A Special Proposal

“I’m going to go try and flirt with this guy.”

Even as I said it, I knew my sister would barely buy the flimsy excuse. Kathryn looked at me with a strange expression on her vacay-tanned face and cocked her head. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah… I’ll buy a drink or something.”

My youngest sister Grace chimed in quickly. “Oh my gosh, I’m coming too. I can’t believe you talked to him!” We ran off toward our condo’s outdoor bar, looking like idiots—but we were out of options.

The awkward exit left Kathryn alone with her (uncharacteristically nervous) boyfriend, Hector.

“We’ll catch up to you!” I called back over my shoulder. They were already walking toward the quiet beach, with its imminent sunset.

Good.

Grace and I ducked behind a column near the bar. We waited there for a few minutes, got questioned by an excitable security guard, and then headed to the outdoor courtyard where our semi-stressed parents were setting up tea light candles.

So far, the Fitzgerald family collective plus Hector and company had faked a condo rental, improvised a nerve-wracking dinner, and planned a surprise post-engagement party for a somewhat suspicious Kathryn. There had been a few hiccups (“No! You can’t keep the ring in your pocket… I SEE IT.”) but, overall, I was impressed with the family’s ability to remain nonchalant.

Detaching from Kathryn was always going to be the most difficult part of Mission Engagement. When the sisters are finally together, in one place, at the same time, we don’t often separate. It was relatively easy for the parents to slip away and sign fake condo papers with a fake realtor named “Anna”… but Grace and I were trapped.

So there we were, pretending I had a prepubescent crush on a bartender probably three years my junior. Whatever. We were almost in the clear, and I knew that ring was practically jumping out of Hector’s pocket.

But it couldn’t.

The ring needed to stay hidden at least another 30 minutes.

“DO NOT COME BACK UNTIL 8:45,” I texted him. Then I imagined poor Hec looking at his phone, and breaking into a second monologue about what life would be like together. (I later discovered he already had a fabulous speech prepared. His dilly-dallying was instead in watching the sun fully set and walking back toward the condo very casually.)

Horrible traffic on I-95 had delayed almost all of our guests, so only about 9 out of 20 were present. But even as I frantically typed on my phone, cars zoomed into the complex and disheveled friends began running toward our "Best Wishes" decorations.

By the time Kathryn and Hector had arrived—giddy and relived, respectively—nearly everything was in its place. The night turned into a happy celebration of the married couple to-be.

And I, for one, couldn’t be more excited.

The Fitzgerald girls will finally have a brother. We will be more complete as a family, and Kathryn more complete as the beautiful individual she has become. Giving away your younger sister is a difficult endeavor, especially if you’re raised the way we were. But Hector is already someone who understands our family, someone who actually can keep up (and put up) with the excitable, endearing, and at times overwhelming Fitzgeralds.

So welcome aboard, brother.
We already love you so much. 

A Note to Self

I cannot sit still in summertime.

Let me explain this fact further: I am literally over-stimulated from May to September, as warmth and excitement blankets our city. The constant need to move, move, move and bounce from one thing to the next grows in humid weather, like metal expanding in the hot, sticky sun. 

So yes.

The blog has been silent these last several weeks.

But I’ve been out of town!
And I needed to play in the resurrected, summer sun!
 < Insert numerous excuses with dramatic punctuation here! >

It’s also worth mentioning that my current job has me writing and editing streams of exclamation point and emdash-filled paragraphs for most of the day. Obviously I love what I do, but I’m rarely enthused to rush home to my computer—you wouldn’t be either (emdash!).

Still, I opened up that daunting white, blank Word Doc tonight because summer has already started; stories are continuously unfolding; New York keeps turning whether I want to write about it or not.

And then I remembered.
 (After some poking and prodding…)

I do want to record this city’s narrative—and our narratives—even if it means finding the time at 3AM to jot down an idea, or type up that ever-elusive prequel to a “brilliant” thought. 

As E.B. White once said, when talking about New York City no less, “[C]reation is in part merely the business of forgoing the great and small distractions.”

Hey, you.
One of you special 400 to 500 who still read this dusty ol’ blog.
 Don’t let me forget what I just typed.

*****

The conquering of summer has already started! Here's what's been happening in my neck of the woods:

Pianos have been played.

Goodbyes have been made.

I’ve gotten my first sunburn of the season,

And sat on countless rooftops for no good reason.

We all took a jazzy step back in time,

And visited our favorite dive bar—covered in grime.

There were Tony Awards to watch in Time Square,

As well as Shakespeare to hear in the glorious night air.

We danced on a boat,

And read a sidewalk quote,

And realized there is always something beautiful to note. 

Best Text Message Ever

This text was sent at 8:43am on May 3, 2013 after I’d accidently called a friend, and left an awkward "sorry-I-butt-dialed-you" voicemail. Their response might be the best recorded text message in history. 

Editor’s Note: Paragraph spacing and certain commas have been added for your convenience, as the words below actually came in one, long stream of consciousness thought.

*** 

"Butt dial? Butt dial on the iPhone… are you putting your butt directly on your phone? What? It needs skin contact. So this is my theory:

You were between that stage of being weird and crashing from the end of too much coffee, sweating but not hot, focused but could pass out, and you reach for your phone.

Possibly in a delusional state, you grab it just to feel something other than a keyboard and you start tweeting #fml, #omg, #nycwriter, #semihipster, #bittyfitz.

Then as you are tweeting you realize you need some sort of human interaction. You scan through your friends and family, but they would ask too many questions and your priorities are on entertainment and an insurgence of energy into your mundane, NYC late night writing sesh.

So you call yours truly for some entertainment, and I don’t pick up. You then freak out, throw your chair across the room (it’s not that big) and yell, “AAAHHHH!!,” and you begin to tweet, #AAAHHH!

After your rampage, the energy supply in your body is limited and you close up shop and leave for the day. Walking as if you were drunk to your subway, you stop, get a slice and move on.

Stumbling onto the train, you find a seat that doesn’t require you to make eye contact with a single person and you crash.

Eyes opening slowly, blurry views of black, tan, and brown emerge predominant, and you are in bed looking at your newly acquired One Direction poster wondering how you got home. What’s that in your pocket...!!??

To be continued..."

*** 

I’m posting this story because I decided it was way better than the one I was going to tell you this week. 

#lolz

When New York is Most Splendid

Occasionally, it’s nice to be home before 3AM.

On more recent weekends I’ve enjoyed hitting the hay by 2—but only after traipsing around the city for hours on end, using my precious liveliness to its full advantage and checking out “this or that.” (Being an energy-filled extrovert is probably quite a handicap for a writer, so I appreciate your graceful understanding.)

Except, now May is right around the corner. With this month comes boozy brunches and freckles; Central Park picnics and visiting vacationers; open windows and exasperated AC units. There are broken sunglasses, broken sandals, lazy naps, the long, extended night, and the seemingly endless light.

Our prologue of summer embraces New York City, and, if you’re perceptive enough, you can feel a tangible change in the reckless air. That electric pulse I crave all winter creeps slowly out of hibernation and explodes by mid-June.

The unfortunate thing about summer in New York is that you move so quickly for months, and then one morning you wake up and the electricity is gone. Spent. Fizzled out, like the broken streetlights on the corner of 28th and Steinway.

Now, of course, this energy I speak of does bleed slowly through some of autumn, and yes, the holidays possess their own specific spirit. But nothing taste and feels (or smells) like New York City in summertime—and I’m hopelessly addicted to this season, for better or for worse.

So maybe I’ll be home before 3AM.
Or maybe I won’t.
Or maybe we'll sit on rooftops for hours and count barely visible stars as the sun disintegrates into the moon. Time is about to blur, as it always does during this part of the year, and I’ve been waiting not-so-patiently since last October.

But a few moments ago, in the midst of a glorious late-April Saturday, I began to feel that buzzing, buzzing, buzzing pulse of the city once more...

"I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone's away. There's something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands."

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

When You Fall In Love

You never know when love will strike.

And what a perfect descriptive word that is—strike. Verb. “To hit or dash, to inflict, to collide.” It’s sudden and sporadic but overpowering, almost forceful.

I could tell you exactly when it happened, what I was wearing, and how the city smelled (like hesitant spring, if you must know.)

My love story unfolded like this: A friend and I were weaving in and out of the East Village’s community gardens. It was warm enough for a leather jacket, but sitting in the shadows would give you a shiver. As we exited the little rough-and-tumble park, there he sat—my one and only.

I laughed with the couch.
I took pictures with the couch.
I even inquired about bed bugs from the couch’s previous owner. (There were none… finger’s crossed.) But ultimately I had to walk away from him. How would I bring my love to Queens?

Except.
Maybe he didn’t have to make that journey… I quickly texted two guys I knew who lived on that block. Wouldn’t they just love to have a couch from the side of the road?

Those poor gents—I do feel a bit bad for what happened next. I didn't really ask to keep the large piece of furniture but... but you should understand I was blinded by love! This couch was the urban form of that lost puppy you begged your parents to keep.

And they must have seen some persistent glimmer in my eye. There’s no other way to explain why two men would lug a golden chaise lounge down the block, and up four flights of stairs to their fully furnished apartment.

It happened all too quickly. But we were bored and the weather was warm, so that’s how the story goes. That’s how a large retro couch made a new (albeit understandably brief) home in a random living room on 6th Street.

I won’t claim to know the fate of my love. As far as I’m aware, he currently sits in his Alphabet City apartment, probably uncared for and utterly degraded. I’m fairly certain he’ll be forced back out on the street any day now, waiting in golden desperation for the next idealistic passerby. (In fact, his tragic ending may have already occurred!)

The moral of this story, my friends? Love can strike at the wrong time, and passions may become fickle as they’re tainted with practicality. (Also, never answer a text from me when I’m looking at bulky furniture on your street.)

But, oh, isn’t parting such sweet sorrow?

Why We Should Never Shower

Today greeted me with a new experience. 

I was rushing to get ready Sunday morning; frantically figuring out what jacket/dress/shoe combination was going to get me through the day. When leaving my apartment in Queens, I most likely won’t be back from Manhattan for another 10 to 12 hours—and in spring that means NYC could have experienced 4 different types of weather. (Oh, you fickle season!)

After finding the magic outfit, I began blow-drying my hair, brushing it repeatedly to get the right poof, puff, and part. As I worked, I contemplated about maddening morning tasks: Think of the time wasted perfecting how much blush is on each cheek; which strand of hair should be pinned up?

I flipped my auburn locks over my head and continued the process.
Brush, dry, brush dry.

At one point I held the blow dryer against my brush, trying to dry the long pieces of hair near my eyes. Maybe I should have just curled my hair… How long had this taken… What time was it anyway? I moved the brush, hoping my bangs were dry.

And BAM.

5 inches of hair fell from my head.
Let me repeat…

I BURNED 5 INCHES OF HAIR OFF MY HEAD.

“NO!” I yelled at the hair dryer. “No, no, NO! How did you DO that!?” What smelled like tragically burned popcorn leaked from the bathroom into my apartment. Fused pieces of hair stuck to the brush and bathroom floor, while a stream of curse words clouded my brain. DAMNIT.

Looking in the mirror suddenly seemed like a horrifying endeavor. I stood slowly, with both eyes closed. First the right eye squinted open to assess the damage. When he was confident my left eye could handle such trauma, I opened both baby blues and began plucking at the fringed pieces with a grimace.

All these years blow-drying my hair and not once have I burned it off. Still confused, I gathered a clump from off the ground and held it up to my head. Could I glue it back on?

After deciding that was not practical (and probably more messy) my hands worked quickly to tuck, spray, and hide the new, eye-length DIY haircut.

This is why we should never shower, and instead, live like cave people.
Getting dolled up is just too much effort.
In fact, it’s downright dangerous.
Case closed. 

Part of the damage... May my bangs rest in peace.

PS - Enjoy the cliche mirror/bathroom selfie. I assure you they don't happen often. Alas, this was the necessary documentation. 

Signal Malfunctions

“You come here in 1995 and you could shack up, and live life, and that was that. But now? New York—it's f*cking Disney World.”

I was sitting on a Queens-bound N train, trying desperately to read my magazine. But a man, who looked like Jared Leto from Fight Club, and a woman who sounded like a mobster’s wife from the 1930’s, were far too entertaining… and loud.

“The whole city can go f*ck itself!” she chimed in with her squeaky, character voice. They both sounded like disgruntled actors, ready for a change.

“I just hate America's mentality. And New York's mentality? No, it's all goal-orientated. Everyone’s hung up on something. But then where is the community?” said Fight Club Wannabe.

Doll Face bobbed her blonde head up and down in agreement. “Yeah, yeah,” she said. I couldn’t help but think her accent was a fake, unless maybe she’d grown up in New Jersey. No one moves to New York City and suddenly sounds like a character from 42nd Street.

“When is it enough?” Doll Face continued. “I keep thinking I'm going to make it—what's making it? What is that?”

Then more quietly, she asks, “After years of the same shit, I think, ‘Is this it?’” Her question sounded like a sad, defeated statement, weighing down the air around us.

I’ve always told myself the moment I start to hate New York more than I love it, the time to leave this both exasperating and enchanting city will have presented itself. You see, NYC will save you from the horrors of boredom and normalcy. You’ll achieve more, do much, and see it all—but such frantic liberation from the dreaded “ordinary” comes at a price.

New York City will break you; she’ll beat you to the ground, eat you alive, and then spit up some redesigned version of your former being.This will happen. It is inevitable. You will lose yourself, for better or worse, for a moment or a lifetime. And yet, how you survive is sometimes based on what you were fighting for in the beginning, when you first stepped foot in Manhattan. Do we remember what that was?

I’m not sure these subway riders did.

“I could leave this damn city and have a half-decent life somewhere else,” the brilliantly blonde man continued. It was obvious something had pushed him over the edge today. His eyes were angry and a sneer lined his lips, making him appear cruel.

“You can't just keep raising prices on everything and not raise salaries. We can't live,” Fight Club said in exasperation. By now, I was no longer attempting to read my magazine and, instead, waiting for them to confirm my assumptions.

“There’s no money is Broadway!” they both said in unison, as though it was their morning mantra.

Assumptions confirmed.

“I feel guilty for eating. I SHOULDN'T feel guilty for eating... But I do because I'm over budget,” he continued. “I'm always over budget and I don't know how to save. How did we make it when we first got here!?”

I could ask myself that same question. But the days of plastic bag suitcases, and surviving off eggs in the sticky, summertime heat are maybe still memories in the making.

“I’ve just had enough.” Ironically, our train arrived at the Broadway stop in Astoria, Queens. I wondered if this sign mocked them.

“Aaaaattention, attention! Everyone, listen up!” the conductor’s voice spurred an audible groan from the entire subway car. Conductors rarely offer tired commuters any good news.

“Because of a signal malfunction at the Astoria-Ditmars stop, this train has been instructed to wait here. More details to come momentarily.”

“Damnit! Are you kidding me, New York?!” Fight Club Wannabe shouted in vain. The city probably didn’t hear him, but he shouted anyway. “This is what I’m talking about. I can’t take this! I can’t TAKE THIS,” he said.

What he really meant (and what we were all thinking) was, “There is nothing worse than knowing your complete lack of power.”

“Let’s catch a cab,” he said to ever-agreeable Doll Face. They stormed off the train with a wave of angry riders, and I followed half-intrigued, half-restless.

We were down the first set of stairs when the conductor’s voice reappeared, louder than before. “Wait a minute! Get back on this train!” he said in a (genuine) New York accent. “It’s a miracle! They fixed the problem!” he continued, with more enthusiasm than I’ve ever heard from a subway conductor.

Now, quite suddenly, something about life had become amusing to Fight Club and Doll Face. They started laughing as they ran back up the stairs, racing each other and sliding into the first subway car.

They laughed, and laughed, until there was no sound, and they were doubled over in joyful pain. I ran past their tear-streaked faces and sprinted to the next car down, wondering if, maybe, they still had some small shred of love left for this city.

Because New York can be quite a redemptive little witch, when she wants to be. But most importantly: She’ll always make you laugh.
Or cry.
Or just feel something.

Let Your Feet Do The Talking

I’m not a dancer.

I can hop around and rave at concerts, or mingle at some seedy club—but let’s be clear: I don’t know actual steps, and while occasionally I have rhythm, the lack of knowledge about professional dancing leaves me rigid and confused when I’m reluctantly pulled onto any dance floor.

(You’d think after 22 weddings and middle school cotillion, I could handle myself more gracefully. Alas…)

So please imagine my insecurity as I walked toward a swing dancing club in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. The weather was moderate, but an angry wind made the air feel more like impending winter than spring. Still, I sat outside wrapped in my red coat for a lingering moment, looking the swanky joint up and down.

“Urgh.” A small twinge of discomfort floated around my stomach.

But as soon as those butterflies appeared, I knew not dancing was no longer an option. I’ve learned over the years how to read that unsettling feeling; certain anxieties must simply become the next challenge or adventure. 

Besides, who doesn’t grow tired of the same bars and repetitive evenings? With this thought, I walked inside.

Ten or 12 friends were already circled up, learning how to “rock step” in time to a big band beat. The room was full of nervous faces, excited feet, and tiny tables illuminated with tea candles. Wine colored walls and a wooden dance floor gave the club an antique touch. The band was tuning on stage as our teacher counted out movements…

Whoops. What did he say? I should've been paying better attention, but my mind was taking in details. Thank goodness Kristin, an avid swing dancer and friend, could give me a private lesson.

“Always rock step with your right foot. It’s like the period of a sentence; it’s always the same,” she said, moving back on her heel with ease. I appreciated the grammar metaphor.

After mastering this very simple step, I rewarded myself with a glass of wine. But standing on the sidelines is dangerous at a swing club: Well-practiced dancers are always looking for partners.

“May I dance with you?” a man asked, offering his hand.

“Oh. Um, yes…” I heard myself mutter.
Simultaneously, my mind was whispering something along the lines of, “Bad [bleeping] move Brit.”

“But I actually can’t dance!” I exclaimed with true fear. He turned me in a perfectly executed twirl, and then another. “Sure you can,” he replied.

“No, really,” I said, suddenly unable to remember anything about the dumb “rock step.” But my partner just smiled. He twirled me again, and I wondered if my dress might be revealing a bit too much?

“Okay, well… uh, I’m just following you then,” I said with a little shrug.

“That’s what you’re supposed to do,” he smiled, effectively ending my anxious inner dialogue.

And may I just say… I think it was the best dance of my life. Spin, spin, rock, dip; this guy could truly dance! I became something like to a pile of spaghetti wearing a dress, and stuck closely to his every move. When we ended in a dip so low my hair touched the floor, I laughed in relief.

After both feet were back on the ground, I promptly hugged Best Dancer Ever (which may or may not be kosher) and made him promise to dance with all my friends. He gladly accepted the challenge, whisking away one girl after another.

As I sat there in the dim lighting, watching the room twist to and fro, I remembered something important: How wonderful it does, in fact, feel to let New York City take lead, and occasionally choreograph life.
Just for us.
The lucky 8.5 million.