from every part of me. "Ma'am," he says, "You have too many carry on items. You can only take one suitcase and one carry on bag. You'll have to pay an extra $40 per extra bag."...how dare you. How dare you MegaBus when I am so close to a triumph of preposterous, over-packing feats! "Wait over on the side ma'am. We'll figure this out after everyone gets on." Sweet sweet Derek boards the bus and saves me a seat. "Will you get on?", he mouths through the window. I do not know, my friend. But I do know it's time for the big guns. Blanche needs to become a Stanley for a minute. "Sir," I say in my sternest don't-mess-with-me voice, "I don't mean to be a bother, but I don't think I I even have $40 in my checking account. Additionally, most of those people on our bus are running drugs and therefore not traveling with a suitcase. I think I can bring these on without a big problem, don't you?"...silence. He winks. I wink. He turns his back to me, no more discussion. I BOARD THAT BUS.

What is the moral here? There isn't one really, aside from the fact that I need to learn how to pack less. And maybe that the MegaBus sometimes isn't all that bad. They people one can meet are fascinating and kind, the workers hate the process just as much as you do, and apparently pigeons eat meat. If that's not enough of a moral I don't know what is!

I Mean, You Wouldn't Really Want to Write or Edit Today Either...

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I Mean, You Wouldn't Really Want to Write or Edit Today Either...

I gotta say: last night I had a few ideas brewing for some posts I've been working on and some that need a bit of loving (read: re-writing or intense editing because writing whilst drinking is not my friend...) but then I decided instead to show you why I will not be posting a new blog entry today. Because I'm hanging out with this dame. We are learning the importance of accessoring, mixing vintage and contemporary clothing into your everyday look, and how to gigigle on command. It's just been a busy morning and as much as I'd like to tell ya'll about my adventures in Charlotte, it will have to wait till Friday! Thank you and Namaste! Love, Bligh and Willow-girl-cat-Starshine....we're working on the nickname...

Home, I Want You Back

in

I love the New York of Cities. I really, really do. It's the first place outside of home that I feel at home. But New York, you are not my girl, the District of Columbias. You just aren't. And so, Washington DC, I'd like you to read this love letter, reconsider letting me back into your life. Because I am coming for you girl. I want you back. Dear DC,

Hey girl. How have you been? I've been thinking about you a lot lately. Especially now because it's Fall. Nobody does Fall like you do, slow and steady, giving me time to prepare for the impending cold. You always looked so good in your oranges, and reds, and bright golds as we'd walk from Potomac Ave to the theatre where you'd drop me off for work. I liked when you'd give me a little extra time to stop into Lincoln Waffle Shop for a bacon-egg-and-cheese with a side of scrapple. You know how much I fucking love scrapple.

Do you maybe wanna go out, just for the day? I'd like to take you to E St Cinema to catch a foreign film and ponder how the hell this place is open because NO ONE IS EVER THERE. And hey, if you wanna be outside, let's walk the mall, or ice skate at the sculpture garden? They'll be too many damn kids there, but I'll body check them for you girl, get them out of your way. Then let's sit in the atrium at the Portrait Gallery after...eat soup and talk quiet and watch the sun set through the glass ceiling? You down?

If you wanna chill into the evening, for old time's sake, let's go to Stoney's for a bud lite lime and a grilled cheese with bacon. I hope we get an angry Eastern European waitress who throws saucy glares for no reason so we can laugh about it on our walk to Mr. Yogato to cap off our meal. Girl, I don't even care, I will order like Bill Cosby AND get a damn stamp on my forehead just for the measly 5% discount, and to keep you laughing. What's the trivia question today? I'll try that too.

Hey, also, it's Thursday so I just got paid and I feel like a mill-trillionaire. Howsabout a bougie night after work at Poste? We can sit outside under the heat lamps, wrapped in those fur blankets, drinking that rosé you proclaim every time, "has changed your life." We can even pretend we're staying at the Hotel Monaco, just two brilliantly attractive lobbyists having a torrid love affair? Maybe play a little Scandal??

...okay okay sorry that was too far. I don't mean to be forward. I just, want to spend a day with you. I wanna wake up on a Saturday and stop at Jimmy T's for pumpkin pancakes and cheesy bacon grits and drink all the cups of coffee. I wanna walk down East Capitol to point out the row houses we should live in someday and stop by Eastern Market so you can spend hours looking at EVERY jewelry stand, and yet, buy nothing. I want that perfectly crafted cappuccino from Pound and I want to people watch while we drink them, making up strangers' names and back stories. I want a midday nap, I want to grill something for dinner we bought from Mel's, and then I want to take you to Tunni's for many a bourbon drink from that bartender with the lazy eye! Because, girl, you are my home and I wanna treat you right! Say the word: I'm all in.

Love,

Bligh

Ps- I love your clean, clean metro more than all the things. Keep it up.

To My Boos (not a Halloween reference, I hate that shit)

in

20131028-122357.jpg Listen. I really dislike Octobers. They don't do right by me. This one (honest times) has been particularly abysmal, as hard as I've tried to make it positive. But it is almost OVER and I couldn't have done it without some pretty fantastic people. My Ma, my Dad, Whitney, Josh, Eri, Piggles, Alex, Mike, Vish, Ricky TC, Michelle, Shay, Raquel, Katie-face, Westimes, Robbie. If I could send you all an avocado filled with good fatty fat, I would. I love you.

If Daisy from Downton Tells You To Buy a Dress, Just Say No.

in

Strangers like to talk to me. That's fine, because I talk right back which just makes me a stranger talking to a stranger really, if you think about it. And I think most people in New York are fairly lonely so if you want to talk to me about something, hey, I'm gonna listen! Like, yesterday when leaving work at 10pm, an incredibly inebriated woman in the elevator thrust her cell phone into my face and said, "Oh fuckkkk I think I just sent a text to my boyfriend's ex-girlfriend." I take the phone and all I can tell at quick glance is that she can't spell and she uses aggressive punctuation with reckless abandonment. I'm just saying: if you have to use more than three exclamation points/question marks/a mix of both to get a point across via text, it's probably best you not send that text. I learned that one the hard way. But she doesn't want my lecture on phone etiquette, she wants me to listen so I just say, 'Oh girl. Been there."

I guess this is kind of how one Sunday morning a few summers back I went shopping with some of the ladies from Downton Abbey. More specifically with Daisy, Lavinia (God rest), and Sybil (oh holy GOD, God rest). Now, I know I am in love with my little neighborhood to a seriously biased level, but, you guys, if you want to vintage shop ANYWHERE in NYC the secret is to shop in any damn store from East 9th to East 7th between Avenue A and 3rd Avenue. My favorites are:

TOKOYO7: I just went there recently but they have coats FAH DAYS! It's far too expensive for clothes that kinda smell like my Grandpa, but everything is in mint condition. Boom.

DUSTY BUTTONS: Are you a lady? Are you busty? Are you a fabulous man who can get to a busty place with the right padding and contouring? You should probably buy a dress from this store because the buyers here are on POINT. I have never felt sexier than when I'm wearing (read: trying on obsessively without purchasing) a dress from this store. My 2014 goal is to unabashedly buy a dress from here. Save ya pennies, this place is expensive!

MATIELL CONSIGNMENT: The small asian man who runs this place makes me so mad. Every time I walk in I say, "Sir, are those t-straps in the window a size 7?" And he will invariably say, "Yes, but you are at least an 8 1/2." Biddie, I have small feet! Stop being so sassy bout it! But...he really does have a sick supply of t-strap heels, plaid skirts, and vintage blouses. Go there if you are auditioning for CLUELESS, the Musical. You shall not be disappointed.

...but the piece de resistance, for me, is Cobblestones. Biddies that's where I met my girls, Daisy, Lavinia, and Sybil. There were looking at vintage umbrellas and I was mad at them because they were blocking the headscarves. But then I heard Daisy, in her distinctively piercing voice say how "lovely" this specific umbrellas was and I knew...I knew that everyone's favorite kitchen maid was in my neighborhood, shopping on my favorite street. And I was going to love on them so hard and make them feel welcome in my country, NAY, in my shopping mecca because that's what any good Christian woman would do! So, I decided to follow them from store to store....

Two more fancy vintage shops later and here I am at Archangel Antiques trying on a stupid parisian print white silk shift dress WITH ACCORDION PLEATING...with Dowton. I come out of the dressing room, you know, just to see what the other ladies think of my frock when Lavinia says, "Oh well don't you look lovely!" ...I do? I DO! "Should I buy it?" I say to my new British best friends. "Yes," says Daisy in her small, dwarfish voice. And so I do.

...that dress was $295.00. Don't ask if I checked the price tag before I bought it. I hadn't. I was too entranced, living on a faux English countryside high, hanging with my favorite show's actresses. The silly thing about THAT was I couldn't really so much pay my rent because of it. That was stupid. What we learned here was when a dead character or a character named after a flower tell you to buy something, YOU SHOULD THINK BOUT IT FIRST. Because some of these vintage shops do not have a return policy. Sometimes the best they can do is give you store credit. So, you keep your parisian print silk dress. And you wear it because you look good. But always remember that Lavinia and Sybil are dead and if you take their advice in regards to financial choices you're gonna have to pay the price too...literally.

Why I'd Prefer You Not Call Me a Bitch (to my face).

in

Hey. America. Lately, in the great New York of Cities I've noticed that a lot of men seem to think it's ok to call women derogatory names. Is that okay? Did I miss something? Was there a PSA that was all, "Hey ok everyone! The government shutdown is DONE! And additionally, please feel free to call any/all women a bitch to their face!" I can't likes this. So, I did what all well intentioned sisters do, and I called my 18-year old brother and I yelled at him for no reason. (Discussing why EAMON was "let go" from a job...it's a Voth family tradition to be fired...) EAMON: ...yeah so and then the woman at work who makes the schedule was like, "You can't just leave to go to the doctor when you have a shift." I mean, what a bitch. ME: Excuse me? You don't know her! You don't know her life ! You need to take that back right now! EAMON: Why? ME: A man should never call a woman a bitch! EAMON: I call men bitches too. ME: That doesn't make me feel any better. EAMON: It should. ME: Why? Because I should be grateful my younger brother thinks calling anyone who is annoying to him or has a dissenting opinion or holds him accountable a bitch, and that's fine? EAMON: Bligh, I don't know what you want from me. ME: I WANT YOU TO STOP CALLING WOMEN BITCHES. EAMON: Okay. I will. Please stop bitching at me.

...he means well. And you know what? I can be a bitch. So can everyone, on an off day. But please, don't call me that to my face. The only person who can call me a bitch is probably my mother, and that's really just because from the ages of thirteen to nineteen I was actually a terror. I was a terrorist. I was the Sargent Brody of bitchy terrorism. And she somehow managed not to kill me or ever call me a bitch (to my face). Even that time I kicked in a cabinet in the kitchen, she didn't call me a bitch. Although, it was Christmas Day and it would've been uncouth of her to do so.

Moral here is: men of NYC. If a lady doesn't give you the time of day, or ignores your advances, doesn't respond when you whistle at her, or tell her you're going to "make her your baby mama" that doesn't so much mean she's a bitch. It means she's not interested, she has better things to do, she probably already has dinner plans, and she's not trying to get an STD from you in 2013. Respect that. And if you have one, call your younger brother and tell him to shape up now and learn from your mistakes. Oh, and stop being a lil bitch .

I'm Hungry, Let's Plan a Dinner Party

in

Tonight was a normal Sunday night. My roommate Josh and I went to a luxury bar and had a peach situation drank that did the trick and tasted like the best parts of high school. Then we went home, but not before stopping at the Trader Joe's Wine store in Union Square. Or what we call, "Church." Two hours later we've finished our soup and skinny cow ice cream sandwiches..and the first bottle of two buck chuck. We are still hungry. But the goal is to NOT spend any more money so that I can save for a fancy time birthday celebration tomorrow at Apotheke! So Josh and I do what we do best to deflect from the sadness of hunger. We plan a faux dinner party. ME: Josh, where are we with the guest list? JOSH: Ok. Oprah is confirmed. ME: Who else is confirmed? JOSH: Gayle. ME: Ugh, ok. Who else we got? JOSH: Lena Dunham is coming but only if we serve your Coq au Vin that she likes so much. ME: Josh, she's a vegetarian I think. JOSH: News to me! She's out. Oh, and Barbara Walters is confirmed IF she can sit by Nora Ephron becau--- ME: Josh, honey, Nora's dead. God rest her so hard. JOSH: That goes to show how little you know. She's confirmed. She's RSVP'd Bligh. And this is a fake game. Let me have this. ME: Ok ok ok, fine I'm sorry. JOSH: It's fine. Don't do it again. ME: ...can we continue? JOSH: Yes, now let's talk about the Andy Cohen issue... ME: Issue? JOSH: Well here's the thing. Andy said he would LOVE to come to the party but only if he could invite Rosie of RHONJ as his plus one, but Oprah wants to deflect lesbian rumors with Gayle and therefore will NOT attend if Rosie is present. ME: Wait, Josh, I actually don't follow that. Why would Oprah care if Rosie was there? She hasn't been rumored to be in any kind of relationship with Rosie I really don't foll--- JOSH: BLIGH! WHAT DON'T YOU FOLLOW??! If Rosie is there and the press finds out (which they invariably will) then they connect Rosie to Oprah and Oprah to Gayle and ugh, this is so ridiculous you can't follow a train of thought here but just know she can't come! So Andy is out. Which is cool because then it'll be ok to invite Mike. ME: Mike hates Andy. JOSH: He doesn't hate him. He just thinks he's gotten shady. ME: Isn't that the same thing? JOSH: No. Drink ya juice Shelby.

Here are the basic rules of planning a fantastic faux dinner party: 1.) There are no rules. 2.) You must have enough knowledge of current events to create a guest list that will be interesting and eclectic. All the guests must have enough differences to keep the conversation flowing. So like, watch Hot Topics on THE VIEW and pick the first three people they discuss. 3.) Spend a great deal of time thinking about what cheeses you will serve. 4.) Do NOT even attempt to go on Gwyneth Paltrow's sassy-times and aggressively Type-A blog "Goop" and think you can replicate any aspect of any party she has thrown. She's better than you. She will always be better than you. She doesn't eat bread. 5.) Drink wine.

This game. This game my biddies will keep you occupied fah days! Well, not so much days but for a few hours at the very least. You'll get to giggle with a friend, drink a bottle of wine you purchased with laundry quarters, and forget for a bit that perhaps you're not where you wanna be with your life quite yet. But you're getting there. And when it all happens to fall into place, you'll be one step ahead because you'll know President Barack Obama is left-handed so don't sit him next to right-handed Barbara Walters. They'll bump elbows too much as they eat your gazpacho. Also, Nora Ephron might be dead, but she also hates a dull floral arrangement. Plan accordingly.

An Open Letter to the Baddest Bitch I Know

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Dear Sallie Mae, Listen...I don't how this happened but Whit, Alex, Katie and I decided it was time to tell you. And it needs to come from me because I owe you the most money. But...ugh..ok, I have something to say and I want to just be super honest with you. So here goes.

...We don't like you. Ahhh I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER! Not to be whatever, but you are a difficult girl to hang with. We feel like, we get this text from you that's all, "PAY DAY! Drinks on me, ladies night out!" We'll go to meet you, and next thing I know, I'm holding your hair back while you vomit all over the bathroom of Beauty and Essex (ruining Katie's shoes) while Whit and Alex are left to figure out the bill. This has happened so many times, it's ridiculous! You're a grown woman! Yeah, maybe I had an over-served day myself at that bottomless mimosa brunch in the Village, BUT I APOLOGIZED via our group message and our Voxer thread! And I know you talked shit about me behind my back about that. Know this Sallie, my gays are loyal to me. If you talk bad on me I. Will. Find. Out.

Now, this hasn't been a one-way street. I get it. There have been some not luxury things you have had to deal with too. You weren't invited to book club. But to be fair, I don't know that you can read. You are so busy harping on everyone all the damn time, and calling and calling and asking when you're going to get your money back how can you possibly have time to read the latest chick-lit? Which is FINE. It's just...you're behind.

Now. I might as well get personal with you. I don't trust you. Haven't trusted you since girl's night at Alex's and you didn't know a SINGLE LYRIC to "It Makes Me Ill." Who are you? And then I got bangs. And then you got bangs. Fine, biddie. Imitation is the sincerest form, yes? But then I did the center part and lo and behold there you are all over the Insta with your center part. And whatever, don't cite me. But I saw.

To end this all, you're a great girl..we just...don't want to hang out with you anymore. Whit thinks you're a killjoy, Alex doesn't trust anyone without a Pinterest, and you aren't even invited to Katie's wedding. And me? I think you're pretty fair-weather. You offered me the world and I took it, and now you WON'T STOP CALLING ME asking for the world back. You'll get it biddie. You'll get it when you least expect. And it will be a one-time payment because I'm about to get all kinds of famous. So stop calling. Stop texting. Stop asking me to sign your name up at Equity for ECCs. Get your ass up and do it yourself.

xx ps I know your Dad pays your rent. I know.

A Short Lesson in Taking Pics that Make Life Look Fancier Than It Is

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A Short Lesson in Taking Pictures that Make Your Life Look Fancier Than it I

1.) Make sure you are the only blonde friend in your group. 2.) Try and "Beyonce" the picture. That's what I call weaseling your way into the center of a group of women. Seriously. Look at ANY picture of Destiny's Child from 1999-2006. Who's in the middle??? 3.) TAN THAT PICTURE UP! Growing up with a mother who called the visible blue veins on my neck/chest "the map of I-95" has made me...a lil sensitive bout how pale I am. So. Tan any and all pictures. Just do it.

Do it On a Tuesday

in

Whenever my family stalks me via the Facebook, their stock comments are, "You and your friends look like you are having so much fun and doing so many things! Why aren't you ever working? Do you work?" Firstly, family, that's a wee bit judgmental! I am CONSTANTLY working on my first solo business venture, an app called gaybitch.com but it is DIFFICULT to get a solid group of backers for the innovative ideas! Fret not though, for I will not give up. 

 

But seriously. I think something needs to be addressed as it holds true for myself and most other honest biddies that I aspire to emulate. Ready? All social media is covered in the Instagram filter of your choice. What I mean is, what you see as the observer is (most likely) not any completely truthful depiction of that person or their lifestyle. It's just not. It's pretty, yes. And in my case it's been tanned up and edited to the high heavens of deceptiveness, but it's not completely real. And that's ok. Because I believe the quickest way to becoming who you want to be is pretending to already be that way. Real life? Real life is not as glam as we'd all like it to be. Real life is being stranded at Grand Central Station at 6:30am trying to get out to Larchmont and ugly crying into the latte that caused you to go negative in your checking account, which is why you can't afford a train ticket....That was a hypothetical, by the way. That never happened. 

 

Here's the thing about the luxury fake life: IT'S EXPENSIVE! But the secret bout that is that it's not AS EXPENSIVE if you do it on a Tuesday. What does that mean Bligh? Well if you want to do fancy town things, it will always be cheaper on a Tuesday. And if it's not actually cheaper, you WILL be treated like a luxury biddie because apparently on Tuesday's most people are doing work related things. Example: one time my friends Juniper, Tarragon* and I decided we wanted to know what all the fuss was about strip clubs. And clearly we aren't going to go to just any strip club. We're gonna go to that fancy Scores on 28th! And we're gonna get in for free because it's 8pm on a Tuesday in the dead of summer! And we're going to get free drinks from a businessman named Rob all night because he's a regular there, approximately 112 years old, and he's loving our "breath of fresh air" presence. And for the record, YES it was sad! But not because of the female exploitation and feeling that every surface might be covered with a thin layer of semen. No. It was sad because the girls told us we had just missed their 2nd Anniversary party and there had been a HUGE buffet spread FOR FREE! With two-bite shrimp and everything! 

 

Another chichi thing to do on a Tuesday? Go to a psychic. Friday is still far away, and no one is happy or optimistic enough at this point of the week to want to know a damn thing about their future. BUT my girl Tiffany on the corner of 13th and Ave A will hook. it. up. Seriously. She has probably not seen anyone all day, so when you walk through her door she's going to give you a 30 minute reading for half-price. And she's only going to tell you positive and uplifting things about your future spouse/career because she's also going to try and sell you a healing crystal. Don't buy that crystal. Just enjoy the Tuesday night positive reading. 

 

This very recent Tuesday my closest biddies and I went apple picking and NO ONE  else was there! The cons were that the alpaca farm and the winery were closed (my two goals for the trip.) The pros were that we got a free bag of apple donuts for no reason and there wasn't anyone else there to ruin the aesthetic of our perfectly staged and expertly edited picture of FUN! So moral here is: do be  bougie and live the life you want. But, if possible, do it on a Tuesday. Oh, and slap a filter on it first. 

 

*the names of my friends have been changed to names of spices so as to sound as fake/trendy as my real name is. And to protect their identity because not everyone wants to admit to missing a killer buffet at a strip club. 

Molly is Not For Dogs

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How do these people find me? One minute, I'm just a blonde girl in a sequined crop top coming back from a Lucky Cheng's midnight drag show with a hankering for a pizza and the next...a drug mule. But not in a sexy way a la Orange is the New Black. Nope. Not so lucky. Here's a transcript of how a stranger-danger, my dear bunny friend Alex and I made a new acquaintance. ME: Hey! Buddy! You better not buy that last slice of pepperoni when you've got two hungry women with their eye on it!

STRANGER DANGER: I'm getting cheese.

ALEX: That's fine. Continue, and have a quality life.

STRANGER DANGER: What did you girls do tonight?

ME: WE WENT TO A DRAG SHOW AND I HAD A LOT OF DRINKS THAT WERE NAMED AFTER NICKNAMES FOR VAGINAS! And it rained a lot! But we rallied! Because we are fun! This is a puke and rally group of girls I tell you what! ALEX:  Mr. Stranger Danger, what do you do?

STRANGER DANGER: I'm a chef at Mission Chin---

ME: MISSION CHINESE!? I want to go there more than all the things but there is always a damn line! We hate lines!

ALEX: We hate lines.

STRANGER DANGER: You girls should come tomorrow with your bachelorette group and I can hook you up with a table.

ME: YES! We'll be there!

ALEX: No.

STRANGER DANGER: Well, whatever you guys end up doing have a great night, great weekend, enjoy that pizza, and here's a little something to keep it fun. Open your hand. And don't look at what I'm putting in.

(SD puts small molly pill wrapped so cute in my hand. I obviously look directly at it.)

STRANGER DANGER: I said not to look.

ME: I know I'm sorry...what is this?

STRANGER DANGER: ...molly...e....

ME: Oh, um. Thank you so much this is incredibly generous of yo---

ALEX: We're going.

Now, I don't write about this experience to share with you my personal feelings about recreational drug use. I share because, in that one exact moment I felt very cool. Like, high school Bligh that spent most of her free time singing "We Do Not Belong Together" into a mirror practicing the Bernadette Peters single-tear technique felt very, very validated. I'm cool! ...kinda!

You know what's not cool? When you come back to your apartment and retell this story to all your friends and lose the molly. And then the next day you half-heartedly look for it, and decide maybe it got thrown away? You don't give it a second thought. Until your dog starts acting kinda weird...at first he's so lovey and running from one side of the apartment to the other being like, "Let's go to the clubs! I love my life!" And then he gets really, really sweaty and dizzy and he keeps having this totally fictional conversation with NOONE about how the government is spying on him and how he is secretly married to Rachel Ray but that we can't tell anyone. And then he sleeps for like, four days. I don't even know what that's about. But it's definitely not my fault.

If you need me, I'll be in line at Mission Chinese. Namaste.

Christmas in October biddiesssssss!

in

Christmas in October biddiesssssss!

Aghgh! Yesterday I got the loveliest package in the mail of PERFECTLY RIPE AVOCADOS from my friend Joe! Joe and I met in DC at this awesome bar called The Passenger which I was working at at the time...before I got fired. But that's OKAY! Because I met fantastic people like Joe! And now I'm making guac and contemplating a mid-day "it's great to be alive" tequila shot whilst wearing a "Miss Baltimore Crabs" tee! Life. Is. Good.

That Time I Got Molly From a Stranger in a $1 Pizza Joint

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...bet that title grabbed your attention, didn't it? YA WELCOME! It's a great, and very true story. And by true I mean as true as the first night of an epic bachelorette weekend remembers itself to be. BUT FIRST: the precursor to this story are more helpful hints on how to stay in NYC and give off the social media impression of a glamorous/hipster/"No, my Dad does NOT pay my Netflix account"/well-adjusted city girl lifestyle that we all so covet! It's easy! The secret? Make the right friends. THE TOP FOUR RELATIONSHIPS YOU NEED TO CULTIVATE IN NYC:

1.) Your tailor.

-Doesn't seem so necessary at first, but then I started to realize people who wear clothes that fit them always look chic. I'ma tell you a secret. Anything I buy from the Burlington Coat Factory (and there are a great many things) goes straight to my tailor. Because then it looks legitimately fancy. And it fits. And my guy is CHEAP. Yeah, he told me he's from Argentina and yet he speaks with a strong German accent. And I could choose to worry bout it, OR I could not question it, smile everytime he tries to pronounce my name, and he could fix my grandmother's luxe mink swing coat for half-off for no apparent reason!

2.) The Woman/Man Who Works at Your Train Stop Counter During Rush-Hour

- ....I feel like this needs no explanation. These people are not happy humans. But that's because everyone is always yelling at them! Smile biddies! Smile at your MTA station workers! They are the ones who will break that $20 bill "just this one more time Bligh" and they are they ones that will tell you that the L train, indeed, is not ever coming to the 1st Ave stop...ever. So walk your ass to 8th Ave and smile because you have a Subway hookup.

3.) Your Local Liquor Store Owner

-If I write about this man for too long I'm going to get emotional. I call him "My Friend" and he calls me "Bubbly" (a la Champagne). We get each other. He has met my mother. He has met both of my brothers. I will take my next serious boyfriend to meet him. He never ever ever lets me pay full price for a bottle of wine. Actually, he usually just asks what I can afford this week (read: day) and he grabs my favorite rose and GIVES IT TO ME ANYWAYS. He says he does this because he has a daughter who wanted to be a dancer and he wouldn't let her go to college for dance. So she went to pharmaceutical school instead, and now he says she is sad. Thank you, My Friend.

4.) The Dudes at your $1 Pizza Joint

- Did you know that at a certain hour of the night they start giving away pizza? The good places do! 2 Bros is not as good about this, so I suggest finding a smaller, independently owned (read: sketchy) $1 pizza chain nearest to you. Make sure you ALWAYS make this  your drunk food stop numero uno! You will meet the most interesting people! For my good biddies, this, this is where a stranger gave me molly.

...this post is wicked long. I need more coffee. Stay tuned for the incidental molly story. Thanks much and namaste.

Roots Make Me Angry

in

Listen. I think it's important to be honest. My hair is not naturally blonde. As a matter of fact, it's a boring, mousy brown color. When I have no cash monies, and my roots are visible, I am evil. I do not exhibit the kind, Christian woman attributes that my girl, Dolly Parton has so graciously taught me through outward example, strong girdles, and prayer! Fortunately, I have refined a few "lady on a budget" tricks to staying bougie as you save the necessary nickels and dimes to dye ya weave! And I'm going to share them with you! Because the imaginary conversation I had with Dolly Parton this morning after my third cup of coffee told me that was the right thing to do! Here goes:

HOW TO STILL LOOK LUXURY WITH ROOTS

1.) Hats.

-Biddies, hats are your FRIENDS. They cover up the roots. They are so in right now. You do not (I repeat) DO NOT have to wash your hair but instead just spritz a little fancy product (read: AquaNet) into the ends for texture and live ya life!

2.) Wear a fur.

- Yup. Even if it's summer. No one will look at or care about your roots if you're wearing a fur coat/stole/swing jacket. They'll be like, "Who is that Eastern European mail order bride and why is she wearing a fur in August?"

3.) Get on Pinterest and learn how to tie a turban.

- ....Now I gotta get fancy and break this down into a few more sub-points.

HOW TO TIE A TURBAN VIA A CRAFTY WOMAN MOST LIKELY LIVING IN UTAH

A.) Go on Pinterest, and search "turban" and realize this is far too broad a search word.

B.) Search "How to tie a turban" and settle on the best picture of colorful scarves and NOT the easiest tutorial. You got this.

C.) Open a bottle of wine preemptively. Let that shit breathe.

D.) Start with the scarf you probably took from your mother's closet and fold it in half, making a triangle.

E.) Try and place the halved scarf on your head and flip it back WHILE trying to successfully do this really tight wrap of the ends at the nape of your neck, all the while thinking that perhaps the incredibly glamorous ethnic girl in the tutorial picture would be laughing at your struggle to be as cool as her...and then start stressing that perhaps turbans are IN FACT just for ethnic girls and that you're going to look like a damn fool trying to hard.

F.) Have one to two glasses of wine.

G.) Try again biddie! Try until you get it right. Or until you have to leave so as not to be late for a dinner with a dear friend! Slap  some bobby pins where it counts, say a prayer, and go out! Because you look good...ish.

...I have just re-read this entire post and would like to personally acknowledge how superfluous this entry is, in a world of very serious and real problems. My suggestion is to read it again, but with the Thomas Newman "Newsroom" opening theme playing underneath.  http://youtu.be/mkMAcWu0lqA

You're welcome. Now it's important.

The Beginning.

in

This week is a "Dear-Lord-baby-Jesus-in-the-manger please do not tell me October 1st is Tuesday" Kinda week. This week is a "eat half your sandwich for lunch and the other half for dinner and contemplate attending an AA meeting for free coffee and donuts to supplement your diet," kinda week. This is a "no avocados for you, poor girl" week.

 

Because you see, my sweet biddies, avocados are most assuredly a food for rich people. Think bout it. Whole Foods displays their perfectly ripe avocados prominently at the front of the fresh produce, under a faux kitschy chalk board sign covered in bubbly font that says, "Organic Avocados $5."...Five dollars for a bushel? Five dollars for however many you can carry at once? Nope. Five dollars for one. But that one avocado has enough monounsaturated fatty acids to keep your heart healthy for the rest of ya damn life. And that avocado speaks conversational french.

 

I kind of like no avocado weeks. I like the scrimp and barely make it weeks. I'm good at it. Being poor makes me funnier. At least that's what my Mom says. In his new book Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls, David Sedaris says we need poverty as proof we are truly creative. You should read his book! But don't buy it because he publishes most of the essays first in The New Yorker WHICH you can borrow (read: steal with a small intention to return) from my bougie dry cleaners on the corner of 14th and 2nd. See? I know what I'm doing. 

 

I'ma teach you things. I'ma teach you how to live in the New York of Cities and still do all the things, and cut all the monetary corners, and still live like the fanciest poor person that you can be. So read my blog. And if you don't read my blog, that's fine too. You're probably excessively wealthy and enjoying pleasant small talk in broken (allbeit, charming) french with your very favorite $5 avocado. Or what I like to call, living the dream.