Easy Fun Time

The past few weeks have been killing it big time in Gee world, so much fun and rock and roll sexy stuff that I’m just grooving with exuberance.

Outdoorsy adventure time has been in overdrive, Adventure Girl is not only enthusiastic and meticulous in her planning but she is umm….. me. HOLY COW, seriously peeps Adventure Girl is early for everything, will travel miles/ hours for fun, has the perfect gear (in pink or purple), enjoys a map, a pumpkin ale, lobster and kicking ass on the trail.  She will also spend hours/ days on researching then change her mind 8 times until she pulls the cord, hate to admit it but … that’s me too. We are kicking our friendship into overdrive with a sleepover later this week so that we can hit Storm King Mountain at the break of day then the following weekend we are attending a yoga/ hiking weekend at the Mohican AMC lodge.  Yep, I am fully entrenched in my woodsy adventures, so much so that you can add “sleeping bag” and “trekking poles” to the list of things that UPS dropped off this week.

Now onto the sexy, cause why the hell not. Match and OkCupid are a mess, I log in daily just so my

account stays active but there is NOTHING that I want out there. When I last wrote there were two guys that were maybe meet ups however neither of them ever got in touch, whatever.  But what did happen was a nice little drunken hook up with a uber charming gent at a random pop up local food / beer place in Queens – yeah I didn’t see that one coming either. “Friday” is undatable (unemployed & homeless) BUT he is brilliant, cultured, a great dresser, pays the check, holds doors open and just wants to have FUN. Good lord YES – FUN. Seems like years since I could find a guy who was just down with the F word (and that other F word… word). He’s so not my type, but I’m learning that maybe I don’t have a type, well except for being unemployed, that is SO my type but Friday likes cheese and wine and oh he went to my High School – what? Yep, fer realz. So we hung out twice, had a ton of laughs, a heap of sexy time and if I see him again, cool, if not it was fun and easy, and that’s what I’ve wanted for a LONG time.

Thanks Weekend

Oh good lord this weekend was just super pleasant. I mean really, how could a weekend NOT be charmed when kicked off by the most beautiful wedding ever? Trees, a full orchestra, timpani, trumpet salutes, posh British accents inducing shivers in my nether regions and hats!Sorry Jews, it was nice and all for the past 40 years but I’m jumping ship, where do I pledge my soul to the C of E? BTW, they did kinda had me at “Pancake Day” anyways.

Next up I would like to give ol’ Mother Nature a huge sloppy wet kiss cause she doled out a picture perfect spring day – TWICE in a row! Swason said it best today – Us New Yorkers REALLY have to work hard for Spring but once we get it, it’s fantastic.

But back to my Saturday. In celebration of the glorious sun returning to his realm I walked the 3 miles to the East River and lounged my day away with a back log of Vanity Fairs and a huge ice coffee. The walk was fantastic, sometimes it’s just kinda nifty to take the slow road and absorb the world. The beautiful small row of restored brownstones on a lacey tree lined street, “secret” community gardens squeezed into the cracks between buildings and a handful of really interesting abandoned industrial spaces all dotted my route. Back home after another 3 mile jaunt I extended my Saturday glow with a Long Term Booty Call fly by. Though it was not some of his best work (damn you bourbon), one can always find a glimmer goodness during any naked funtime.

Moving on…SundaySwason and I joined the inside foodie community for a Sunday lunch at M Wells in LIC. I got one word for this French eatery, decadent. It took all I had NOT to order the heavy cream and 7 cheese potato thing (not having a car and driver to race me back to my apartment 3 min. after all that dairy hits my intestines drastically reduces my menu choices) so I went with the egg soufflé garnished with salty pork stuff and a freshly baked biscuit with honey… love. As per usual the two gays perched atop their chrome stools to my right became my BFFs within 30 seconds of my bottom coming into contact with the red vinyl of my counter stool. Maybe one day I will learn how to fine tune this power to focus on STRAIGHT single men, but probably not.

The remainder of the day included a mini banana cupcake, more lounging river side (after introducing Swason to Gantry Park), watching what could only be described as a sailing ship of urban graffiti pirates, drinkies at LIC Bar and some spring time house work.

Fer reals, this was my weekend. Not too shabby.

The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not

Ok Cupid finally came through with a very entertaining, yet mildly age inappropriate dating situation.

Back tracking - a few weeks ago a wise talking (email= talking) 29 year old peeked my interest with his witty and biting e-banter. Of course our 4:30am drunken IM exchange was a hoot (I still cannot for the life of me remember what I was typing or HOW) which lead to The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not asking me out on a real live date.

The days between the asking and the going were filled with one of my favorite activities, internet snooping, compiling of facktoids and fashioning a fully rounded persona, chock full of assumptions and creative conjecture. I quickly discovered that I may be socializing with the new millennium’s Talented Mr. Ripley (the Believe it or Not part just kinda rolls off the tongue after one says The Talented Mr. Ripley… or maybe that’s just me). Anyways the guy is the type who may or may not write grad students’ doctorial dissertations for cash, and/ or use his wits not always for good but most certainly for gain. The more I read the more I liked. My date was showing signs of brilliance and craftiness combined with a very low moral set…… yummmmmm.

The locale for our rendezvous was ladies choice but he picked the time 9:30pm (oh these kids and their late nights out) and the borough, Queens. What the what? NOBODY who lives in Manhattan chooses to go to Queens unless there is a baseball or racquet involved, but I was happy considering that this old lady would not have to drag her ass across the river in the middle of the night.

I picked a swank hidden speakeasy-ish bar in LIC where the bartenders ne ‘mixologists’ sport suspenders, custom chop your ice, and utilize at least 7 ingredients per beverage. I arrived 2 minutes early (as per usual) while The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not wandered aimlessly along the banks of the East River. Once he realized that “Queens is hard” his call for help was answered with my booming instructions, “WALK NORTH EAST” while the circa 1928 live jazz band rocked out a Cole Porter ditty.

He finally arrived looking like a cross between an undergrad shuffling across the quad to grab a slice and person who was rudely shaken out of bed by the words, “Call 911, the apartment is on fire” This guy was one button fly away from wearing sweat pants… really? But I swallowed my pride and put all my faith in his charm, and thank god the kid had charm.

We talked and laughed and after several fancy drinks (and one Jameson’s – that one’s for you Swason) we gazed glassy eyed at each other across the table. Of course he was adamant that I become a performer (oh sweet child) and demanded that I begin writing my 7 min. stand up routine ASAP. He also told me stories with no endings, or stories that ended like, “So Shelly Long and I spent the afternoon placing 60 mini cottage cheese containers into her fridge”. Maybe it was the free flowing liquor or the jaunty way his head of bobbing black curls danced as he spoke but I was entertained.

The evening ended with a bit of snogging on the empty dark streets of LIC and a walk to the 7 train. I don’t want to tip my hand in fear that The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not may actually read the blog (even though he has stated that he probably will not) so I will just say that it would be lovely to hang out again and maybe hear more about those intriguing D list celebrity cottage cheese containers.

Pipers Pipes are Piping

After several $4 mimosas I still had some time to kill before the “St. Pat’s For All Parade” so I continued my journey of discovery westward towards a mass of barricades and balloon arches. Along my lazy stroll to the land of orange , green and white I overheard two police woman discussing the parade protestors that were gathering at the end of the block – hmm really. So I squared my shoulders, puffed out my chest and marched down the street to confront these exclusionary zealots. However once arriving at my destination I discovered to my surprise the colorful crowd at the end of the block was not a crew of hateful sour pusses but a party of practicing pipers and the most perfect troupe of traditional Irish dancers ever assembled for an “all inclusive” St. Patrick’s Day parade. These tiny tappers decked out perfectly in Celtic garb hailed from the Bronx and were the best African American Islamic step dancers ever to congregate on Skillman Ave. So with no anti-fun protesters in sight and the sounds of pipers piping at my back I returned eastward to stake out a perfect vantage spot along the parade route.

A few blocks down the sun drenched route I eyed the most excellent curb for parade viewing, super tall for good tusch to knee bend ratio with a slender patch of grass to aid in comfort….ahhh perfect. My fellow curbside attendees were adorable, young families decked out in green with babies in Aryan Island sweaters, silver headed grandparents seated in beach chairs festooned in tweed with clover pinned to their lapels, pretty boys and hipster girls frolicking with giant green mardi gras beads, this was a REAL hometown St. Patrick’s day. No drunken stupidity, no pushy “out of towners”, just a conglomerate of neighbors joined together to support…..everything.

Of course wherever there is fun, love, and open embracement of all things wonderful there has to be a villain…damn you villains! While I sat there basking in the sun and contemplating the comedic/heartwarming value of the Asian family across the street purchasing Irish flags and green bejeweled headbands this old hag appeared with two shopping bags bulging with signs proclaiming that the world would end because of the parade – or something like that. Dressed in a floor length black coat, orthotic shoes, and sporting reading glasses that covered ¾ of her face she quietly planted herself behind my line of curb dwellers and set out her cacophony of hatred. At first I thought I should move because I did not want to be mistaken for a supporter but then I decided to hold my ground and fight for my right to LIKE PEOPLE.

Her goolish troupe grew over the next 15 minutes, each one more ridiculous, grubby, and dismal. Some of my happy families removed themselves from the area (who wants their child sitting under a sign that says SODOMY!) but as they gently guided their babies westward their empty spaces were filled with the most spectacular crew of Chilean gays. HA - ha! Yep if you ever wondered how to combat a six member septuagenarian posse of gay bashers ship in a bus load of gay Latins – now that’s a party!
The parade finally started with Mayor Mike at the helm and the crowd was on their feet clapping, whistling, and yahooing for all the participants. Of course our feeble filth mongers tried to shout smut at the marchers but really….did they think they could compete with me and my gleeful loudmouth – HA! The louder they yelled their nastiness the louder we applauded and cheered. We even got two police officers assigned to our area who strategically stood directly in front of the grotesque signs blocking their sightline to the marchers. Whoops were they doing that? Thanks coppers! Their favorite cat call was “SHAME!” but they yelled it at everybody, they even yelled it at the yarmulke wearing bagpipe band from NYU. I couldn’t resist so I shouted, “Is it that NYU is shameful or that bagpiping is shameful cause now you are just confusing us? You should really just stick to one thing, screaming shame at everything is diluting your hate statement”. The Latin boys loved that. One of them yelled at the guy with the sodomy sign, “Oh you are very brave…having that sign in this crowd is dangerous”. And all was right with the world again.

As the parade went on we boogied with a Caribbean band, sang along with a New Orleans inspired brass ensemble, cheered for the throngs of pipers, and were totally entertained by a group of Mexican (?) dancers decked out in spangles, cowboy boots and sleigh bells. It was the best all inclusive St. Patrick’s Day parade ever

Excuse me Sir but your nose is in my hooch

I am a huge fan of mass transit, good thing since I have utilized it exclusively since selling my cranberry 4 door Saturn in 1996. It’s speedy, rather reliable, economical, and best of all I never need to shovel it out of a snow bank or scrape sheets of ice from its windshield. The down side of course is that I must share my travels with the public, and this is where the love affair with my chosen form of motorized mobility quickly turns sour, very sour.

There are of course the usual offenders, the stinky food consumers, the nail clippers, the nose diggers, the pole leaners, the “my balls are too big to close my legs” sitters, etc. However recently I have noticed a surge in an new form of rush-hour subway misconduct, the “I know there is not enough room for me to fit between these people however I am such a lazy a-hole that I will teeter my keester on the edge of the subway bench then bend forward so my head is directly in line with the strap hangers’ crotches.” Yep, three out of my past 5 days of commuting I’ve been smack up against a man (I have yet to see a woman do this – but I wouldn’t put it past them on the 7 train) who has his nose ¾ of an inch away from my nether regions. Doesn’t it suck enough that I have to stand jam packed like a sardine on the 7 train wrapped up like Nanook because of the subarctic temperatures but now in addition I have to host a stranger in my ‘lady area’? It’s a great core exercise though, with my feet firmly planted just far enough away from the overhead pole to be comfortable my pelvis pulled in tightly so as to not graze the bobble headed douche bag when the train banks ‘round the turn at Queens Plaza and my ass pulled in with my back arched so I don’t lean into my fellow commuter behind me, it takes all I have not to fall over during my 6 minute ride to Woodside.

But in hindsight I guess I shouldn’t complain, I mean the online dating thing has dried up (along with some other options) so with the joy that a new year brings to all of us I extend a grateful “THANKS” to the #7 train passengers who would rather sit bent in half with their top lip resting on my third coat button instead of standing for a 20 minute journey because without you I truly would have no ‘action’ at all.