January 18, 2006

Keeping It Gay

My flight was fine on Saturday. I watched Firefly the whole time and also read some of Crooked Little Heart, which I didn't realize is the sequel to Rosie, which I also read on a plane. God, Firefly is so good. I continue to berate myself for not watching it years ago. It is hilarious and brilliant and I love it.

After I arrived and completed the odyssey from the Newark airport to S.'s apartment, we lounged in S.'s room for a little while before heading into the city to eat at Gonzo in the West Village.

Relaxing on the futon before going to dinner.

We sat at the bar and each enjoyed a strawberry bellini before heading to our table and feasting on pizza, rigatoni with lentils, salad, and wine.

M. samples the gamey wine.

I sit dorkily beside my totally cleaned plate.

Then we went outside and encountered a gale of sleet, and our umbrellas all turned inside out and splintered. It was stunning to look down and see the icy sidewalks littered with dozens of broken, discarded umbrellas. I was just pretty much stupefied by the cold, honestly.

We landed at Tavern on Jane and drew cartoons on the paper tablecloth with crayons. When we left, the temperature had dropped another zillion degrees and we were slipping on the ice until we sputtered and stumbled into a cab. As we hurried toward the apartment, M. was running through the streets pulling up the back of her designer jeans while S. and I clung to each other for dear life and mumbled deliriously phrases like "Jack London."

Oy. On Sunday morning, we woke up, and S. served us breakfast in bed ... bagels and fruit and yumminess. We got dressed and decided to face the cold like women and headed into the city at about noon. The snow/ice from the ice storm the night before was still coating the cars, streets, and sidewalks. S. was like, holy shit, it wasn't even winter until you got here, I swear. M. and I skipped through the subway station at one point to defrost our feet.

M. and I smile bravely and inwardly curse the cold.

Skipping like full-on idiots.

We headed to Greenwich Village and walked around a bit before escaping into the Olive Tree Cafe on MacDougal for a platter of falafel, grape leaves, hummus, and baba ganoush, Israeli salad, lentil soup, hot tea, and hot cocoa. Perfect!

S. daintily pours herself some cranberry tea.

Then we took some more trains. I don't know. It was kind of just a big blur of trains.

Look how happy it makes people to ride the PATH.

One of a thousand subway stations.

We made it to the theater (S. surprised us with tickets to The Producers), but the doors weren't open yet so we dove into a little shop to stay warm. It was full of people doing the same, and we all just kind of stood shoulder to shoulder and shivered and blinked.

At one point when we were outside, the wind was so strong that I thought my two front teeth were going to chatter themselves right out of my gums and I had to grab onto M. to keep her from being blown over as she screamed about being unable to unzip her purse to get her hat out and S. careened into a railing with a smash. There was a moment when all we could hear was the wind and it was like everything went into slow motion and people just clung to each other in little huddles of disbelief. Like, where are we? What is this? Did we accidentally find ourselves in the terrain featured in March of the Penguins?

We stopped outside of Spamalot long enough for M. to grimace painfully as the wind almost took off her very red nose.

Yep, that face about sums up the afternoon.

The show was funny and entertaining. I was excited to see that Hunter Foster was playing Leo Bloom, and even Jai Rodriguez did a good job. It made me want to see the movie even though its reviews have been fairly rotten. It was great just to be in a Broadway theater again because I hadn't been since seeing Avenue Q in the summer of 2004.

I amused myself at intermission by taking nonflash pictures of the balcony chandeliers.

We went to the Grey Dog after the show, of course, which was somewhat of a tainted experience due to a very loud and annoying talker next to us. Gah! We then stopped and bought eight celebrity magazines and a box of cookies at Rocco's on Bleecker and headed back to lie under the covers and let our brains thaw out.

The bountiful bevy of treats at Rocco's.

Our cute, pert box of cookies.

There are really no words to describe how cold it was. I talked to my dad, who reported that it was 17 degrees with a windchill of zero. Yes, that is zero. We felt every bone-chilling second of it, too. I just don't think I'm cut out for the winter, no, ma'am.

Just a few transcribed exclamations from my friends during the magazine reading marathon ...

M.: "Oh my God! Colonic therapy."

S.: "Chris Meloni's wife's name is Sherwin Williams. I'm feeling kind of let down right now."

M.: "I want to bitchslap Dina Lohan."

I am home, and I am tired. It was 72 degrees when I landed, but now it's raining and cold, which is a pisser. But if I could survive this weekend in New York, I think I can survive anything.

Note to Kymm and Anne and other NY-area peeps, I was there for exactly 40 hours or I would have set up a rendezvous with you. Next time, when I come back when it's warm outside, I will hopefully be there longer and we will love each other in the sun.

And these are my two favorite pictures from the weekend, so they get to be big.

Staring up into the mirrored ceiling in a Broadway shop into which we fled to escape the wrathful cold.

Can you get any cuter than these two? I mean, come on.


About this time in ...



Last night in a fit of moroseness, I asked someone, "Do you hate me?" and this person sputtered back, "You're the only person I like!" I take that as high praise.



I was stunned at how many people were there early on a Saturday morning when normal people are asleep, still in bed watching 90210 on FX, or at Starbucks.

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