here and there

April 13th, 2005

I’m here!

First, I wanted to say thanks for all the kind emails. I’m fine, really. My life has just been a bit topsy-turvy. Blame it on things like, spring fever or the fact that my job is a bit frantic lately. I’ve been tagging along to photo shoots, baby sitting photographers (who do not need babysitting) and doing super important things like, choosing flower arrangements for coffee tables. Oh yeah, baby. That’s why they pay me the big bucks. My schedule has simply been off. When I do sit down to blog, everything I write is tangent-filled and garbled. And contrary to the way things usually work ‘round these here parts, it’s not actually representative of my current state of mind. I’m doing alright.

But last night, I realized what a long time it had been when I got an instant message from Ben. It was one line and then he disappeared.

Your turn.

My turn, indeed. So, in light of the fact that I haven’t much time, I’ll give you a quick run-down of one of this weekend’s adventures:

On Friday night, decked out in grubby jeans, sneakers, my favorite weekend sweatshirt, I was all set to go Urban Exploring. Michael Malice (one of the degenerate minds behind OHINY) had called earlier in the week to invite me along on an adventure to the old insane asylum on Roosevelt Island. I was pretty psyched up to get dirty (and maybe even arrested) in pursuit of fun in the city.

Then Malice put his spin on the evening.

A little after 9pm, my buzzer rang. And when I got down to my gate, there he was — all dressed up.

“Those are not getting-muddy shoes, Malice.”
“I know. We’re going out. Go upstairs and get changed.”
“You’re such a prick.”

Because he’d like nothing more than to throw my perfectly ordered world into chaos, Malice did what no boy should ever do. He fucked with my outfit. I had to start over. Jeans, heels, black wrap sweater. Fine. Dressed for going out. And then, because he’s clearly not aware that I could kick him in the eye for such an offense, Malice did the unthinkable. He told me to put on make-up.

The kid has nerve.

An hour or so later, as I was squirming my way under a chain link fence (oh yes, we still went exploring at the old asylum, only I got to do it in three-inch heels), I prayed to the baby jesus for the grace not to tear my favorite jeans, and for the strength not to kill Malice if I did.

A point of satisfaction came, when near the end of the night at some LES club, it was discovered that pants were indeed torn on the adventure. And they weren’t mine.

(Insert evil laugh here)

It’s nice to know that Karma has an instant gratification program. Teach you to fuck with a girl’s outfit. Because, really there’s only so much topsy-turvy one girl can take.

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