I decided to celebrate over the weekend and attend this thing up in Croton-on-Hudson, New York called The Great Jack O’Lantern Blaze which I’ve never been to before. It says it has over 4000 pumpkins carved into a “breathtaking display” as you “meander into an 18th century landscape”. I figure it sounds random and weird and Halloweenie and tickets are pretty cheap. Since we were going late at night I figured the boyfriend and I should turn it into a little overnight thing. So I book a room at the Tarrytown Estate & Conference Center because it seems like a nice place—scenic and all that, plus it has a decent bar. Right before the weekend, I get a surprise email from the hotel letting me know they are hosting a cupcake decorating clinic on the exact day I am checking in and would I like to attend.

This was it. Finally, I knew the day would come when I would be able to face my fear of fondant. I really enjoy baking and cake decorating as many of you may recall with the Bunny cake (aka the Poodle with the Glandular Problem) I discussed in a previous entry. I have fun with cake decorating, but have never built up my courage to attempt the use of fondant. Something about its clay-like texture and need to be rolled out just make me twitchy.

In any case I now had a seat in my first ever cooking type class. The cupcake class hosted by this really nice chick, Stephanie Kolnick, who’s been on that show “Amazing Cakes”. She was fun, upbeat and let us make a huge mess that we didn’t have to clean up—which is something I recommend everyone get to do for their birthday.

So the hotel is pretty and there are a hundred buildings all 8 miles apart with no parking next to them, so there’s a lot of walking and a lot of random statues of naked people interspersed through the walkways. As soon as I get there I have to rush to the cupcake class. My boyfriend has this rant against fondant because its “form over function” and doesn’t taste good and blah blah so of course he would never consent to be a part of such an event—which is fine cause that means more cupcakes for me.

I sit next to a 4 year old who’s piling on buttercream and pink sugar and having the best time ever and start trying to make something decent. I used fondant and I wasn’t afraid…I even used CHOCOLATE fondant! (It tastes like a tootsie roll in case you’re wondering). I made some cute cupcakes (if I do say so myself) and I will be trying out fondant at home sometime soon. I’m thinking some crazy Christmas cake may be on the menu this year. I’ll be updating this blog with some pics soon and you’ll be able to see my cupcakes. (Why does that sound dirty?) I had a good two hours or so and then it was time to get some dinner.

We head out to this horrible restaurant that has a dog theme—seriously. It’s called Emma’s Ale House and the only warning I had was a little dog as the logo. I figured it was just a cute logo—I was very, very wrong. You go in and there are dogs everywhere—dog print on the upholstery—dog paintings and photographs staring at you from every wall and of course, the restaurant’s name is after the owner’s dog…Emma. Sigh.

It was described as “upscale pub” but the only thing upscale was the price. In the spirit of newness I decided to go with the Oktoberfest special “Wiener Schnitzel”. I have never had Wiener Schnitzel before but apparently it’s just a very thin breaded veil cutlet with the most bland fried pasta ever and a side of nasty cabbage. All for the price of $22. Yuck.

So after the dog restaurant, we head out to the Jack O’Lantern blaze. The GPS sends us down these one lane roads through the town of Sleepy Hollow (which is pretty cool it being Halloween weekend and all).

We get there and there are tons of people. You basically wander through some roped off grounds and see lots of different lit, carved jack-o-lanterns which would be very cool if people would stop taking flash photos. I’m not sure why they didn’t figure out that Nighttime + Lit Object + Flash = Shitty Pictures.

There were some really nice carvings, but it was pretty crowded. At the end of our little windy walk, was the very thing that made all of this worthwhile.

A dragon made entirely of carved pumpkins. You heard that right folks, a dragon made of pumpkins. So now I can say with all truth that I have seen a pumpkin dragon. And that’s a gift that keeps on giving.

I’m living with my boyfriend who’s both younger and hotter than I am and my Mercedes has since been replaced with a 2011 Red Hyundai Tucson. The aforementioned boyfriend and I drove it on vacation up to Maine (another new spot I’d never been before) where it decided to stop accelerating past 40 near the exit for Augusta. On Saturday. July 3rd. In Maine. As you can imagine finding a rental place and figuring out the logistics pretty much took a miracle. And of course no one could look at it til July 6th since the 5th was also a holiday. So I spent a lot of extra days in the Comfort Inn next to the Sears in Augusta Georgia. And I got very sick. I did get to try Texas Roadhouse since that too was near our hotel. They give you free peanuts and dance for you. For a little while I wasn’t sure I was in Maine anymore.

As for the Mercedes, it turns out my uncle never got the exhaust system upgraded as Mercedes had asked everyone to do like a decade before, so it was clogged. It would cost more to fix than the car was worth, so I sold it to the specialty repair/restoration place that was working on it and got another rental to take home. Ah, vacation.

So it took me a little while to pick out a car, but I settled on what seems to be the unicorn of new cars. Hyundai Tucsons are nearly impossible to find. I finally got a dealer that had one ordered that I could purchase and it would take a month to get in. Since I was guaranteed a car in a month (and a red one to boot) I took him up on the offer. Of course it took over two weeks longer than promised. Apparently, it was on the slow boat from Korea. But I finally have a brand new car. My first new car ever! A shiny red one at that. With a voice activated navigation system that I don’t know how to use and always sends me on I-80, or 95 no matter what destination I plug in and for no reason that I can ascertain. But I still love the damn thing anyway.

Haven’t done much swing dancing as I stopped taking classes to save some money and spend time with the boyfriend. Hopefully I’ll be able to get back in the swing of things (terrible pun, I know) and start up again next year.

So 30 wasn’t so awful after all. I learned a lot—and was really proud of myself for all the new things I tried and learned about myself. In some ways I was a lot braver and bolder than I’d been in a long time. It was just the thing I needed to kick off my 30s.

And I must confess that I have been far too responsible and grown up this past year. I need a bit more daring and a bit more adventure. I realize now, that after I stopped writing here and putting that extra effort into doing something “new” each month that I truly missed it.

So here I am folks. I’m back in business. And I’m very sorry I stayed away so long. I promise I’ll do better and find more new and ridiculous things to tell you about. So pick up a glass of absinthe, slice yourself a piece of bunny cake and throw back a raw oyster or two and make yourself comfortable.

So here we go.

I went up to Massachusetts to the Beantown camp and stayed in a dorm at picturesque Endicott College. I thought the dorms I got at good old SU were ghetto, but the new dorms they build now are so cheap they don’t even put doors on the closets or give you one of those cheap sucky metal bedside lights that stick out of the wall. I could only imagine two girls trying to share the room I was staying in—it had a slanted roof and yet included bunkbeds. Like can you imagine the fighting? Who wants to volunteer to be the one to bang their head on the ceiling every night? Especially after a few drinks. And the closet thing. Take two 18-21 year old girls and give them itty bitty closets right next to each other with no doors on them. You might as well throw one piece of raw meat into a cage with two hungry lions and see what kind of chaos ensues.

All right, so camp. There were two tracks—one was optional classes were you can pick and choose different topics you’re interested in and the other is your assigned level which is color-coded. You determine your color level when you sign up, by answering a bunch of questions. I ended up being a yellow—which is the second level. Unfortunately, the leads pretty much all over-compensated and put themselves in levels where they shouldn’t be. So yellow was slow, and painful and as a follower I encountered many dilemmas for which I had no plan of action.

There was the guy who looked young and healthy, but walked through the dance—almost like he was on Prozac. I’m not sure he even heard the music. Now, for you non-dance people, the issue is as a follower you don’t really have any control. You just well, follow. So I tried to bounce a bit, so maybe he’d notice the rhythm, the music—the fact that other people were actually dancing—nope, didn’t work. I finally just gave up and kept praying for the teacher to scream “rotate”.

Then there was the 80+ year old man, who looked like a stray breeze would knock him down. He kept telling me that I need to bring him around during a swingout. Now going back to the follow principle—Follows don’t initiate anything—and we don’t create momentum—we react to the leaders. So really the force he starts with, should propel me when I follow his lead. The fact that the man was older than dirt and shockingly frail would indicate he lacked the force to do so. But now if I create my own momentum to bring him around in a circle, will I break him? When I say frail, I mean frail. My podmate (they call suites in the dorms, “pods” – very Star Trekesque) Arla, caught sight of him after my story and told me I was being generous with the age—he was way older than 80. I almost passed out when I saw him walk into the solo Charleston class. He told me later I was “brave” for taking the class and that he’d taken it a few years ago. Now, if you don’t know Charleston—google it. It’s kicking and jumping and fast and fast and faster. The last time that guy should have been attempting a Charleston was when it first came out—back in 1923.

Anyways, the first few days of camp were fairly rough, as there were a lot of people and most of them were older, so it was really hard to click with anyone. I did have a very nice podmate (the aforementioned Arla) and we had a good time. At one point we tried to escape our middle-of-nowhere college, as we heard there was a Dunkin Donuts down the road, but a two mile walk later and alas, it wasn’t true. We did find a liquor store, so all was not lost.

Now, here’s the part where you’ll be proud of me. First, I need to explain my philosophy on courage. I think courage is like a muscle, you need to exercise it from time to time or it gets all flabby and useless and when you need it the most, it just won’t work. So I decided to exercise my courage a bit. They had competitions at this lovely camp, and there is a novice category for those “new to dancing”. So I decided since I may never attend another dance camp and I most likely will never be remotely interested in competing, I will give it a try. It basically works like a bunch of guys and girls enter, and they randomly assign you partners and you swap a few times. You’re judged on how well you lead and follow. I did it and it wasn’t so bad—I survived, didn’t stop like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, even when I got one lead who was leading crap that was impossible to follow without knowing the whole move in question. I even had a newbie swing dancer tell me I was their favorite follow to watch! It felt good to try something I never ever would have imagined attempting and realizing it wasn’t nearly as bad as being afraid of it was. A very valuable lesson and one I vehemently recommend all of you try out sometime.

And so I bought myself a little magnet with an Eleanor Roosevelt quote that reads “do one thing every day that scares you” and I’m trying to adhere to it. Although there’s a few new things I’ve tried that aren’t quite suitable for blogging and which I’m sure Eleanor Roosevelt was not alluding to, but hey it’s all in the spirit of it.

My journey back from camp was fairly epic, which is funny since Boston and NYC are not all that far apart. But since it rained the day I left (and every day of the trip) my flight was delayed for longer than the actual flight takes…but that was no biggie. Then, when I got to the airport I tried to take a cab home. I hear an interesting tidbit on the radio…the Lincoln tunnel was shut down because of a sink hole—that’s right, a sink hole magically appeared and there was an hour and a half wait. What’s next? Pterodactyls swooping across the entrance picking up cars and throwing them into the river? This of course caused delays in all the other ways off the godforsaken island. So I get this bright idea to bypass these and have the cab take me to ferry and then take the ferry home and have my mom pick me up at the pier. So the sketchy cab driver keeps trying to get me to pay with cash and tell him how much money I have. Plus he tries to get me to pay the same amount it would cost to for my ride to Jersey even though I’m only going to Manhattan. I offer to pay him less (basically what I feel like paying) and he accepts so I get out in the pouring rain, pulling my own bags from the trunk. I finally get on a ferry…I am almost home. And then..the ferry crashes into the pier. It was enough to have the crew gasping and screaming “oh shit”, and passengers hanging on for dear life. But luckily no hole in the boat or people flying into the Hudson. S, success. My mom finally picks me up and I do get home. The end.

Now for the rest of July, instead of taking dance classes I got myself a season pass to Midsummer Night’s Swing at Lincoln Center and am just going dancing after work. There are plenty of interesting characters—the really old guys in vintage-esque suits, the woman who looked exactly like Cruella Deville and who gives me the heebie jeebies something fierce, plus a smattering of random people I know through my dance classes. The one thing I’ve learned from this social dancing is that I’m a much better dancer than I think I am. Other swing dancers will ask me how long I’ve been dancing and when I respond (since December) they are shocked. They say they think I’ve been dancing for years. Considering I never imagined being even passable at any form of dancing, this has been quite an ego boost. And I better enjoy it while it lasts because pretty soon I’ll hit the year mark and I won’t be all savant like, just mediocre.

So I’m enjoying my summer quite a bit and trying to make the most out of every second of non-rain like weather we have and I hope you’re doing the same.

Now, I’m a pretty adventurous eater and I enjoy fancy food (and really unfancy food) but the French confuse me a lot. Like if someone said I’m going to serve you the most expensive fancy dinner and you showed up and it was snails and frog legs and duck liver—you’d think they kept all the money they were going to use and raided a swamp instead.

In any case, just about everyone ordered the snails to start. And fortunately for me (and unfortunately for you) they didn’t serve them in the shells so there was no chance I’d be tossing them around the room when trying to eat them. They came in this really hot little iron plate and had some green butter stuff on top of them. They were a mushroomy color and when you ate them…

They tasted just like mushrooms and the texture…just like mushrooms. In fact, they were even sitting on top of some other little mushrooms. So basically, if you dig mushrooms, garlic and butter, you should have no issue with escargots.

It’s funny how just like with the oysters I expected some weird terrible texture issue, but really it was all pretty anti-climactic—I guess Roosevelt was right with all that “nothing to fear, but fear itself” mumbo-jumbo. It seems things are always a lot less worse than you imagine.

This bit of wisdom has made me reconsider my game plan and perhaps try to step things up a bit. Maybe I should be a bit more Emeril-esque and “bump it up a notch”. Now, now I’m not going to reveal what I have planned, because that would ruin the surprise. But I have a few ideas slated for July that may prove exciting—at least moreso than bunny cakes and snails.

In the meantime, I’m starting June and one thing already guaranteed for the agenda is my trip up to Boston for Beantown Camp. I’m going on my own and staying for a week. I’ve only been to Boston once, never been to a “camp” of any kind (even though long, long ago I was in marching band), never been on a vacation alone and haven’t been on one as long as week since my trip to India for my best friend’s wedding. (And I still classify that as an “adventure” and not a vacation, because if I need more shots than I can count, malaria pills and have to worry about what kind of toilet I’m using it just doesn’t feel like a vakay, if you catch my drift.)

So I’m off to work on my packing list, and lists of my packing lists and lists of the stuff I need to buy so I can add them to the packing lists. Don’t Judge Me! I like lists okay, its not like I’m smoking crack. Okay maybe it’s a little more pathetic than that, but it free, somewhat useful and doesn’t fuck up my teeth.

So let’s go back a few weeks ago, when I got a last minute invitation from a friend to join her family in Atlantic City for a day, to hang out a bit, see Jerry Seinfeld do some standup, and spend the night. Apparently her mom’s good friend (and friend’s husband are insane high rollers), and have a free room (which like 8 of us piled into) and free Seinfeld tickets and all sorts of free stuff. It sounded like a good enough adventure to me.

Now, you know the old saying “unlucky in love, lucky at cards” or something of the sort. Well let’s just say that I am the living, breathing example that this particular bit of wisdom is nothing but a load of poop. Like if your unluckiness in love, somehow equated to gambling luck, I should be able to walk up to any slot machine or table, put down one chip and quadruple my money on the first try. Fuck, I should be able to walk into a casino and just have them hand me money. Like they see me walking through the door and it’s like “Oh Lisa! We didn’t see you there, thanks for coming—here’s a $1000 bucks, we’ll be back later with your next installment.” In any case, I’m pretty much unlucky across the board. I don’t ever win from gambling, so I’ve pretty much stopped trying. I only ever played the slots and the money wheel, so when my friend’s mom wanted to try roulette, I figured I would too, simply because I had never done it before and well, I need stuff to tell you about.

I did win the first try by betting on red, then I lost and lost again, so I stopped, because unlike with love, when it comes to gambling, I (along with Kenny Rogers) actually know when “to fold em”. Frankly, I just don’t get gambling—I like my money, I don’t care to lose it and the odds are pretty high it will be lost. I prefer instead, to gamble with things like my heart or sanity. Hmm, perhaps I’m more of a high roller than I supposed.

Anyways, after roulette, we head out to see Seinfeld—whom I have never seen in person (so there we go yet another “new”). I can’t tell you what a pro he is, like I haven’t seen so much stupid heckling since Woodstock ’99 (and that ended in a giant fire, due to the oh so brilliant idea of handing out “peace candles”.) He handled it amazingly well and when he got to this whole spiel about how if you’re planning a wedding, none of your friends or family will tell you—but “no one wants to go to your wedding!” – I swear I almost stood up and cried out Hallelujah. God damn, I can’t tell you how true that is. Seriously, I got two weddings scheduled already this year and my soul, it weeps at the mere thought of them. The bouquet toss alone sends me into a shivering fit. Please people, please—skip the crap and just keep the booze. That’s all anyone can stand at weddings. Please. We single people, we’re fucking begging you. No chicken dance or ridiculously zealous DJ, no garter or bouquet toss, no fucking speeches no one pays attention to as they count down the minutes til they can hit the open bar for another whiskey sour—seriously just give us booze, cocktail weenies and a slice of over-sweet, over-dried cake (you have to keep some traditions). We’ll hand you an envelope with a card and some money, and everyone will be happier. Seriously.

So the next day we went to the buffet (free yet again because of the High Rollers) and I attempted to try some crab legs. Too bad I don’t know how to actually eat them. I managed to get a little tiny piece out and it was okay. But it seems like one of those foods that is just way too much work for too little pay off. I really don’t want to work that hard to eat something—not when things like pie are just so much easier.

Now moving along to this past Friday—there’s been a festival going on in celebration of Frankie Manning’s 95th birthday. Although technically it’s a memorial, since he died a few weeks before the festival was scheduled to start (someone with apparently far worse luck than me). He’s credited as one of the founders of Lindy Hop – particularly famous for his version of the Shim Sham (which is on my to do list of things to learn). Pop his name into youtube to see him in action—it’s pretty amazing stuff.

In any case, there’s been a lot of swing stuff going on with people coming from all over to partake in all the swinginess (and not the kind you’re thinking about, pervert!). On Friday, there was a free swing dance in Central Park just across from Bethesda Fountain. I took an extra long lunch (and skipped my yoga class) to go check it out. I am proud to report I did manage to sneak in a dance with a cute, blue eyed fellow from Seattle named Gabe. I was slightly disappointed that there weren’t any sailors around (as it was fleet week) –I think swing dancing with a sailor would be pretty damn cool—all WW2esque and all that. That’s like hardcore swing dancing cred.

On Friday night, I had volunteered to work the dance at the Hammerstein ballroom. You volunteer for a couple hours and then you can dance for free. Well, their organization sucks—and for someone like me who types up her grocery lists with items organized in sections by type—this is excruciatingly painful to deal with. I ended up spending hours watching a hallway that no one really needed to watch. Fabulous. After it was over, I did manage to dance a bit, although it ended up being with people from my dance school, but the live music was good and I didn’t stand alone all night, so I’ll chalk it up in the success column.

I’m going to attempt to squeeze in one more new thing for May. I’m slated for a fancy work lunch with our VP. He’s taking us to L’Absinthe, and my coworkers and I have all decided to try the escargots. Please say a little prayer that I do not replay the Pretty Woman scene where Julia Roberts tosses one across the room and answers “slippery little suckers”. You may think that is a long shot, but in my world where I constantly do stupid shit and have stupid shit happen to me, it’s a lot more likely than you think.

Anyways, let’s get to the good stuff—or at least the new stuff. Now, let’s be honest here, we both knew this new stuff was going to get me into trouble at some point. And I don’t mean man trouble, because that’s a given regardless of whether things are new-old or even imaginary. But I went out with a group from the conference to a southern restaurant called Pitty Pats Porch (http://www.pittypatsrestaurant.com/ ) So I order fried chicken because really, how could I not. Dinner comes with a free salad bar. So I go up and scope it out and try to take some things I never tried before. See I have this rule that I’m always willing to try new fruits and vegetables (and preparations of those aforementioned items) because really, how bad could it be? Oh my darlings, it gets bad—so very very bad. So I get some mac and cheese (that has bbq sauce in it!) and some other vegetable items and when I get to the end of the line, I see something that I can’t really describe.

If I had to give you a short physical description, I’d call it Alien Food. It was green and like jello, but not like jello. I assumed it was some kind of jello fruit dessert thing and so I took two little pieces and went back to my table. Now remember I am at a table full of administrative professionals—I cannot simply spit out food, no matter how much I would liketo . So I took one of the pieces of Alien Food and chewed….and chewed. Dear God, there aren’t words. It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t sour, it wasn’t quite gelatinous, it wasn’t quite solid. My brain could not find any connection to anything I had ever eaten in my life. And my taste buds, they were angry, very angry. It was through some otherworldly strength of will, that I was able to keep chewing and swallow.

No one on my side of the table had any idea what the Alien Food was supposed to be so, we actually had to ask the waiter. His response, as horrifying as you can imagine. “Pickled Watermelon”. He follows it up with “It’s not to everyone’s taste.” Unless your ALF or Smeagol, then I can’t imagine you’d be gobbling this stuff up. And lest you think I’m making this shit up, google pickled watermelon and see how many recipes pop up. Just please, please don’t make any of them. If you do it will make the little baby Jesus cry—cry big, sad, pickled tears.

Now, on a much less revolting note, my dance classes continue. This past month I tried a class that mixed swing with foxtrot. I’d never attempted the foxtrot before and while it’s fairly interesting, it just didn’t capture my attention the way swing does. I also, was once again the only person in class who never took foxtrot at all, but this time I kept up fairly well. The big problem with this class was that there were only two guys and like two thousand girls. This resulted in girls doing the “leading” which was fine except for the like 80 year old woman who was about 4 feet high. You try to follow around someone who looks like the wind will blow her over and who comes up to your waist and see how good you do keeping frame.

I’ve also finally come up with an actual summer vacation. See, everyone I know is either married, has kids or is really poor—so finding someone to go away with, pretty difficult. So I found this swing camp up in Boston called Beantown Camp. You stay up at a college and spend a week, taking swing dance classes, watching performances and so on. I know what you’re thinking—that’s a vacation comprised entirely of exercise—which is in and of itself an oxymoron. But it gets me away from here, and supposedly they have private beaches—which I sincerely hope is an actual beach and not a “beach”. It’s the best solo vacation I could come up with so we’ll see how it all plays out. Besides, I’m sure I can stomach Boston baked beans far better than I could pickled watermelon.

My sister also invited me to go with her to a spa to get a massage, since she had a gift certificate to use up. I’ve been to spas before many times, but I’m a facial girl (since my pores need all the help they can get) and have never had a massage. I don’t have all that much to report about it. It’s a little strange to have some chick massaging you (well not if you’re not a lesbian—I assume they are accustomed to it). It was really relaxing though and I think I dosed off at the end. A nice experience, but I don’t think I’ll be trading in my facials anytime soon.

Now, to bring you up to speed, I’m currently in Atlanta, Georgia at a conference for my job. I’ve never been here before, unless you count the time I got stuck overnight at the Atlanta airport en route to New Orleans (the happiest place on earth). That’s the experience that made me vow to never fly Air Tran again and only book flights that require transfers when absolutely necessary.

The first thing I noticed in Atlanta, was on my taxi ride from the airport to the hotel. There was a water tower where someone had spray painted “Atlanta hearts chickin”—that’s when I knew I’d like this place. So I got to the hotel, checked in then realized the travel agent at my job had booked my hotel stay incorrectly (and my return flight) and I scrambled to call and get them to fix it. Luckily the hotel wasn’t sold out for the missing days or Lorna, our travel agent would be in big trouble when my ass got back to the big apple. I settled my stuff in my room, and maybe I’m really weird, but I actually like to keep my hotel room neat. I put my clothes away in the closet and the luggage—put everything in its proper spot. Somehow it feels more like home base when it’s neat and tidy. Plus, I’m going to be here til Saturday morning, so I should try not to piss off the maids.

So I went to a boring computer class where I heard the same useless answers I heard at last year’s class. It ended early enough for me to head out to the Botanical gardens. They were really beautiful and there were very few people there so it was quite relaxing. I asked the girl who was at the front desk there about restaurants and she suggested a couple places down the road. One supposedly had southern food so I figured I’d head out there. I never found it and instead gave up and settled on a place called “Cowtippers”. My server was a flaming homosexual..then I realized all of the servers were. Then I saw the gay rainbow flag. Having been a music major and a writing major, I’m quite at home with the homos—so this was a comfy spot. I had dinner, took a cab to the hotel and called it a night.

Today, I had a free day before the conference goes all hardcore tomorrow. I started the morning off with a sweet tea (it’s not as sweet as I supposed) and a chicken biscuit from Chick-Fil-A. I just need to say for the record, that if every person in the world could have a chicken biscuit, then wars would cease to be and we could all “sing in perfect harmony”..speaking of coke..after the oh so yummy chicken biscuit..I went to “The World of Coca Cola”—which is sort of a museum, but really just a brainwashing facility. Why does Coke try so hard? Really? We all love it—they know this. People can quit smoking easier than give up soft drinks. We don’t need to hear all about how smooth coke tastes or that it brings people together or that its pure happiness in a can. It started with cocaine in it (thus the name coke) and is even more addictive now. Memo to the Coke execs: you can let it go, we’ll give up gas guzzling cars, trans fats, but we will not surrender our Coca Cola. Anyways, you got to try all these coke products from all over the world. A word of advice—skip the “Beverly” from Italy—it tastes like ass, and I overheard one of the attendants there tricking people with it. “Try the Beverly,” he says “it’s delicious”. Then they try it and gag. Then he laughs and says “works every time.” I can’t say I blame him for his little ruse, if I had to spend hours every day mopping up soda spills and handing out little cups, I’d come up with mean ways to pass the time as well.

After the coke gift shop (where I got some cute boxers and tshirts), I headed over to the Aquarium. There were so very many children, I can’t fully explain it. Like it should have been a children zoo instead of an aquarium. I tried to see some fish and sea horses (my fave animal since the men give birth to the babies, which shows they really are the most enlightened species) and some Beluga whales. After picking up some souvenirs for the kiddies back home, I trekked back to my hotel.

So most of the rest of my stay here will be filled with boring conference crap. I am determined though to try some chicken and waffles, since I’ve never had it before and I don’t’ think I should be let out of this state without at least getting a taste of such a baffling dish. Wish me luck on my quest for chicken and waffles. I will not be defeated!

• 1. Walking Down the Avenue–You can pretty much walk from one end of Manhattan to the other. Neighborhoods blend into each other, and you can move from one to the other without even noticing. Like how Chinatown and Little Italy are all up in each other’s business and how after all these years I’ve never managed to figure out the dividing line between Chelsea and the West Village. But where one neighborhood begins and another ends doesn’t really matter—if you have some decent shoes you can basically go all around the world in a day. (And if you’re the lazy type, you can get an unlimited metrocard and take the buses and subways. Or if you’re feeling lucky and like a thrill ride, you can take a cab and it won’t cost you half as much as it will in other big cities like Chicago or San Francisco, where, gasp, a huge portion of the population actually drives.)
• 2. Central Park—most particularly that area over near Strawberry Fields, by the Reservoir, where people can take little boats or gondolas out. It feels like the NYC you see in movies and even the light there seems different to me. And most lovely of all is the Angel on the Waters or the Bethesda Fountain—(which I had to google, in order to find the name of http://www.centralparknyc.org/site/PageServer?pagename=virtualpark_southend_bethesdaangel  ) It’s a beautiful spot, almost like something from a story book and one everyone who visits this town should see it. The Angel’s been in a million photographs and movies and tv shows, but it never really captures her presence in person. Whenever I’m there, it makes me think of Byron poetry or Beethoven sonatas.
• 3. Street Performers—Sure, street performers can be horrifically annoying, but there’s nothing like being out on a summer night, outside Letterman’s studio and hearing a saxophone suddenly start playing Over the Rainbow, or waiting for a subway train and having accordion player decide its time for a Tango. Just waiting for a train or sitting in the park will provide you with lots of free entertainment, and you really can’t complain about that kind of return on your investment.
• 4. Shopping—But I don’t mean Macys or the Gap. I mean the fact that every random interest, hobby or desire you have probably has a store entirely devoted to it. Like if your looking for a knob for some drawers, you can find a store entirely devoted to just that. Thousands of drawer pulls and knobs all for you to peruse. It’s like an anal retentive person’s wet dream. And where else can you walk down one street and see a hat shop (seriously they only sold fancy hats—when I saw it I thought I’d gone back in time to 1932), a bicycle shop, a preschool for the performing arts, and a shop that sells fixtures all in the shape of hearts? Nowhere, baby. That’s why it’s New York.
• 5. Food & Drinks—The best sangria you can find in the city (and some damn good Cuban food) is at Cabana’s ( http://www.cabanarestaurant.com/  ) They have 3 kinds and while all of them are yummy—get the champagne sangria. You’ll thank me for it—maybe not the next morning, but at some point. For cheap drinks, Dallas BBQ is the spot (and they are conveniently located all over the city). For less than $10 you can get a giant fishbowl mixed drink with an extra shot (in a test tube no less!) For the hardcore alcoholics get the frozen Long Island Iced tea—that comes with an extra shot of Bacardi 151, for those with a sweet tooth, go with a Pina Colada or a Margarita. Let’s not forget that you can find a great slice of pizza, a delicious bagel, or a good hot dog (some for as low as buck) nearly everywhere in the city. If you’re environmentally conscious or have some crazy restrictive diet, there are even tons of places for you. My fave is Gusto down in the West Village: http://www.gustorganics.com/restaurants.php  . The first certified organic bar in the city, it has some really great lunch and brunch items, but the dinner leaves a little something to be desired. If you make it for brunch, definitely have the “Romulo’s Sandwich” and don’t leave without one of the blended fruit drinks (which you can get with or without alcohol). And since the place is run by wind power and fairy wishes (or something else environmentally sound) your conscience can feel good too. I could write books and books on all the food and drinks in the city, so sufficed to say New York City can makes your tummy happy (maybe not your ass and thighs, but definitely your tummy).
• 6. Union Square—Let’s put aside the great stores and restaurants, and the fact that it’s the home of my grad school alma mater (shout out New School) but there is always something to do there. My fave is the farmer’s market during the warm (or at least warmer) weather, where you can buy stuff like organic sauerkraut and wine and salt lamps all at the same time. Then at Christmas it morphs into a Holiday village, that has art and craft items (and soup and Belgium waffle stands!) from all over the world. For you peeps who want more info on this part of town, check it out over here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Union_Square_(New_York_City)
• 7. The Arts—I don’t really get to go to broadway that often, and if I knew people who could afford tickets, I’d probably go a lot more. And for whatever reason I don’t really get out to the museums much, but I know they’re there and have some of the most amazing pieces of art from all over the world and throughout history on display. It’s good to know if I want to see an Opera or an original Picasso, I can. Too bad I don’t seem to get off my ass to do it. I should probably get working on that. I’d start listing the museums and cultural attractions but we’d be here forever. Starting with the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Guggenheim would be a great beginning and the list would just go on and on.
• 8. The Unexpected—Sure, this can be bad sometimes, like you know terrorist attacks and all, but mostly it’s pretty cool. You never know when your route home will take you through a movie being filmed or a random protest or some group of bagpipers practicing before a parade. It’s a place always poised at the beginning of a story and you never know which one you might walk into.
• 9. The Music—There are venues and dance clubs for just about every type of music and every combination thereof. There are acoustic open mic nights and big band music and gangsta rap streaming out from all different corners of the city. If someone can think it up, you’ll find it here.
• 10. Street Cred—Okay tell people you’re from New York City. See what happens—they might hate you, but it’s pretty much instant respect. Totally different than saying you’re from Toledo or Nantucket or something. (Maybe not Nantucket since it’s got all that limerick history—substitute Shreveport or something instead).

So there’s my list and it couldn’t begin to cover it all and I know I’ll think of a zillion more things once this is posted, but it’s a good enough beginning and since spring is for beginnings, I think it will do.

So this past week I had another new experience, but of the not so pleasant variety.  To understand this story you need to know the tale of my car: my odd, unicorn-esque, giant beast of a vehicle.

My car is a 1987 silver Mercedes Benz sedan (diesel for you Mercedes fanatics out there).  I has only 54,000 miles currently on it and is in near mint condition, as every mechanic likes to tell me, in a voice of wonder.  They say it looks like it “came out of the factory yesterday” and they’ve “never seen one in such perfect condition”—I even have a complete 1987 first aid kit–every piece untouched down to the very last band-aid.  My car is the ultimate dream of every 65+ year old man in New Jersey.  I, however, am a 29 year old woman who hates cars that are big and low to the ground.  So how is it that I came to drive something that is the equivalent of a mobile living room and turns like you’re driving a hearse?

Well, obviously this car didn’t start off as mine, since I was 8 years old when it was made.  It belonged to my Uncle who purchased it to drive my grandmother around and because he had a thing for the Mercedes brand.  He kept it closed up in a garage, only talking it out on occasion.  When my grandmother died, it made less and less trips out of the garage.  This is quite a sad tale, (just to warn you) and as time went by, the poor Mercedes wasted the very best years of finely tuned German engineered life—unused and forgotten.  No road trips, or drive thrus, or kids dropping crap in the back seat—just the unyielding silence of a lonely garage.

My Uncle’s story, is even more sad and didn’t turn out so very different from the car.  He never married or had kids, and as so many in our family passed away (all of his immediate family), he grew more depressed and more lonely and more set in his ways.  He lived in the same house almost his entire life, never really traveled anywhere, didn’t’ have too many friends.  It was like he’d let life pass him completely by. He had money, a boat, cars, property but nothing filled the void that was left from a life mostly spent unlived.   He became more and more depressed until one day he decided he was finished with this life.  It was unnecessary and a horrific waste.  There is always time to change—a whole life can change in less than a minute.  My Uncle wanted it to be over more than he wanted it to be better and there’s nothing sadder than that.

So after his death, while in the process of sorting through papers and seeing things off and getting the estate in order, there was this Mercedes: still in its garage, immobile–since it hadn’t been started in so long that the battery died, but otherwise seemingly untouched by time.  It wasn’t worth much in selling—especially since it needed a new battery, and I had already been saving up to buy a car anyway, so I decided I’d do for the car, what I couldn’t do for my Uncle—give it a second chance at life.

So I got Mercedes roadside assistance (which rocks by the way) to come install a new battery and haul the old one away and over the last two years have brought the old car back up to speed.  This involved replacing things that had never once been replaced, like tires and wipers and all that jazz.  And though I’ve had to make a couple repairs, the car hadn’t ever completely broken down—until last Saturday.   Which brings me to the “new” experience.

As I finished my grocery shopping at the Pathmark, I attempted to start the car, but it just wouldn’t engage.  The battery light came on and I called TripleA thinking I just needed a jump.  So eventually a tow truck comes up—with a guy named Phil and his approximately 4 year old nephew Reggie.  Phil takes a look at the car and determines the problem is the starter so we have to tow it to a garage. 

I jump into the truck with Reggie and Phil and we make our way to the other side of the parking lot where we have a slight detour so he can help another customer with a flat tire.  So Phil changes that tire, while I hang out with Reggie in the truck, and try to dissuade him from pushing all the buttons and changing gear.

We head up the road a ways, and I drop off my car, and wave goodbye to Reggie and Phi.  I am now stuck in an empty parking lot in Edgewater.  I call my Mom and try to explain to her where I am, and miraculously, for once, she actually does manage to listen and finds me. 

So that was my first towing experience, and for anyone who cares the problem was the starter, which I did have to replace.  But now the old girl is running just fine again and all ready for me to attempt driving it in rush hour in tunnel traffic to get to my rehearsal on Monday night. 

And for a vastly different new “starter” experience, my sister handed me the strangest thing on Sunday.  An Amish “Friendship” Bread starter.

For those of you who may not know (and I didn’t until she gave me the stupid thing), Amish “Friendship” Bread is recipe equivalent of a chain letter.  Apparently my nephew got this ridiculous thing in school and so my sister was required to comply with it. 

The way it goes:

A friend gives you a baggie of the dough “starter” and these instructions that last 10 days and you follow them (It’s a lot of bag “mushing”).  On one of the days you end up turning your recipe into 4 more bags of the “starter” for which you must give away 3 bags along with the instructions/recipes to three of your “friends” and keep one bag for yourself, presumably so you can continue baking til the end of time. 

(For those interested: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amish_Friendship_Bread )

My sister noted that if someone really was your friend, you’d just bake them the damn bread in the first place and not give them a job to do.  I wholeheartedly agree, and secretly wonder what it means that she passed this thing off to me.

In any case, I have this bag of goop sitting in my kitchen that smells like crap and is gonna to require me to bake in a few days.  Even more worrisome is who to hand this thing off to?  I mean if you follow the rules, everyone in the whole world will be baking Amish cake bread forever…wait…it all makes sense now… the Amish are set out for world domination…through baked goods!  Taking over the world one overly sweet loaf of bread at a time!

I’ve said this before (particularly after that horrific M. Night Shyamalan idiocy of “the Village”) and I’ll say it again.  The Amish are evil.  And now I have proof.  Wish me luck when I bake this thing, hopefully it doesn’t rise up as a blob in the middle of the night and suffocate me in my sleep.

On the dancing front, I wrapped up my Balboa class.  And it totally sucked—from beginning to end.  You’ll be proud to know that I was the only one of the new people who actually stuck it out.  All the other wusses dropped out after the first week.  Sigh.  I probably should have been smart and saved myself the torture of being dragged around the dance floor, tightly pressed against old, sweaty guys, but I suppose it’s made all the other dancing classes seem that much more fun.

After the last round of classes finished up and I bid an emphatic sayonara to Balboa, took an 8 count intensive class and signed up for weekly 8 count and 6 count lindy classes.  I want to say two things for the record:

1. I fucking love Charleston kicks—they are fun, they are awesome, they look cool—I love them.  Just so you can be clear.  If you ask me exactly why I love them so, I can’t exactly tell you.  Except to say they rock.  Which they do

2. 8 count is awesome and I’m like a fucking savant.  I have no idea why other people aren’t picking it up as quick.  It’s just 6 counts with 2 more beats.  Granted I can’t do math quickly either, but I figured it out just fine.  And it feels pretty easy so far. Granted we’re not doing crazy tricks, but the basics aren’t all that tricky, so I’m not getting why people who spent a year or two in 6 count (versus my 3 months) aren’t excelling. 

The one disappointing thing is that there still aren’t that many good leaders.  Like there’s this one guy I dread dancing with—we’ll call him Bouffant dude—because he has this weird Bouffant hairdo—granted that should have been self-explanatory, but who knows if your reading this before you’ve had your coffee or after you’ve been drinking all night.  Anyways, I figured it can’t hurt to elaborate.  Anyways he’s been doing this stuff for years.  YEARS.  And he has no sense of rhythm whatsoever.  I seriously can’t take it anymore.  If you’ve been trying for years at this and you don’t have any clue how to keep with the music.  GIVE THE FUCK UP.  Yes, I know its mean, but seriously there have to be other kinds of dancing that are more forgiving—maybe like polka or something.

Now, on the other front.  I mentioned in another blog that I had lost a bit of the “old” with all the new stuff I’ve been trying to do.  The old really being a reference to my music and my writing.  I’ve been feeling like a poser for quite awhile now since I haven’t been performing or submitting writing anywhere. 

So I teamed up with my friend Camellia (from grad school) and we’re exchanging novels and forcing deadlines and submissions on each other. Shockingly, this has caused me to actually write things and submit them.  Granted they were poems and a non-fiction essay—neither of which are my actual area of expertise (fiction)—but I did create and submit them.  Okay, okay one was a contest in England to write a poem to be printed on teacups, but its still a submission!  Baby steps people, baby steps!

Then the big one.  Music. I devoted most of my life to that particular beast.  And a beast it is.  Now I’m a classically trained musician—I’ve had theory, ear training, composition, orchestration—every random musical thing you can think of, I probably took a class or an independent study in it.  I should know my shit by now.  And for the most part I do—except one huge, seemingly insurmountable obstacle.  Sight-singing.  For those of you who may be unfamiliar.  Someone hands you a sheet of paper with notes on it.  You sing them.  You don’t get any help—sometimes the notes make a melody, sometimes they are just a bunch of random crap.  Sometimes they come in crazy clefs you’ve never encountered before because no one uses them except for ridiculous instruments like the viola.  Sometimes you have to sing them with finnish words—yep fucking finnish words.  Because my ear training teacher was a masochist and that class was our Vietnam.  You’d think the worst would be being called on first—but its not.  You watch your friends go, one by one.  People you know are ten times better at this then you are would get called on—and you’d watch them, one by one, crash and burn.  Some bursting into tears, others valiantly fighting the urge, their eyes glassy and horrified.  And you’d wait your turn.  And your stomach would eat itself.

This is perhaps why, now, when I am presented with a requirement to sightsing, my first instinct is to have a panic attack and passout.  Now this ear training crap, really only comes into play for choir auditions.  One of the many reasons I have avoided those pretty whole-heartedly.  (The other being they mostly sing about Jesus and God.  No offense to Jesus and God, I don’t really want to spend all my time singing about them.)  So I was perusing Craig’s list to see what was up on the musician front—desperately hoping someone was looking for a female vocalist to sing jazz, (you know as a counterpoint to all the metal bands looking for frontmen and are “inspired by ACDC”) and I see that there is a choir looking for sopranos.  Okay, they sing musical theatre and rehearse not too far from where I live and figure I’ll give it a go.

Just for clarity’s sake, I wasn’t particularly invested in the endeavor, since choirs for me are a take-em or leave-em type thing. But it’s been forever since I’ve been on any real audition, so I might as well at least get back in the ballgame a bit. 

So I have to go sit through one of their rehearsals rehearsal, then do an audition.  So I sit in and get placed next to the clichéd 1^st soprano.  The one all the music jokes are about.  She is way too loud.  And way too flat.  And she has some deep seated need to sing with the other parts (like altos and tenors) when only they are supposed to be singing their lines.  I really want to hit her, but I’m new and I think that’s frowned upon.

So I get through the rehearsal and I have to audition.  I sing a little snippet from Phantom of the Opera (gay, I know but it was one of the most hardcore soprano things I had memorized) in a room so cold I was literally shaking from it.  Then we do a bit of ear training.  I breathe deep, and just go for it.  Fuck it.  I know my voice is enough to get me into most choirs.  I’m sure I messed some of it up, but I think I was at least in the ballpark.  Then we do this weird thing at the piano where you have to hear pitches and sing both, then recognize the interval.  This was cake for me back in the day, but it’s literally been years since I’ve had to attempt this.  I realize the interval is a 2^nd, but I think it’s a minor second when it’s a major.  (That will teach me to let my home piano get out of tune for too long.)  Then the fun part, where he tests my range.  I always get a little thrill out of this.  He’s shocked because I have a 3 octave range—which pretty much translates to me being able to sing any part a woman can—and probably some guy parts too.  (Finally, one of my freakish tendencies paying off.) 

Anyways, they ask me a bunch of questions and thrown in there is stuff about “concert dress”.  Which usually means items more likely to be worn to a funeral than anywhere else.  (In undergrad we referred to our choir dresses as “funeral frocks” if that gives you any indication.)  So I’m expecting the usual long black skirt, long sleeve black shirt, yada yada.  NO.  They wear PALAZZO PANTS from DRESS BARN.  Okay, first Dress Barn.  I thought they wouldn’t even let you in that store unless you were over the age of 40.  Second, FUCKING PALAZZO PANTS.  For those of you unfamiliar, they are wide leg pants times 10 and are possibly the most unflattering pants I could wear next to Mom jeans. (Even Katie Holmes couldn’t pull off this look:http://www.bestweekever.tv/tag/Palazzo+Pants

If the beautiful, tall, skinny and rich can’t make it work—what hope is there for we, mere mortals?

Okay, so I thought maybe I wouldn’t get in and then the proposition of wearing the wretched pants was completely off the table.  No dice, they email me and let me know they want me to be a soprano 2.  Now that’s a bigger problem then the pants.  My 3 octave range has caused me to always sing one of two parts—soprano 1, the land of the high notes and descants and melody or (usually in smaller choirs) alto 2, where you scrounge around to find women who can actually reach those low notes.  I’ve never sung soprano 2 in a choir, and frankly it’s the voice part I hate above all others.  It’s incredibly difficult for me since its all mixed up in the middle there and usually sits in what is the most challenging part of my voice (the break).  Plus I always gravitate to the highest note, I don’t know if that’s instinct or too many years of singing soprano 1, but I’m going to have to retrain myself to shut that off.  Which is hard, since its not even something I think about—it’s just something I do.  Sigh.  At this point, I’d really rather be a tenor.

So I’d be singing a voicepart I hate in the most unflattering pants on the planet.  Is it really worth it?

I think about it carefully and figure I can try this til after their first concert (of course that means I’ll have already had to wear the pants once! On fucking stage, for christsakes!)  I’m really not sure about this soprano 2 business, I’m hoping they get a bunch of notes no one else can hit and I get moved out of desperation.

I guess if I survived Balboa, I can survive the fucking palazzo pants too.  Or, they could meet with an untimely accident right before the concert so I have to substitute a long black skirt instead since that’s the only other appropriate thing I own…What you say?  That’s highly unlikely?  Well I guess I’ll just have to start take care of that, I mean take care of them—them, silly.  What did you think I meant?