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West Coast Balla Reunion

So I’ve received some requests to hear a little bit about my recent vacation to the West Coast. First of all shout out to Jeremy at Auberge! I know this mention isn’t as great as the televised broadcast from Chelsea Handler, but our visit was part of a magical time in California. For those that don’t know, last week I enjoyed a glorious interlude outside of New York City. During my travels to Napa/San Francisco, I experienced the splendor of gay bars, old friends, and wine tasting and for a few short days I was treated to a world of joy and perfection. With no e-mails and emergencies to deter me, I was able to fully dedicate myself to a weekend of awesomeness.

The entire trip embodied perfection, but it was after an idyllic day, sampling the sweet god given nectar of the vineyards, it was determined that I am going to need to immediately win the lottery so that I can move to the West Coast and open a winery of my very own. My dreary New York existence has run its course and it has become clear that rather than devote myself to an office on a day to day basis, I should be strolling through my own plot of vines, plucking ripened fruit, meeting with cheese vendors, and sampling barrel upon barrel of vino.

Within moments I am skipping through rows and rows of trellised grapes of my very own in my mind. I have selected the perfect piece of bucolic bliss and designed the perfect contemporary farmhouse. I have planted vegetable gardens, installed window treatments, and hired a staff. Just as I am about to harvest my 2009 Cabernet Sauvignon, I am torn from my reverie by the need to move on to our next winery. As disappointing, as it was to realize I was in actuality not a vintner at all, but still a tourist, our following destinations somehow continued to outperform the previous.

All in all it was a perfect getaway. The sun was a little brighter, the air a little warmer, and the people just a touch nicer. Although, I am East Coast through and through, it was sad to leave behind my little slice of heaven. I will miss all the wonderful little San Franciscans, the elusive hilliness, the fabulous day drinking, and the enviable lifestyle. Most likely I will remain in NYC for the foreseeable future, but do know that the moment I hit gold, I will be returning to proliferate the Brady Vineyard empire.

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I am a hot streaky mess

To celebrate my oldest best friend in the world’s birthday this weekend, I decided I wanted to look extra snazzy. Due to the fact that I am essentially translucent, a large part my party preparation included a hefty application of self-tanner. So on my thrilling Friday evening between the washing and drying cycle of my laundry I busted out my newly procured self-tanning lotion. I figured an hour would be enough time for me to acquire the desired level of bronzness so I put on some trashy entertainment TV and got to work.

It seemed easy enough. The lotion was tinted so I could see exactly what I was doing to avoid streaking and the bottle did mention that it wouldn’t stain my clothes post application. “Perfect!” I thought to myself . It seemed foolproof. “What kind of a self tanning novice could screw this up?: It was just what I needed in order to gain a hue darker that white chalk. Minutes later I was shimmery and bronzed just like a Greek Goddess in my professional opinion. The bottle didn’t mention anything about drying time so I preemptively waited about a half an hour for good measure and merrily proceeded along with my evening.

I fell asleep in my newly cleaned apartment with dreams of a gloriously tanned future. So imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning amidst an orange sticky mess. Slowly I opened one eye to notice a giant orange splotch to my right. In horror I tore off my sheets only to notice orange streaks down the entire length of my body. Orange splotches covered my innocently by standing stuffed rabbit. I jumped up in a panic. Orange prints blanketed nearly every surface of my apartment, as I made my way to the bathroom frantically to gaze at my carrot hued face. The sexy glow I was seeking has gone to the wayside and I now more closely resemble my orange striped cat. I am hoping to be able to bleach and exfoliate away this mess but in the event this is not possible, I am sorry Andre! Happy Birthday!

The Streets.

Walking in NYC presents several challenges and eccentricities, which I typically adore, sometimes abhor, and other times sprint away from in humiliation. Interestingly, this week, I had a little of all three.

It all started when I saw David Duchovny. Apparently this recently appointed sex addict has a new series on television, but it is Fox Mulder that gets me riled up. So I am prancing down 77th street when I noticed him with his wife, with whom my Mom informs me he is” working it out” with, and two kids. I waddled past him in full on bag lady attire complete with two overloaded shopping bags, an overnight bag, and an ill-fitting sweatshirt. As we made eye contact, a familiar feeling greeted me. Every time I see a celebrity I get a little shimmer of satisfaction that affirms my city of choice. Even if that particular celebrity stares you up and down like a liability to said city of choice.

So I am a celebrity whore and gather sightings like a rodent prior to hibernation, giddy to bring back the loot to the nest, aka the girls at work. Okay so celebrity sightings are fun, especially when you spot same celebrity a few days later looking much less bag lady-ish. What is less fun and while abhor might be a bit strong, certain run ins with street dwellers leave me at a constant state of unease. I am all about the homeless don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those never give a dollar, just get up and get a job ranters, however it does leave me mildly uncomfortable to know that I am essentially walking through someone else’s living room at any given moment of any given day.

Anyway case in point, I am gallivanting home from work today having a glorious time when I noticed a little abandoned bed on a church stoop. There was a nice soft rolled up pillow and a cozy looking sleeping bag. There was even a newspaper for pre bedtime reading. I wondered for a moment why anyone would abandon this glorious abode until I looked about30 degrees to my right to notice the apparent tenant urinating on a parked car. I couldn’t believe someone would openly expose himself like this and allow himself to public humiliation, until I remembered what happened to me just days earlier that still has me feeling a shade of maroon I have never seen on human flesh.

As anyone who knows me is aware, I hate pants. I wear skirts and dresses as a general rule and when the weather allows, the lighter and more flowing the better. On this particularly gusty day I decided to head out to the flea market in my lightest and flowiest dress of all. For the majority of my perusing I held a white knuckled fist around a bulk of my gathered dress so that I would not flash all of New York City and frighten small children. So I traveled to Brooklyn and back with out baring my buns and I was feeling pretty great until I got out of the subway. There I am walking along the grate when suddenly I was met with a trifecta of a giant gust of wind, subway grate air up flow, and a speeding traffic.

The result was the entirety of my dress over my head. In seconds I was essentially nude in front of hundreds of people. After fighting my way out of a tangle of fabric I was met by pointing fingers, scarred tourists, and bemused pedestrians. My apologies were greeted by horrified looks of shock and disdain. Needless to say it was mildly embarrassing and I am working on replenishing my wardrobe with sturdier fabrics. Lesson learned, although I am sure this is not the last time I will be greeted by any of these scenarios. All one can do is try to remain fully clothed, look like somewhat of a non criminal, and try to remain reasonable calm. Although I pretty much fail these tasks on a daily basis, don’t fret; I will continue to dream big.

I can’t wait for porch swings and mahjong

So this past weekend my first friend got married and as I was openly weeping during the ceremony, I realized I am old. It’s inevitable that once any type of shower invitation starts to arrive in the mail with some level of regularity that one will feel mildly uncomfortable, however it is more than a case of the wedding weepies that is making me feel slightly senior. For one I find myself often time using the phrase “kids these days” throughout the day. Although I don’t think that should actually count based on the fact that kids these day do warrant quite a the bevy of comments. So disregarding that, below is the top ten list of things that prove my senior citizenship or at least far more into the comfort of adulthood than I would prefer.

1.I essentially can hear nothing over the phone, or in person for that matter, and am forced after three unobtrusive “Whats” to nod and smile a minimum of four times a day.
2.I legitimately cannot stay awake after three glasses of wine. It is absolutely impossible.
3.Loud music actually does make my ears hurt. Even though I am deaf.
4.The other day I am pretty sure I found some balled up Kleenex in the sleeve of my sweater.
5.I have an intense affinity for BINGO and church potlucks.
6.I have a crock-pot for one.
7.I also have more aprons than pants.
8.My idea of the perfect night includes it ending with watching Frasier reruns on Lifetime.
9.With the cat.
10.I have a bowl of candies on my coffee table. And although there are no doilies surrounding it,I am told this still counts.

Not that it was really imperative that I prove how lame I am on via blog, but I am publicly vowing to amp up my street cred. Gang sign tutorials and meth dealer references would be appreciated.