Elle's Women In Music Party

6/10/10

While I often speak of living the dream, I never actually come out and explain the meaning behind it. There are many levels and perceptions to living the dream. For example, I’m enjoying my Bud Light pounder while my roommate watches Bring It On and I try to keep awake at 10:30 on a Thursday night. Considering how mentally and physically exhausted I am, this feels pretty damn good and I would consider it a level 1. Level 2 would consist of actually being socially responsive and switching over to hard liquor on my roof deck. Level 3 would encompass actually leaving the apartment, and so on and so forth. Last night would probably be a level 7, and I might even go so far as to give it a level 7.25.

Last night I attended Elle’s women in music party with Brittany, and we got to see how the other half lived. One of our bosses graciously got us on the list, and we were excited to go to a VIP party. I was probably more excited that it was sponsored by Belvedere, but it’s truly the simpler and more alcoholic things in life that make me happy. Actually, it’s pretty much vodka and teacup piglets that make me happy. And I will not rest until I own the latter.

Being female, one of our biggest problems was what to wear. Unfortunately all of my cocktail dresses are in the cedar closet back in MA, but I had my formal dress on hand that I worn at Drexel not but two weeks ago. Another predicament was a specific pair of heels remained in Philly, along with any remaining shreds of sanity and dignity that I had before the four hour open bar that was AEPI formal. I would like to say that night was my glorified and classy response to not winning sweetheart, but we all know that just isn’t true.

Anywho, I ended up wearing my pink and white polka dotted heels because my roommate gave me the okay, and off I went to Brittany’s apartment to catch a cab. Mind you the entire week had been gorgeous, with warm weather and sunny bright skies. That day the sky decided to open up just because it wanted to see me with a jew fro the one night I had to look somewhat decent. My “new” umbrella that I had (accidentally) switched out with my faulty one at dollar drink night in Philly was also failing me. Seconds before Brit and I hopped in a cab, I smashed it in a dumpster without the decency of a mourners kaddish.

When we arrived outside the Highline Ballroom, it was already packed with paparazzi and we saw people posing in front of an Elle backdrop. We got in line, relieved to finally get out of the rain. The bouncer then kindly told us we had to go to the back of the line, which was actually pretty long and located far away from the flashing camera bulbs. Incensed, we questioned the indignity of it all. Who the hell did they think we were, interns?

It was nice inside, and there was a stage in the foreground and two bars located on either side of a large open space. I had been concerned about my attire for the evening, but I was happy to find that the dress ranged from very fancy to the schmucks in jeans.

Being the culturally refined scholar that I am, when Brittany and I approached the bar I asked her if I should order her a drink as well, or start the night off double fisting. She gave me a dead pan stare, and it dawned on me I probably shouldn’t double fist in a venue like this. However, when I asked what she wanted the insta-reply was “rum and coke,” so we both suck.

We didn’t know anyone there, and weren’t in the mood to start introducing ourselves to people, so we were quite content to hang with each other and drink as heavily as humanly possible. After a while the crowd in front of the stage became less manageable, and after the first act we decided to try our luck upstairs. It was much less crowded, and there was another bar and couches to sit on. After securing ourselves yet another drink, we decided to sit on an empty couch next to a truly obnoxious couple and watch the magnificent Patti Labelle.

Seeing “Lady Marmalade” performed live is right next to “finish an entire jar of nutella in one sitting” on my bucket list, and I’m truly proud to say that I have accomplished both. Now all I really need to do is tell Robert Downey Jr. I love him before getting dragged away by security, and I may rest in peace.

The only distraction from Ms. Labelle’s stellar performance other than copious amounts of liquor was the aforementioned obnoxious couple. The man was tall and skinny, and wearing a green tartan suit with loafers. I thought such a suit only existed in some otherwordly dimension restricted to the Ralph Lauren catalog and British gigolo’s, but there he was in all of his plaid printed glory. He kept on momentarily making out with the woman he was seated next to, who was stylishly dressed in a black sequin jacket and had blonde short hair that I would kill or at least violently maim for.

I assumed that the guy was gay, and was drunk enough to casually make out with his straight friend who happened to be a girl. However, I found it odd that there were camera men positioned behind them kept speaking to them. I assumed they were yelling at the couple, because they were seated in front of the best angle of the stage, especially when the extremely drunk man started to head butt the camera man and play with his face.

The guy then turned his focus onto Brittany and I, and tried to hold some sort of belligerent conversation with us. I wasn’t anywhere near his level considering I have the tolerance of a pre-op Tara Reid, but I could get the gist of what he was saying.

After a few minutes of his incessant blathering, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to one of the cameramen to see what the hell this guys deal was. He then informed us that they filming the new season of “The City,” and that they were some of the new stars.

Because I apparently live under a rock, I'm not up on who's who on “The City,” but will never pass up a photo opportunity to piss off my peers back in West Philadelphia. Brittany and I immediately tapped him to get photos with us, which turned into some of the worst photography that I have ever seen. Regardless, they will be hitting the internet after fathers day when Brittany gets her camera cord from Jersey.

The next act was Kelis, and I wasn’t familiar with any of her work other than the milkshake song, which reminded me of every painfully awkward high school dance that I was forced to attend. Not even chugging waterbottles of raspberry Smirnoff in the parking lot could hide the shame that came with those tacky strobe lights, and the fact that I was taller than most of the people in there.

The bar shut down at the end of Kelis’ performance, and with that came our cue to go. We caught a cab back to Hell’s Kitchen, and during the ride we planned our post midnight snack. I came home to an empty cupboard because I fail in the grocery shopping department, and ended up eating my pre-packed lunch for work while yelling at my roommate not to judge me. I took her silence as disapproval, but still gave her my copy of Elle from the party because I am nothing if but a saint.

The Elle party was definitely an amazing experience, and one that I am truly grateful to have gone to. I honestly love New York and all it has to offer, and will do my best to return after my Senior year.

Excruciatingly Painful Milestones.

Whoever said that high school graduation was one of the most poignant and epic moments of their life either received their diploma very stoned, or is full of shit and not to be trusted.

I found mine to be especially painful, between the contrived speeches about our “future” and “happiness,” and the white polyester robe I was forced to wear. (What was that supposed to represent anyway, purity? Our virginal descent into the “real” world? We might as well have all worn black) We had mentally checked out of school the moment we had decided upon a university, division of the military, or resolution to live the dream. (Taking a few years off to peddle drugs to sixteen year olds, and live in our parents basement.)

The lucky ones who had gone shit faced to prom, or taken a misguided stance against authority and refused to return library books were spared the short walk across the stage. Amidst the bright lights and steadily rising temperature from both the polyester robe and body heat of 280 post-pubescent students, it was hard to think let alone grasp the severity of the situation.

I don’t remember much of the ceremony, just that it was very long and tedious, and I was sitting amongst some people I had never seen before in my entire life. I recall the valedictorian having an amazing speech pertaining to something along the lines of what horrible people we all were. Most of us were more too preoccupied with whether or not we had bought enough alcohol for the coming night to pay attention to anything of importance. There was the ceremonial senior sleep-over in the parking lot to look forward to, where we would protect our status parking spots from the Juniors and their slut-mobiles.

I remember graduation night being fun, and that we stuck it out through the pouring rain and multiple threats from administrative faculty. In the morning the police arrived with bullhorns to escort underclassmen into the high school. We were told that since we had already graduated, we were illegally on school grounds and were subject to arrest.
Mere hours ago we were scholars that had the potential to do and become anything- nay the mortar that held the cornerstones of American education together. Now we were the very scum of suburbia.

I was just relieved to get out of the rain, and passed out in a friends car on the way to a get smiley faced pancakes. It was a relief to be done with the monotony of Senior year, the tedium that not even binge drinking and false hope could dare to conceal.

...

Today I had the honor of watching my little brother grace the Sharon high auditorium stage that I had walked across not but three years ago. Of course I was less than ecstatic to go back there, as I tend to be very bitter about the way our student body was treated. (Yes we were insipid and thoughtless JAPS, but you lie in the bed you make/ some useless aphorism that points out how hypocritical the faculty was)

Firstly I was enraged that the Lake Massapoag staff was still watching the water and tending the gates during a strong tornado warning. We had to park in the lake lot due to the massive amount of cars, and I wasted no time in finding the guards in charge to call the rec department and get the fuck home. Its only been two years since I was in charge, but since the dawn of time the Sharon rec department has found new and terrible ways to mismanage anything and everything they touch.

It wasn’t strange going into the high school, considering it looked exactly the fucking same. While proceeding into the auditorium, I thought I was being greeted by the sports director, as we had spent a lot of time together for event planning and fundraising efforts. Instead he was accosting me for a graduation ticket, with absolutely no recollection in his eyes. I stopped greeting him mid-sentence and simply walked in.

I can sum up the proceeding two hours of my life that I will never get back in two words: never again.

/until next year when I do the unthinkable and graduate Drexel.

/four years later when Ben peaces out of Columbia.

Congratulations Ben, you’re not as dumb as you look.

I finished an economy sized jar of nutella in two weeks.

There are about a million eighteen year olds in my apartment, blasting Justin Bieber and ILLEGALLY DRUNK off shitty wine and Bud Light. I feel like I can bitch because I am a) 21 b) Convinced Justin Bieber is a lesbian in disguise and c) I can feel them judging me in my work out clothes while I make matzah brie. I’m sorry, but after a long day I am allowed to binge on carbs. It’s the only thing I have left.

I already threatened the young ones about touching my Bud Light, and if one can is missing I’m going straight for their kneecaps. They are all dancers or musicians or some generic carbon copy of youth that believes “they’re going to make it.” If those crucial three extra years of binge drinking and self-realization have taught me anything…someone’s going to put baby in the corner. And she’s going to stay there, until discovering an alternative route to dancing on stage. Usually involving the removal of clothing.

There was one guy in the apartment that looked exactly like the black man from Showgirls, the one that tried to get with our beautiful stripper protagonist until he knocked up her less hot friend. Womp womp. I rather enjoy that movie, even though I was slightly disturbed that Charlotte’s husband from Sex and The City was managing such a torrid business venture. However, I’m sure such events occurred before he changed his name to Trey, became a doctor, and moved to the Upper East Side. I need to stop living vicariously through television.

Anyways, I’ve discovered that I live about 15 minutes from Lincoln center, I’m a twenty-five minute walk from Penn station and Herald Square, and I’m pretty fucking far from Union Square. I don’t trust my navigation skills yet, and have this unreasonable fear of accidentally ending up in Brooklyn, so I tend to walk everywhere. The whole not wanting to pay for the subway is also an extremely large factor. This morning I had to venture to Brooklyn to show my passport to the census bureau so they could stop fucking calling me. What am I, a terrorist? I am far too preoccupied moderating my caffeine and calorie intake to care about threatening our national security. Brooklyn was not the pit of despair I had previously envisioned, just filled with less fashionable people than Manhattan. I do not count myself as one of them, as I am but a novice in the delicate and underappreciated craft of bulimia.

I am currently waiting for a call from the census department so I can go door to door, peppering the fair people of Midtown with trite and obnoxious questions. However, it will be paying more than anything I’ll make in retail, so I’ll be sure to do it with a smile. I had to take a Census test in order to be qualified, which consisted of being trapped in a room full of illiterate people for two and a half hours. I had to book it out of there for a modeling callback, so I was unable to see who failed a questionnaire that made the SAT look like a thesis on bio-nuclear physics. Needless to say the modeling callback didn’t go well, considering they weren’t pleased my last headshots were from when I was a 00 and sixteen. I was also up against a Ukranian girl, who didn’t seem to quite understand that there is food in America, or that this was a callback for the “average sized.” Yet in the end, the male model and I exchanged numbers so I consider myself a winner all the same.

Rites Of Passage

I'm just going to throw it out there and say how much I despise birthdays. I've mentioned before how much I hate change, and nothing throws it in your face more than a celebration marking the passage of time. Birthdays were originally meant to be celebrated because it was a miracle in itself if you lived another year. Without the modern miracles of medicine or online shopping, our forefathers were pretty screwed if they became ill or lost the will to live.

In every persons life there are these supposed milestones one is supposed to celebrate. The first one would obviously be birth. The second would be age five when you receive the pony you had been patiently waiting for all year...and still continue to wait for to this very day. Thanks Dad. The third (in the Jewish tradition) would be your Bar/Bat Mitzvah, where an entire crowd is blessed with your mumbled and fast paced chanting of the Torah. You are pronounced an "adult" and the audience hurls candy at you. After wards there is an open bar where Mrs. Leibowitz drinks too much, tells her son he was a mistake, and vomits in the bushes outside the Temple. Then there is the sweet sixteen for the non-Jews or the conveniently wealthy. The next step would be your eighteenth, or high school graduation/baby shower for the girls lacking in the scholarly minds department. After all that there is the twenty-first birthday, where you're supposed to celebrate "finally" being legal, and do body shots until someone accidentally swallows your belly button ring. I had my fake twenty-first in Philly, and I will say that I had a good time. However, I felt like I had some sort of social obligation to go out for my real twenty-first, in a city I had moved to two days prior and know no one. To make it short I ended up sitting in a bar alone and drinking a Guinness. Watching the pouring rain outside while the sad old man next to me sang along to "Stairway to Heaven" was one of the most maudlin/amusing moments in recent memory. At least it was a Monday.

Oh and happy Passover. I remembered this little fact right after I finished my BLT at lunch. So wrong yet so worth it.

Twenty-one.

As I sit here, enjoying my final drinks before the clock strikes midnight and I turn 21, many thoughts lay heavy upon my mind. Is this the end of an era? The final step on this long and self-destructive journey? Oh the misguided antics of youth and passing out in public places.

It’s times like these that beg certain questions, formerly restricted to the midst of troubled sleep. Who am I? Why are my feet bleeding? Why are plastic handles of vodka $20 in Manhattan? For the love of Christ has Tresemme discontinued its heat protective spray, or can I just not find it?

I feel like everything is happening too fast, especially with the move to NYC and sudden disconnect from Drexel. However, I’d like to throw myself at the mercy of optimism, and say that everything is really working out for the best. Living in Hell’s Kitchen for six months should be interesting, especially now that I don’t have to lie about my identity.

I will miss my former former identity Kimberley, even though she was less attractive than I and 5’3”. Not to mention she made me twenty-seven when I was eighteen. She was a shitty ID, but good enough for the dregs of society in West Philadelphia. And by dregs of society I mean UPenn bars.

My former identity was very good to me, and this time we shared the same first name and picture. I decided upon the name because I figured no matter where we were, my friends would call me by my first name, and if I were with certain people they would make anti-semitic references. Therefore I chose a comically Jewish sounding last name.

When I was in high school, I thought life slowly spiraled downward after the twenty-first birthday. What was there to look forward to, other than being able to rent a car? I’m admittedly a horrible driver, and do it as little as humanly possible. However, high school Sarah also thought she was cool for pre-gaming the homecoming dance, skipping track practice, and mis-matching velour sweatsuits. I could never aspire to be that baller again.

In the end, I realize the vodka tonic I’m drinking now tasted just as shitty now as it did when I was sixteen, or will taste when I’m chugging them in some hellhole of a retirement home. The only thing that will change is I will hopefully one day be able to afford glass bottles, as opposed to the plastic ones of shame I’m so used to. To that I will raise a glass, and say happy fucking birthday to me.

See you in hell Nesbitt

I can't wrap my head around the fact that I am officially done with Junior year, with only three terms left until I graduate. At first I was elated, and may or may not have screamed something along the lines of "see you in hell Nesbitt" to which some of my peers did not respond well towards. However, they are but lowly design students, and I accepted their silent disapproval with a grain of salt. I didn't see shitty photoshopped pictures of Nixon on their portfolio sites, but who's the asshole that got an internship in Midtown? This one right here. And that is worth every grammatically incorrect jibe about my work, or the fact that I still reek of grain alcohol. And it's three in the afternoon.

Since I had a very short break at home before the official move, I had very little time to relax and felt like the majority of my time was spent shuffling from state to state. I am omitting the two whole days where I watched nothing but Spartacus and binge ate. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened.

As the end of March approached, I became increasingly more aware that I had important decisions to make. Mostly along the lines of what shoes I had to buy. Because lets face it, I'm starting someplace new and will be more or less incompetent for the first couple of days. I have to at least look halfway decent before they realize what a horrible and terrible mistake they've made, hiring an unpaid intern. The crisis was averted when my mom bequeathed to me a pair of loafers for my impending twenty-first birthday. Such gifts are time honored New England traditions, along with sailing and tennis camp. (It's a good thing I kept up with both sports, and don't completely suck at them. Because that would be a horrible waste of time and money.) She also saw it fit to give me my annual fresh pair of J. Crew flippy floppies, as I mercilessly wear the poor things into the ground with my duck feet. Yet another endearing quality of mine my family has to endure.

I am going to try and blog as much as time allows about my time in Manhattan, as I honestly lucked out on every aspect so far and am pretty optimistic about the next six months. Unless I have to get a part time job working retail. However, such a travesty is unspeakable and too bleak to fathom.

There's always stripping.

Dipping into my pot of Jew gold.

Normally I wouldn't dare blog about my shopping adventures (which are only comparable to Frodo's quest to destroy the ring of power, except with more dire repercussions) but I did exceptionally well today, even by my own cheap and bitchy standards. While walking around Center City and Rittenhouse during my three hour break in between seven hours of class, I knew I had a purpose other than enjoying the tepid weather and putting modest mouse on repeat. I had to put up posters for my viral advertising final, while avoiding the police and other good samaritans. They would most likely fine me even though I am nothing but a lowly design student in road salt stained UGG's. After putting up a dozen or so and becoming bored, I decided it was time to save my sanity and popped into a thrift boutique on Walnut. After sifting through racks of trampy junior high track suits and camisoles that had probably seen the rise and fall of Kurt Cobain, I came across a wool tube dress with a drop waist and pleated hem. It didn't feel like any form of polyester or synthetic fibers of hellfire, so I checked the label and was pleased to see that it was J Crew. Better yet, it was my size, and had been marked down to eight bucks. I win.
After purchasing my reward for blowing off vandalizing one of the only nice parts of West Philadelphia, I decided to pop over to Chestnut to do some more damage. I also needed to find more home goods I could design/destroy for my restaurant identity final. Unfortunately there was nothing found among the racks of long stale cookies and distasteful oven mitts, so I decided to recuperate in Buffalo Exchange. I headed straight to the skirt section as I have been looking for the quintessential pencil skirt for months, if not for most of my life as a scholar and degenerate. I was told they had restocked, and I grabbed a BCBG and a Kenneth Cole number. Because I am not blessed with the long misunderstood trial of anorexia, the BCBG was a trifle too small. However, the Kenneth Cole fit well enough to go out with a slutty tank, but was still conservative enough to wear to work with a cardigan and slutty tank. The Best part was that it was marked $16, but I had ten bucks credit there for selling high school paraphernalia. All in all I would call it a successful trip, and by some form of slut or Jew magic I managed to vanquish the metaphorical demons of the retail industry. Then again they were probably made by five year olds for about a nickel, but we try not to think about that.