A New York Minute

Well my weekend flew by in a New York minute and I find myself back on the grind again. No downtime for this working girl, I've already been out and about around the city all morning long on appointments. I love it that my appointments no longer involve wearing a knife kit and pulling a cooler through hoards of high school kids. It's the small things.

Speaking of small things, how bout that little island called Manhattan? Talk about a weekend of eating Polly Pocket sized food, waiting in lines for clubs we weren't cool enough to get in, and greeting the Jaguars dressed like high class hookers. It was a weekend for the books, Facebook I mean, so many incidents were post/photo worthy. Especially for the moms...

Let's start with Friday. We shopped around Soho all day surrounded by teeny tiny exotic models who made me feel like a fat Midwesterner. I might as well have been wearing light up sneakers and a Husker sweat shirt. No matter how hard I tried to "look cool" I always ended up feeling like Khloe Kardashian, the awkward giant wearing too much makeup- see lipstick photo on Facebook. I finally know what it's like to live in Z Potter's world, I mean because he's bigger than everyone not because he wears too much makeup... We waited two hours to eat lunch at hip place where I'm pretty sure our table was the only table actually eating rather than just staring around the room looking hungry hiding behind dark sunglasses and darker lipstick.

It felt like everywhere we went Americans were the minority. But I'm not talking about the type who are in Nebraska because of the tantalizing draw of meat packing plants or our booming landscape companies. I'm talking about the Super Trooper type of foreigners. Although I'd really like to know how the European countries continue to produce babies because I didn't see a single Euro man who didn't look gay, or a single Euro woman with hips large enough to survive childbirth. Does God really like Europeans that much more that he continues to grant them with magical babies that are also twice as good looking as any American? I think so. Anyway, after our good ol Midwestern meal of Beef Stroganoff and French fries at Balthazar in Soho we continued to power shop for a few more hours. We hit up all the cute boutique shops local only to New York like J Crew, Tory Burch, and my favorite: Tj Maxx. I'm a real Maxonista.

Our dinner reservations weren't until 11:00 p.m. at Buddakan in the meatpacking district. Buddakan being the infamous restaurant where Carrie and Big held their rehearsal dinner the night before Big didn't show up for the wedding on account of Miranda being a closeted lesbian and convincing him marriage is a sham. Marriage is a sham if you're married to men but in reality crave the companionship of an equally as unattractive female red head. Back to Buddakan though. We sipped extra dirty martinis and munched on condom sized appetizers. Seriously. We ordered wasabi balls that looked like little condoms stuffed with wasabi cream... Or something. Beth didn't eat her's, pretty sure I think I did. The lettuce wraps looked to be one one slice of lettuce that was cut into Saltine sized pieces with a dime size of "filling." Pf Changs would have been pissed. And so was I. So we kept drinking to fill our Nebraska hungry bellies and proceeded to get more and more angry at our rude NY server and fell more in love with our flamboyant Iowa-born busboy. By the end of the night I think both Beth and my mom had tipped the busboy at least $100 while Tye and I took care of the dinner bill and left a whopping $5 tip for the main waiter. Ooops. Don't piss Tye and Tay off, there will be consequences. After leaving the embarrassingly small tip we got the hell out of Buddakan as fast as we could. It was club time! Or so we thought. I think we waited in roughly three club lines and after being told to "get off my sidewalk" and "you're not on the list" and finally "It will be $1000 for you to get in" we decided this might not be our scene. Like WTF. Did they not know who we were? I've never waited in a line at The Rail. And Tyeler is married to Zach Potter. In the words of that famous hooker, "Big mistake. HUGE." I will get back at those club owners. I don't know how or when. But I will.

Oh, I have so many more stories that involve a pigeon toed whore, a Lebanese couple and three Polish guys but my short little lunch break is over. Must go back to my intense professional world. But more of our shenanigans will be shared later, I promise.