Concrete Jungle Where Dreams are Made

From (my other blog) Blog-By-Bike:

I love that New York City let's you be whoever you are or want to be or whoever you don't know you are or didn't know you wanted to be. Whatever your personal cliché may be, New York City let's you own it without mass judgement.

Last night, while watching club-goers dance around me in the Midtown lounge of the infamous job #2 (existing in my own personal infamy, of course), I stood solo with my empty drink tray and watched a group of gay males lively conversing at their table. I was particularly drawn to one of the men in the group. He was wearing a hint of black eye liner that was better applied than I have seen on most women. With his man purse confidently slung over his shoulder, he returned from smoking a cigarette on the open balcony, lightly bouncing in his gait and bobbing his head, keeping perfect time to Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied". You go, boy, I thought. Be you. Own it and know you're fabulous. And don't appear to care whether any of the rest of us recognize it or not.

And - if I believed in signs (rather than in chaos and coincidence) - as if to affirm my thoughts on the grandeur of New York City, the opening beats of Jay-Z and Alicia Keys' "Empire State of Mind" began pulsing the walls and floors of the lounge. I was reminded of City Wendy's blog post from November 4th:

Since Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind" was released in September and certainly since he and Alicia Keys played it before game two of the World Series, it's become an instant anthem for New York City. On warm afternoons when I keep the windows open, I hear it playing in cars passing by on the street below all day long. Sometimes the lyrics blasting from the cars almost match exactly where they are in my own living room. In New York, concrete jungles where dreams are made of/ there's nothing you can't do, now you're in New York!

Yesterday I grabbed my iPod and went for a 4 1/2 mile walk to Union Square and back, down 9th Avenue, across 36th street to 6th Avenue, down to 25th street and over to Broadway. It was a sunny afternoon, but the skyscrapers blocked my view of the sky and shaded the streets. At intersections, I turned my head up, caught some sun peeking through space between buildings, turned Jay-Z and Alicia up. These streets will make you feel brand new/Big lights will inspire you, let's hear it for New York! ...

... Heading back up Broadway I passed Stacy London from "What Not To Wear," a show I watched almost daily until a couple months ago when I got bored of it. She saw me see her and we had that moment I've had so many times now with celebrities when they realize they've been recognized. There's a whole unspoken conversation in that moment that basically goes like this:

Me: Are you...?
Celeb: Yeah, but please, I'm sorry, I don't feel like talking to anyone right now.
Me: Okay, don't worry, I'm not a freak or anything.

And then, depending on what I think of the celebrity, I usually smile or nod or even do a little wave. Sometimes the celeb smiles back.

After I got home Drew and I took a cab up to the UWS to have dinner with his pops. I brought my iPod along, and gave Drew one earbud and kept the other for myself. I played "Empire State of Mind." Drew looked at me, nodded and smiled. We both looked out the window toward the bright lights and all the stories, Jay-Z singing a love song to New York in our ears.

- City Wendy, "It Damn Fun Being a New Yorker", Nov 4, 2009

I can't believe I really want to spend $15,000 to be somewhere other than here for 50 days.

World Without Weekends

From (my other blog) Blog-By-Bike:

There are a lot of different worlds in New York City. About 8 million or so. In mine, weekends no longer exist. Even after just one month working two different jobs, I already feel like I'm going into human interaction overload. I've always been one who valued alone time. Now I crave it. Perhaps 10 months of craving isolation will amplify the worth of the open road across North America next summer.

In the meantime, I am trying to find balance in my new world of dual employment - in two jobs that are as distinct in roles as they are in attire. It is slightly frustrating and sufficiently humbling to go from a corporate environment, where I am a relatively respected upper-level executive assistant, to "entry-level" cocktail server. Monday through Friday, my knowledge and experience in the inner workings of the company are often sought in coordinating a variety of tasks, projects and events. On the weekends, I shed my pantsuits and pencil skirts for a push-up bra and minuscule shorts. While my expertise was held in significant regard just hours earlier, a bartender is now making little attempt to hide her irritation that it's taking way too long for me to remember what garnishes a Summer Wind versus a Sinfully Gin.

But there is something wonderfully cliché about serving cocktails on the top floor of a high rise building in Midtown, overlooking the bright lights and excitement of Times Square. On Friday and Saturday evenings, I trot out of my four-floor walk-up apartment (real estate speak for "fifth floor sans elevator") in Hell's Kitchen, with its exposed brick walls and rickety fire escape, and walk north on Eighth Avenue. Dressed in a brown hoodie drawn over my freshly flat-ironed hair and matching sweatpants concealing my revealing cocktail serving outfit, I stop by Starbucks and order a grande skinny vanilla latte to fuel the caffeine rush for my 11-hour shift.

Fridays are tough. After eight hours in the office, dealing with the wear and tear of executive assistant busy work, meeting coordination, travel management and expense reporting, I have roughly an hour to get home, darken my eye makeup, change clothes and roles, and reset my mind from professional corporate woman to demure cocktail-toting vixen. I ascend the elevator to the penthouse of a Midtown hotel, where the lounge and rooftop bar already have the inaudible hum of simultaneous conversations. Music by Jay-Z and Biggie blare from the lounge's DJ booth while the giant billboard of Sean "Diddy" Combs - which has become a staple where Broadway crosses Seventh Avenue - is framed in the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hotel's southern exposure. If you are at all partial to hip hop, it's a constant reminder of the quintessential hustle through the struggle of New York City.

When the lounge slows down between the happy hour rush and the nightlife crowd, I find myself staring at neighboring penthouse apartments and often catching the silhouettes of their occupants illuminated inside. Sometimes I think about how little the $15,000 that I'm trying to save to cycle across North America must seem to people like them. It's hard not to envy Manhattan's elite - to covet thy neighbor's paycheck and penthouse.

But most of the time, I crave the New York City clichés. The cozy walk-up apartment above congested, street-level bars. The quaint, tree-lined neighborhood with hidden gourmet gems just off the beaten path of Times Square. And the little transplant New Yorker with a small presence and big dreams, asking if you want your martini on the rocks or straight up.

"Things I Love" Thursdays - Movie Premieres

It may be just a coincidental pattern, but some of the best recollections of pivotal moments in my life have fallen on Thursdays. Maybe it's true what they say about the power of positive thinking. In any case, today's Thing-I-Love Thursday is "movie premieres."

Who doesn't love movie premieres? Whether you are the quintessential New Yorker, born and raised, who simultaneously loves and hates everything that makes this city what it is -- or the trite and contrived wanna-be, who - in an effort to feel like less of an outsider - does not respect their role as a transplant New Yorker -- either way, it's cool as hell to turn a corner in the streets of Manhattan and roll up on an A-list celebrity event (no matter how long you've lived here as noted in Exhibit A or Exhibit B). But how cool would it be if you were ever actually invited?

I found out on Tuesday morning when my best friend called me on my cell phone. I slipped out of my cubicle and into my boss's empty office to take the call.

"Guess who's coming to tomorrow night's premiere?" she squealed. With a small - yet substantial role - in Tyler Perry's latest film, she was in New York, crashing at my apartment and meeting with her agent, publicist and stylists for Wednesday night's red carpet event at the AMC Loews on the Upper West Side. Not to mention that a BET camera crew would be following her through her premiere day preparations. When she walks out of an apartment door in Hell's Kitchen and introduces herself, I am proud to say that the apartment door would be mine. (The previous sentence is meant to be read using Chandler-from-"Friends" inflection.)

Looking out over my boss's high-rise view of Bryant Park, I blurted out viscerally, "Denzel Washington!"

"Nope," she replied. Michelle Obama. Nope. Oprah? Nope. Angela Bassett? Nope. Will Smith? Nope. Diddy? Nope. I went through my personal list of top Black actors and entrepreneurs. Impatient, she began to drop hints.

"She's a secretary."

"... Of State?" I said. "Hillary Clinton?"

"No!" she finally exclaimed. "You!"

"Me?!?!?!" I could barely contain my excitement, jumping up and down and struggling to keep from screaming in my boss's office. However, there was one issue that I had to address before I let the exhilaration consume me. I momentarily stopped bouncing around the office and said matter-of-factly: "But, Tokii ... I'm not a secretary. I'm an executive assistant."

With less than 24 hours to the premiere, I left my office immediately after work and went hunting for a dress, which I found quickly and easily at a store in Columbus Circle. I wanted to find something classy, but not overdone. Something that looked like I was meant to be there, but didn't look like I was trying too hard. Something that said, I'm so proud of my best friend and put careful time and thought into honoring this invitation, but without drawing unnecessary attention. How does one dress for a movie premiere? That's already a tough question for the people who actually have to fear widespread post-event wardrobe criticism. It's an even tougher question for someone who was just invited solely because their friend's agent was able to get an extra ticket. I went with a low-cut, sleeveless black trench dress that seemed appropriate for a guest of an actor and was also appropriate for my wallet - especially after I applied the $100 American Express gift card that my boss had given me recently.

When I arrived at the theater, I met my best friend's agent at the side entrance and we found a front-row spot near the end of the red carpet, adjacent the E! and BET camera crews. The stars arrived, one by one, pausing expertly with their best angles projected toward multiple shutters. I waited eagerly, tiny digital camera at the ready, for when I would see her appear on the red carpet, and only slightly aware that I was lightly trembling and intermittently forgetting to breathe. As the seconds ticked away, I tried to mentally process what was happening immediately in front of me. And to enjoy the moment. Because, from what I've perceived of an industry like Hollywood, you have to indulge in each blessing you receive. Actors - and the people who know and love them - can just never be sure when their next blessing will come around. One moment you might be the next up-and-coming sensation, another moment you might wine-and-dine at the very top of the A-List, the next - the tabloids are publishing your most unattractive photos and reveling in your demise.

And as I stood gazing down the red carpet, watching the shutters flash and the reporters thrust their microphones into the faces of Tyler Perry, Derek Luke, Keshia Knight Pulliam, Sofia Vergara, Mary J. Blige, and Ray J. to name(drop) a few, I thought about how much work has gone into these few strolling red carpet moments. And I don't just mean the rolling out of the carpet and setting up of the lights. As often happens whenever I get exciting news regarding my best friend's acting career, I could not stop the mental reel of flashbacks over the last ten years - filled with shining moments and false hopes, extreme highs and incredible disappointments, a rollar coaster of emotions, physical strife and the risks of the unknown, all which leave you simultaneously anticipating the next thrill and dreading the next fall. I'm not going to go into the clichés of Tokii's starving actor story, but the clichés for actors - or anyone with a dream - are the mere truths of entire lives - most of which goes unseen, unnoticed, unacknowledged, unrewarded. The camera catches the glamour of the Hollywood red carpet, but not many outsiders really comprehend the volumes of proverbial blood, sweat and tears that go into a few snapshots and sound bites. I certainly don't have a fundamental grasp of it all - at least not more than peripherally.

And then, there she was. My best friend. Smiling for the wide-angle lenses and chatting comfortably with reporters. As I strained to get a shot of her on my own tiny Canon digital camera, a bodyguard poked a little fun at me: "Why are you taking that picture from so far away?"

"Leave her alone," a woman wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard said over his shoulder, "She's with the talent."

In characteristically-corny-Katie, the headset-and-clipboard-woman's brief statement went on repeat in my head. She's with the talent. If I were a peacock, I would have been slowly pacing along the end of the red carpet with a huge, open plume of feathers. If pride were helium, my head might have exploded.

"Why don't you go out on the red carpet and get a closer shot of her?" the bodyguard whispered to me.

"No way!" I hissed back. "I can't do that."

"Sure, you can," he insisted. "Hurry before you miss all the good shots."

I hesitated, too timid to set a foot on the red velvet in front of me. The simultaneous anticipation and fear of the unknown washed over me, much the way it did when I was riding up I-81 to begin my new life in New York City over three years ago. Much the way it did when I went apartment and job hunting to open the next chapter of my life. The risk of embarrassment at being shooed away as an outsider on this coveted Hollywood landscape loomed. But the idea of the personal shots I could get of my best friend being interviewed and photographed sparked some courage. I leaned toward him, "Will you go with me?"

He laughed, "Sure! Let's go."

So I did.


"Things I Love" Thursdays are inspired by "I Love New York" (BNY, February 14, 2007).
A Year Ago Today:
Official Quotes of Our NBA All-Star 2008
NBA All-Star 2008
Two Years Ago Today:
More Reasons to Love New York

Phenomenal Life

Last night I dined on gourmet cuisine and listened to Maya Angelou herself recite "Phenomenal Woman" ... for my job.

A Year Ago Today: No post
Two Years Ago Today: Better Day

You Want to Go Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Yesterday Natasha and I were sprawled on our couch immediately after work - already in pajamas - when the infamous promoter text messages began to beep in. One after the other. Like clockwork. We ignored one after the other, absent-mindedly deleting them as they came. But one prompted me to read it out loud: "Hey katie! Tonight jermaine dupri bday party @ tenjune + dinner at [restaurant eradicated to preserve the promoter's identity since I'm about to bash the mass text messaging strategy that he and other promoters enlist]."

I do not mind mass text messages from promoters. Sometimes they lead us to fabulous evenings. Sometimes they are fruitless promises of open bars and celebrity-infested affairs. But I absolutely despise when promoters send out mass text messages - which most of my friends receive at the same time because we all know most of the same promoters - and then resend it with "Hey katie!" at the beginning to make it seem like a personal, private invitation.

Promoters, I know you sent the same bait out to reel in dozens of beautiful women. I do not need to feel like I have an exclusive invitation to a nightclub to motivate me to respond. Honestly, I don't want to go to something to which only I - with my personalized text message invitation - was invited. I can drink alone at home and usually in my underwear with a bag of chips, a pint of ice cream, a spoon and a greasy napkin; I don't want to go somewhere that no one else was invited because it was so exclusive that you only invited me.

I find "exclusiveness" to be the most incredible, contradictory cliché. Many want to go to the most "exclusive" places, but we're only happy when the most "exclusive" places are packed to the brim. Perhaps "exclusivity" implies a night of multiple celebrity sightings. I am certainly guilty of the star struck-ism. I won't deny that I have seen Sarah Jessica Parker walk into the GRACE building on 42nd Street with TMZ cameras in tow (at 2:11pm on September 23, 2008) and stopped dead in my tracks to gawk, text my girlfriends and send an update to Twitter (which I recently joined despite my personal affirmation to avoid signing up for yet another online social networking site).

But bobbing my head in a nightclub full of celebrities, like Natasha and I did last night at Tenjune, is not always everything that it is cracked up to be. While we had an above-average good time drinking and dancing with each other, nights like that can sometimes leave me feeling pretty dull when I wake up the next morning. Even when reviewing the photo I took with Coco and Ice-T on my digital camera - which I finally had the courage to do after a few standard Vodka Sodas at our promoter's table - and others I shamelessly took of Irv Gotti and Busta Rhymes, who were all at tables immediately adjacent ours, I ultimately realize that I always have the most fun when I'm out with my girlfriends in a sea of no-name faces. The photos felt lame. I studied them for a moment and wondered why so many of us ask to take photos with people who have no idea who we are.

It was not as if we were unwillingly being fed to sharks.

But there is a conventional emptiness that often follows parties like those when you reflect on the type of night you had - yet duly realize your role: that no one in attendance cared whether you were there or not. You gained entrance through a promoter who was hired to market you as a glorified seat filler to take up the empty space between celebrities.

Sometimes you really just want to go where people know, people are all the same. You want to go where everybody knows your name.

A Year Ago Today: To Aspiring Transplants
Two Years Ago Today: Six Degrees of NYC

New York is My Washpot

Yesterday evening I was walking through the intersection of Varick and Franklin downtown in Tribeca to meet the Blogger Gals for our NYC Restaurant Week 2008 reservation at the upscale Vietnamese restaurant Mai House. As I walked unassumingly through a small crowd, I suddenly heard, "Action!"

I did a half-duck and hastened my pace across the street, realizing that I had just walked through a film set - whether it was for a movie or television production, I did not know. I did briefly observe a blonde girl in pink with her hair swooped to the left and pulled back in a neat ponytail. The director was frantically trying to get her to cross the busy intersection for his shot, and she was pointing to the passing cars and raising her arms in a questioning gesture. Assuming that the relatively small production crew was shooting an independent film of some sort, I took no further notice and continued on my way.

Later, Misguided Misadventures was able to ascertain that we each must have separately walked through a follow-up clip for America's Next Top Model or a recap for The Tyra Show on our respective commutes to meet at Mai House. The blonde in pink was Whitney, the first plus-size model to be crowned by Tyra Banks in Cycle 10.

At Mai House, I selected the Green Mango Salad (Chile Oil, Cilantro, Red Onion), Glazed Spare Ribs (Orange and Scallion Salad, Chiles, Ginger Caramel), and the Holy Basil Chocolate Ganache (Passion Fruit, Kumquat) from their Restaurant Week three-course menu, which was served by a pretty and friendly waitress, who did not treat us like "Restaurant Week patrons". We were provided with courteous and prompt service and were not rushed out for the next seating. And as always, I enjoyed good conversation with City Wendy, DrunkBrunch, Fiesty Red, Misguided Misadventures, and Satire City.

Meanwhile uptown on a beautiful tree-lined street in Hell's Kitchen, the A-List comedian / former SNL actor was picking up my roommate in a red Ferrari (rather than a few of the Jaguars we rode in last week, including a brand new one, which prompted me to show him my brand new yellow MetroCard, fully loaded from the 50th Street station showroom). During their third date, he invited her to ... California to see one of his shows, a photo shoot for a leading entertainment magazine ... and, oh yea, a little something called the Emmys in September.

"It is a cliché that most clichés are true, but then, like most clichés, that cliché is untrue."- Stephen Fry, Moab is My Washpot

A Year Ago Today: Phone Photo Ops - True High-Rise Profession
Phone Photo Ops - Self Help
Two Years Ago Today: Good Luck & Oh Yea

Sex and the City: The Movie ... Life and the City: The Reality

There are two movies in which I will readily admit to crying. Steel Magnolias when I was 9-years old and Sex and the City: The Movie when I was 28.

It was everything I thought it would be in a New York that is almost everything I had hoped for. Our plan was to avoid the larger opening-weekend crowds by purchasing advanced Saturday, 10am tickets at Loews 84th Street 6 on the Upper West Side. To secure good seats, we arrived early just in case, but we discovered that even 40 blocks north of Times Square was not a haven from the masses. At 9:15am, there was a line for the ticket counter and a line for the cinema. Groups of girls, who all had the same idea. Some prepared better than others, unpacking bagels and cappuccinos as they took their seats.

Ready and willing to overlook any of the movie's flaws for another chance to watch the next chapters of their lives unfold, my eyes began to well up as soon as the familiar theme song announced the opening credits. I looked around, feeling embarrassed in the darkness and saw the silhouettes of other 20-somethings wiping their eyes. A remix of the show's theme song continued, and the voiceover of Carrie Bradshaw reintroduced each of the characters one by one. All of my friends were crying by the time she got to Miranda.

Even reviews by male critics are giving the movie its share of kudos:
You want to know about “Sex and the City: The Movie”? Here’s the bottom line: It’s going to be a very, very big hit. I saw it on Saturday night at a private screening. Women wept, cheered. It’s the Neiman Marcus catalog on steroids. Read more

Well, not all men.

Sure, the SATC lives are not exactly the lives that my friends and I currently lead and had once imagined before we arrived in New York. But we see versions of ourselves in them. And though our realistic visions are not entirely adorned in Gucci or Chanel (but rather sprinkles here and there), our relationships are mirrored just as richly. For our clique and hundreds of cliques all over Manhattan, this is our New York. As the movie ended, Ra stretched her arms around us and cried, "I love you girls." I began to ball, but tried to disguise it in the darkness by laughing.

Rather than allow ourselves to be completely taken in by the fairytale of happy endings, where all of us achieve everything we've ever wanted, we enjoyed it for what it was: a movie. We knew that the reality of New York City waited just outside the cinema doors, but we had to let ourselves be swept up in the moment, and we embraced it.

A new line had already formed outside of the entrance as we emptied the theater, crying and laughing and temporarily seeing New York through rose-colored glasses. There were a few sprinkles of men gazing about reluctantly and obviously bewildered by the effects of estrogen mixed with SATC. But mostly women huddled together, anxiously anticipating their moment with Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha. On our faces, they could see that the movie was going to be everything they were hoping it would be.

And so we left the theater and walked out onto Broadway, proud to be the ultimate cliché. Spring in New York. Cliques of girls leaving Sex and the City: The Movie. Heading to brunch. Arms linked. Laughter through tears. Friendships in full bloom.

"... But “SATC” is also not a pratfall comedy. It has nothing in common with “The Devil Wears Prada,” for example. While the caricatures in that film were hilarious, the people in “SATC” are drawn more seriously, perhaps more richly. Also, we know them, and they know each other. They are not competing among themselves for anything. Rather, they are moving forward as a single organism with four personas, for survival.

What’s kind of interesting in “SATC” is that no villain is set up for the women to overcome. No one is standing in the way of each woman’s happiness except themselves. I kind of liked that. The formula is gone. Carrie is not vying for Big’s attention with a rival. Samantha is not shooing off Smith’s girlfriends. The problems are in the relationships, not outside of them. It’s refreshing."

Slow Blog Day

Sex and the City cliché. Sex and the City cliché. Blah, blah, blah. New York, New York. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Yet I can't help but wonder ... when Mariah Carey released "Vision of Love" and Nick Cannon was like four years old, did she ever think to herself, "There is a toddler out there somewhere listening to my music, and I'm going to marry him one day"?

And proof that New York City really does have everything:
Not your typical "beer run"
Pizza and the city tour

What Do Guacamole, Brisé volé, and Hookah Have in Common?

My first time experiencing the New York City Ballet at a sneak preview for their Spring Gala program - following dinner at Picante and preceded by a girlfriend's birthday party at Kush Lounge - can be summed up with one of my cliché moments last Saturday night.

In the front seat of a cab racing down Madison Avenue, I turned around and said to my three friends in the back, "Aren't our lives fabulous? Where else can you have a night out with your girlfriends that includes awesome Mexican food, a performance by the New York City Ballet, and a private party at a Hookah bar?"

Dear Younger Self

Dear Younger Self,

You won’t have what you thought you'd have by your late-20s. But you’ll be happy. You’ll have a 350-square foot apartment in Manhattan. A MetroCard. A job as an executive assistant surrounded by amazing women. You’ll have great friends, New York, phone calls from mom, Vodka sodas, Lox cream cheese and bagels.

You’ll realize something new about yourself often. You won't seek to constantly reinvent yourself, yet you might not ever really know everything about you because different parts of you will change – sometimes frequently. This should probably bother you, but it won’t.
You’ll wish you were wittier, and you’ll be a sucker for a sense of humor. You won’t fall in love easily, you won’t get attached easily, and you’ll have to be both of those things if you’re going to get jealous easily; you’ll be able to thank a military-brat upbringing for that. You will be nominated for the "Most Friendly" Senior Superlative at your second high school, and you’ll be a nice New Yorker 10 years later. But you’ll have a dark side, and you generally won’t trust those who don't. You’ll like to step back and absorb certain moments so that you can remember the details; you’ll do that most often when your friends are laughing.

You’ll crave cliché “Sex and the City” moments because it’s how you once pictured your life – minus, of course, the Manolo Blahniks, Upper East Side brownstones, and voluminous consumption of Magnolia Bakery cupcakes without gaining a pound. Your narrative thoughts and meaningful conversations won’t be set to background music, but you’ll have the fantasy in syndication and the real thing right outside your window. You won’t worry that your life is becoming a cliché because there'll be a reason that you are not the first to live life the way you’ll choose to live it. And you’ll want to be Melanie Griffith at the end of Working Girl when she calls her best friend and says, "Guess where I am right now."

Good and bad things will happen. So embrace varying levels of disappointment so that you’ll recognize rapturous joy. Floss your teeth regularly. Take chances. Don't settle for what’s easy; seek what’s worth it. Take random walks in this city. Look for sights you can't believe, listen for sounds that tug at your heart strings, savor the feelings that take your breath away. Eat more fruits and vegetables; drink more water. Allow yourself to be swept off your feet regularly. Save money and spend wisely. Live like Anthony Hopkins' in Meet Joe Black so that you can wake up one morning and say, "I don't want anything more."

When you write this letter, you still won’t know who you are exactly, but you’ll realize it and be ok with it. And you’ll see that the only thing that matters for any of us in the end is that we once existed. So laugh more, love more, live more. Because you can.

Love Always,
Your 28-Year Old Self

Working in digital advertising, I generally know that most publisher sweepstakes are motivated by sponsorship opportunities, advertising partnerships and increasing website pageviews. However, finding myself inspired by Marie Claire's "Letters to Your Younger Self" Sweepstakes, I recently combined thoughts I've expressed in my blog over the past year and a half in a letter to my younger self.

The first draft greatly exceeded the 500-word maximum, and I worked diligently to condense it per their rules. With a tendency to be verbose, writing within a maximum constraint has typically been harder for me than reaching a minimum, especially when I'm motivated by a topic. Perhaps I'll post the unrevised draft another time.

Unfortunately, due to my recent health condition, I forgot about the sweepstakes this week and only realized this morning that entries were due by 11:59pm yesterday. Bummer. On a personal level - since I did take this letter to my younger self quite seriously - it's more appropriate anyway that it appear here in my blog, where I can read it whenever I want to reminisce on my journey of becoming a New Yorker - and ultimately of becoming me.

From "Marie Claire invites you to Win a New York City Adventure":
This contest is inspired by Ellyn Spargins' WHAT I KNOW NOW series of books featuring famous women who share their personal letters. To get tips for how to write a letter your younger self, visit www.letterstomyyoungerself.com.

THE THREE MOST INSPIRING LETTER ENTRANTS WILL WIN [Assuming that my letter would have been good enough to win anyway]:
- A two-night trip to New York City [I already live here]
- An exciting photo shoot - a picture from each winner's photo session will be featured alongw ith their letter in an upcoming issue [It might have blown my blogger anonymity; not that enough people even read my blog to determine a connection]
- Lunch with Ellyn Spargins and a Marie Claire editor [That would have been pretty cool]
- Gift bag complete with a pair of YOU by CrocsTM shoes [28-year old women should not be wearing Crocs; strike 2 if you decorate yours with charms]

United Colors of Benetton

Tonight is Girls' Night.
Meet the cast of characters from my nightlife in New York City.
We're like the United Nations or a gang of Disney Fairies.



Clockwise from top (with fairy correlation):
Natasha M., (Tasha) the film and TV voice over/actress (the adorable blonde)
Ra, the shoe designer (the token Black hottie*)
Iris, the handbag designer (the gorgeous White girl with an ass)
Mayra, the international manufacturing, research and multimedia supervisor (the Equedorian with the entire exotic package, including the sexy accent)
Me, executive assistant, blog author (the half Filipina/half White girl with long hair)

*Featured as the Token Black Fairy in our Disney remake and representing for:
Gina, the fashion merchandiser who just moved to LA
Debasha, the fashion corporate merchandise planner

Other main characters:
Tokii, the best friend, whose acting career takes her away from the city more and more and takes my heart with her wherever she goes (the next Tia & Tamara Mowry by appearance; next Angela Bassett by trade)
Annisha, the publishing marketer (the Caribbean beauty)
Candice, the sexy flight attendant (the Black Southern belle)
Cassie, the Connecticut-based, soon-to-be-fulltime-New Yorker, hot nanny that I would never hire to be eye candy for my husband in my home, and one of the top five prettiest people I've ever seen in real life (Puerto Rican with a Southern accent - does it get any hotter than that?)

The most interesting part of the above list is that all of us, with the exception of Annisha (from Trinidad & Tobago), are from or have lived in North Carolina.

There aren't too many Disney references that can be applied to our unmarried-gals-in-the-city lives, but this blog is full of cliché Sex and the City quotes. Many of my cliché moments are inspired by the most important women in my life within the five boroughs ... although that area is quickly expanding to encompass the world.

"Things I Love" Thursdays - My Friends

I just want to take a moment to blog about how much I love my friends. How lucky I am. How I love this New York life, despite the outrageous cost of mediocre-to-poor living conditions, the horrific commutes and city grit. Because out of the ruff of it all, I have great friends to fill it with all of the cliché moments that make you love life.

When I returned from England last Sunday and my cell phone reconnected with Verizon Wireless towers for the first time in a over a week, I had 11 voicemails and 77 text messages. Jessica and Kamata sang "Happy Birthday" together. Jamario and Stephanie left a joint birthday voicemail. Daphne left her trademark oration regarding the blessedness of my day. Those were the ones that definitely stood out.

Roughly half of the texts were from New York club promoters sending mass messages regarding nightly Manhattan hot spots. Various versions of: "Free entry and comp bottle service on my list at the door." A cellular salute to the aquisitively exclusive New York nightlife. But the other half were from friends who thought of me on my birthday or couldn't wait for me to get back to New York.

Some of my favorite text messages:

"Happy Birthday 2 u, happy birthday 2 u, happy birthday dear K8T, happy birthday 2 uuuuuu! If we aren't married by the time we turn 30-I'm asking u 2 marry me:-)"

"We're missin our girl! Hurry up and come back!"

"Happy Birthday girl! We're doing it up big when you get back to ny."

"Ur gay ass Giants earned themselves another ass kickin by the Patriots on Feb 4th! Go Randy Moss!>!:->"

And now I am leaving to join five girlfriends at Aspen on West 22nd Street for our Restaurant Week reservation. Good food, fine wine, great friends and a fabulous Manhattan.

"Things I Love" Thursdays are inspired by "I Love New York" (BNY, February 14, 2007).

I Know How You Like [It]

Regarding a clean bathroom, that is the sweetest thing a man can say to a woman with undiagnosed mild OCD. I called Terrence this evening to let him know that I could not find the XXXXL items from Foot Locker that he wanted me to bring to England. I had been to two different Foot Lockers in the city and could only find up to XXXL on the days that I went.

“That’s because all the short dudes, who don’t really need them, want to wear big clothes,” he said. At 6’9” with a 7’1” wingspan, clothes shopping can often present a challenge. After some brief chitchat regarding my travel preparations, I said, “Let me call you later so I can enjoy this pedicure.”

A few minutes later, he called me back, “Are you ok?”

It is generally easy to gauge my moods, but I was reminded of how he can read me like no one else can – even from across the Atlantic Ocean, “Just a little stressed.”

“Why?” he asked. I replied that I was just trying to wrap up everything at work, run my own errands and get the list of United States items he had requested [e.g. Texas Pete hot sauce, a framed photo collage of me (a belated-Christmas/birthday present per his specific request, which I have felt like a total narcissist creating), Lupe Fiasco and Cassidy’s newly-released CDs, in addition to the long-sleeve thermals].

“Let those be the last of your worries,” he said, “If you can’t get it all, don’t worry about it. Enjoy your pedicure and relax. I’m going to go clean this bathroom (he shares a 4-bedroom house with three of his BBL teammates).”

“Don’t forget to scrub under the toilet seat,” I laughed.

“I’ve got this,” he replied. “I know how you like the bathroom to be. I’ll call you later.”

I spent the rest of this evening at my apartment with Ra (a shoe designer from Orlando) and Mayra (an international manufacturing, research and multimedia supervisor from Ecuador by way of NC – yet another Carolinian up here), who came up to Harlem to enjoy cheap manicures and pedicures, a large bottle of Trader Joe’s wine and take-out while I packed for my trip. At some point during the random girl talk, Mayra said in her gorgeous South American accent, “I am so glad I found good friends in New York. I was so afraid I wouldn’t.”

I thought of my blog and all the young, unmarried women like us, striving to make it in New York City because we couldn’t find the life we wanted anywhere else. Queue cliché quote from my favorite episode of “Sex and the City”:

"It would be childish of us to deny that our lives weren't changing. But for this night, none of us were going anywhere. That's the thing about really good friends and a really great Manhattan."
~ Carrie Bradshaw

New York knows how I like it.

When I See New York

"This study proves my long-held hypothesis that we never get over our first love ... because the first time we fall in love is one of the most unconditional and near-perfect loves we will ever experience - a love like no other - because the human heart is never more open and impressionable; it's never been broken ... [if you were to see your first love right now] ... your hands would get clammy, your pulse would race, your eyes would dilate, and if I was taking an MIR of your brain, it would show increased activity in its most primitive areas ... First love is a permanent physiological, as well as psychological, condition, which proves the mind-body connection ... What you're looking at is the primitive part of a 56-year-old man's brain, who himself is looking at someone he's never seen before. Now here is an MRI of the same man's brain after showing him a picture of a woman he was in love with 40 years ago. See? All the activity firing way."
- A researcher to Jenny "Side Order of Life," the First Loves episode (aired Sun, 8/26).

I don't know if there has ever been conclusive research done on first love phenomena. A brief Google search produced no data, but I remember learning in a college human sexuality course that the pupils dilate when humans see someone they find attractive and there are various chemical or electrical reactions in the brain.

I realized this week that I experience a similar natural high whenever I see Manhattan's skyline, whether it's an image, a video or while flying or driving into or out of the city. I saw Fantasia's video "When I See You" for the first time, and as the images of New York flashed, I felt a lightness in my chest, butterflies in my stomach and a pleasant peace of mind that I associate with seeing someone I love. And I'm certain that if one were taking an MRI of my brain, he or she would witness increased activity.

So I'm still totally in newlywed bliss with this city after one year as a Manhattanite, and it's totally sick, corny and cliche, but just like everyone who has ever loved someone more than anyone else could, nobody loves this city like I do.

Annus mirabilis

A year ago today, I posted my first entry in this blog ... and what a difference a year makes.

On July 1, 2006, I was anxiously working my way (via three jobs) through my last 30 days in North Carolina, lamenting over TV dinner days and pan de sal nights, insomnia, nights off with no life, and nervously awaiting my move to New York City. I had no idea, not a clue, what adventures - good, bad or ugly - awaited me.

On July 1, 2007 - and 471 blog posts later - I spent a quiet Sunday morning exploring Tribeca on one of my city walks, with a cup of iced cafe latte from Starbucks and dark black sun glasses, before returning to my uptown apartment for a lazy afternoon. One job. Weekends off. Bills paid. No debt. A monthly MetroCard, and keys to a tiny studio with a small view of the Hudson.

Of all the posts I've marked as memorable moments in my first year of becoming a New Yorker, my favorite has to be my cliche New Years' Eve moment. It was the night I achieved the goal I had made for myself along that long stretch of I-40 over a year and a half before - the night I realized that not all of my dreams will come true, but some of them will.

If what "they say" from my first blog entry is true, I have 9 years and 30 days to go.

Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.

Phone Photo Ops - Drinking in the Skyline

Stages of sunset from the rooftop bar at 230 Fifth during Happy Hour with Terrence (boyfriend visiting from Atlanta), Jenny and Victoria (coworkers), Matt (Jenny's current main squeeze) and new acquaintances.






It was an evening of overpriced drinks and great conversation and the cliché ideal of how I had once envisioned my life in New York City. I also take those corny mental snapshots of people and moments I want to remember. I have one of Jenny.

The sun was setting over the Hudson River, Bruce Hornsby and The Range's song "The Way It Is" was playing on the outdoor roofdeck speakers, and she leaned toward Terrence and me and was laughing at something funny he had said. I didn't tell her that she had just created a moment that I will always remember, but I did say out loud, "Isn't this life great?"

I've been saying that a lot since I moved to New York.

Relationship Clichés

No committed blogger wants their blog to become a cliché, but I can't help referencing the "Sex and the City" axioms conveyed by Carrie Bradshaw during the six great seasons of love, sex, friendship, brunches, unaffordable shoes and Manhattan.

My days in New York City aren't episodes of being-Carrie-Bradshaw with Manolo Blahniks, Upper East Side brownstones (that were actually filmed downtown and continue to bring hordes of tourists that drive the locals crazy) and voluminous consumption of Magnolia Bakery cupcakes without gaining a pound. But it's nice to come home to my Manhattan apartment and take a break from reality with a TV show starring the city that I love ... even if I have to wonder how many times Carrie "can't help but wonder ..."

Tonight a repeat of the series finale aired on TBS, and Carrie spoke the last of her immortal clichés: "Later that day, I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic. Those that are old and familiar. Those that bring up lots of questions. Those that bring you somewhere unexpected. Those that bring you far from where you started. But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you that you love ... well, that's just fabulous!"

New York transplants - like me - develop a relationship with this city. We walk a thin line between love and hate. The city grows to become old and familiar yet never fails to provide the new and exotic. It brings questions and unexpected answers. And it's taking me further from where I started than any other city could. Maybe because I want it to take me.

The New Yorkers who go the distance are the ones who always find 10 reasons to love this city for every one reason they hate it. It's what draws millions to move here and keeps few from following excuses to leave.

I've accepted that I'll never turn the key to my own Manhattan brownstone or slip on a pair of Manolo Blahnicks bought at full purchase price, and my narrative thoughts and meaningful conversations aren't set to background music, but I have the fantasy in syndication and the real thing right outside my window.

I can see "Sex and the City" from the beginning again next Tuesday on TBS, and I can find myself becoming a New Yorker right here whenever I want. It's not that I don't want my life to become a cliché, but there's a reason why I'm not the first to live life the way I am choosing to live it.

Better Than Chocolate

Tokii really wanted me to see a play called "Better Than Chocolate," a production by the Second Year (Group 38) students in The Juilliard Drama Division. So I went back to Lincoln Center this afternoon to catch the 5 p.m. show. "The Greeks," in which Tokii portrays several roles, was showing again at 8 p.m. and she had already seen "Better Than Chocolate" this weekend so I attended alone.

"I really want you to see this play by the Second Years," she had said. "So try to make it."

She knows me. When she says I'll like something, I believe her. And I loved it.

She had just seen a play today in the 2007 Playwright Project Schedule by another group of Second Years at 1:30 p.m. called "Farragut North," and according to a text message I received as I was walking to the train: "... a juilliard playwright wrote it & now 2 big hollywood studios r fighting over the script. George Clooney and Leo DiCaprio want it bad! Not to mention they're tryn 2 get it done on b'way."

I am always blown away by the talent I am privileged to witness at The Juilliard School, but "Better Than Chocolate" was especially appealing to me. It was your typical love story cliche. A New Yorker in her late 20s searching for love, of course, and a man from New Jersey that she finds via a website in the match.com genre. The conflict: how could a relationship survive with the Hudson River between them?

It was "Sex and the City" meets He Said, She Said in a Juilliard rehearsal project. And it was oddly parallel to the long distance relationships that both Tokii and I are living. Except that I want to remain a New Yorker; Tokii wants to trade the Manhattan high rises for the freeways of L.A. While her fiance - an overseas basketball player - plans to follow her there and take up permanent California residence in the off-season, my future with Terrence is still under deliberation.

He's a down-south Georgia boy raised in Atlanta; I'm a military brat transplant seeking long-term Big Apple residency and the authentic time-based New Yorker title. It will ultimately come down to what each of us is willing to give up, but we don't think about that now.

Rehearsal projects [in The Juilliard School Drama Division] are laboratory exercises for developing the actor's process and a yardstick for measuring their ability to apply and integrate what they've learned in their classes. These projects also challenge the students to practice putting all that work on themselves into something larger than themselves: the creation together of the world of the play and bringing other peoples' stories to life.

The third project of the Second Year breaks the class into three groups and give each of them the opportunity to work with and serve writers studying in the Playwrights Program, and with outside professional directors, in the development of new plays. It also give them a chance to learn their roles in bringing new plays to life.

Brunching in the City

I met Eileen and Gina B. for brunch in Soho at Cafe Noir. Eileen is in fashion design and Gina is in fashion merchandising for the same company. Along with fashionable friends, brunch is something that is so New York. In the South, I'd argue that brunch is only something that one might do after a Sunday church service. But even then, it's not referred to as "brunch" in the same trendy way that it is referred to as "brunch" in New York City.

Brunch is the perfect way to start a Saturday. It gets you out of bed, but not too early. We met at 12:30 p.m. - but weekend brunches in New York can go as late as 4 p.m., or so I've been told. With the temptation to stay in bed all day, brunch is a fabulous reason to get out of your apartment and enjoy the city. And once you're out in Manhattan, it's easy to stay out.

We talked about work, men, clothes, bags and Super Bowl plans for tomorrow. After we had finished our cappuccinos, omelets, soups, salads and slices of bread that you could dip in olive oil, we continued to chat for another hour. The bartender sent out a pitcher of sangria on the house, and we sipped and laughed away the day.

I know it's a cliche Sex & the City moment, but days like today were exactly how I fantasized back in North Carolina that my life would one day be like in New York City. Brunch, sangria and a Saturday afternoon.

Entering the Late 20s

“Here’s what no one ever tells you about your 20s. You’ll still have no clue who you really are, and you will be the last one to know it. When I was a kid, I thought I’d have it all figured out. By the ancient age of 28, I’d have a glamorous husband, a successful career, possibly a castle …”
- Playing House, LMN

Tomorrow I turn 27 years old. And I have a 300 square-foot studio apartment, a subway pass and an entry-level position surrounded by amazing, sophisticated women who all unintentionally make me feel 17. I know it's because I'm young and naïve in the industry.

I don't have what I thought I'd have by my late-20s, but I’m happy. I have great friends, New York, a job on 42nd Street between Times Square and Grand Central, a boyfriend who flies up from Atlanta whenever he can, a supportive family I can call on whenever I need them, Tequila Tuesdays with coworkers, and DVR to record LOST while I’m working late or out on the town.

Tokii and I were talking the other day about those lists that teenage girls make describing their perfect man ... which seems realistic when encompassed by the optimism of childhood but progressively converts to fiction as youth is absorbed by age. I think I actually wrote out a list when I was 14.

Neither of us had thought about our lists in years. We've stopped needing those lists to figure out what we wanted from someone else. Let's face it; you can't truly know what you want from someone else until you know who you are. And as I've been learning who I am, I realized that the list of qualities I had expected of my perfect man were actually the qualities I wanted in me.

When you create that list as a kid with the intention of sizing up a potential partner, sometimes you're actually sizing up yourself and who you want to be. I'm not exactly who I thought I'd be by the time I turned 27 years old. In fact, I'm still figuring that part out. But I don't mind if I'm the last to know as long as I eventually know it.

They say that life doesn't always turn out the way you plan. That saying is so cliché and I'm so glad that it is.