Wednesday, March 3, 2010

We wear short skirts: NYC Part 3

Taking a much-needed break from job hunting to (finally) write the last post in my three-part series on my whirlwind weekend in NYC. See "Tim Burton at the Moma" and "Discover This" for more!

[ gussied up for a night on the town... in new york!!! ] 
Saturday: I dragged Tabor up and down Manhattan in search of a great pair of hot pants to provide modesty for the "dress" I planned to wear that evening. The quotations are necessary: this teeny piece of fabric could barely qualify as a dress on my 5'10" frame. For most girls, it wouldn't be an issue. In fact, my wedding photographer wore the very same piece (in a solid periwinkle colour) sans tights. For me, it passes as a tunic, at best. But, at Tabor's urging, and her explanation that Jersey girls are "much sluttier", I caved. Of course, I had planned on a very opaque pair of glittery tights to accompany the dress, but the shorts were extra reassurance. I would avoid any amount of bending, obviously, but I lack grace, so you can't be too careful.

 [ you can't see them, but they're they're: little black hot-pants... just in case ]

Tabor explained that New Yorkers (from Manhattan) "never go out on Saturdays" because the city's bars and clubs become flooded with people from Jersey. A bit of a snobbish practice, I thought, but then I realized that Torontonians have much the same attitude about "905-ers". However, we were going out on a Saturday. My day and a half stay didn't offer any other options. 

We started at Brass Monkey and while I was dismayed by the line-up (I don't do line-ups), Tabor marched to the front and applied feminine wiles in abundance. We were in. We stayed all of 12 minutes: the overcrowded spot was clearly a fire hazard. Tabor insisted on a drink, and when we were finally served, we decided on a shot - getting out quickly was key. The "shot" in question was tequila and was the size of a juice tumbler. This was New York, she said. It took me three tries to get it down. I suddenly felt like I had come from the way rural mid-west, rather than another major metropolis. Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore...

We then hit the bar at The Jane, a swanky boutique hotel near the Meatpacking District, where Miss T knew the bartender. Much more my pace. Apparently one of Jennifer Anniston's old haunts (if you care about such things). 

[ poor unsuspecting victim at The Jane ]

We sat at the bar and chatted with a few chaps that were vying for a spot right next to the single girl. It's awkward for a married woman to go out with single girls sometimes. I tend to play matchmaker and wing man, just for something to do. I think I actually ended up showing cel phone pictures of my husband and dogs to a few poor unsuspecting guys. With domestic bliss occupying most of my time, I have little else to share. The drinks were lovely, albeit too strong (New York again?), and the bartenders were amazing:

After a texting frenzy with an old friend, Tabor decided to meet him and his brothers (in town for the weekend) at a divey little neighborhood pub. Honestly, I don't even know where we were at this point. We had a quick beer and headed home to the upper west side to get very little sleep for my flight the next morning.

Catching up with a good friend was amazing! I have to say, though, that going out in New York was much the same as going out anywhere: I don't need to do it very often. In fact, my favourite part of the evening didn't involve the short-short dress and heels: before heading home to get pretty, we grabbed an early bite at Tabor's West Village watering hole, Wilfie & Nell


We were both haggard from a day of work/shopping/walking and nestled into a corner with (incredible) grilled cheese, gossip, and a few pints o' Guinness. Perfect!

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