We put the "fun" in dysfunctional

As it turns out, a “fun family reunion” is not an oxymoron, even if you are all crammed into the Courtyard Marriot in Beckley, West Virginia. (Never heard of it? Not surprised. ) Here, a few requirements to keep things running smoothly:

• A good response to “How’s the job search going?”. Mine consisted of “Well, my parents had to pay for this plane ticket to get me here soo…” The conversation ended rather quickly after that.

• Scattegories. Makes the hours between meals fly by! (Though I don’t need Google to tell me “wooie wooie” disease doesn’t exist. Nice try.)

• Tequila. One aunt brought hers in an earth friendly stainless steel thermos, but a water bottle shoved in your tote bag works just as well.

• A handy sweater. As in “good thing I have this handy sweater!” when your grandparents insist you are freezing cold. Which they will. Every. single. time. they reach over to sweetly pat your hand.

• An outing to Jimmie’s Place. One of about four bars in Beckley, it has no windows and a bartender with teased bangs named Charla (pronounced CH-arla. She’s named after her dad, Charlie. Go figure.) The price of seven people drinking Bud Light for three hours? $25.00. Wonderful West Virginia, indeed!

• Teaching seven year olds the Art of the Prank Phone Call. (Even if their prank calls merely involved them shouting “hola amigos!” before dramatically hanging up. Apparently this was intended to “confuse” the caller. I have a feeling they were already pretty confused.)

• A DUI checkpoint, just to keep things exciting. We didn’t get stopped, but only because the po-po were breaking it down. At 11pm. Luckily the driver had been nursing one Corona over a three hour period, but it got everyone’s heart rate up a little.

Note to self: while peach cobbler is delicious, eating half the pan is a bad idea and may induce vomiting. Also, thinking you can keep up with your fratty nineteen year old cousin while drinking Jack and Cokes may result in you getting a little toasted and calling him a “d-bag”. Sorry Reilly.

I Heart You, NY (well, most of the time)

I just spent the smartest $125 of my life on a window air conditioning unit.

Open summer windows allow some to lull themselves to sleep to the buzz of cicadas, the sound of ocean waves breaking on sand, or the next-door neighbor’s yapping dog.

Instead, as I peel off my sweaty restaurant uniform (whoever mandated black pants in July is a sadist) after a ten hour workday and bus ride home, the sweet sound of vomiting drifts towards my ears. By “sweet”, I mean it sounds like this girl drank about a gallon of Smirnoff Ice and is now suffering from the drunken, splattering sort of retching. Hitting-the-concrete-and-bouncing-back-up-kind-of-retching. i.e.: Disgusting.

Something our broker failed to mention while we signed our lease: my window’s direct proximity over the garbage disposal area would result in many a jolted wake up on garbage day, as well as a smattering of projectile vomit. Oversight, indeed.

Despite the nausea, I have to admit this is also what I love about New York. Only here would I pay $1,000 in rent to hear vomiting out of my window and have a view of a toilet graveyard from my back patio. The biggest difference between the Big Apple and Anywhere, USA is that we’re all in this together. There is no privacy or personal space. On the bus ride to work I am usually sandwiched between a homeless man who apparently bathes in his own urine and woman toting a Birkin who probably bathes in Evian. We cannot retreat to our suburban cocoons of cars, malls, or privacy fences .

So I’m sleeping more soundly these days thanks to the soft hum of my window unit. But some mornings I can still hear the clink of bottles as the recyclables go out. And like a good New Yorker, I just roll over and fall right back asleep.

Sweet Summertime

Summer is definitely different in the Big Apple. Here, a few of my seasonal requirements:

1. LifeSavers Wint-O-Green mints. Don't ask, but I basically freebase them.

2. Road trips. To anywhere, really. As long as we're on the open road and I'm not behind the wheel.

3. The smell of Coppertone. This one is a given, but luckily New Yorkers slather in on by the truckload, being so pasty white as they are. It's practically floating in the air.

4. Sailboats. Preferably Sunfish with bunches of giggling campers in them.

5. Swimming pools. In lieu of anything closely resembling one in this concrete jungle I call home, I've settled for the rooftop deck at my gym. Close, but no cigar. What are you supposed to do when you get all sweaty? Marinate?

6. The hum of a lawn mower. Now I settle for muffled sirens.

7. Icy-cold A/C as I'm huddled inside watching mindless television. Real Housewives marathon, anyone?

8. Lake Wylie, SC.

9. Iced coffee. (Is a gallon a day too much? Thought so.)

10. Outdoor/daytime drinking. It's a lot easier to justify that Blockhead's margarita marathon because it is just such a beautiful day outside! I am simply enjoying the weather.

It's funny how a move to New York will make you appreciate the simple things. What are YOUR summer checklists?

May I Take Your (Fendi) Bag?

Being the wily temp-tress that I am, I was beyond excited to land a three-day gig at Fendi. Fendi, as in gold and glamour and interlocking capitals F’s that scream “cold hard cash!” I knew I would do such a great job answering phones or whatnot that they would practically beg me to accept a full-time job with them while throwing Spy bags my direction.

Turns out, my assignment was the Fendi sample sale.

Not to be discouraged, I reminded myself that, besides “free”, “sale” IS my favorite word in the English language. The hour before the event started, I eagerly awaited my job placement while the employees got to set aside a few items (a “few” being bags and bags of fur coats and strange, shearling purses). Since I still can’t afford a $4,900 bag, even when it is 75% off, I spent a lot of time picking up items, pretending to examine them carefully, and putting them back down. The entire Fendi line seems a little like J. Lo’s wet dream. Racks and racks of wildly colored fur coats, cut out leather jackets, and sunglasses with more bling than Lil Wayne’s grill were common offenders.

Finally, it was time for job assignments. Where was mine?

Coat check. Naturally.

I spent the next four and a half hours lifting various Birkins, Balenciagas, and Prada onto racks until my arms were literally shaking. Dear Women of America: when planning on coming to a sample sale, please leave your bowling balls and bricks at home. I can’t imagine what could have possibly weighed more, unless it was a body bag in which said body had ingested various bowling balls. Sometimes it took one of the interns and me both just to get a bag from one rack to another. Get a rolling suitcase! It could practically see the wallets of the nation’s chiropractors thickening.

The silver lining is that by tomorrow I expect my arms to look like Michelle Obama’s after all that lifting. And they gave us free pizza. Very un-Fendi, very Ensley, very delicious.

Cats and a muumuu: One step closer

This video aside, what's a self-proclaimed "cool" New York girl to do on a Saturday night?

Why, read her book and go to bed, of course!

In all fairness, I DID work in hell (I mean, the restaurant) until midnight, but for some reason finding out the ending of "Shopaholic and Baby" won over going out and having a life. (Spoiler alert: she has a baby. Huge shock.)

While most fabulous 20-somethings are waking up this morning, hungover and trying to figure out how to get rid of the stranger they woke up next to...I cleaned. ( I may have also been watching Gilmore Girls at the same time. It's terminal). By "cleaned" I mean I scrubbed the hell out of my apartment. You may need sunglasses to handle how sparkling our stainless steel appliances and granite countertops are, THAT is how clean this apartment is. There may have been a Swiffer-mopping incident as well.

Needless to say, the "plan" is not going well. The only thing worse could be a Home Shopping Network Addiction! (Stay tuned.)

Spare some change sir?

I woke up the other day (ok, today) and decided from this point on I was going to be a "cool" New Yorker.

The exact meaning of that? TBD.

For starters, it COULD mean turning off the HGTV and actually taking advantage of the city I'm living in. Unfortunately, "taking advantage" usually also means "coughing up cash." Also, after spending $1,000/month for my apartment, I kind of feel as though I should be hanging out in it. Why don't we just add some cats and a muumuu while we're at it?

Step one in cool, New York, plan: seeing an indie movie. (Star Trek doesn't count.) First on my list, the biopic "Valentino: The Last Emperor" about his final couture show and his 50 year plus relationship with his lover and business partner. Ca-ching! It's chic, couture, luxurious, and therefore I must be all of those things! I am the viewer for whom this movie was intended! A close, personal friendship with Valentino himself can only follow, right?

Wrong. Once again-wrong, wrong wrong. I arrive breathless to the theater at 12:15 (start time: 12:10) after a bus and subway transfer to get there. (I mean, Town Car. Which dropped me off around the corner. Which is why you didn't see it.) Tickets are $11, and I have a $10 in my wallet (so maybe I had more before I went to Tasti-D-Lite last night-get over it). No prob! Charge it!

One teensy problem: the sign in the window that says: NO CREDIT CARDS. I beg the ticket teller. Do you give a student discount? What about a "future close-personal friendship with Valentino himself" discount? Surprisingly, no to both. After digging in my wallet and coming up with seventy cents, bringing me to a total of $10.70, I gave up and walked towards the subway.

So I'm back to the HGTV. I'm not cool or chic or lounging in couture. From here on out, however, I will be a bit more sympathetic to the guys begging for change on my corner.

I Be's a Graduate!

After five great years of undergrad, a few secrets I wish I'd known about college graduation:

1. Actual ceremony: pretty boring.

2. Caps and gowns=universally unflattering (reference above photo for proof).

3. What you are wearing underneath said gown really isn't a big deal and therefore,

4. not worth getting in a fight with your mom over. (Oops.)

5. Despite it being your own, you know, college graduation, you will still be banished to the kid's table at dinner afterwards.

6. While it IS totally appropriate to ask the fellow graduate next to you to get off his Blackberry (in the front row, no less), abstaining from use of the f-bomb might have been a bit more polite. But seriously, get off your f**king Blackberry.

On the bright side, the margaritas were flowing and I got a Target trip out of the whole thing (Target is the one thing missing in the life of a Manhattanite), which to me equals Best Weekend Ever. And don't even get me started on the Tiffany's I got from Mom and Pops....

...come to think of it, I could have graduation every weekend! See you in another five years...

Go Gators!