Awful Waffle

Tell me someone remembers the show Salute Your Shorts. Because no one in my office does. In fact, when I told the mail guy I’d give him an awful waffle if he didn’t deliver my NY magazine to my inbox soon, he and everyone in the surrounding area looked at me like I was nuts.

Just because we’re in cubes doesn’t mean we have to pretend we were cultivated here, do we?

Come on, Ug, Donkey Lips, that redheaded kid from T2? You know the one. The one with the mullet. What a badass. Check out how he totally screwed up the song by saying ‘fart’ instead of ‘part’. Wow, that still slays me.

The Nickelodeon of my youth rocked***. Hey Dude, Welcome Freshmen, and old-school You Can’t Do That On Television re-runs (Barf’s burgers—delightfully gross, and I remember this one skit where all the guys were growing mustaches, and Moose said she was growing one, and she lifted up her shirt and was growing it in her arm pit—priceless).

Going back even further, there was Today’s Special, Pinwheel, (whoa—how scary is this intro to watch today? You’re welcome for the nightmares to come tonight.) Reading Rainbow and my favorite of favorites: Square One. Mathnet was sweet.

Today, I wish T.V. was as good as it used to be and pass a little diversion to you. Thank you, YouTube. You’ve saved Monday once again.

***Addendum: Because of some excellent suggestions I am linking the following: Clarissa Explains It All (oh how I searched for the Hammer Pants episode where Mr. Darling and Sam danced in baggy glitter pants), Are You Afraid of The Dark? (remember that episode where it was another dimension and the other dimension people had no faces or the one where the big pinball was going to run down the escalator and kill that kid?), Pete and Pete and finally, what I think is the best Nickelodeon commercial ever: Inside Out Boy.

Want some cheese with that whine?

“What do you smell? Stone fruit, citrus, a hint of cat urine perhaps?”

I’ve been to many a wine tasting and seminar and they’re always a bit daunting, always a bit intimidating when someone exclaims the undertone of chocolate in the Pinot Noir is heightened by briary essence and barnyard (AKA manure). Even more so when the sommelier nods in vigorous agreement and you yourself look sourly into your glass: half angry that you don’t taste it, half extremely glad you can’t.

You are part of the intelligentsia if you exclaim that a certain Sauvignon Blanc has a hint of cat urine, or that other varietals are full of soil or minerals, but apparently, do not ever say the red’s reminiscent of dried rose. Cause that means the wine has been bottled by an amateur. Go figure.

Yesterday I attended such a gathering with four dazzling wines filled to the brim only to compliment the main event: a white plate studded with a circle of eight glorious slabs of cheese. It was my first official cheese class, though in my line of work I’ve been fortunate enough to attend others (nibbling behind the curtains, that is, straining to hear the famous chefs, hand shaking from the weight of the bottle I held, ever ready to spring out and jump upon patrons to top off their glasses). But last night I paid my way like a grown-up and so I had a proper seat and before the first cheese was tasted, I promptly knocked my fork to the floor, and as it thundered through the acoustics, I understood completely why I shouldn’t be allowed at such classy events unless on staff.

The cheeses ranged from fresh and firm and milky white to 65% butterfat, oozing gold through their chalky encasings. One was a long and nutty cheddar, another a heavily veined blue, one the only lightly pasteurized goat’s milk cheese worth trying, peppered with several layers of rind, noted by ash. Some of them were pretty darn stinky. As in burned both my nostrils and my mouth. You know a cheese is good when you feel nose membranes and mouth tissue sear simultaneously.

My favorite of the night was a tie between the Brescianella Stagionata (described as an exceptional washed-rind, soft-ripened, cow’s milk cheese from Lombardy with a beautifully smooth, sweet paste--wonderful rich flavors and a lingering, grassy aftertaste, but really, this is the one that burned me so fabulously) and the Bayley Hazen Blue (an aggressive Vermont blue with a woody, natural rind like tree bark).

Our cheesemonger, the famed Waldemar Albrecht, explained to us it all began in the Middle East, when desert trekkers had accidentally churned and curdled milk in their carried hide skins. He navigated the difference ranging from buffalo to mare and how cheese is the perfect fermented food and should always be eaten with the perfect fermented drink (wine or in some cases, beer). He stressed how Artisanal was the first empire to age cheese in temperature controlled caves, how some specific and incredible raw milk cheeses are illegal here (not to get into politics, he noted, his Venezuelan lilt straining over the words) and finally, hinted at the education one could obtain while under study at such a prestigious fromagerie; milking the animals at dawn and dusk, pouring off whey and salting for hours, boots heavy with earth (and finally, what I imagine to be blindfold tastings administered by a large headmistress with a large whip: “Non, non, non! Eeest Roquefort, imbecile! Non Stilton! Now go clean the bidets!” Though in fact this last item was not mentioned, I am convinced it is true.).

And suddenly, as impulsive as I have always been, I got really excited. I thought, gee, that sounds a lot cooler than grad school for creative writing…maybe I can sign up to work on a farm for a few months as a monger in training…

Ah, to be young…and covered in cheese…a lofty goal if there ever was one.

Rebuttal

Comments are powerful on powerful blogs. The discourse slopes around mysterious bends. It’s exhilarating to get heated, if only by the warm glow of a computer, the emission of a florescent buzz overhead. We’re lost in the dingy sea of office-work-gym sometimes. The computer brings us comfort, bonding, nameless connection. And it becomes meaningful because of just that.

We need this, it moves us, it’s entertainment, edutainment even, because we learn something about those we look at, maybe even an emotion is stirred within ourselves. We learn a little bit about how we react, and with that revelation comes a choice. We can view it bare bones and take it in. We can alter it. We decide if we’d want others to know how we are or if we can stifle it just a little bit, having purged it in our online alter egos before we turn out on the rest of the world. Calmer and more decent. Palatable vanilla.

A shout out, misconstrued, brings motion.

Enough to drive unexpected traffic and accusations, catapult scandal, judgment, excitement, everything we love and we hate about our time in this life, media, the fashion of New York. For those of you who have come for an explanation, I almost don’t want to give it. There has been too much flutter on a Wednesday evening to give it up now, it feeds the ego (mine of course, these lame ramblings are being read, all press is good press, judge me for being youngish, it’s the first I’ve been called that in a while, and I’m apt to enjoy it to ameliorate my wrongs, my vices) and it means something has happened.

I’m on a small soapbox; I may never have another chance; I want to shout out something important, pro life/pro choice/anti gun/pro gun/anti-carbs/pro-fiber...What political stance would make the biggest splash? Pro-cubicle? Anti-vacation? I’m against…pens…the color red…water?

I am not #6, but now I’m sort of wishing I was (if only for the infamy!). I want to be even more delusional; I would love to not be painfully self-aware of everything that is wrong with me without any idea of who I really am, just for a moment. Though I could never use the word “lover” without cringing. For those of you who know me, that alone should have given it away.

So many times I’ve tried to articulate who I am and what I do. I’ve fallen short in descriptors of family and friends. I’m writing a book, I’m applying to grad school, I have not one shred to show for it. It's all a wash of posturing and lukewarm talent.

But I have one thing to lean on and it is this. Thankfully, I am not a person who has been cut out by people in her life, not to my knowledge. I like to think that people, for the most part, tend to keep me around, if only for the loudness, the self-deprecation, the ironic T-shirts and absurd stories. I’ve just been misplaced by one, and well, you know how I feel by my comment what she was like anyway…and her initials are not SK.

Upper East vs. Lower East

I’m an east village inhabitant, bordering on the LES; I have leggings and ironic shirts and for a time had a semi-hipster-mullet with bangs. That last one I’m not proud of, but you get the idea. My closet is stuffed with plastic heels and bird-printed bags. I'm a lame, overused cliche.

So allow me to continue using them...

Glamour seems different below 14th street. It’s skinny, big necklaces, off clothes and PBRs. It’s smoking weed on the street and tattoos and Japanese gangs on skateboards. Ugly-beautiful. It’s American Apparel. Pretty girls with bruises. Uncomfortably sexy, doe-eyed advertisements that you see and you just know…the teen on that Houston billboard has been missing for three years and counting…

It’s not bad, not necessarily good, it just is. It’s a personality thing maybe. I like it there. It suits me more than the other neighborhoods. Midtown is where I work. Downtown is home.

But for all its bars and gorgeous transvestites and hustling homeless, my neighborhood has been categorized as lacking the sophistication and the polish of uptown.

So when I had the opportunity to experience the epitome of it all, where the ladies who lunch go to ‘relax’, I did.

Last night I fronted as an Upper East Side deb, with golden straw for hair and a too-taut neck. *

The first obstacle is not to giggle at the doorman as I teeter in heels and fall into the elevator.

The second is, after, disrobing in a gleaming, marbled bathroom, to work up the courage to ask the stern Russian woman handing me slippers if I take off my bra (this is, after all, a Thai massage, which is fully clothed in pajamas, and also in the fabled Cornelia, the rarified air, high and clean, momentarily allowing bleached patrons to imagine themselves in a sweeping retreat on stilts, not Manhattan).

Ms. Borscht says no. I leave it on. Still giggling.

In the Relaxation Library: leather club chairs, rich drapes, and skewered berries in geometric patterns. Champagne flutes, forgiving light, cashmere blankets, and long like apocathary cylinders containing spiced teas warmed by the flame of candles.

The third obstacle is pouring the tea into a small highball glass without trembling hands, as there seems to be no spout to speak of.

A pleasant Thai woman is upon me as I take my first, burning sip. It’s time to go. My crested pajamas are too long and they drag on the floor. We walk up a winding staircase, past a cocktail party in the spa, and onto the cool breeze of a teak roof deck.

I’m led into a gossamer tent, told to lie down on a pillowed mat flanked by orchids and aromatherapy accoutrements and she begins.

She’s unusually strong I think. Not that I know, but I can’t stop thinking that. She kneads vigorously and stretches my body deeply and for a time we are in the strangest rocking-horse position, like a reverse airplane, that game my brother and I used to play with Dad when we were small and he held our arms and his feet lifted us in the air.

It’s amazing, mind-blowing, by far the richest experience I’ve had this month. Seventy-five minutes and it’s over.

I walked out of there floating, giddy, and weird. This is what the privileged women of upper New York do on a Thursday night, I think. Then they go home and sink into plush bedding. They sip Campari and soda and let their cats nibble salmon…

Me? I went to Taco Bell, and then I watched Grey’s Anatomy on a pixilated television.

This morning I feel like a punching bag. My girl was strong. So much so that I’m sore, and tender. Last night is a million miles away and I’m back to zero. On today, because it is a good day, I may never be more than a ‘pretty’ girl with bruises, if that…kind of just how I like it.

*I won’t apologize for the fact that I might be slightly looking forward to the day when my soul is fifty, but the sum of my thousand dollar cremed face and lipoed elbow parts is twenty-five.

East Village Elitism

The softer side of St. Mark’s is invisible from the view between Second and Third, obscured by the longish bi-hawks of aging punks, kitschy sunglass kiosks, and t-shirt peddlers famous for black attire emblazoned with ‘edgy sayings’ (most of which seem to crazy-font-shout ‘Have a nice fucking day’).

It’s a mini wunderkid land, calling out to teenagers, tourists and upper-direction-siders alike. For those of us who live within a stone’s throw, we look on with a short sense of dread, a perennial reminder of our failed rebel youth, healed tongue piercings, and regrettable tribal tattoos. For me, the bounty of polyester pants and gas station uniforms overcomes the attraction of the crowded dive bars and Chipotle, usually in heavy rotation.

Luckily, walking east, it morphs slowly; dotted by bistros, jazz bars and eateries. The brick buildings emerge, the planted trees in full leaf sprout, and wrought iron no longer indicates prison-barred windows.

Between First and Second, and then from First to A, a nightly sway drifts in the air. Jule’s Café’s sunken patio and intoxicating French conversation pair well with the raspberry coulis Bellini, especially when served to the sultry stylings of a live band. A place I’ve never found the name of is abuzz at every hour, beautiful people stretching their legs alfresco as they dine on exotic salads. Further on, the date spots continue with many like Yaffa Café, under a striped awning and the famed mural. Beyond that, incredible drunk food in throngs: sushi, The Dumpling Man, Crif Dog.

Finally, there exists an Australian ice creamery with gooey concoctions that put Tasti D-Lite to shame (though I am a fan of the whipped air). The cold cups are rich and velvety on the tongue. As they scoop up your order, it’s fun to survey the vast offerings of gourmet chocolates, gilded with designs and infused with teas and other subtle flavors.

Last night, that was exactly what we intended upon doing. Sampling a few on wooden spoons and then insisting our flavor of choice be in a children’s cup, which comes with a hidden toy in the bottom, usually a bouncy ball, perfect for throwing in traffic on First. A few feet before the storefront, we passed two, skinny hipsterettes, apparently pecking at white plastic cups. It was an awkward passing in which we had to dart one way and then the next to avoid the outdoor diners and then again to avoid a perfectly grunged street performer. So we slowed, letting the girls pass. It was then that I realized the thinner one, the one with the pretty, bulging blues and delicate high forehead, was Heather Graham.

In a flash they were gone, and we started gossiping. We just saw Heather Graham! Sure, it didn’t seem she’s been getting much work since Scrubs, and she was a dead ringer for a startled cousin of Elijah Wood's, but it was a celebrity sighting nonetheless. Right near our favorite ice cream place. And even better, it looked like, just maybe, she had just been there.

We lightly continued on our journey. At the door, two workers wouldn’t let us in. They were closed at 10:20. Apparently they had been closed since ten. No. No exceptions.

But then…? How did…?

Though our sighting was admittedly quick, and I couldn’t really tell what she was holding, if anything at all, and she was merely walking from the direction of the place, not out of it, circumstantial evidence leads me to believe…. oh, right. They let Heather in and not us. Duh, ice cream only for the famous.

Got it.

Even still, we felt a little stiffed. Telling from her lanky limbs, we would have at least finished ours…

Kidding, kidding.

Almost Reality

Today marks the beginning of the highly coveted trial-internship that is the MTV/Rolling Stone project. What better time than now to hurl myself into a shame-spiral of denial, given that I was one of the 85 other losers that almost made it on the show?

I’m no stranger to living the life of a reality reject. Oh, no. Would you believe it if I told you, dear reader, that I made it to the final round of the Real World Austin? Well you shouldn’t, because I only made it to the second round. But still, I was sort of proud. I figure first cuts devastated around a few dozen thousand, so it was validation that I was semi-interesting at the very least. My stellar video included the sound effects of a faulty shower drain spectacle in my boyfriend’s apartment, sucking the water from the tub with a terrible, ripping noise while I sat Jenny-McCarthy-does-Candy’s-ads-style atop the john, demurely crossing and uncrossing my stilletos, moaning, “Why did I eat the whole burrito. Why?!” and jerking my body each time the tub made another hideous “pffffffftttt.” Then the camera panned away from me, over to the tub and the drain, revealing my little joke, the soundtack punctuated by my uncontrollable giggles. I mean, I really thought it was funny. I guess you had to be there, because as I recall it now, I’m nothing short of horrified.

One gray morning after, I was blessed with the “long application”; a big, fat, textbook of a form which requested that the piles upon miles of blanks be filled out comprehensively, legibly, and within 24 hours. This I got in the third week of a new job. Right when the work starts to get really bad because everyone figures you’ve had enough time to “get up to speed” and commences throwing projects at you, though you still don’t know anyone’s name or what you’re supposed to be doing and are far too embarrassed to venture asking. The short of it is this: I filled it out half-heartedly, over-thinking, tossing off prickled barbs like they were lollies* and faxed it in without the final two pages. Suffice it to say, I was never contacted again and they picked that odd-looking, gossipy virgin to fill the “kooky girl” spot instead of me.

So when I was perusing craigslist a few months ago and stumbled upon the MTV/Rolling Stone Project audition info, I was a bit wary of the process. But still, incredibly bored of winter-thawing-spring, broke-ness, and lack of response to, "so what have you been up to?", I thought it might be fun just to apply. Besides, it was an avenue for breaking into writing. And I need(ed) all the help I could get. The perk of marinating with a bunch of hipster bands was just the delicious cream-cheese frosting.

This time, I filled the application out with a pure heart, devoid of gimmicks. I love music, I adore writing, surely I would excel within the realm of writing about music. I offered some ideas for the magazine. Some tongue-and-cheek thoughts on Brooklyn beards, Seattle then-and-now, a “really big” re-shoot of iconic rock photos utilizing artists and influencers of today as the bands and supermodels as their groupies, stuff like that, knowing full well that I was probably signing away the rights to all these pitches, never again to be credited to me. But hey, I had the chance to actually do something with myself here, prove to me, mom, and anyone else that I was worth something, so off the rights went. And for the video, I did it right this time, abetted by many a friend certain of the perfect equation for reality success.

Clear lighting + low-cut top = callback.

Perhaps that would keep me on the monitor for the first thirty seconds while I shook off jitters and morphed from insecure to immanent intelligence. Besides, friends assured, TV is for looking, and we all know you have to be marketable eye-candy to some degree. Show your “talent” now, show your brain later. Cry in the corner because you sold your soul much, much later.

I said my piece; hopes and dreams, how I grew up with Rolling Stone and Kurt Cobain, whom I admired and why I needed this chance, how I’ve lived thus far below expectations, doggy-paddling in a pool of disappointment and hackneyed quips. I dropped it in the mailbox feeling pretty good. Somehow it felt like an espresso-sized shot of confidence, even without any real affirmation.

A few days later I got a call from MTV(!). They had, in hand, my application, but couldn’t watch my video in its current format. Mind you, this video was on a regular, small DVD/VCR tape that fits into any camcorder made in the last ten years. And was nothing special, and the ONLY thing I could have bought at K-Mart in Astor Place. Apparently, the casting kids at MTV are getting some sort of raw deal where they have equipment that can’t handle that format. So after much confusion, I duplicated it and mailed it back, past the deadline, and hoped for the best.

Lo and behold, the prized email came. I was a semi-finalist (!!) and wanted (!!!) for a two-hour taped interview. All I had to do to get on TV was to bring another idea along with my butt to the hotel on time.

At a quarter past eight, I entered an empty hotel room. The beds were leveled vertically up against the walls, the lights were bright, the blinds drawn. A camcorder blinked red at me from its three-legged perch. A barefoot girl politely asked me to please come in. A guy closed the door behind me. They quickly apologized for the shadiness of it all, and I cracked a joke about how they needn’t worry, I’d been filmed in hotels worse than this (tee hee), and we commenced.

Here’s where I’ll gloss over, not to protect the innocent, but to protect you from getting bored to tears. They were really quite nice, I talked about my life, and I signed something. Somehow I went off into this long diatribe about my family and writing history. I was literally irritating myself, so I can’t understand how they managed to look engaged the whole time. These people are well trained. I left feeling like a total moron, knowing that I had jabbered on, not being terribly interesting, adjusting my top and nervously licking my lips the entire time. It had crawled on, and then it was done.

And a few weeks later, so was I. They had a round of hopefuls fly out to LA to get their final screen test. I was not one of them. I had a nagging suspicion that I was done about five minutes in, but still, reading that final no was a bit of a knee-cutter. Then it was a warm wash, clean and total relief.

It’s still frothing around my mind. The what ifs. The goods. The bads. I would have had to quit my loving job, give up my summer, and become a slave to a horde of cameramen. Throw in the kicker: an evaluation by none-other-than Jann Wenner. Televised. And if I didn’t sustain until the finale, I would have emerged bitten and torn from the experience with no job to speak of, no money, and probably zero credibility if I ever dared to try something else. Then I got depressed at the notion. Do people on reality TV become productive members of society afterwards? Can they shake the crushing shadow that people have seen them at their worst and judged them for it? I’ve got to be honest with myself: I’m not sure if I have the spine for that. In fact, I’m starting to think I don’t have the spine for anything.

Blogging certainly is the reality TV of the internet, but somehow it’s safer, nestled close in a cover of anonymity and space between you and your attackers. True, no one cuts you a break, just the same. They happen upon your life via linkage and then think it normal to call you worthless and talent-less based on a blurb you wrote for a select few. Mud slinging and the like on your home turf, skipping out and leaving you to mop up the mess. It’s a blast of harsh wind, and I’ve seen it get nasty on sites. But I have got to believe that it’s worse for those on TV, because the angry rash spreads so deeply. People seem to genuinely vehemently hate actors, celebutantes, reality pawns. And they are quite vocal about it. At least with blogging, you can maintain a shred of ambiguity...

Then again…part of me thinks that it would have been mighty cool…

Something to write home about…

I guess I’ll just have to watch the show to know for sure. And while I’m at it, try and guess which role I would have fulfilled, if only, like so many times before and so many times after, I had just been more of whatever they were looking for…

*Question paraphrased: MTV has a strict, no-tolerance policy against drugs. If you were picked to be on the show, could you go without using for TK days? To which I answered: Dood, totally. Well, okay, no synthetics.

Friend-Dating

Tonight I’m going on a first date, and I’m going on it blindly. This morning I perfected my makeup, fretted over earrings (big, tacky gold or small, simple Peridot?), and slipped on my go-to jeans. We’re going to Pegu Club, where fabulous cocktails abound, and I already plan on getting tipsy to offset the guaranteed awkwardness.

Though decided upon last week, this morning I’m second-guessing my choice of venue. Sure it was great when I was there in December, but is it still good now? How much has the crowd changed? Will it convey the right vibe?

As an aside, this is not how I normally act. But this is no ordinary date. This is a friend date.

I’ve found in the city that girls have more traditional dating relationships with each other than we do with the opposite sex. Perhaps because hooking up is so easy, and dropping relationships even easier, we tread more carefully when selecting our girlfriends, the ones to penetrate the inner circle of our lives. Guys we try on as though they were dresses, snatching up ones we think might work for the moment, compiling notches, piles on the closet floor. Girls we try on more like undergarments; we want them perfect. They can’t pinch, they can’t pull, and though they are quite assorted as only a few match, some fit only for certain occasions (sober won’t mix with wild nights out, young mom won’t fare well with perpetually single, best road-trip buddy won’t love the long hikes so dear to sandal-wearing tree-hugger), each singular one we’re lucky enough to find must be great.

Too bad shopping for friends is far more limited than shopping for clothes. Work is the easiest arena if you’re surrounded by a gaggle of girls your own age. Friends of friends, randoms met at parties and bars, and at the gym are slightly more difficult. And even when you’re that you’ve managed to finagle the perfect group of friends, the city ends up finite, and great people leave for far off, open spaces. Filling their void is particularly hard. The city can be synonymous with lonely at times because we’re all in so much of a hurry, our heads down and bags bouncing, heels clicking furiously to get to wherever we’re going. So as girls, sometimes we’re left exposed, indulging in this strange ritual, seeking each other out, trying each other on, and hoping we’re liked equally in return.

Oftentimes, we eye each other in the office, first complimenting each other’s shoes or handbag, then working our way up to, “Oh, I’m running out to grab some lunch, want to come?” After breaching that boundary, we tread upon more dangerous ground: happy hour. If we’re really lucky, we can translate that into a Friday night pre-party, and only a very select few make it to Saturday shopping or Sunday brunch status. The number dwindles even lower when we enter stupid-movie watching, dream-sharing, soul-baring, daily-emailing, helping-one-another-move territory. Those friendships are the ones that feed our imaginations; the girlfriend equivalent of wedding fantasies, where the groom takes a backseat to a group of phenomenal bridesmaids.

Seems like it’s best if you approach any coupling, friend or otherwise, with the barest of expectations. Easy, breezy, if it happens it happens, if it doesn’t, oh well, there's always next time. That is how I feel about most things in my life, but deep down, everyone wants to be liked, whether it really matters or not…

So tonight, a friend date. With a very famous blogger. And I need to adhere to the rules of etiquette, composure and class. Because, like all friend dates, this is an evaluation, a test.

And I want to pass with flying colors.

Women of the Waldorf

I sat at the highest end of the Waldorf, sampling a large chocolate-dipped strawberry, as punch-colored candles danced shadows across my hands. The crystal glasses, the silver forks, and the bone china before me lay untouched. Only a sweet berry was appropriate to taste; the bite nearly soundless. My Swiss dotted blouse was too slight for the chill of the temperature control, and the Irish linen napkin spread a thin blanket in my lap.

I was mesmerized.

The echo from the stage resonated with each word. At circular tables illuminated with the mastheads and fashions of Vogue and W, the ladies who lunched and the editors who skipped it, all sat quiet, their eyes to the sleek steel podium.

Beyond the ring were the heads of cities and divisions. Power suits, stovepipe pants, killer heels, and dripping jewels. These ball-busters shattered the glass ceiling long ago on the way up, and looked fabulous every step of the way.

These masters of men were women. And we were here to celebrate them.

On the stage: Ellen DeGeneres, Susan Saradon, Geena Davis, Diane Sawyer, Candace Bushnell, Katie Couric. The women who brought me near tears of laughter and possibilities were Jill Abramson, managing editor of the Times, the legendary Joan Hamburg, and Cynthia Leive, Editor-in-Chief, Glamour. They spoke of their struggles, their wishes, their loneliness, and finally, their success.

The content was inspirational, my thoughts were inspired. At $250 a head, the chicken would be remembered as decadent and the goodie bags; heavy with product. But for me, it all ignited my imagination.

I left beaming, skipping along in scuffed slingbacks, and asking myself a singular question, over and over.

When would I be one of them?

Yesterday's event, tomorrow's dream...