Little Things

24 Friday May 2013

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This was the morning I was meant to have: waking up warm beside Nico. Home last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I texted him at 2am. Immediately, he replied, “Can I come over?”

Nico brought a slick black envelope from Australia. Inside were a pair of leggings. After mourning the wear-and-tear on my beloved polka dot leggings, he’d set out to surprise me with a similar pair. There’s not enough space on the internet to describe how thankful I am for him, sometimes.

We had sex for the third time in 24 hours. We lunched at Gemini diner; I ordered the chocolate chip pancakes I’d craved at 4AM, slathered with butter and salt.

6:34PM, a 646 number calls.
“Lizzie?”
“Yes?”
“This is — from — Casting Agency. Are you available next Wednesday through Saturday for Girls?”
(Pause)
“It’s a four day shoot,” the agent says. “You’ll be playing a GQ writer. They need someone tall and attractive, who can pull off the wardrobe.”
So excited! But my new job. I needed time to think. I said I’d have to check with work.
The agent said I could call back.

I called Mom, I called Nico but neither answered. So I sent a text. Ummm I just got a really exciting call from a casting agency. I know you’re with your friend but I need help thinking up an excuse to get out of work for 4 days.
–Tell them it’s women issues?
For four days??
It’s for HBO’s Girls
–Is it an audition or extra?
She said the role is for a GQ writer, and I have to commit to all 4 days.
–Really? Babe this is alot for me to comprehend right now

My mother laughed at this, later. She said he was probably jealous.

I made up my mind to delay my new job and take the role, but it was too late. I called back 1.5 hours later–the role was filled. “I can get you on the show again,” the agent said.

I was so angry at myself. I called Mom, confessed I wouldn’t be shooting next week, after all. I’ve got to stop being indecisive.

“You think everything you have to decide between will have major impact on your life,” my mother said. “But very few decisions we have to make will have a major impact on our lives.”
“How can that be true?” I asked. “I decided to leave Bloomingdale’s one day because I wanted to eat lunch at home, and then I met my boyfriend in the subway. What would have happened if I hadn’t decided to stop shopping?”

I can’t be convinced that the simple things don’t matter and this, this is a decision between two roles in life, two different lives. I am leaving a cushy corporate maître d’ job to manage an independent restaurant–a dream which interferes with other dreams. But how can I have everything?

–You can totally be a GQ writer. I’m your boyfriend, Nico texted later.

In misery I replied my resolve, but still, I’m unsettled.

ABC Cocina

17 Friday May 2013

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Much of ABC Cocina’s charm, like big sister ABC Kitchen, is the spectacular ambiance. Dark wood ceilings and pops of bright colors around the dining room give this not-quite-latin, not-quite-mexican restaurant, a darker, more sensual feel than the clean whites of ABC Kitchen (which I still believe is one of the best looking dining rooms in the city). The montage of chandeliers–silver wired, white lights, big and small, all modern–contrast to the neutrality of the exposed wood beams and classic bistro chairs. Packs of hand-laid seashells don over-looked spaces on the wall, offering more natural texture. The same nature-meets-modern-design cleanliness still dominates in the new space.

Chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten has a commitment to fresh, organic and local ingredients, with which he is more inventive than most. Everything I’ve ever had at ABC Kitchen has been intelligent, satisfying, so I couldn’t wait to try ABC Cocina.

It’s almost 11 on a Thursday and we enter in, expecting that the kitchen continues service until 11:30PM (per google). I’d scoped the scene around 8PM, but retreated as the bar was packed.

From the look on the maître d’s face, I kind of wonder if they’re still serving. His verbiage is shaky and conflicting. “I think our kitchen has closed,” the maître d’ says, “but I can offer you cocktail service at the bar.”
“Oh, well it says online that you guys continue service until 11:30, so you may want to look into that.”
“Did you go to the Pipa website?” He asks, “Because this is different.”
No, I didn’t go to the Pipa website (the former restaurant who previously occupied the space–though Pipa was likewise chandelier-draped, it was not part of the Jean-Georges family). “I googled ABC Cocina, and google published your hours of service through 11:30.”
“Well, we may still be serving. You can sit down at the bar and ask your server.”
“Are you still in service or not?” I ask.
He hesitated. They were either still in service and he didn’t want us to sit, or they had stopped service and he was afraid to say so–whatever it was, I felt like I had to do the talking for him. It’s the responsibility of the maître d’ to orient guests, and this includes things like knowing when the restaurant is or is not in service. It’s up to the maître d’ to enforce the hours of service (as they control who enters the restaurant and sits down), not the wait staff. The man at ABC Concina’s front door lacked command of the space, which came off as unwelcoming.

We sit down. I perch at a chair in the window and Nico approaches the-still-full bar, but a server is by my side in an instant. Nico asks about dinner. The server says they’re still in service, for five more minutes.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He reassures me that he’ll take care of us as he shows us to the high top table (thankfully there is no food service in the window), and presents us with cocktail lists. The server is friendly and hospitable. We order quickly:

Mezcal Margarita, Mango Essence and Guajillo (Montelobas, Salt Rim) (Nico)

Sparkling Rose & Rhubarb (Bedell Rose, Rhubarb Juice) (me)

(Table Snacks) Spring Pea Gaucamole with Warm Crunchy Tortillas

(Light & Bright) Grilled Tuna Sashimi “Pimeton”

(Masa & Tortillas) Crispy Fish Tacos, Aioli and Cabbage-Chili Pickle (Mine)

Chipotle Chicken Tacos, Grilled Jalapeno Salsa (Nico)

About this time, our server introduced us to the closing server, who was prompt but distant. Back service was on point with beverage refills and clearing.

The guacamole was inventive and fresh without tasting radically different than your standard guacamole–it was lighter, a cool compliment to the flaring spice on the tuna sashimi, which arrived at the same time.

We are fine with coursing, and the tacos (2 per order, the first server appropriately mentioned), were intended as entrees, but we wanted them out at the same time. I don’t eat chicken. Our server prompted us to start eating as the tortillas would dismantle should we wait too long. So I shared one of my tacos with Nico. The aioli was heavy at the bottle, the fried fish warm in contrast to the room-temp cabbage, sliced apple and shredded basil. The flavors were delicious, the temperature contrast not so great.

Nico said that the chicken tacos were the best tacos he’s ever had.

When presented with the dessert menus, I asked if the Salted Caramel “Impossible” Flan was a Latin play on ABC Kitchen’s signature Salted Caramel Sundae but the server “doesn’t know anything about ABC Kitchen.” Um. Ok. He proceeded to explain, instead, how flan is made. We declined dessert.

It’s a brand new restaurant, an impressive space. The food presentation, especially for our starters, was phenomenal, photogenic, and everything tasted great. The verdict on their hours of service remains inconclusive and, had we not sat down and eaten so well, my first impression would be as uncertain as their maître d’.

Francisco Costa and the Ellsworth Kelly Dress

09 Thursday May 2013

Posted by in Fashion

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New York City dining rooms beckon in a variety of types, and the luxury of being the maître d’ (at one of these) is that I am the point of contact for all the restaurant’s guests. I get to meet a lot of interesting people. So far this week, the most notable person I’ve interacted with is Francisco Costa, the Creative Director of Calvin Klein’s women collection.

I’m having a love affair with the current art-history-meets-fashion trend. Kate Spade’s Mondrian-inspired dress is the best recent addition to my wardrobe. The dress has a boxy, mod-like silhouette, which I had tailored (the 00 swallowed me), for slightly more shape. It came out beautifully. I wore the dress for service last week and garnered much attention from my guests, staff–even the line cooks complimented the dress. 

Lisa Perry has a series of pop and contemporary art influenced garments, featuring Jeff Koons dresses and Roy Lichtenstein sheaths, which are a fantasy.

I’ve been admiring an apropos Calvin Klien color-blocked sheath, the co-creation of Costa and artist Ellsworth Kelly. As Kelly’s 90th birthday approaches, museums, galleries and publications have been brought attention to his work. Per an article in this month’s Vogue, Ellsworth designed a color-blocked sheath dress in 1952. He provided fabric and explicate instructions to his friend and fellow artist, Anne Weber, who sewed the dress in accordance to the current “Dior” style of the day (the bottom panel was longer than the rest–ruining Kelly’s original vision). The original dress is on display at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, now in company of Costa’s modern creation, which Kelly tells Vogue, “Now the dress is as I’ve always wanted it.”

There’s nothing much remarkable about my interaction with Costa, except that he was polite.

Tomorrow evening is the opening reception of Kelly’s solo exhibit at Matthew Mark’s Gallery, Ellsworth at Ninety, a show of recent paintings and sculpture. I plan to attend before slipping out to Brooklyn for Greenpoint’s first Gallery Night.

Lights

11 Thursday Apr 2013

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If you’ve been following this blog then you know that I recently turned down an extraordinary job offer: to manage a celebrity-chef-owned, 65-seat gem of a restaurant in Greenwich village. The restaurant is part of a small, reputable group of NYC restaurants, regularly mentioned on Eater, the New York Times, Grub Street, etc. I have been in New York still less than a year and this job offer was an enormous compliment, offered to me twice. I ultimately turned it down.

I’ve managed restaurants before. I’ve spent 60+ hours a week, working 12+ hour days, opening and then closing the restaurant, literally unlocking and locking the doors; sleepless nights spent in bed wondering if the menu cards were flawless or if the wine would come in on time. I loved hospitality, but I am a multi-talented women now in her late 20′s, and I’m determined to do a few other things with my life.

I write. I act. I analyze visual art. But I’ve hardly had a chance to do these things because I haven’t had the time–I moved to the city to manage a bar, which for the first two months monopolized my time. (Often, guests would ask me if I’d played on Law & Order, and I would think, If I’d been on Law & Order, would I be managing a bar in midtown Manhattan? And the answer to that is, yes.) I left the job suddenly, and later took up as the maître d’ of a corporate Flatiron restaurant. I am 9 months into New York, 5 months into a serious relationship with a really great man and all of 3 days into the pursuit of various artistic ventures.

Tuesday, I went into a casting agency to complete paperwork and take head shots. In orientation, the agent said it would be two-to-three weeks before my individual profile was processed, at which time I would receive an email with login information and instructions on how to submit for roles. The very next day, I received a voicemail asking if I was available for work on Thursday. It was just extra work, but I gained confidence on receiving a call-back less than 24 hours after registration.

Acting isn’t something I’m forward about with new acquaintances. Almost every women in this city wants or is trying to become an actress (or already is). I mentioned that I was considering taking an improv course to an aspiring actress friend, and she stopped speaking to me for a month. Another of my actress friends is supportive and encouraging, volunteered a list of informative connections that I am now exploring.

Moving to New York compartmentalized my social circles, dividing long-time friends into Those Who Support Me and Those Who Stopped Speaking To Me After I Moved. NYC was a big change, a success. I’d wanted this forever. (I suspect that some of my “friends” preferred the version of Lizzie who “would never move to NYC.”) Almost everything about my move has been a positive improvement on my life and, as sad as it is, some people have a hard time being happy for others. No matter. I am aware and thankful and grateful for the true friends in my life. And my happiness here is in tandem with my potential and opportunity for success. Finally now, I’m able to discern what those should be.

Of course, it’s going to be a challenge.

I went to art school, so I have varied artistic experiences. The most memorable class I took was Acting & Stage Movement. After final monolouge performances, my professor told me that I “could have a career in film if (I) decide I really want it.” I spent a lot of time acting in student projects–most of the fun I had was on set, on location, on the stage, so I’m going after that happiness again. I’ve written two novels (and am revising one), but look back on those hours as isolating and unnerving. I’m working to strike a balance. Writing art criticism has been a profitable success in my recent past, so I’ve spent the past couple of days researching publications, organizations and forthcoming exhibits.

All of these aspirations require organized focus. This is sure to be an interesting story.

Minetta Tavern

10 Wednesday Apr 2013

Posted by in Dining, NYC

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We had to lie just to get in.

I wanted French, again, and I wanted it in the village. I called Minetta Tavern on Saturday for a late night table: 10, 10:30 (they serve dinner until midnight,) but the reservationist claimed to have nothing. “Fully booked.” I decided that we would go anyway.

The strategy was to start earlier, with cocktails, in Union Square, before heading over to Minetta at 10. Nico put our name on the wait list at Raines Law Room, a neo-speakeasy lounge on W. 17th street. The doorman said he’d call us in an hour, so we walked down to Blue Water Grill for cava, martinis and a sushi start. Then we blew off Raines and went straight to Minetta.

Located on MacDougal (between Bleeker & W. 3rd), the cornered entryway has a closed-off, unaccessible feeling. The front windows are shuttered; a bouncer supervises the front door. One guy ahead of us–his presence meant that we were queued, in a line to get in– was trying to join his friends inside and the bouncer would not let him into the restaurant.

“Do you have a reservation?” He asked Nico and I.
“Yes,” Nico lied without hesitation.
We went in.

Behind the heavy velvet curtains, the small barroom was packed. The maître d’ asked if we had reservations. Nico said no. I was thinking that this would be an ordeal–we’d be asked to leave or the bouncer would get involved and say that we lied, but it was no trouble after I smiled and said, “We’d like to have dinner at your bar.” I was wearing a short silk Spanish-patterned dress with red cowboy boots and my blonde hair blown out in a loose coif. Nicholas wore a suit with Chucks. The maître d’ motioned to the bartender who said he’d have us seats in about 15 minutes. It was so easy. We slipped through the crowded entryway to order a drink.

The space originates from the 1930′s, and is said to be left mostly intact. The black and white floor tiling is an update, along with the trademark Keith McNally red leather banquettes. The feeling is stylish-vintage, authentic, exclusive. Distinctly New York. I felt a part of something yet separated from the rest. The bartender invited me to sit immediately, motioning to another man, “the most patient man of the night,” to sit down beside me. Immediately the man to my left is told he’ll be relocated soon. I was impressed with the bartender’s command of seating, and the quick control he took to get everyone down. He was personable, professional. It wasn’t long before Nico was seated beside me, and we had our drinks.

The menu is a compact merging of tavern fair and brasserie standards: steak frites, two burgers, bone marrow and seafood. To start, we shared the dressed prawns. It was fresh, tart. I had the mouclade with a side of pomme frites–perfect with the curried white wine and creme fraiche broth–I was satisfied before I could finish the dish. I can’t even remember what Nico had to eat, but towards the end of our entrees, the maître d’ sat down near beside me to a full spread of roasted baby beats, tavern steak and, I think, something else. “That’s some staff meal,” Nico said.
“You should see what I have to deal with at the door,” she replied.
She and I made casual conversation at the bar about the restaurant’s capacity, seating, etc. She said she’s been working there for about four years. I didn’t mention that I was also a maître d’, but rather indulged in the pleasure of being their guest.

Nico and I ordered dessert, hazelnut crepes, compliments of the house.

At some point, one of the hostesses approached with pen and paper, explaining that the maître d’ wanted to “A list” us. I wrote down my name and phone number. She mentioned that this was for priority reservations, but I’m still a little curious. A list? “Money,” Nico said. “That’s what $200 will get you. It’s because we spent money.”
“For the record,” I said, “We were very good guests.” Even without the special treatment, the ambiance alone would draw me back, though Minetta is a stand out among McNally’s other restaurants–it has all the style and cache of flagship Balthazar, with the intimacy absent at Schiller’s and Pastis. Minetta’s staff was more personable, engaging than any restaurant I’ve dined at in recent memory. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for, and I can’t wait to go back.

Theatre – W. Somerset Maugham

04 Thursday Apr 2013

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For decades, all of London and much of Europe have celebrated the talent of actress Julia Lambert. Now in her 40′s, she lives a comfortable life: afternoon massages between matinees and evening performances in the theatre her husband and manager owns. She dines and dances with society, acting friendly and interested when she is sincerely bored. All of her world is a stage: she feigns romance with her husband, interest with her son; only when she is playing the part of a character on stage is she content. Until she meets the quiet young accountant come to settle the theatre’s books. Her relationship with him (false at first, and then helplessly passionate, real) compromises all her success. Maugham lays bare the reality of acting and the unreality of true life,  exemplifying what should happen when the two merge and reverse.

The story is not suspenseful, not dull. Theatre isn’t about an affair between a successful actress and an unknown young man–the book is about the internal affairs of Julia’s heart, how her self-security is suddenly interrupted, and she must search for her true self among all of the roles she’s successfully portrayed. Her son confronts her: To me you act the part of the fond, indulgent, celebrated mother. You don’t exist, you’re only the innumerable parts you’ve played. I’ve often wondered if there was ever a you or if you were never anything more than a vehicle for all these other people that you’ve pretended to be. When I’ve seen you go into an empty room I’ve sometimes wanted to open the door suddenly, but I’ve been afraid to in case I found nobody there.

Little gems of truth made the book worth reading: She had often felt that her talent, genius the critics called it, but that was a very grand word, her gift, if you like, was not really herself, not even part of her, but something outside that used her, Julia Lambert, the woman, in order to express itself. Despite all of the false scenarios the protagonist puts herself through, Maugham’s novel is very honest.

*****

1AM Moules Frites

31 Sunday Mar 2013

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It’s been a good couple of days. Working Tuesday – Saturday night this week led me out into the city in the early afternoons and late night. We’ve had a few great dates.

Friday, Nico had to get his hair cut so he proposed a lunch date before. After considering my backlog of restaurants to try, I reserved a table at Balaboosta. ImageWe met in Nolita. I wore the new Kate Spade shirt dress I recently had tailored, with back-seam fishnet thigh-highs and red cowboy boots (red lipstick, naked fingernails, blown out blonde hair), because eventually, I’d have to go in for service.  The dining room at Balaboosta was quiet, pretty. The server who greeted me at the door was very nice, and although Nico was late, we were sat promptly (the restaurant quickly filled to capacity–I’d guess about 65 seats or so).  I drank a glass of Cava (Jaume Serra Cristallino, NV, Spain, $9) while Nico had something red. Aqua Panna for the table (our favorite). Nico ordered the Lamburger stuffed with herbed goat cheese and carmalized onions, patatas bravas on the side. I had the Goat Cheese Paninio with pesto, roasted red peppers, grilled zucchini, katamata olives and a side salad of dressed arugula. ImageThe Isreali/ Mediterranean menu was different from our normal dining repertoire, but very approachable. Balaboosta means perfect housewife in Yiddish. I would go back–everything about the experience was pleasant.

Afterwards, we walked to the Lower East Side so that Nico could get his hair cut. I had intended to cut out after lunch and slide up to the restaurant after errands in Flatiron, but yielded to his request, after he’d accompanied me to my haircut (while on vacation) in Savannah. He introduced me to his stylist and I sat down and I drank a beer, flipped through magazines while I waited. Image(I’ll spare you the details, but Nico was cast as an extra on the Americans. His hairstyle has always been sort of hiply disheveled (a sexy contrast to his Burberry-suit-wearing workdays) and when the casting agent mentioned that he should look “clean cut,” he cut his own hair. This was his first adventure on a set–I wish I’d been there before hand to assure him that hair/ make up would style them how they needed, and that he shouldn’t cut his own hair.) That was a month ago. All has been saved.

We had coffee afterwards in Soho before taking the train uptown. He walked me to Sephora, kissed me goodbye, said he would pick me up at the restaurant after work.

During service, one of the servers slid up to the computer to report her experience with a late table. They were European, and the host had specified that he wanted french fries with his mussels, and she’d refused him. “Toast,” she’d said. “The mussels come with a side of toast. You can have toast,” he repeated to him. “It was one of the rare few no’s I’ve really enjoyed giving,” she said. “No, you can’t have french fries. We don’t have them. You can have toast.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “I really love french fries, and toast is no substitute.”
She agreed, and when she went back to her section, the craving and the logistical sense of moulas frites stayed with me.

I’m hungry, Nico said after service. It was past midnight at this point; he and I were in my Murray Hill apartment. I told him the story. He wanted to go downtown but I said that no respectable restaurant was still serving.

So we went to L’Express, that French diner on the corner of Park Ave & 20th Street, straddling the boundaries of Flatiron and Gramercy, open 24 hours. We took a cab up and when I came in, a rush of fucked up memories became clear. 2009. I was visiting New York, out drunk with friends when we’d gone into PS450 on Park (which is where I would have cocktail hour during my off campus trip at the end of college, summer of 2008). One of the bartenders fell obsessively “in love” with me, drowned my senses in gin and whisked me away to L’Express for middle-of-the-night escargo, truffled linguine. I’d lost the black pashmina my best friend Michael had given me in a drunken crustation frenzy. L’Express exposed some inner-truth about dining in New York: anything is possible, at any time. 4am Escargo is the title of a playlist on my iTunes (all TV on the Radio, some Zero 0, one random Breakestra track).Image Anyway, I had escargo and my moulas frites with a bottle of OK sancerre shared across the table from the love of my life, all at one in the morning. New York, you know it’s true: I love you.

Garbage

28 Thursday Mar 2013

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Remember 90′s alternative-rock-pop band Garbage? My boyfriend does, and months ago, when we were skimming through concert listings online, he said that they put on a hell of a show. We didn’t buy tickets. Weeks later, Nico picked them up from a third party source, and we saw them last Friday night.

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The morning of the show, Weiss, one of the men who bartends at the restaurant, mentioned that he’d seen Shirley Mansion when out at dinner the night before. New York is so charming, so curious.

I wore a pair of gold disco pants that Nico gave me months ago (garnering frank stares and second glances when he picked me up in Murray Hill), with black boots and my favorite SAV tee shirt by Savannah artist Matt Hebermehl. “I don’t know about these pants,” I said on the sidewalk out front of my apartment. Nico urged me into a cab.

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Shirley Mansion “still has it.” She put on quite a show. She’s in her 40s? Whatever, she was awesome. I’d had their CDs when I was younger, but had sort of forgotten about in the past 7 or so years, so I was surprised to know so much of the track list. They opened with Push It, and I thought, this is going to be fun. I Think I’m Paranoid, I’m Only Happy When it Rains, The Trick is to Keep Breathing, etc. Many new songs. They had technical difficulties throughout, but Mansion’s stage presence made it hard to notice.

We drifted around the venue. Nico may or may not have slipped cash to security, but we walked right into the VIP section on the second level mezzanine. “It’s the disco pants,” he said, his hand grazing my leg. A rock band popular in the mid-90′s? This was definitely the event to wear them to, and whether or not they got us anything special, just look at this view:

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Afterwards, we took a cab to the Lower East Side. We had dinner at Barrio Chino, which is a small (trendy) mexican-american spot on Broome Street. It’s excellent. (I had been before moving to NYC, and Nico is impressed when I can spit out quality suggestions on bars/ restaurants spontaneously.)  He loves tequila and, not that we needed it, but the margaritas we had were awesome (his: top shelf with lime; mine: strawberry-vanilla.) I had veggie tacos. We shared an order of guacamole. He had something he really liked. Afterwards, we went over to Ten Bells, which is at the end of the block, and closed the bar down with beer and wine. Such a good time.

28. Happiness

19 Tuesday Mar 2013

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Snow, rain, constant cold; I’m starting to think the weather is stifling my creativity. I’ve abstained from writing, blogging, pursuing acting.

N & I vacationed back home in Savannah. We were out of the city for 4 nights, 5 days and had a wonderful time. He met my family, my friends, ate dinner at the bar of the restaurant that I worked at for years, visited my favorite places. Hardly I can detail how comforting it is to know that he fits into my home life, although my home life has changed. My home life is in New York.

My birthday was Saturday. We brunch indulgently at abc kitchen. Browsed the Barnes & Nobel in Union Square, where I picked up a copy of W. Somerset Maugham’s Theatre (he’s one of my favorite authors–I discovered this particular work of his that day.) Viewed the Degas works and surrealism exhibition at the Morgan Museum & Library in Murray Hill, tried on shoes at Chanel (damn my narrow feet), relaxed in the warmth of his apartment, canceled reservations at Union Square Cafe and booked a last seating at Gotham Bar & Grill, where, dressed in my favorite fluffy ivory skirt, red cowboy boots and multiple strands of pearls (he, in a suit) we dined happily, extravagantly, finishing with a piece of Happy-Birthday-accented, divine chocolate cake (my wish: it has a time limit of two years and I won’t forget making it although, now I wonder, can a birthday wish take more than one year to come true?) We finished with a glass of wine downtown, at my favorite bar, The Ten Bells.

I didn’t take the subway the entire day. There was a red velvet cupcake at the start, but I didn’t eat it (today’s lunch). There were texts fired off from my best friends back at home, all together in the sunlight to see the St. Patrick’s Day parade and, despite the 1/2 xanax I took in the early afternoon, I was sort of delirious beneath the weight of their absence the entire day. It was alright. It was so-so. My mother chided my boyfriend–who she admittedly likes–for not buying me a gift to open. No one bought me a gift to open, so… I sent her back. I think what really killed my spirit was the rain. I had expected it to still be cold in March, but had hoped it would be sun-lit. Still, the rain and snow continue. Still, I feel I can get nothing done.

So, 28. So, what next? I’ve moved to New York City, met the love of my life. I could never under-appreciate or under-value or take for granted these things. I am still searching for new friends, new adventures, potentially a new career. I felt the determination to manage a restaurant slide away when I turned down that job–she called me again, and I turned down the job a second time–so I’m sort of wondering what to do with hospitality. Maybe again in the future, but for now I’m happy having a smaller role, the cushy corporate job that provides benefits and paid sick leave, all while allowing me flexible scheduling and shorter hours. Still curious what to do with the extra hours. I’m sort of over the novel. A limited interest in writing stories lingers, and I’m looking forward to more regularly updating my blog. I’m sort of waiting on life to re-inspire me.

Acting is the next creative effort I’m going to pursue. Throughout childhood, adolescence and college, I was on stage or in front of the camera and it was something I intended to pick up again when I moved to New York. N recently extra’d for the Americans, which was his first acting experience (though he’s wanted to act for sometime), and I realized then that I’ve been in this city for 8 months and had yet to give it a try. Looking into classes at the famous Upright Citizens Brigade Theater/ School and researching casting agencies in the city.

All I want anymore is happiness, and I’m going to maintain the happiness that I have and I share while pursuing more, in different ways. Instinctively, I knew when I turned 27 that I’d move to NYC and a few other things. I suspect 28 will be a year of of maintenance and transition, the opportunity to continue/ foster my happiness, and work towards greater things.

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