Hot Sauce and Firefighters

Today I was possessed by the notion that it would be an excellent idea to go get a facial. I have a big performance coming up on Monday and figured it can’t hurt to give my skin a little tune up, if you will. My expectation was that I would have a splendidly relaxing/cleansing experience and emerge from the shadows as a spectacular new human. 

I will now walk you through the reality of what actually happened.

Firstly, I decided to walk to the spa because the sun was shining and since leaving the Sunshine State, I am severely deprived of vitamin D. I repeat. I decided to walk. I clearly hadn’t thought this through because when one goes to get a facial, you come in a blank canvas- no product, no makeup, nothing. And I wasn’t carrying my yoga mat so there really was no excuse. #vulnerable
So I finally get to the spa and my phone explodes. I receive a series of iMessages (blue bubbles, not green #elitist) in regards to our grocery delivery and what appeared to be a $44 bottle of Sriracha that was delivered to us. Um. 

It took everything in me to remain composed in the waiting area. I immediately pulled up our receipt from the order to further investigate this gross error. Here’s what went down- some moron thought that they could replace my single bottle of Lee Kum Kee Sriracha with eleven bottles of Thai Taste Sriracha. IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE!? YOU ARE SERIOUSLY GOING TO CHARGE ME $44 FOR HOT SAUCE YOU MUST BE OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN MIND!?! Cue Hamilton’s verse of “Cabinet Battle #2”. I turned the matter over to my partner in crime/roommate/bad cop who then proceeded to write an email that probably has some poor customer service agent in fear for their well being. 

At this point, any chance of this facial being a relaxing experience is completely shot. But like so many situations in my life, it only gets better.

Not much of an exaggeration
of my exact physical strategy  
My aesthetician was a lovely Siberian woman named, Marina. Marina stepped out of the room while I got ready. I changed and made my way to the massage table only to realize I was going to have to scale Mt. Everest before this facial could get started. The table was so high off the ground, I could’ve pole vaulted up there. Since the necessary equipment wasn’t available to me, I improvised.  

Enter Marina. We start with nice, easy small talk. Marina loves the snow, I love the sunshine, this is going great. The first few parts of this facial are painless. She’s putting all kinds of creams, cleansers, scrubs, whatever on my face. I’m just laying there with my eyes blissfully unaware of my surroundings. For all I know, Ellen DeGeneres was slathering cold cuts on my face circa 2008. But wait, it gets better.
We arrive at the part of a facial I love/hate the most. Extraction. This is the part where I literally get the shit squeezed out of my pores. I’d say I have an average pain tolerance and normally this process doesn’t bother me. However, this afternoon’s experience was truly next level. For starters, Marina was going in so hard on the pores on my nose that she completely plugged my nose making me unable to breathe for a solid 7 minutes. There were times where she was pressing so hard with whatever scary instruments she was wielding that I thought my nose was going to break. Oh and did I mention that while this was happening, that soothing, pan flute-heavy background music started skipping. It sounded like when I would try to play a scratched CD in my walkman. AWFUL. ALL WHILE THIS SIBERIAN STRANGER IS SQUEEZING/POKING MY FACE. It was in that moment that I knew this was going to make it to the blog. 

Skip ahead, skip ahead. Extraction is over, music has resolved itself, and now Marina is putting some lotion on my face to seal the deal. Before I can fully process the ingredients she’s rambling off, my face is ON FIRE. FUEGO.  
So now I’m thinking…

…or send me those sexy French fireman because this is not a drill.
I patiently waited for my deliverance. 
And then it was over. 
My face looks a little bit like a war zone so I will be maintaining an extremely minimalist (aka elitist) social agenda for the next 48 hours. Bye, everyone!

Table for One

There I was, sitting, having dinner with myself at the Carrabba’s in Terminal C of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Intetrnational Airport. I’d been meaning to do this for a very long time. In my mind, there is something so grown up about walking into a restaurant and saying with complete confidence, “Table for one.”

I also think that phrase will make a great title for my book. Great, glad we figured that out.
I did a quick scan of the restaurant and I seemed to be the only person sitting at a table alone. Sure, I could’ve gone and sat at the bar but somehow that seemed like cheating. I felt like I needed to sit across from no one and have a meal with myself in order for it to be a solo legitimate experience. So, there I was. Alone. It also just happened to be Christmas Day.
Now, before you start to feel bad for me, just don’t. I hate that.
Or do. Whatever. I can’t stop you. 
Luckily, I was dressed somewhat like a business woman- meaning, I was wearing a blazer. And, I was also typing viciously at a computer (working on this very blog post)so maybe I just fooled everyone in the restaurant into thinking I was a lonely workaholic (because this blog is serious business, people). I also drowned myself in food/wine so maybe people thought someone was coming to join me at some point.
But if we’re being honest, I probably did not fool anyone. I started to tear up when I was on the phone with a friend and said out loud, “I’m in this airport alone on Christmas.” And while we’re laying it all out there I also said at one point, “I don’t want to come back to New York.” Here’s why:

1. New York is cold.
2. New York is grey.
3. New York is rude.
4. New York is selfish.
5. New York is lonely.

I am in the most screwed up relationship with this place. It really does very little to help me out in this journey called life. I go home for the holidays where it’s warm and sunny and the people are nice and it feels safe and I truly question my sanity. Why have I chosen to live in a place that does this to me? The only explanation I have come up with is that I’ve fallen under the spell of the city and in doing so have become a masochist.

Because in the end, I got on that plane and dragged my butt back to this city I’m slowly learning to call home. Here’s why:

1. New York challenges me.
 2. New York lets me do anything I want.
3. New York brings the most fascinating people into my life.
4. New York teaches me in ways no one else can.
5. New York keeps me coming back for more.
New York, I hate you but I love you. I don’t know if that will ever change but that’s where we are at right now and I’m ok with that. I’m ready for whatever obstacles and adventures you want to throw my way. I have enough defense mechanisms to deploy; the most prominent being that if you try to fuck with me, I’ll turn around and write a hilarious blog post about it. So bring it on.