And not only because I have been so lazy about posting since my vacation.
NYC looks like this right now.
The tumbleweeds will be gone soon, including from my blog. I’ll be back soon. XO
Less than an hour after I checked in, I got the email.
We see where you are departing tomorrow and hope that you had a wonderful stay here at _______! We realize you have many options when traveling and appreciate you choosing to stay with us. We wanted to reach out to you and ensure that everything with your stay exceeded expectations. On behalf of the staff, we wish you a safe trip home, and we hope to see you again sometime soon!
Soon after, the airline sent me an email suggesting I check in for tomorrow’s flight now.
Where am I?
I had just assumed that 2016 would end on one high note – the Bowery Collective‘s annual festivities. And I would have been perfectly content to do so. It’s a beautiful, fun gathering with amazing food and drink.
But then, one of my friends from my July vacation asked “any interest in going back to Saint Martin for New Year’s?”
I wanted a moto jacket for years. Black, leather, classic. So what if I’m not cool (anymore?) and don’t ride motorcycles.
“So it was benign, right?”
And so begins an awkward conversation with well-intentioned friends and colleagues. I know how to answer the question – sort of – but responding almost certainly requires me to veer into TMI territory. I am comfortable talking about what I have been through and what I face next. It helps me. But I am not a mind reader so I don’t always know how much people can handle or truly want to know.
If I have already told you too much, or if you were just being polite, I’m sorry…kind of. Not really.
I don’t know.
I have posted here and there about some of my favorite restaurants but never done a full dining guide, per se.
This also is not a dining guide – too overwhelming. Plus I’m a somewhat picky eater and not what anyone would call a food expert.
But I do have my favorites so here are some of them. I plan to add to this post regularly. If you have any recommendations, please share in the comments.
Where I order from when it’s time to Eat My Feelings
The pups – and their mums – are extraordinarily cute. Pics here.
I hate to miss it but I’ll be visiting Mom back home in the Scranton area.
I recently emerged from my surgeon-mandated Cocoon of Rest to get my eyebrows
threaded savaged (more on that later). My life has been so boring of late that I try to put one activity on the calendar each day. And sometimes it’s something shallow like addressing my eyebrows.
I was the first customer to show up that day so I interrupted the brow lady’s breakfast. I sat for a moment and waited. This woman and her business partner, both originally from India, have been doing my eyebrows periodically for the past five years, and I didn’t have anywhere else to be.
Once she was done, I lay back in the barber-style chair and we started chatting.
“So what is this Halloween? I have lived here in American many years and I still don’t understand.”
“Hm. Well. Kids dress up in costumes. And adults too now I guess?”
I was totally uptalking.
I continued in a way that sounded a bit like “something, something…um, Day of the Dead in Mexico? And then there’s Santa for Christmas and a bunny for Easter! Wow, this is a strange country.”
I thought about showing her this picture of me dressed as a bunny for Halloween but then nothing in this world would make any sense ever again.
In the end, I blame this bizarre conversation for the end result which I didn’t really notice until days later. Given the history, I thought she knew I still wanted a full, natural shape. Basically the eyebrow equivalent of a hair trim.
The result wasn’t as bad as the Ghosts of Eyebrows past, but they’re pretty skinny (for me).
Oh! Another weird thing? I don’t know the name of either of the eyebrow women and after going there for five years, I feel like it’s way too late to ask.
I sat in my wheelchair wearing two hospital gowns – one open to the back and one open to the front like a makeshift robe. Underneath, there were giant, disposable, hospital-provided granny panties and and an ink scribble on my belly, pointing to the location of my tumor.
A nurse gave me a cap to cover my hair. Then, it was time to go. We pushed through the big stainless steel-covered door leading to a hallway full of operating rooms. The door gave me a strange flashback: my heart raced exactly as it did when I rode through a rickety traveling carnival haunted house as a teenager. Continue reading