Dana's going away party

My friend and faithful travelling partner, Dana, has a career to be truly envious of. She was working for a big French fashion house that sent her to Paris for two months in order to brush up on her French. She is one of my favorite reasons to visit New York City because she is always up for a fabulous new restaurant or dive bar theme party. I didn’t think it was possible, but Dana snagged an even cooler job; however this job would take her from NYC and transport her to Texas (groan). In her true fashion, she held a going away party. I couldn’t resist and flew on over to for the last hurrah.
With the abundance of homecoming to NYC, I bunked with Gabby in her Brooklyn townhome. Her sister and fiancé also shared the place. Their wedding date is scheduled for the fall, so they decided to create a friendly weight loss wager. They even got a body fat measurement device. The thing is like a giant set of pinchers and it grabs you in all the fatty areas. I realize I’m not in tip top shape (spare tire), but the fatty pincher really opened my gluttonous eyes. Damn!
So Dana’s party was at a SoHo/Tribecca club. She invited this guy that she had a questionable relationship with. The question was that during dinner dates he would brag about himself, name drop, show off his salary, and never make a move with her. In fact, I don’t think he considered it a date…just someone he can enjoy expensive dinners with and wouldn’t deck him for being a total douche bag. The question surrounding their relationship was answered at the party. A bridge and tunnel gaggle of girls (presumably a bachelorette party since one was wearing a gaudy crown) were hanging at the table next to ours. I went off to get some drinks, and returning I saw the question man being dragged off by the crown princess herself. Curious, we asked the remaining B&T girls what the occasion was (cause if it was a bachelorette party, then the groom is in for a hurting). The drunk participant squealed out “it’s her 24th birthday party…whooooo hoooo!”.
When the douche returned, he confessed the birthday girl gave him a “Korean massage” at the bar. A what? I know what Korean BBQ is (delicious that is), but a Korean massage? With a giant boyish grin, he elaborated and informed us it was a hand job. Classy. Did I mention douche guy is 42…or the mirror image of the birthday girl’s age. The truly sad part of the night was seeing the birthday girl out on the street when we exited. She was drunk, without her crown, and alone…on her birthday…after giving a hand job to a man 20years her senior. New York...where anything is possible.

gunned down

This past Thursday, I stood up to the gangs in my neighborhood. Don’t worry, I didn’t go all Grand Torino on them. I returned from work to see someone had put “clarissa is a fag” on our limestone wall. Now the boys are not too bright (or really young) because they wrote it in sidewalk chalk. A few weeks ago, they tagged our front door with spray paint. Our glass front door.
Five minutes with a razor blade, and the tag was removed. Anyway, back to the Thursday incident. I went out with a bucket of soapy water and a dish scrubber. I was working on the sidewalk chalk defilement when a cop car pulled up (don’t worry, there is almost always a cop on my block). The cop chided the boys just hanging on the corner (i.e. drug dealers) for just sitting back and watching “the lady scrub her wall”. The gang boys then asked me if I needed help, and I snipped back “yeah, you can help me by telling who wrote on my wall…it is so disrespectful”. They shook their heads and walked off to the other popular dealing spot. No retaliation yet, but I’ll keep watch nonetheless.
In related bullet news, I went on the Chicago Gangster tour a few months back with my Mom. Being a history nerd, it fascinated me. The tour covered Al Capone’s haunts, the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, the rift between Irish and Italian gangs, and the new lawmen call the Untouchables. One church with a bloody history, thanks to Capone, still has bullet holes. Of course, my mom and I couldn’t resist sticking our fingers in them.

Hairy situation

For a while now, I had been growing out my hair. At first it was because the guy I was dating said the longer hair looked good on me (previously I always liked to keep it at chin level). After we broke up, I kept the longer hair because all the super models had long flowy hair (hey it works for them).
Caulk up the next four inches on plain ole laziness. When my daily style consisted of a ponytail or bun so I wouldn’t have to deal with all the hair, I knew it was time for a change. Of course it would be a shame to toss out all that “virgin” hair (non-chemical/color treated, healthy hair) that all the charities ask for., so I decided to donate it. For the next month I would tell myself each weekend to make an appointment and get a freaking haircut already. Unfortunately I didn’t know of any real hair salons or stylists to call upon. I realize now I could have called on a girlfriend to give me a recommendation, but I was frankly stupid. Laziness is what compelled me to visit a Hair Cuttery that just opened a block away in my neighborhood (next to ghetto Target).
I know, you can tell already it is going to be a big mistake. All I cared was that it would be over with in an hour and I was tired of the long hair already. I asked for something completely different than all my previous cuts. It was to be a bob with a dramatic angle, super short in the back and shoulder length in the front. The stylist divided my hair into three sections with rubber bands, one in the back and one on either side. The first cut was to be the most hair since I was going short in the back. The woman grasped the pony tail…and cut below the rubber band! The hair was falling loose and to the floor. I reached back and tried to grab as much as I could since the charities don’t accept hair swept up off the floor. Aghast, I asked the woman why she cut below the rubber band when the point was to cut above it in order to keep the hair together. There was about 12 inches of hair to be had. On the side, there would be only 8 inches since I wanted it shoulder length in front. Well the woman put in the rubber band at armpit level which seemed right if she where to cut just above it. She then grabbed the hair and cut it above the band…at chin level! OMG!!! The whole salon stood still in silence because we all knew she fucked up. In hindsight, I should have known she didn’t have a clue what she was doing when she botched the first cut.
Immediately the manager was at my side asking what was going on. I sputtered out that she cut my hair way shorter than we discussed (i.e. long at the front) and she defended herself with a “well she said to cut it above the rubber band, so I did”. The manager then informed her that she was only supposed to cut an inch above the band…not six. You could predict what happened next; the manager took over my cut and the idiot stylist was sent to clean the combs. The challenge now was figuring out the solution. The third section was not yet cut, so the manager decided to give me a deep part and create a “comb over” with the still long hair. Yep, I have a comb over. If you lift off the top section of my hair on the right side, you will see it is all super short underneath. Oh c’est la vie. Now I have had a comb over and a mullet hair style. Ha!