I Accidentally Went on a Couples Trip With my Brother

This week, my parents are celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary. Because my little brother and I are both currently "between opportunities" (read: neither of us have jobs and have a total of zero real commitments to speak of) we have had the unique pleasure of being included in (read: dragged along on) their week-long romantic getaway around Northern California. 

The first three days of the trip were spent in San Francisco, and were actually quite enjoyable. We did all of the touristy things the city had to offer (Alcatraz! Cable Cars! Sea Lions!) and drank a ton of Margaritas. 

Richard and Cousin Itt, Alcatraz, 2015.

On day four, after a six hour wait for a rental car that was big enough to fit all of our luggage, we headed up to the Napa Valley for two days of wine tasting. 

We got to the Los Carneros Inn, and the minute we were inside the gates it was clear that it was the most romantic place I had ever been. Partly because there were two weddings taking place, partly because they put a glass of wine in my hand when I arrived and it somehow never emptied for 76 hours straight. 

The whole place was breathtaking. There was  a gorgeous pool, private cottages and a 360-Degree view of the vineyards. Within the first three minutes, I had already decided that it was where I was going to get married to the next guy who responded to me on Hinge (looking at you, Brian G.).

Upon checking in, we were informed that the resort had no double beds and no cots, because, why would they? Their target demographic is 100% couples. Not, apparently, families of four with two adult children. Richard would be sleeping in an armchair.

Our room was filled with every amenity you would ever want on your honeymoon: an indoor/outdoor shower with six shower heads, a private fenced in garden and hot tub, countless brochures for the best place to go to get a couples massage/mud bath, and a bottle of champagne welcoming "Mr and Mrs Weiner" to the Los Carneros Inn.

.... Thanks!

Cheers from Mr and Mrs Weiner

For the next four days, Richard and I went to wine tastings, candlelit dinners and even horseback riding on the beach 

surrounded by couples. The worst was when people assumed we were newly engaged or married as almost everyone we met was, and I had to tell them "nope! I'm super single and here with my brother!" (and he would then feel the need to tell them " yeah and I have a girlfriend"– WE GET IT.)  

I liked his horse better because it matched my outfit.

 So, if you are looking for a destination for your next romantic getaway, I would highly suggest Napa Valley. And if you're single, just go with your brother! (JK DON'T) 

Quite clearly related. Love you Rich!

My Love Life, According to a Four Year Old

The other day, while swimming in the pool (read: torturing each other with water guns) with my 4-and-a-half-year-old nephew, Max, he started to inquire about my love life: 

It's all fun and games until he asks about my marital status.

"Auntie, why don't you have a husband?" 

"Because I'm too young for a husband," I told him. 

"That's not true. I'm 4 and I have two girlfriends. You don't even have one boyfriend, right?"

.... Nope. 

He then told me he was going to help me find a husband.

Apparently, according to him, I am plenty old enough to "find a nice man at temple and get married," (his words, not mine) and I need to get movin'. I've made it through the last 24 years without an overbearing Jewish Mother or Grandmother pushing this agenda on me, but apparently, my pre-school aged nephew has other plans for my future. 

This, from a guy who sleeps with a night-light thinks fart jokes are the funniest thing on the planet. 

It must be said that Max will not be giving me up easily to whatever nice Jewish man he finds for me at next Friday's Shabbat services. He's been my Valentine for the last 4 years (pre-school girlfriends come and go, #Aunties are forever) and has made me promise that he gets to be the one to step on the glass at my wedding. He also calls me, often, to tell me how beautiful and amazing I am, (which is more than I can say for any of the boyfriends I've ever had) and moved in with me for five whole days during my most recent trip to California (which is the biggest commitment I've made to a boy... ever).  

So, to my potential suitors: be ready to seek approval from a very opinionated little boy. Non-Jews need not apply. 

Things I Used to Do When I Was an Intern

Last Friday night, I was walking home through the East Village and was absolutely floored by the swarm of wasted, obnoxious people roaming 2nd Avenue. The lines at BBar and Phebes snaked around the block, and I saw a sweaty kid in a pastel button down throwing up in a trash can outside of the Papaya King on St. Marks.

Ahhhh, Intern season. 

In college, I interned in the city for two summers in a row, and absolutely loved it. After living here for real for two years, though, I'm horribly embarrassed to admit to some of the stuff I thought was cool.

And boy, did I think I was cool.

During my first summer in New York, right after my Sophomore year at Georgetown, I lived in Herald Square in a triple room, right above the Forever 21 and smack in the middle of tourist central. Sure, my fourth floor window looked directly into someone else's apartment and one morning I woke up to find someone had peed in the hallway right outside our door, but the 2am Shwarma guy parked out front and I were on first name basis and the subway was super convenient (because I was basically living in Penn Station) so I thought the place was great.

I liked it there so much (I honestly didn't know enough to know better) that the next summer, when my guy friends were doing their post-junior-year finance internships, I convinced them all to live there with me.

... Sorry Guys. 

For two summers in the row, living in The Herald Towers, I had a strict weekly routine– including weekends, because I had no idea that all of the actual cool people leave the city during the weekend in the Summer. It mirrored that of nearly everyone I knew (read: East Coast college kids trying to get jobs at banks, magazines and law firms) and on any given night I would run into acquaintences from high school, college, and of course, Summer camp. As far as I was concerned, I was living the Manhattan dream.

 It was as follows: 

Tuesday Night- 13th Step

I actually went back here recently (and, for reasons still unknown, somehow got kicked out) and to this day have no idea why we ever thought this bar was cool. It does, however, have amazing fried Oreos.

Wednesday Night- Dollar Beers at Turtle Bay

This place was the best for flirting with disheveled looking boys in suits. In true NYC Summer Intern fashion, this is actually where I rang in my 21st birthday. A special shoutout to the members of the NYFD who were there to buy me my "first" shots. The bartender, who had been serving me for two years, was understandably confused. 

Thursday Night- Brother Jimmy's for PBR's and Pickleback shots

For some people, Thursday night at Bro J's meant waiting in line for over an hour, but because I was self proclaimed "coolest girl in Manhattan," I got to know the bouncers early on and after Week 2 was given special permission to cut the line. Never in my life have I felt like more of a rockstar than being ushered into Bro J's in Murray Hill on a Thursday night, underage, nonetheless. Cue the well-deserved "LOSER" cough.

Friday Night- Phebes and BBar

These bars, on the "off season", are actually still fun. But during the summer, they are intern heaven. In 2011 and 2012, there was no surer place to find the Harvard lacrosse players I had crushes on. Over the course of two years, I lost four cell phones and three credit cards at these locations. 

Saturday Night- CLUB NIGHT!

Looking back, there is nothing more embarrassing than the thought of going to a club, as an intern, with a promoter. "Meet me @Tenjune @10pm. Jenny McCarthy hosting!" would be the weekly text I would get from a guy named "Panama Ron." And boy, did I JUMP on that band wagon week after week. That is, until I got dumped by one of said Harvard lacrosse players in the middle of the Lavo dance floor. #classy

Honorable Mentions- Saloon and McFaddens

These places were always, for some reason or another, giving away open bars. Every weekend, somebody knew somebody who knew somebody who had won one and we could drink until midnight for $40. What a steal!

Miss Herald Towers 2011 and 2012 (that credit card didn't survive the night)

How I still got a job out of those internships operating exclusively on hangovers I will never know, and I can't quite decide if I want to go back and high-five intern-season  me, or bitch slap her. 

Just Call me Reggie Rocket

One of the things I promised myself I would do this Summer, in addition to keeping this blog and dying my hair blonde, is get my ass in shape.

With the exception of a bi-weekly manicure, the two hours of writing I force myself to do every day and an occasional first date, a workout class is pretty much the only scheduled activity I have to fill my days during unemployment.

So, with the help of ClassPass, I try to keep things interesting.

Last Saturday, when I was viciously hungover and trying to survive the depths of birthday week, I figured the most I could handle was a 1pm "Beginner's" class at a place called Surfset. The class was touted as "getting away from the traditional static workout and challenges your body in new ways with fun, extreme surf-inspired interval workouts that mimic the movements of surfing without water! "

Do I look like Kate Bosworth in Blue Crush?

How hard could it be? It looked like all I would have to do was stand on a surfboard (on dry land, nonetheless) and rock back and forth for 45 minutes. Mayyybe there would be a plank or two thrown in there every once in a while to make us feel like we were actually doing something, but there was no way it was going to be a legitimate workout. 

Yeah. No. Not the case. I found out pretty quickly that these people take their surfing seriously. 

"Cowabunga guys! My name's Andy!" called a California-cute guy in board shorts as the noon class shuffled out of the studio and all of us lazy 1PMers wandered in,"Who's ready to ride some waves?!" 

Already, this was more than I could handle. Katy Perry's "California Girls" was blasting through a set of iPhone speakers, and there was an ambience video of rolling waves behind "Andy" that was making me horribly, horribly nauseous. 

The first issue arose with me trying to mount my board. He was having us do some complicated "Pop Up" situation (which realistically probably wasn't all that complicated), and I simply could not do it. My limbs flailed and I knocked my water bottle clear across the room, and made direct arm-to-face contact with both of the people next to me.

That was just the first 5 minutes- it got worse from there.

My balance is terrible to begin with. My balance on a Saturday morning, after being out until 4am drinking tequila shots and eating pizza, was one of the most embarrassing things I had ever seen. I fell off the board upwards of 6 times (Ok. I counted. It was 8 times in 45 minutes) and could not stop giggling.

The guy next to me, who was sweating so profusely that every time he moved he flung a little bit of it into my face, did not find my situation funny in the least. The dirty looks he gave me only made me laugh harder and fall off again. 

"Andy," on the other hand, just kept calling attention to what "GREAT ENERGY!" I had, which meant everyone was constantly looking at me while I tried to pick myself up off the floor and get back onto the board. 

I couldn't handle it, and the giggling and falling only got worse.

Thankfully, I got through class without any traumatic injuries to myself or to anyone else (with the exception of my dignity). Just when I thought I was in the clear, "Andy" announced to everyone that it was my birthday (it wasn't.) and they all started (reluctantly) clapping. Except, of course, for the sweaty guy next to me. 

How I'm Going to Make my Millions

My Bat Mitzvah was the best day of my life. It was Moulin Rouge themed, and I made my grand entrance by coming down in a swing singing "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" just like Nicole Kidman did in the beginning of the movie. Also, someone started a rumor that I would be giving out iPods, so everyone came (with the exception of my middle school crush, who was rudely on a family vacation in Hawaii that very same weekend). 

#BatMitzvahBetch

So sparked my most recent million dollar idea– a Bar Mitzvah themed bar in which grown ups, Jewish or not, can re-experience the awesomeness that was the Bar Mitzvah season of their youths.

I call it: "BAR(mitzvah)"

Hear me out: 

The DJ will play exclusively early 2000's pop and hip-hop– think Shaggy's "It Wasn't Me", The Baja Men's "Who Let the Dogs Out (woof woof woof)", and the Lil Wayne song that goes "To the windows! To the walls!"– as well as a few well-timed Boyz 2 Men ballads so couples can get their slow dance on. There will, of course, be hype dancers to get people pumped up, lead the Cha Cha Slide and out glow sticks, temporary tattoos and light-up rings.

Each week, the bar will be decorated to reflect a new theme (Sports! Hollywood!Countries of the World!) and signature cocktails would be mixed with names like the "Joshua-Colada" and the "Zoë-tini"There will be an airbrushed T-shirt guy, a caricature artist and one of those booths where you can make a creepy wax mold of your hand holding a flower.

Attendants will play traditional Bar Mitzvah games including, but not limited to: Snowball, Pepsi/Coke and the limbo. 

The night will end with one lucky patron being lifted in a chair to the traditional HORA! dance, followed by an enthused rendition of Earth Wind and Fire's "Dancing in September"

... Hit me up if you're interested in investing. Seriously. 

I'm 24 Now!

The other day, talking to my sister on the phone, I made a comment about how it was so weird how I was turning 24 because it meant I was finally an adult.

Last picture taken as a 23 year old

"I hate to break it to you," she said "but you've been an adult for like, 6 years."

.... She had a point.

Because I refuse to believe that I am, in fact, a grown up (and have apparently been one for kind of a while), I decided I needed to plan a big, immature, birthday blowout to prove that turning 24 is basically the same as turning 21 for the third time.

My party officially started on Saturday night with dinner at Blue Ribbon Bakery with my family. I had and entire fried chicken and a banana split, which made getting drunk at the bar afterwards shockingly difficult.

I met my friends at the Red Lion, and bopped around the West Village (letting everyone I met buy me birthday tequila shots) until 5am.

The next day, two of my best friends and I laid out in the park and accidentally showed up two hours late for my party. We did, however, look pretty tan.

We had drinks at the Standard, then went to Felix for "Dinner."

When we got there, (at 7pm on a Sunday, mind you) the place was BUMPING with cool European people. Literally I think there were girls from a chandelier and people spray-popping champagne. Shakira was blaring on the speakers and people were dancing on the bar. I was in HEAVEN.

Just when I thought it couldn't get better, Our hot hot waiter came to the table with the BIGGEST bottle of Rosé I have ever seen– it was literally as tall I am and so heavy it took two of us to pour. He also kissed me on the mouth (I say it was a makeout, my friends say it was a "peck"...) when he brought out my birthday cake, which was a big highlight of the day, but I think it was more due to the fact that he was European and that's what they do than the fact that he was into me.

Yes Way, Rosé. 

The night ended with me twirling with a Portugese man, whom I'd convinced it was my 21st birthday (small victory), as he sang Taylor Swift's "Blank Space" to me in Spanish

A big thank you to all of my friends for making 24 a fantastic birthday,  and to the hot waiter for the rosé and all the making out. 

Not Your Standard Bingo

Lucky for me, a Sunday night when you're unemployed is pretty much just an extension of the weekend. So, last week, I set out to find the best Sunday party in New York.

The winner? Bingo at the Standard Hotel.

I know, I know- Bingo is an activity pretty much exclusively reserved for your 90 year old grandmother. But each week, the Standard Grille puts on the wildest, raunchiest game of bingo you can imagine. People dress up in costumes (the theme that week was "Jurassic World") and drink massive bowls of punch until they're pretty much blacked out.

It's magical.

Yes, Please.

If two people call bingo during the same round, they are forced to have a dance off to determine the winner. This happened only once last Sunday night, but was everything I could have asked for. It was a man in a FULL Jurassic Park getup, complete with a blow-up dinosaur, versus a middle aged woman in an outfit that was neither age appropriate nor night-of-the-week appropriate.

The woman went WILD. By the end of the dance-off, she was basically topless, straddling the blow up dinosaur and shaking her boobs into some poor, unsuspecting intern's face.

Unfortunately, she lost the tiebreaker. People also booed her off stage (otherwise known as the booth she was dancing on) which was a little hard to watch. But still, kind of amazing.

Between every round, there is also a game called "Balls Karaoke" in which audience members are selected at random to sing a song, replacing some of the lyrics with the word "Balls." My personal favorite of the evening was a remixed version of the Boyz II Men classic ballad "I'll Give Balls to You."

Once bingo is over, the Grille turns into an all out PARTY. By 2am, my friends and I were grinding with our amazing, flamboyant waiter and twirling around to "Balls Karaoke" with sparklers.

As I was leaving, a cute boy stopped me and we got to chatting. He was, I figured out fairly quickly, completely blacked out. And casually happened to be 19 years old. At some point in the conversation, he admitted that he had gotten so drunk at Sunday Night Bingo to make up for the horrible week he'd had.

"What happened?" I asked.
"My dog got run over" he told me.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that nothing makes me more upset than the thought of sick or dying animals. Growing up with 5 dogs, two of whom died under fairly tragic circumstances, pretty much traumatized me. So already, this conversation was uncomfortable.

"I'm so sorry," I told him "one of my dogs got run over when I was younger and it was terrible."
"Yeah. I am going to hunt the bastard who did it down and kill him," he said. "I haven't eaten or slept for a week because I've been plotting his revenge."

.... What?

For the next 45 minutes, he and I looked through hundreds of pictures of the dog that had been run over while he, I kid you not, played Sarah McLaughlin's "In The Arms of an Angel" on repeat from his iPhone. By the end of it we were both crying and people were starting to stare.

Upon finding me in this weird, weird situation, my friends decided the best way to end the night would be to go up to Le Bain, the club on the roof of The Standard. The guy with the dead dog decided to come along, too. I had somehow failed to notice, though, during our 45 minute cry/bond-fest, that his Hawaiian shirt was COMPLETELY ripped in two. This made getting into the club incredibly difficult, considering that shirtless, crying, blacked out 19-year-olds are not exactly the clientele Le Bain is looking for, even on a Sunday night.

Feeling the defeat he had caused, our new friend decided his best option would be to call it a night and check into a room at the hotel, because getting across town to his dorm sounded "too hard" in his drunken state (must be nice to be a finance intern). We bid him adieu and spent the rest of the night on the rooftop flirting with two obnoxious guys in tuxedos, who also turned out to be under 21.

I would highly, highly recommend Standard Bingo (I tried to go back and have my birthday party there this past weekend, but it was full- probably with interns). Just don't expect it to be the place to find your Summer fling– unless you're into underage, unstable dudes in bad outfits, or middle aged ladies who dress and dance like strippers.

The Weirdest Museum in Manhattan

I won't deny it: being unemployed is awesome. I have absolute freedom to do whatever and go wherever I want, and finally have time to do things like go to the doctor (I've been to the eye doctor 5 times since I quit my job– the receptionist has started hugging me goodbye), get in shape and write a blog.

But on the days when I am in the city and everyone I know is at work, it's admittedly sometimes difficult to find things to do to fill my time. After a Pilates/spin/Yoga class and an hour or two of writing, the rest of my day is open for adventure. The problem is, I'm still learning how to find and enjoy these adventures by myself.

So, after we got back from Europe, I convinced my friend Alix to spend a few days in New York with me to keep me company. I bribed her with promises of amazing NYC Summer-centric activities (Coney Island! The Statue of Liberty! Central Park! Biking on the West Side Highway!) and swore it would be the best trip ever.

The problem, though, was that it rained the entire time she was here.

Neither of us wanted to go bowling or to a bar (or to any of the museums that Google suggested when we typed in "Rainy Day Activities in New York") so we had to get creative. 45 minutes of internet searching later, we found a list called "New York's 10 Coolest Hidden Museums." Jackpot!

Looks Legit. 

We settled on a place called "HOLOGRAPHIC STUDIOS" which was touted as the "home to the world's largest collection of motion image holograms." We didn't really know what, exactly, a hologram was, but were intrigued by the idea of getting a "Selfie with Andy Warhol" as the website promised we could. 

So, off we went. 

We walked up to what looked like a completely abandoned building near Gramercy Park, and tried to open the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked– the place had quite clearly closed down. My friend Jessie, who had joined us for the afternoon, kicked the door in frustration while all three of us swore loudly about the wasted cab money. Just as we were about to leave, a 6'3" bald man opened the door, introduced himself as "Dr. Laser," and invited us "into his lair."

The "museum" was an empty black room. There were random pieces of plywood and garbage on the floor, and the whole place was covered with a layer of dust that dated back to at least 1984. As we tried to figure out a way to escape without offending Dr. Laser, who seemed thrilled to have human interaction, he flicked a switch and the walls were suddenly alight with holograms. And let me tell you, they were COOL.

He spent the next 2 and a half hours explaining to us how holograms work (which even after all that time I still don't understand), while intermittently telling us his entire life story. It turns out he is the foremost artist in his field, and has done portraits for everyone from Andy Warhol to Bill Clinton. Allegedly, Andy Warhol had Dr. Laser's hologram hanging in his office when he died. It was like spending the afternoon with Bill Nye the Science Guy.

As we approached hour three in the dark, dusty room, we started to try to wrap things up. "Wait!" he said as we inched toward the door, "let me show you the basement. I just need to lock the door first."

.... Um. What?

I immediately texted a friend, with absolutely no context, "I AM AT THE HOLOGRAM MUSEUM ON 26TH STREET IN CASE I GET MURDERED," and put my keys in my hand, sharp side forward, the way they tell you to in self-defense classes.

Dr. Laser led us down a dark set of stairs to his basement, which was even dustier than the museum. It was hoarder heaven- there was everything from a disco ball to a life-size plaster mold of a human- and we had to try not to let anything touch us he showed us how the holograms were made. Apparently, we were "inside the lens of a camera," but I was too worried about getting skinned alive to pay attention.

He made a ton of Silence of the Lambs jokes while we were down there, which didn't help to quiet my concerns that he was going to kill us and wear our faces as masks in his spare, non-holograph-making time.

When the tour was over  (luckily, we all survived) he gave us all souvenirs- holographic tags that he made for the brand SOUTH POLE (which I used to beg my mom to let me wear to middle school). We were hoping for life-size holograms of Tupac, circa Coachella 2012,  but apparently that's not considered real "art" in the hologram community.

The Best New York Birthday Party I've Ever Been To

#Fab5 at last years festivities, identities protected

Between May 29th and June 7th, 1991 four of my best friends from college and I were born. That means that every year, for 10 days straight, everyone we know is forced to celebrate "Birthday Week." We've given ourselves some very high-school era team names, and will argue with anyone brave enough to challenge us that the first week of June is indisputably the best time of year to be born.

For the last few years, we have all celebrated together with big, joint open-bar parties, but this season, being the gemini divas that we are (and taking into consideration the fact that 24 is a lame, yet scary, age to be turning) we all agreed we wanted to do our own thing.

Thus spawned the BEST New York city birthday part I have ever been to.

The first party of the season, which took place the night I got back from Europe, was at an authentic Italian restaurant in Little Italy called Puglia. We were told that the evening would cost $65 for unlimited food and wine, and were all expecting a nice, under control, grown-up-because-we're-24-year-olds-now dinner

What we got was so, SO much better.

The restaurant was set up with six long tables that seated 15 people. Three of the tables were for us (the bday girl is POPULAR), one was for a group of 20 year old boys who we tried to flirt with and one was for some girl's Sweet 16. There was a jug of wine for every two people, which the waitresses refilled throughout the night.

If school doesn't work out, this is my next career move

As the appetizers started to circulate (garlic bread! eggplant rolitini! stuffed mushrooms! clams casino! more garlic bread! Needless to say, I was not getting a make out after this meal) a middle-aged woman in a sequin dress took to the "stage" accompanied by an old italian man with a piano. It was magical.

They sang traditional italian songs (and played "The Napkin Song," which is a new personal favorite, on 5 separate occasions) as well as an operatic adaptation of Kesha's "Timber." We were all standing on our chairs going nuts, with the exception of the 16 year olds and their parents who were very, very sober and looking at us in horror.

To close out the evening (after 17 courses of food and at least three bottles of wine each), the sequined goddess sang "The Hora," during which the 20 year old boys lifted their birthday boy in his chair in true bar mitzvah fashion.

The whole experience was magical, and is something I would recommend to anyone celebrating a birthday in NYC. It has also given me, the fifth and final birthday girl of the week, a lot to live up to.

We Figured Out How to Beat JetLag

Morning!

I value my sleep. Especially now that I'm unemployed, "beauty rest" has taken on a whole new meaning. Waking up in time for an 11am workout class has become the norm in my new, retired life, and though I will say I've never looked better or felt more well-rested, it's not exactly a schedule that conforms with the rest of the world.

Because of this, I was very, very nervous about the Jet Lag situation when I got to Europe. Copenhagen is 6 hours behind New York (a time difference that proved disastrous when I was trying to keep in touch with my  college boyfriend during my semester abroad) which is an awkward amount of time to adjust to, especially just for the week.

To combat this problem, my travel-mates and I simply decided not to adjust.

In Copenhagen, it was only dark from 11:30pm to 4:30am, which was prime time to be at the bar. We would walk into whatever drinking establishment we'd chosen for the evening as the sun started to go down, and walk out just as it started to rise. It became a game to  challenge ourselves get home before the sun was fully risen, but this became incredibly difficult because the hotdog vendors started to open at 5am, and we couldn't help but to stop for a drunken snack (or, as other people call it, breakfast). We would go to bed at 6am and wake up at 1pm, which gave us a full 10 hours of daylight to do activities (such as drink beers in the streets and drive Go Boats). This meant that in New York time, we were sleeping from 12-5am, which is actually pretty normal for a young working adult in the city.

The morning of the marathon, Alix's friends (who had arrived the night before and were running the race) had had a full nights sleep and gone out to breakfast between the time we'd seen them for dinner  the night before and the time we got home from the bar. They snapchatted her a picture of them in their running gear, she responded with a picture of us eating breakfast hotdogs.

Our weird schedule only posed a problem when we wanted to go out to dinner, but other than that it made coming back to the US a breeze (5 pounds heavier, but a breeze!).