subway soiree

I am standing on the platform at 23rd street eating a rose macaron, my favorite flavor from my most adored cafe. Whenever I have something to celebrate, I turn to this particular rose macaron. I find myself visiting this cafe quite often, dedicating a macaron to relationship milestones, personal achievements such as making a new friend or even bad days, the irony of honoring the survival of a particularly hellish 12 hours. 

I finish my macaron and shift my bag from one shoulder to the next, careful not to crush the neat stack of papers that signify a new professional beginning. The bottle of champagne, a gift from a colleague, was not intended for this particular celebration but just maybe. It’s cold enough that I can see my breath but not cold enough to make me want to hibernate. However, It’s hard to tell when my body is pulsing with equal parts of excitement and fear. 

The news is sacred and precious to me in this moment. I am doing normal New York things but I feel anything but normal. I look around at others standing with me on the platform thinking somehow they know what’s in my bag and understand that I’ve just been handed a fresh start and a new aspiration. The train pulls into the station and I step into my car wishing for one more rose macaron but quickly reminding myself not to overdo it, not to jinx my ambitious undertaking.

you can't always get what you want

I have a bad habit of not getting what I want. I know, it sounds ridiculous but here’s what usually happens. 

• Step one: I order a juice at my local bodega.
• Step two: I get my juice and take a sip.
• Step three: It’s not what I ordered, not only that - it tastes really bad.
• Step four: I don’t say anything, I leave the bodega both unhappy with my bad tasting juice.
• Step five: I drink my bad tasting juice and regret it for hours and wonder why, I didn’t just ask for a new juice.

Does this happen to anyone else? You can apply it to any part of your life and maybe sometimes you just go with something and it’s not even what you want. The worst part is it’s always in my control, always. But rather than saying, “Excuse me, this is not what I ordered. May I please have a new juice?” I walk away feeling regretful and upset at myself for not speaking up. I’ve done this so many times that I’ve lost count. Most recently on a trip to Bloomingdale’s to purchase a new skincare product where I ended up with a different product than I went in to purchase, something I did not like, spent more money than I wanted and ended up with the same terrible regret. WHY DO I DO THIS?

Part one of the conclusions I've come to: I’m worried I’m going to hurt someone’s feelings.

I go see the bodega guy everyday. He is so happy and sweet. It gets very busy in there and sometimes people make mistakes. I also have witnessed people being so utterly rude at this place that I’m fearful that I too will look rude if I return my juice. Because they will then dump it out, waste all those vegetables and fruits, and next time I come in, I’ll wonder if they will then think of me as “the woman who returned her juice.” This is so beyond ridiculous.

Part two of the conclusions I've come to:  Everyone hates that picky, pushy person in line.

I’ve witnessed my fair share of people while living in NYC that are so beyond picky that it holds up the line and makes everyone else uncomfortable in a 10 feet radius. I know that by saying to my Bloomingdale’s beauty advisor, “No thank you, I came in for this product and am not interested in that product,” that she wouldn’t hate me or find me picky but at the end of the day, she’s supposed to be the expert. However, she is also a sales woman.

So here’s what I’m doing. 

I returned the skincare product and I’ve made a pact with myself to no longer expect bad juices. I trust that you can read between the lines here but if not - I won’t accept or allow people to talk me into things I do not want or did not ask for just because I feel bad or am worried about what they will think if I correct them. Because in the middle of the day when all I have time for is a juice, I do not want it to tastes like celery - I want carrot and I’m sure the bodega guy will understand.

morning rambles

This morning I had a thought.

It was a pretty standard morning for me. What used to seem like the great unknown of a new neighborhood and space, now feels comforting and peaceful. I pulled up the blinds to let what little winter light there was in, got ready, buttoned up, settled on an album to listen to and walked to the subway. My subway stop is above ground and goes over the WIlliamsburg Bridge. It's one of the best ways to start the day. I stood on the platform with my headphones in, gloves on, waiting for the train when I thought about my upcoming birthday. I ran down a list of sorts.

27. Female. Single. Average Height, Average Weight. Never been married. No Children. Can touch my toes. Cannot do a handstand (yet). Happy, yes.. I am happy. Brooklyn, New York. Blonde. Black boots. Overall comfortable.

And then I thought, how many of those things will change once I'm 28. How many will change in 5 years, 10 years. I remembered turning 27 and thinking about the year ahead but predicting nothing that had happened. There were some amazing things that happened and then there were some that I would have liked to fast-forward through but maybe not. 27 was a year of growing pains. Maybe it's a superstition but that odd number always did seem challenging to me and it did prove itself to be. I gained friends, I lost friends. I let go. I moved, twice. I ate too much then too little. Changed teams at work, changed again.

Someone recently asked me how I am.

"I'm well. I feel good. I'm trying to push myself a little more. Speak up, challenge myself. Go outside my comfort zone and be more daring."

They probably were just wondering if I was in a good or bad mood but hey, you asked.

Usually I make a list or goal for the year ahead when my birthday comes around. This year there won't be one. I want to live. I want to experience everything that comes my way. I want to open myself to everything that is coming. To not grip. To not wish and want but to be. Be happy and then be sad and then be happy again. Whatever comes will no matter what. I can't wait. 

Photo by Kate Diago

wanderlust

I have an interesting case of wanderlust. I often lust for the very city I live in. Whenever I leave New York, even for the weekend, I dream of coming back - coming home. However each year with the change of the season my mind wanders a bit west and then very east.

I wake up wondering what it would be to exchange my view of the Empire State Building and Williamsburg Bridge for an ocean view or the Eiffel tower. I imagine salt water hair, I imagine buttery croissants. California and Paris, for completely different reasons.

California for the ocean. Not the shore or the beach but the ocean. Big Sur and hiking above the clouds. The feeling of weightlessness being that high in elevation and the anxiety of having to go back down eventually. The sun on my arms, salty lips and hair. Cool nights and a fire. Driving along the coastal highway listening to whatever is on the radio because it really doesn't matter as long as the windows are down and you know the words.

Paris for the escape. Some days I miss the feeling of not knowing a city so well. Stepping off the subway platform with butterflies of a new adventure in a new part of town. Seeking out your favorite cafe, finding the best bookstore. Falling in love with a park or a certain building. Being a fish out of water and then finding your gills, finding your own heartbeat in a place you've never known or been. I'm constantly mesmerized by New York's lights but I crave new shapes and spaces. Carving out a home in a new place that feels similar but wholly different.

Sometimes when I cross the bridge on my bike and I'm heading downhill into the lower east side I take my hands off the bars and spread them wide. I stretch my arms and fingertips. I pull in the entire city and for a minute feel like it can actually fit within the width of my body. I love it here more than anywhere I've ever been. It's home but when I woke up this morning I wondered what Paris looked like in the snow and how nice it would be to take a walk along the ocean during a sunny November California morning.

where have you been

I'm such a hypocrite sometimes. There are a few blogs that I follow that I check, recheck and refresh and when there hasn't been anything updated for more than say, a day or so… it really bugs me. Yet here I am typing away and I haven't been updating suddenly lovely at all. Hopefully those of you who check back every once and a while haven't removed me from your bookmarks and care to know that I'm still here. 

I was away for a week in Florida. Enough sun and warmth to carry me through the rest of the 'winter' (I suppose technically it's spring). It was great but I was so happy to get back to NYC. I love the beach and water but at the end of the day, I love Manhattan more. I rode my bike down Metropolitan Avenue in Williamsburg smiling ear to ear. I went to yoga, stopped by Marlow and Sons for a honey scone and coffee and rode the rest of the way home not even minding the cold.

I've been working on freelance. I've been lucky enough to work with several awesome people who have shared their weddings, babies and bat mitzvahs with me. The best part is handing over the final piece and seeing their faces get all goofy and excited. Get goofy, it's such an awesome feeling.

I am back to running. I joined a gym and try to go after work during the week and at least once on the weekend. I was starting to drive myself crazy when I got home from work and all I would talk about was work and what was going well or more likely, not well. I could hear myself blabbing and just couldn't stop. Now going to the gym I get it out of my system by physically exhausting my emotional self. At the end of the day, it's just perfume and makeup.

One last note before I sign off and probably head to bed. I received the most lovely cards from friends this past birthday. For those of you who sent me little notes, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

no place like home

I moved to New York City the summer of 2008. After graduation and a month or so of pool hopping and waitressing I took a job, found an apartment and never looked back. You hear different stories about people's first year or so living in the city. Going out until 5 am and spending the next day swearing you'll never do that again until you forget you have a birthday party or promised a friend you'd meet them for drinks. Working hard - 10 and sometimes 12 hour days because you feel like it's a rite of passage living here. Getting on the wrong train, meeting the most random people and spending way too much on cabs. You know what I remember the most though, being absolutely broke.

I had a roof over my head and clean clothes but that was only because I knew which deli had the cheapest ramen and yogurt. I ate a lot of eggs and toast to say the least but through all of it, I can't say that I never thought that enough was enough. I loved it here, I still love it here. Every paycheck felt like a blessing and while it was a bit of a struggle, much like the days spent working well into the night, it was another NYC rite of passage to me.

This city puts you through it's own fleet of tests. Even now when the temperatures have been hovering around 10 degrees with the occasional snowfall, I smile every time I walk through Madison Square Park. I cried in Whole Foods in Chelsea when I received my job offer. I fell in love, literally in the Empire State Building. Sometimes I think that little bit of hunger made me work that much harder to stay. Because even though this city can chew you up and spit you back out hungover, tired and overworked, it's breathtaking every time I walk down the street. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. This is my home.

Glamorama

For one week every fall, girls all around the metro area get up extra early. They carefully put on their makeup, style their hair, match their bags to their shoes and go on a Starbucks binge. They critique every seam, stitch and zipper and upon discovery of any new name and a Starbucks fueled fury, blast their twitter, instagram and facebook with their knowledge of fashion. These girls breathe fashion. They stuff their toes into heels in hope to get photographed standing around looking chic at Lincoln Center. Suddenly what's not in, is in and the whole city feels like I'm living in some Glamorama spin off. (Less fucked up but just as bewildering.)

Everyone is asking me or telling me rather what show they saw, which model or celebrity they stumbled upon at the Le Bain fashion night out party. By telling me I mean scream/speaking on their iphones walking down the street or to their other fashion friend on the subway. PR girls everywhere are skipping lunch to go see Opening Ceremony but of course it was so worth it and what is lunch when fashion can fill you up anyway. Skipping lunch is the fashion equivalent to dying a thousand deaths in the name of a designer.

In the name of fashion, all PR, magazine and self-proclaimed style authorities should keep their voices down and conversations to themselves. And please stand somewhere else looking awkwardly chic but without-caring-I-look-this-odd-everyday-because-I'm-an-individual-with-a-creative-flair. I would like to get to yoga on time.

P.S. There is lipstick on your teeth.

busy bee

The New York Times recently wrote an article about all of us being oh-so-busy. The most alarming thing about this article was that I felt like I was reading an excerpt from my daily dialogue. I've found since moving to New York City that I've often been too busy to go to the gym, eat healthy, dress well, see friends, see family, take a vacation, take a lunch, take a coffee break and/or date. After reading I made a pact with myself that whenever anyone asks me how I've been or how my day was, I cannot respond with "busy." Even if it was the most busy day of my entire life, I have to find another word to describe my day or current state. Being busy has become my default state and an excuse for anything I don't want to do. There are 24 hours in the day, for heaven's sake no one is that busy.

There are times to buckle down but there are also times where stepping outside for lunch or leaving on time so that you can take a run around the neighborhood can be the most important and inspirational. I owe some of this to the culture around my job. I'm told often to take a break or leave so that I am well rested or can enjoy the beautiful day. Would you ever hear a heart surgeon complain about how busy they are? I'm not saving lives designing perfume and cosmetic packaging so why am I complaining and using "busy" as an excuse to avoid having to put in extra work or time with friends and family?

Yesterday was educational. I collaborated with a sister company on a project, spoke to a vendor about the best way to achieve a design, searched for images for an upcoming campaign, organized glass inspiration and stepped out for a 45 minute lunch where I sat in Herald Square and wrote a postcard out to my family. If I would have said my day was busy then no one would have wanted to hear me complain about having to do all the things above. Busy seems to have a negative outlook. I don't want to be busy anymore, I want to be involved.

on trial

There comes a moment where two people decide to share a space. Ive written before about not yet coming into that moment but when my past roommate left to move in with her boyfriend she explained it better than I ever could. She reasoned that "not being together became far more inconvenient than being together in separate spaces." Or something like that. Traveling back and forth was tiring, lugging your things, forgetting certain things, mistakenly trying to pay for coffee by flipping extra underwear on the counter (true story) got old. While I completely believed her, I still didn't think that moment would happen to me. Especially because of the two week trial.

Between leases my then boyfriend moved in for two weeks. At the end of the two weeks I remember being alarmingly relieved. It was shitty of me but I realized that while I really liked him, I didn't really like him there all the time. We would knock into each other, step on each other, glance over like "oh you again." I had no idea that I felt this way until those two weeks were over. I kept thinking, what if we had moved into together. Signed over in blood for a 12 month lease in which, we may have ended up killing each other or worse, broke up and still had to share a space. He was clean, nice, respectful, etc. etc. but something didn't fit. It was those two puzzle pieces that totally look like they fit together but when placed together you realize the cardboard is cut a little to the right or left and then back into the pile they go. You have to keep searching.

On July 2nd while doing a weekly strip down of my apartment I smoothed out my bedding when something caught my eye. A bug. A small bug on my bed. Since then while the apartment is in my mind completely and totally unlivable I have been staying in a far, far away place known as Williamsburg, Brooklyn. A far cry from the Upper West Side and quite literally on the other side of the rainbow. In the cab ride over that night I remember thinking, this may be the two week trial and the dread that followed. I couldn't go back to my apartment if I wanted to. Everything has been flipped, cleaned, sealed and every inch poisoned. I thought sure, we spend a ton of time together but what if after 5 days straight he starts to hate me or me hate him. What if he's secretly a freak? What if he sees that I'm secretly a freak? (Meanwhile we had already discussed that we like each other because we are both freak-like in our own respectful manner.) The moment that I told him the two week trial story and he looked at me, squeezed my hand twice and said something along the lines of "well, we'll see."

It's been 15 days and I'm still at his place. My makeup is in the cabinet. Some of my dresses hang in the closet. I've purchased extra ice cube trays and set measuring cups in the kitchen. I pretend his snoring doesn't bother me because it actually doesn't. He hands me my mouth guard before I fall asleep so that I don't wake up with headaches from biting down impossibly hard in my sleep. I wake up to my alarm just like I used to, I brush my teeth and blow dry my hair. Sometimes we walk to the subway together and sometimes one of us has to leave before the other. Once he went to the grocery store for me so that I could make us dinner when I got home. He didn't even realize that it made me so happy, that gesture of picking up the ingredients. Mostly because it has been easy, simple and overwhelmingly enjoyable. He reminds me to drink more water and I remind him to brush his teeth before bed. We always say good night and good morning. The oddest things I've learned in 15 days about this person that I'm sharing a space with. The most wonderful times when he asks me to dance while the water boils before dinner. When he brings me two options of lemonade from the store because he wasn't sure which I'd prefer. (The answer is both.)

I still have my place on the Upper West Side and eventually will move on back. While I hate the fact that a bug forced this upon both of us, I am finding it very assuring that we've past the two week mark by two days and we're both still alive. We've learned a lot, like how much I hate blueberry pancakes and how he used to eat way too much pizza. So while I've been away from the blog, I've been here in his apartment in Brooklyn. I can see the city from the deck but am in no rush to escape back. After all, home is where the heart is.

park it

I've been taking full advantage of living just a block and a half away from Central Park this year. I've spent at least one day nearly every weekend on the Great Lawn catching some rays, reading and people watching. Becoming an expert park-ette, I think the three items above would be ideal to have for the rest of the season and well into fall. The blanket is huge (64" x 80") and very light weight. The bag is beautiful but a bit too pricey for my likes. I tend to destroy anything light colored so I try to spend a bit less knowing that it will be gray by the time I'm done with it. Finally 50+ spf lotion. Ever since my sister got horribly burnt last summer I've been wearing extra sunscreen and making sure I reapply as soon as I'm a tad pink. The only thing that's missing is a cool drink.

steven alan beach blanket + flea bag saddle bag + kiehls uv defense

down by the bay

…and by bay I mean the Hudson. The first time I ever biked in the city was in San Francisco this past March. I always see people zipping around in Manhattan, bicyclists yelling at cabs and pedestrians alike for being in their way. It all seemed way too intense for me. However the San Francisco biking adventure made me a bit more brave and this past weekend I rented a bike from a small shop on the Upper West Side and took to the streets.

Eddie's Bicycles is conveniently located 2 blocks from my apartment. Even more convenient, Riverside Park with its vast bike highway (bike lane) is just 2 avenues over. Since I usually am on foot when I take to the park, biking was a really nice change. The breeze from the water and the ease of coasting along was really relaxing and fun. I've been spinning at the gym lately to give my ankles a rest from beating the pavement so I didn't feel completely inapt to the other bicyclists. I was amazed at how nice the bike lanes were and also how rude and mean the pedestrians acted. I get the yelling now and the ringing of the bike bells! Either way I'll be trying out biking a few more times to see if a bike is something I'd like to invest in. It would be a nice change to running or walking. Also the lure of a basket full of groceries for a picnic is a daydream worth living.

hot number

 The summer here is hot. Without much of a winter I am expecting this summer to top all the others. Due to a lack of air conditioning, a lack of clothing seems to follow. In search for the most comfortable / girliest / sexiest summer sleeping attire I've landed on a few options above. Hoping some of these can double as accessories too for a hot summer night. Starting top row, left to right: VPL, VPL, MADEWELL. Bottom row, left to right: VPL, VPL, MADEWELL.

anonymous design

When I was younger and still living with my parents I always thought in situations that didn't please me, "I will remember this for my own kids, I will never do that to them." Even then I knew I was being dramatic and usually I was able to see the point they were trying to make. Now that I'm at the old age of 25 I'm thinking about that situation in a different light. I'm talking about a situation that I bet 99% of designers face. The "when I'm an art director/creative director I will never do that to my designers/team" situation.

Have you ever had one of your bosses/managers/directors do something or say something that either made you want to fall to the floor in tears in frustration or hurl a desk across the room in anger? It's not criticism I'm talking about. I'm talking about owning your work and getting credit where credit is due. Let me set the scene for you.

It's understood that when you work for a brand that you will not be able to sign your work like a painter or sculptor would. You acknowledge that you work for Company X and that Company X will (hopefully) get praised for the project you slaved and obsessed over. Your name will not appear at the end of the commercial, at the bottom poster, on the lower right hand corner of the box. But throughout the company and to those in the industry, you will shine. How naive for a young designer like myself to think. I never realized how hurtful taking credit for the work of others could be until I had been in both situations.

As I stood in front of my concepts and designs this week in front of first my art director, then my senior director, then my marketing director and still more directors and presidents to follow I realized something. Those "fall to the floor in tears" situations swing both ways. Both when someone takes complete credit for the designs you've created and when someone 2, 3 or 4 levels above you looks you straight in the eye and says, "Wow. Wonderful. These are great." They pull others over, they talk about you in other meetings, they are happy that you are there to be a part of their team. Learning from now both situations I am putting this in the back of my head for when I reach my own design dream job as an art director one day.

Give credit to where credit is do. Celebrate those who did the work. Acknowledge their work. You have no idea how beat down you can get when the opposite happens.

I left work and cried. Out of relief. Out of complete happiness. The moment where my art director pointed to me when her boss asked who had worked on the concept. You have no idea how grateful I was for that moment. Those moments make me want to push forward even harder, to really shine even brighter next time. You could have hated it all but the fact that you said it was my work went above and beyond. Thank you.

bergdorf blondes

Prior to my internship in the city, I had very limited knowledge and expectations. Sophomore year of college while on spring break in Miami, I hurriedly picked up "Bergdorf Blondes" before rushing onto my plane. Looking back I realize that this is how I came to imagined NYC. Full of socialites, luxe shopping, extravagant parties and extra perfect and glamorous women, this was the city I was determined to find myself in.

Now that I'm here I can't help but laugh. More than 5 times a day I gag because of the smell of garbage or a homeless person. Heels over 4" aren't realistic to trot around in and my feet look like they've been put through the lawn mower at the end of each week. The average size of engagement rings here are more than 80% larger than the rest of the world. And finally, you can be sitting next to a billionaire on the subway and not know it because it seems the richer you are here, the less you get to give a shit about how you look.

Nonetheless, I love it. I preach about Central Park and love that I can grab a cab at any hour to deliver me right where I need to be. For the third time I've decided to again read "Bergdorf Blondes." I love falling in love all over again with the magic of the city, even if some of it is a bit far fetched for a working girl like myself.

survivor island

Whenever word reaches me that someone is leaving the city the response is always the same. My eyes squint, my forehead wrinkles and my expression is pure confusion. Why? Maybe it's that I'm so wrapped up in the magic of New York City that I can't imagine why one would leave. Then planning begins and everyone rushes around for dinner and drinks with that person because leaving the city is like leaving the planet. Hurry! We have to have dinner, I probably won't ever see or hear from you again! I forget that emails and phone calls exist and that once you leave the city, you are always able to move back or at the least, visit.

Leaving the city means leaving conveniences behind. Being able to be chauffeured around in a cab, order in food, laundry and alcohol and mostly have anything you need at a drop of a hat and a messenger fee. New Yorkers live in excess. We work too much, drink too much, don't sleep enough, are obsessed with being at the latest and greatest restaurants and clubs, run marathons because it's trendy and act uninterested at celebrity sightings because, "Who are they anyway, they probably live in L.A. full-time." All of this makes me wonder why exactly I stay. I was born and raised in the country with a go-getter and do-for-yourself attitude. This may be the exact reason I've survived so long though. Being able to live amongst these high-strung, high-energy and sometimes just high New Yorkers all while staying level-headed might stem from my low-key upbringing. All I know for now is that if you are leaving please let me know so I can run around planning drinks and dinners with you because you're leaving my little safe island and going into the big, scary world.

This post is dedicated to Jes. She came and conquered and is now off to rule the rest of the world, best wishes and hope to see you soon. xx

the big picture

You can always rely on three things when it comes to relationships; there will always be a Big, there will always be an Aidan, and you will always be caught in between the two. This reason alone allowed Sex and the City to live on for six seasons and two movies. Everyone can relate to the feeling of Carrie when she teeters on the edge between the two men. You feel bad for Aidan because he's the nice guy who just wants her all to himself. However, it's his own insecurities that leak poision into their relationship. And you hate Big for dragging Carrie through the mud but you always applaud the scenes where they work it out and something as stupid as red balloons on her birthday make you weep. Dating in Manhattan, much like the show, is a circus. Full of classic bad boys, established men from 'far, far away' places like Connecticut and those random cute guys who look normal and interested until their girlfriends return from the powder room. So what happens when you are caught between your own Aidan and Big? Do you sit comfortably with Aidan in hopes for smooth sailing and the simple life? Or do you risk it all, put it all on the table for a chance with Big who could up and leave you ruined at the end? Everyone knows that in the end Carrie and Big work it out but 'you can't believe everything you see on tv' so what's a twenty-something girl to do but carry on and hope for the best.

cuba in february

It seems to be a bit of a trend here for my weekends to end up at specialized, themed restaurants and bars. This past Saturday was spent tucked away in the lower east side of Manhattan at the rum social club, Cienfuegos. I was turned on to the spot by my roommate's boyfriend, Tom. So we climbed into a cab and off we went. Greeted by a life-size Virgin Mary bronze fountain, stadium wall seats and swanky bartenders, I felt like I was transported to Cuba in the mid summer. After a quick "Brooklynite" at the bar, a smooth mix of honey, rum and lime, we went upstairs to our table to enjoy a Isla Punch bowl and Cuban hors d'oeuvres. Not only were the drinks and food absolutely wonderful, the decor of the place was out of a dream. From the owners of Death & Co and Mayahuel, this place is another hit. Like Pravda, the door is strict so arrive early (no reservations taken) and know that this place is worth the wait. I can't wait to go back!

this is the life

One always cuts into another, sometimes they blend and sometimes they are like water and oil. I've met some of my very best friends through design. I can say that about 85% of my friends are indeed, designers themselves. It's an odd bond over late nights, creative director swap stories, design nightmares and (hopeful) successes. But when does it because too mixed? When do you but your foot down and say, enough. Sleep for 17 hours straight, fill up on food (because heaven knows you don't get a lunch break) and finally see your friends/boyfriend/girlfriend/lover because you've been pulling 15 hour days and you haven't seen the light of day in 3 weeks straight. Is that part of this creative lifestyle? Did I ask for this when I applied to graphic design in college? Does one happy client equal relief from seven who have the "only child syndrome"? Is this why designers burn out at a mere 35 years old? All of these questions swim around in my head this morning as I get in at 6AM only to work another 15 hour day without the hope of relief, food, sleep or a social life for the next three days straight. But at least I'll have a rocking portfolio, right?….

newbies

I just can't get enough of this photo. New friends are just so much fun. :)

a new york minute

While waiting for friends, I stopped to have a glass of wine and enjoy a New York moment at Todd English's Ça Va. Sitting in the lounge in a floor length black dress and heels that set me up to 5'9'' (comically because I'm only 5'4''), I was able to have one of those wonderful wow moments where everything seemed to line up perfectly and I actually felt like I finally fit in this crazy city. A perfect way to start a wonderful evening and weekend.