Boathouse restaurant New York City

My husband and I celebrated our 3rd anniversary this week and we had to laugh at how our anniversary plans always seem to fall through.

This was our first one in New York City, so we wanted it to be really fun. Since I've been wanting to take a carriage ride through Central Park, we decided on the park's Boathouse restaurant, thinking we could eat dinner first and then do a carriage ride after words. (And it doesn't hurt that this restaurant happens to be in my favorite TV show of all time--Sex and the City, and in one of my favorite movies, 27 Dresses).

Courtesy: Iamnotastalker.com

I made reservations on Thursday night at 7:45 p.m. Since we live near the park, we decided to walk to dinner. It had just stopped raining, so walking the 1.2 miles there was like walking through the swampy Florida everglades. It didn't take long for my hair to become a full-on 'fro. The plus side though-- the park was nearly empty except for a few lost foreign tourists.

By the time we weaved our way there, it was a toss-up on what was more miserable--my swollen feet stuffed into high heels or the sweat running down my back. I have to admit I was a little disheartened when I realized the Boathouse restaurant is entirely outdoors, so with 80+ degree weather and 100% humidity, there was no way to cool down. Even the bathroom attendant looked like she was going to pass out.

We checked in with the hostess who told us it would be a little bit of a wait, but we could get drinks at the bar. I sat down, hoping to reduce my heat stroke symptoms and regain consciousness while Mike got us drinks. The female bartender looked at him once, twice, three times... and nothing. She helped everyone around him, including people who came up to the bar after him. He eventually stopped trying. (Did she not see how good-looking he was??? Sheesh.)

After awhile, the crowds cleared out, so we sat at a table near the hostess stand. We then noticed people around us were getting tables, so I went to check on our status. When I gave our name, the hostess said:

"Oh, is your entire party here now?"

Me: "Um, what do you mean? My husband and I have been sitting 10 feet away from you for an hour."

Her: "Oh, um, he told me he was waiting for you to arrive."

Liar, liar, pants on fire. This is hostess speak for "We forgot about you."

She then handed me a buzzer and said it would be a few more minutes while I simultaneously contemplated all the places I could shove that buzzer.

We left.

While walking the 1.2 miles back home, we decided we would still try to make it a fun night and get a carriage ride. With nearly bloody-feet, I hobbled to the nearest carriage and asked for a ride, but quickly realized every tourist had the same idea and they were all taken.

Sigh. (Would it be wrong to hire a homeless man to give me a piggyback ride?)

We ended up going to a cute little Italian restaurant in our neighborhood and had a great dinner. And luckily, we didn't spend $300 like our anniversary debacle of 2011.

Sweaty 1.2 mile walk=shiny forehead

We toasted to another year of wedded bliss and fewer days of sweaty butt crack.

I told Mike later, I guess if our biggest anniversary problem is that we didn't get good service at a nice New York City restaurant, we're doing pretty well.

Happy Anniversary MikeE!

Miss Utah answer

"What's easy in life...being critical. What's hard....chasing your dreams." 

This is a portion of my Facebook status today describing my thoughts on the whole Miss Utah flub during last night's Miss USA pageant. By now, I'm sure you've probably seen the clip where Marissa Powell is asked about income inequality. She struggled through the answer, and now today, everyone is talking about it. I've seen people make comments questioning her intelligence--and even the intelligence of all women in pageants-- and it's maddening.

It's maddening because I've been in Marissa's high-heeled shoes. I competed as Miss Wyoming in the Miss USA 2002 pageant and honey, let me tell you, there is nothing scarier than a) a row of judges all staring at you while jotting down notes b) dozens of cameras, bright lights and hundreds of stage hands c) thousands of people in a live audience d) the knowledge that 5.8 million people are watching you from home. Does anything about the previous description sound like the nurturing environment you need to articulate your thoughts about income inequality, DNA testing or wire tapping?

Here I am praying the judges don't ask me about Osama Bin Laden

I can tell you before I competed, I practiced for months for the interview portion. It was right after September 11th and the country had just declared war, which meant my Army brother was likely going to be deployed. It was also the time when Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl had just been killed, and as a fellow journalist, I tried to think of every possible question the judges would ask me about our increasingly turbulent world.

Finally after months or preparation and planning, I felt pumped and ready for the preliminary competition. In my new business suit, I went in and faced my judges, excited to answer any tough questions they threw my way. But instead, I got this....

"Jeannie, I see here you like to cross-stitch. Why is that?"

Um, what? Apparently, I had listed cross-stitching as like #71 on my list of extra-curricular activities, and some strange judge thought that was the best thing he could ask me. You might think I would have enjoyed such an easy question, but nope, I fumbled my way through, realizing I never thought about how to answer a question like that. (Thankfully, this was pre-Twitter and Facebook, so no one could write, "Miss Wyoming bombs during pageant Q&A.")

As I said on Facebook today, it's very easy to judge others from behind the anonymous screens of our computers, but I think we should all take a step back and think, "Could I have done better?" Instead of criticizing Miss Utah, how about giving her a little credit for doing something 5.8 million viewers at home could never do.

And perhaps the next time we screw up at work during a presentation or conference call, we can laugh and think--mistakes don't make us stupid. They make us human.

Temperature in New York City, Part II

Who knew getting air conditioning in a pre-war New York City apartment could be so dangerous?

In my last post, I told you about the incredibly hot weekend last weekend with temperatures in the 90's and no a/c in our apartment. On Saturday night, the thermostat peaked at 89 degrees. Holy moly! I literally laid on the couch all day and ate popsicles. It was too hot to do anything else.

Finally on Sunday, Mike came home from Chicago, so we decided to install our window a/c unit which had been sitting on the bedroom floor all weekend, taunting me with uselessness. The instructions said you should start by cleaning the window, so I did just that.

Nothing to see here

Yep, I cleaned the windows from the fire escape in my pajamas because it was too hot to wear anything else. (Anything legal, that is.)

Then as we were lifting the 67-pound unit into our window, Mike's hand slipped and before I knew it, it was a scene from a Martin Scorsese movie. There was blood everywhere, including in every slit of the a/c. It even looked like a part of his finger was missing.

Well, apparently in a time of crisis, I'm not exactly what you'd call a "Cool Kitty." I panicked, screamed, kept yelling "Oh my god, OH MY GOD!" and even blacked out for a few seconds. Luckily Mike was able to multi-task bleeding to death while calming his wife down. He serenely told me, "It's okay. I'm fine."

Thankfully, he is okay and still has all 10 fingers minus a few fingerprints. He also knows he can never murder me because his DNA is all over our apartment.

After the blood bath, we decided to call a handyman to finish the job. Hiring "Kimani" was the best $80 I've ever spent.

Now, I'm wondering what I'm going to do when we have kids, because I hear they bleed. A lot. And I'm guessing Kimani will not be able to bail me out then.

Temperature in New York City

"There's nothing quite like having back sweat at 10 a.m." Jeannie Crofts

It is HOT in New York City. After a wacky couple of weeks of up and down temperatures which included plenty of cold, jacket-wearing days, it is now in the "you didn't know you could sweat there" range. Yesterday hit 90 (which felt like 93 with the humidity and 103 with all the concrete) and today is going to be the same.

Now don't get me wrong, I love wearing flip-flops, short-shorts and tube tops as much as the next 34-year old who should have given up that dream years ago, but there's a certain kind of hot that even the skimpiest of outfits can't fix: the apartment with no a/c.

Of course, I wasn't expecting our pre-war, 1890 building to have central air, but we don't even have a window unit. I guess in NYC, that's the kind of item you take with you when you leave (along with bed bugs.)

On Thursday before the heat wave, I met Mike at Bed, Bath and Beyond so we could purchase our first window a/c unit. It actually worked pretty well: we bought it and then for an extra $15, the store delivered it the next day.  Two very, sweaty men graciously lugged the 67-pound unit up four flights of stairs.

But here's the problem: Mike went out of town that day, so we weren't able to install it. I opened the box that now sits on our bedroom floor, but when I turned the a/c on, it pumped out just as much hot air in the back as it did cold air in the front. It's basically the electrical version of a politician.

I tried calling a handyman to install it, but I must not be the only one in this "the sweat has now reached my butt crack" predicament, because he texted back at 1:30 a.m this morning, saying he is booked up until Monday.

So here I sit, looking like I just got out of hot yoga and it's not even 11 a.m. yet. Does anyone know if you can swim in the Hudson River?

 

New York City post office

Ugh. I just received the pink slip of death. It's the notice saying I missed a package the post office tried to deliver, so now I have to go pick it up in person. I'd think I'd rather eat a bad bean burrito and then ride the subway for two hours.

What's that you say? I should have it redelivered? That's a great idea--only that doesn't work in New York City. Every time I've rescheduled a post office delivery online, it sends me a confirmation e-mail showing the new delivery date....only....the package never comes. You see, my postman doesn't WANT to redeliver it, therefore he doesn't. It's a simple as that.

Going to our local post office branch is quite the experience. When you walk in, you are immediately greeted by a long line of people with screaming babies and adults with death looks on their faces. Every counter is secured with what appears to be bullet-proof glass, and each post office worker looks like they've made it their mission to consume 10,000 calories a day. And if you thought the customer's faces were bad, just look at the workers who look like they're secretly plotting all the ways they'd like to kill you.

Then you wait in line, and realize even though there are five or so workers behind the counters, only the most obese one is actually helping customers, so the wait is at least 20 minutes. Your heart races at the sheer frustration of it all, and you start secretly plotting all the ways you'd like to get behind that bullet-proof glass.

When it's finally your turn, you show the worker your pink slip of death, which is greeted by an audible sigh and a roll of the eyes. They then slowly waddle to the back room to find your package, and stay there for at least another 20 minutes. Surely your package is not in New Jersey, is it?

The worker then waddles back and says your package is no where to be found. She instructs you to move down to window #8 and when you do, you realize no one is working at window #8. You've just been punked.

You look down at your pink slip and read the words, "Sorry We Missed You," knowing that's really only mocking you, because they are not sorry at all.

Another 10 minutes or so, and another disgruntled waddler shuffles to window #8 and takes your pink slip again. She then spends another 10 minutes in the back room and when she has nearly given up, voila, she realizes the package was on the first shelf she checked. Oops. She then lifts her side of the bullet-proof glass and places your package on the counter which can only be accessed after she has closed her side....I suppose so you're not able to slip a gun underneath.

As you walk away, you're pretty sure she is giving you the middle finger.

Oh, and did I mention the UPS and FedEx guys are always nice, and will gladly run up four flights of stairs to deliver packages? Our postman would surely die if he tried that, either from a heart attack or after tripping over his baggy pants.

And you wonder why the post office is going broke....

Smoking in New York City

Men--I'm going to share a little secret with you. There is one thing that is the biggest turn-off, like literally a deal-breaker. You can be handsome and successful and charming, but if you do this one thing, woman will go running for the hills.

I'm talking about smoking.

Last night, my girlfriends and I went to the Ava Lounge, a rooftop bar in Midtown that has absolutely gorgeous views of the city and Times Square. I loved the outdoor garden feel it provided. But we weren't there more than about 10 minutes before nearly every man started lighting up. Cigarettes...cigars, you name it. It was disgusting.

Beautiful view. The smell? Not so great

Perhaps we're spoiled by Mayor Bloomberg and NYC smoking laws that are some of the strictest in the nation, but we felt like this shouldn't be allowed. Can't you just enjoy nature and city views without lighting up?

Two dorky looking businessmen next to us were both smoking nasty cigars and of course, their smoke was blowing right in our faces. So with the courage of a few cocktails, I went up to them and asked them to kindly move because the smell was "so gross."

In their English accents, one said mockingly to me, "Our cigars smell so gross?" He smiled and they both laughed.

So I mocked him back with my best fake English accent, "That's right, they smell sooooo gross."

Neither one moved. I'm totally telling Prince William on them.

At this point, we can no longer breathe

Another man came up to our table to chat with us, and of course, he had a cigarette in his hand. We "politely" told him how gross he smelled and to please leave. Ha! Not the reaction he was hoping for, I'm guessing.

See men, is this what you want? Not only that, smoking makes your breath bad, your hands smell and lowers your sperm count. What part of that is attractive?

Sheesh. And you wonder why you're still single.

New York City living

This is the "Friends" apartment. I bet it didn't smell

On the very small island of Manhattan, you're at the mercy of your neighbors. If they smoke, you second-hand smoke. If they love cooking with curry, your hair and clothes will make it smell like you do too. If they like to listen to loud mariachi music at midnight, you might as well fall asleep with maracas in your hand. And if the little old lady in apartment #4 smells like she's harboring dead bodies in her apartment, well, you may as well pray that you will eventually lose your sense of smell.

I have only seen our neighbor in #4 a handful of times. She will shuffle to the mailbox and back once a day, and that's it. When she comes out, she will only crack her door a small amount, but it's enough to see a hoarder's delight. Newspapers, magazines, trash...you name it. I joke that she's like the Pig-Pen character from Peanuts, and you can pretty much see the cloud of dirt and dust seeping from underneath her door.

But recently, the smell became worse. Like as soon as you opened the building's front door, the odor from her apartment smacked you in the face. And even though we live four floors above her, the smell was starting to seep upstairs. Not even our air purifier or endless plug-ins from Bath and Body Works could cover up the smell of death.

I started coming up with all sorts of scenarios. Did her cat die but she refused to say goodbye, therefore, Puss 'N Boots decayed on her kitchen table? Did her husband die, but she kept him around so she could collect his Social Security checks?

I called our landlord's office, and asked for them to do a welfare check on her, wondering if maybe she had gone to the great beyond. (Obviously not Bed, Bath & Beyond.) The office assured me she was alive and well (and probably in a rent-controlled apartment) and that there had been other complaints as well. So many, in fact, they had police and fire come do a welfare check, but she wouldn't let them into her apartment.

Yep, it must be a dead body.

Well, I'm not sure what finally happened, but Mike said he saw a cleaning lady working on her apartment recently. Can you imagine what that job was like? Alas, the smell is better and all that remains is a black pile of grime right outside her door, evidence of some sort of major clean-up.

Thank god.

Now what can we do about that potent urine smell on the sidewalks?....