So the summer is near its end, my kiddos have left the nest, I've finished up the copious paperwork and filing and follow-up – and, well, my god, I am tired. I was a little shocked that certain people now expect me to work. Pardon? What is this draft a motion you speak of? No speakee that language.
Actually, I really do need to stop with my mooning and putting a hand to my weary brow, heaving big sighs about needing a break and actually get on the stick and take a break. I finally gummed up my courage and wrote an "I'd really like to go on vacation for the following dates" email – so, assuming I get a rather sizeable amount of work done in the next three weeks, I will be as a freebird.
We've been trying to think of a good place to scoot off to, and are toying with a biking trip in Nova Scotia, but for at least a week, we're going to have a "staycation" and spend a delicious amount of time doing low-key NYC activities: go kayaking in the Hudson, go to museums during a non-crowded Tuesday morning, spend the day inside chortling over P.G. Wodehouse, cook multi-step meals. I cannot wait.
And the last two weekends have been a delight. I have a pretty tight group of girlfriends at work (who I have seen far too little of this summer as they were "working" and I was cruise-directoring) and a couple months ago, one sent around an Outlook calendar invitation to our group for "A Day of Fun at Coney Island/Night of Debauchery at Brighton Beach" with the ominous warning: "Don't punk out." Needless to say, she's a bossy boss boss – a tiny, 100 pounds of iron will. And because she so decreed, I found myself screaming my lungs out in the front car of the Cyclone last Saturday. And then riding it again five minutes later because I had already forgotten how terrified I get as the car slowly creeps its way up that first, steep hill. We rode the Polar Express with a power-crazed hip-hop DJ at the controls, nearly got sick on some spideresque twirly ride, took another horrifying ride that swung you upside down and suspended you there (my friends loved it; I spent the entirety of that ride with my eyes squeezed tight and chanting "Horrible, horrible, horrible, horrible"). I won a stuffed teddy bear and shot some skee ball and ate perhaps more Italian ices than strictly advisable. We sat on the beach as the sun set, watching little kids throw themselves into the waves. Coney Island is tacky and silly and a little dirty, but it was great to see such a huge disparate cross-section of New Yorkers strutting their stuff on the boardwalk.
The "Shoot the Freak" game, however? Has got to go.
And then the night! Brighton Beach has an enormous Russian immigrant population and we headed to some fancy joint called Rasputin that offered elaborate many-course banquets and Real! Las Vegas-Style! Entertainment! It was so gloriously cheesy and awesome in every way. In our simple cotton dresses and sandy hair, it's fair to say we stood out from the spangly, floor length dresses and serious slap most women were sporting. And I'm pretty sure we were the only non-Russians in the place – and likely horrified our waiter by turning down his offer of a free bottle of vodka in lieu of wine. Two wedding receptions were being held that night, as well as a fiftieth anniversary and a birthday party. I joined a congo line of old Russian men from one wedding, twirled my friend G across the floor in an improvised flamenco-style clap dance and watched in delight as a Russian Rod Stuart pop singer took the stage.
This weekend seems positively sedate in comparison, with farmer's market forays and a goodly amount of chill on the couch. But we did spend Saturday night at a friend of a friend's roof deck in the West Village barbequing and gossiping under the stars. And I made this totally absurd berry cheesecake that I wolfishly took a fork to this morning (while reaching for a yogurt? Yeah, DK didn't buy it either).
Finally, one last tidbit. Check out this site– it's my new favorite addiction (and I love Tucker). The archives are the best (mine is the "Make it Ding"!) to see the original complaint and the resulting postcard sent. My favorite may be the one sent to the state of New Hampshire requesting additional clarification on its motto "Live free or die." How free exactly? HOW FREE? Please advise.
