Great Shopping and Not so Great Shopping

Thanks to a plethora of fashion blogs and excerpts in magazines in reference to the topic of thrifting as a way of distinguishing one's wardrobe from the masses, NYC thrift stores are in general, a waste of time. Paying $40 for a sheer Galliano tank top, might be a steal, but that fact is over shadowed by the appearance of the rather tepid used and abused shirt. Gone are the department store thrift store of New England with their gluttonous racks, and in their place are boutique style thrift stores with scantily clad racks of over priced worn things.

No thank you.

Discouraged by what seemed to be a roadblock in my love for rack diving, I mopped to my new New Yorker friends, who then told me about the two most gloriously dangerous stores in NYC: Century 21 and Nordstrom Rack. Both stores are so filled to the brim that if they were a corseted woman in Victorian England, there would be a wardrobe failure and a hasty marriage.

That being said, here are some Century 21 gems.

I know why I did not buy this... no where to wear it.

But I do not know why I did not buy this gem with birds and a collar.

Classy

Trashy.

Like Any Girl the Easiest Way to My Heart it to Put a Ring on It

But no simple ring will do.

Thank you Stephen Webster

Fashion in the City

What you wear and how you wear it in the city- is a big deal. People live and die for it. They blog about it, refuse to eat for it, neglect to pay their rent for it. That being said;

As much as I love Lanvin for their daring use of fabric, they should have never designed for H&M as this is clearly a disaster. This dress is universally unflattering.

And this...

Is my two sizes two small version of:

Tiff and I Talk About Independence Day

This is to the best of my recollection:

Tiff: So, are you going to see the fireworks?

Me: No, why would I when I am pretty sure we are going to see the neighborhood ones across the street (they have been going off sporadically through out the past week)?

Tiff: Oh because that is the same as a professional display.

Me: Well no but I have decided to stay away from overcrowded public events unless I really want to go like thisconcertincentralparkinaugustthatiamprettysureiwillhavetoarriveat8for....

Tiff: There are people the roof over there. I want to go on the roof.

Me: (looking out the living room window at them) Well, we can always just hollar at them and ask.

Tiff: You do it.

Me: HEY! YOU ON THE ROOF! YES YOU! LOOK DOWN HERE! APT **!!! HOW DID YOU GET UP THERE?! (to Tiff) I can totally hear my voice echo and that girl looked; I'm fairly certain they are ignoring us.

Tiff: Do it again.

Me: You do.

Tiff: HEY! ON THE ROOF! (man looks this time) They are definitely ignoring us.

Me: They are just a bunch of beer-drinking-hipsters.

Tiff: They are definitely beer-drinking-hipsters.

Damn you hipsters for ruining my 4th. I just wanted to know how to get on the roof. This is a tribute to all you PBR drinking heathens.

Catch & Release

Living in a neighborhood riddled with domestic arguments, and fights, and beatings, and screaming that reaches the police- it can get hard to remember simple romance and love.

Some Inspiration

A Weekend of Poetic Justic #1

po.et.ic jus.tice n 1. Righteousness in the face of sin 2. when actions receive a sarcastic reaction. Example: After I rigorously cleaned my stove, it was poetic justice that the gas refused to light and I could not eat my vegetarian sausage.

Additional Examples of Poetic Justice:

1. Whilst walking and reading The Onion (www.theonion.com) in Greenwich Village, I bumped into a woman dressed in head to toe couture.

2. V got a gift card for a restaurant that after traveling downtown and walking quite a distance, does not exist.

3. Today was the Puerto Rican Parade and I had to ride the subway.

A Short Introduction To My Roommate: Tiff

 For all those out there who are not independently wealthy, when taking a leap of faith to reach those Van Gogh stars-- roommates are necessary. I got luck with Tiff. Tiff is the phonetic of TF, or Temporary Friend. Tiff has informed me that as soon as my sublet ends (in three months) or I make friends of my own, our friendship is over.

First thing you should know about Tiff, she is sharp. Example:

Tiff (after I walk into the apartment): Wow, you are, uh, really sweaty.
Me: Well.. (still breathing heavy after the damnable stairs) there is a heat wave going on out there.
Tiff: You walked didn't you?
Me: Yes (translation: I walked 2.45 miles in weather that felt like a humid 102).
Tiff: Well, that is your own damn fault. Take the bus.

Second thing you should know about Tiff, the friendship is conditional. Here are the things I did to potentially strain our tenuous relationship:

1. I broke the strove by cleaning it; apparently too much of the cleaning liquid got in the stoves and prevented the gas from igniting. Tiff wanted hotdogs (which are awkward when cooked in the microwave). I was really worried that I had killed the stove. But alas, Three (the final roommate) fixed it with a lighter. Three is a badass.

2. I was getting the rounds of drinks at the bar (Tiff wanted a cranberry Vodka) and the bar ran out of cranberry juice (which lacks a certain foresight on their behalf) and the bar tender held the nozzle of orange juice over her cup and asked "OJ?" I panicked and said yes. Bad Call. Second runner up was pineapple juice. I swore (and will continue to swear) that I will never make the same mistake twice. Tiff, champ that she is, drank it anyways; she looked pained.

3. I swear I am not a bad dancer. But sometimes I get enjoyment out of dancing oddly to make people laugh. Tiff was not amusing. Duly noted.

Third thing, Tiff likes French Fries. Which is good, because so do I.

NYC Summer Heat Wave Hot List #1

Due to the fact that practically everyone I talk to ensures me that the intense heat of the past few days is not usual for June but is for July and August, you get this:

1. I saw three kids playing in water from a fire hydrant. Four thoughts:
      
        I thought this only happened in movies about NYC in the '50s;
        I guess that's what you do when you don't have lawn sprinklers;
        I'm pretty positive that messing with a fire hydrant is illegal;
        I wish I were that young again so I would not have to pay rent.

2. What makes tights wonderful in winter (keeps you warm) also makes them terrible in a heat wave (makes you sweat like you're fighting Mike Tyson).

3. All those psychologists that claim children do not play outside anymore because of video games clearly never walked though Harlem in a heat wave, because it is way too damn hot to be inside.

4. I don't know which would be worse: chub-rub, or the god-forsaken-tights.

5. One word for people out running in central park during the heat wave: masochist.

Hell's Kitchen Flea Market and the Stone Penis

I got up yesterday morning, a rather bright Sunday, and ate my oatmeal sludge (an oatmeal/whey protein/ strawberry concoction that has the power to turn most people’s stomachs but just makes me stronger) out of a plastic Tupperware container. The apartment I am subletting has plates but no bowls. Not good. I mean, as a recent art school grad I know I have to live cheap and all but I would at least like to pretend that I am something and eat out of a real bowl. Being the strategic problem solver I decide the best places to look for cheap bowls are at Target, or for more authenticity, the Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market. So Tiff (my roommate) and I head out to Hell’s Kitchen (she informs me not to think this will happen again as she only needs a bowl, like a pathetic puppy I nod eagerly, she is New York savvy and has great fashion sense).

The Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market, well, let’s just say next time I promise to bring my camera. Like any good flea market there were antique candleholders and random assorted landline phones. But what really made Hell’s Kitchen stand out was not the “Table of Sad Compact Discs” (as so labeled because while their campy CD art make you wonder if it is pathetic on purpose, the truth it, those CDs were someone’s big deal and now they are melting in the sun while young uppity twenty-something year old mock them for bad ‘80s hair) it was not even the table of weird ‘50s Pyrex cookware displayed under a plethora of similarly dated fur shawls, interestingly enough it was not even the heavily beaded dresses, a.k.a hipster party paradise.

Nope, it was the stone dildos.

I wish I were lying. Tiff was pointing out jade Buddhas and I was wondering what someone would with a singular Buddha face, when there they were: a line of 5 rather large assorted stone penises. In my mind (which speaks through my mouth) I hypothesize that said stone sculptures are old school dildos; though I cannot imagine why anyone would utilize them as they look rather painful. Of course there is hole going straight through the balls and I tell Tiff if she had one as a statement necklace no one would question her authority.

And yes, eventually we both bought bowls (though not in Hell’s Kitchen) but at a Goodwill up the street where white bowls ran wild to the chorus of a Lil’ Wayne song.

Move-in Day

Yesterday after managing to squeeze as many seemingly useless objects (yes antique mirror tray I am talking about you) into the back of my glaringly white Pontiac Vibe (good thing the backseat is big enough to get frisky in) my mother and I drove four hours to Manhattan (because Harlem is a neighborhood not a borough or a city).

After a few wrong we get to my sublet and park at the opposite end of the black. Now, when I visited this place I honestly thought it was on the third floor because the apartment number begins with a 3, but alas, it is the fourth floor. Mom graciously opted to unpack my clothes so I could schlep everything up the block and then up the stairs.

At one point a lovely gentleman offered to assist me with my clothes bag (mind you this weighs more than my friend V when she passes out) but being prideful I turned him down. That was stupid. And God decided to spite me by allowing my toiletry box fall headfirst into the street. Ever had to chase your feminine hygiene products down the street? Or play 52-card-pickup with a box of Q-tips?

Finally everything is in - so Mom decides to accompany me to my local Path Mart (if you are not so blessed as to have one of these within walking distance, do not go out of your way to get to one). At said Path Mart, my mother decides to natter on about this woman's arm tattoos. Did I mention said tattoos were gang insignia and that the woman had a black teardrop?

On the walk back two of the straps on my reusable bag ripped off, but hey I am now the proud owner of a small jar of Nutella and my Mom cut up my pineapple.  I think I am doing all right.