The last time I was up this early I was pulling on exercise clothes to go to an early morning dance class. Sadly, there is no music or dancing at The Job. Intravenous CNN does not count as entertainment.
The dress fitting last night went well. My dress fits, save for some loose sleeves and a long hem. Jen loved all the pearls I picked up. Afterwards I lost 3% of my New York City street cred by having dinner at a Pizzaria Uno.
After a looong wait at the Fairfield train station with a crazy man laughing at jokes only he could hear, I headed back to NYC. The Metro North train is a fascinating animal. During the work week it can be extremely quiet...no talking allowed. In the mornings it's men and women in suits with their newspapers of choice. In the evenings the same people zone out and fall asleep, usually with beers and cocktails in their laps. If you want to be loud or play cards you go to the bar car. It's an unspoken system, yet it works and dates back to the days when my dad used to ping pong back and forth between Connecticut and New York City. Yesterday I even got dirty looks from tired passengers when I called Jen on my cell as we were leaving the East Norwalk station.
At 10:30 PM last night, when my train finally pulled into Stamford before going express to Grand Central, these three drunk Brits got on. There were two guys and a girl. Sometimes I call the Metro-North the Vomit Comet because of all the post-party detritus you can see on it. The 1:30 AM train out of Grand Central is particurally good for watching drunk men in suits pass out on seats with their monthly passes hanging out of their pockets.
Anyway, the three Brits clearly had a good time that night because they were all laughing and carrying on. Good for them. Even better was when one of the guys got on his cellphone and said to his room mate, "I really need you to be home in about an hour. I seem to have misplaced my keys and I don't want to have to sleep on the door step again." I think the key word in that statement was again.
Then I realized that the most drunk out of the three was the blonde girl, who everyone in the car quickly learned was named Emily because one of the guys kept saying, "Emily, you're going to need to stop shouting." Emily, indignant that anyone would try to muzzle her said over and over, "Ahn--Drew, why cahn't I tawlk? I'm on the traaaaaain..."
I really wanted to tell Miss Emily that she couldn't talk because it was almost 11:00 PM on "school night" and as happy as I was to see that she was enjoying her youth in the Big City, I was in no way in the mood to listen to a drunk, high-pitched, cockney accent without the buffer of a few pints in my system.
I focused my attention on the book I was reading, Benjamin Kunkel's Indecision. After a few pages I realized it had become eerily quiet across the aisle where my new British friends were sitting. I looked over and laughed out loud...all three were passed out cold. So much for wanting to tawk.
So that is that.
My plans for the week-end are spotty at best. Perhaps a party, perhaps some dance class and defintely some laundry. A few days ago I was all psyched and ready to channel my inner housewife and do a few loads. Then I realized I was out of detergent and it was too late to go the bodega to get more. So I left that pile of clothes in the front hall and continued reading fashion magazines.
Sunday my mom and I are going to see the Russian exhibit at the Guggenheim. She called me up last night and said that we absolutely must go, especially now that Vladimir Putin has gone. I guess if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for us. She also claims that I must go with her, so she can explain all the Russian art. Because we all know there's no way I could possibly understand the plight of the Russian people without her.
Nazdrovia.
