I’m a bona fide New Yorker now. Those who know me have witnessed a notable change in my personality since I moved here in August. For instance, I no longer have an inner monologue. Pretty much every thought that goes through my head comes out of my mouth, whether good or bad. Charming phrases like, “You’re an idiot,” or “Georgia sucks,” or “Leggings will never be pants.” First of all, I don’t even really think UGA sucks that much and people can wear leggings if they want even though they really do suck. I Gator chomp SEC foes at inappropriate times, like Bible study. I’m alarmingly assertive. I yell at cab drivers and pretty much anyone that gets in my way. I’m more sarcastic than ever, and not just a little surly. I’m just a few bad habits away from becoming Jeannine Garafalo.
All that said, Saturday night after a fun dinner of shrimp empanadas at Dos Caminos, Jamie, Lauren, Erin, Mai-Lise and I attended a shindig at a swanky Murray Hill apartment inhabited by some investment bankers from UGA and elsewhere. For some reason, “investment bankers” are supposed to be the “it” guys in NYC. However, I’m here to say… I was unimpressed. Aside from our group, who were outfitted dressed in SEC party uniform of jeans and sweaters, the other partygoers were uber-trendy in an “I’m trying hard to be trendy” sort of way. There were about 20 knit jumper/leggings/headband-clad girls for every one guy. And get this. A coat rack fell on me. At first I thought it was a fat man falling, but no it was just 300 lbs. of winter coats and a giant metal pole with hooks. Ouch. The one redeeming part of the fiesta was the fabulous apartment! A five bedroom, open floor plan with huge windows and a bidet…yes, a bidet. It was the biggest place I’ve seen in NYC for only $7,500 a month. What a steal.
So, we left the party, hugged it out and Erin and I jumped in a cab. We weren’t at all tired so we decided to hit up a couple of our neighborhood establishments in an attempt to salvage the evening. After randomly taking pictures of each other with our phones, making up lyrics about our time in NYC and singing along with the jukebox, we wound up watching music videos from the 80s at a place not too far from home. We made friends with the cool bartenders and settled in to have BFF time for the rest of the night. But then some sketchy dudes showed up and BFF time was shot to Hades. These three guys defined the term “sketchball.” They looked like the men from the sex offender Web site, and lucky us, they wanted to chat us up. The bartenders we had befriended were keeping an eye on the sitch, and kept asking if we were ok. It was sweet!
The weird guys proceeded to tell us that they are photographers for high fashion catalogues and bikini calendars. They repeatedly said, “We’re going to make you girls models!” And we oooohed and aaaaahed. Clearly they thought we were born yesterday. So, we played along. It was hysterical. The look on Erin's face when I randomly began speaking in a Russian accent was priceless. Borat's cultural influence knows no bounds. I was just “fascinated” with the “photographers.” Erin and I put in Academy Award-worthy performances as Maria and Jeneeefer. I shared that my parents had emigrated from Russia and I grew up in Miami… I think I meant to be from Cuba and have a Spanish accent, but it came out Russian, so I had to make it work.
I’m so sure fashion photographers troll bars in Hell’s Kitchen for 5’3” swimsuit models. Seriously, dudes. Do I have BIG GIANT FOOL stamped on my forehead? I think not. The “photographers” weren’t even charming or even remotely capable of pulling off their little charade. But I was a darn good Russian. So we made plans to meet up with them Sunday night at the Rainbow Room to discuss our test shoots.
Guess where I was Sunday night? CHURCH. Obviously.
Disclaimer: At no time were we in any danger. Our bartender even walked us halfway home to make sure the sketchy guys weren’t waiting around for us anywhere. So no, I mean absolutely NO, freaked out messages about safety, ok?
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