TGI-Effed

Faithful readers, you may have noticed by now that embarrassing moments in the life and times of me are my favorite items to blog about. They're the easiest stories to tell.

I've posted about about the weird freckle on my bum (and the hot doctor who examined it), my habit of dancing like a crazy person in front of my mirror and the very proud moment when my mother announced my bathroom troubles to a new suitor.

I'm an open book- in life and in blog.

That being said, I have something pretty shameful to admit. Yesterday I took down a post seconds after publishing it because, for the first time, I was afraid of appearing a little too uncool.

I know. You're probably thinking, "Vanessa, you're the coolest chick on the face of the planet. What could possibly cramp your style?"

I present to you, unedited, yesterday's post. But I'm warning you, you may find me far less fabulous when it's over.

TGI-Effed

I work in the events industry. A day rarely passes without some mini-catastrophe, e.g., a wedding cake topples over, a buffet table catches on fire, Barbara Walter's Dover sole is over-salted.

I like my job because I'm pretty good under pressure. But last Friday, when crisis hit in the middle of my workday, my response was nothing less than desperate panic.

I really had no choice, you see. My front tooth fell out.

Yup, first bite into an Oats & Honey Nature Valley bar my front tooth popped right off.

Some background: When I was about 15 I opened my dad's car door right into my face and shattered about 70% of my front tooth. We had it fixed right away and up until about 12:30pm Friday afternoon all was good up in my grill.

Then, it fell out. I felt the gap with my tongue before running to the mirror in front of my cubicle.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God."

My coworker, on the phone at the time, looked up confused.

"Oh my God, my tooth just felt out."

When I flashed her a nervous mouthful exposing the gap, literally smack dab in the center of my smile, my coworker screamed, hung up and sprung into action.

I sat back down, buried my busted smile into my hands and started crying. I looked like the freckle-faced Mad Magazine cartoon. My short-term plan was to sob and call my mother (in Florida). My coworker called my boss over to my desk. He assessed the damages, looked at me with equal parts surprise and sympathy and called his dentist.

In less than 10 minutes my extremely well-connected boss was able to convince his dentist to leave Central Park where he was enjoying a day off with his wife and meet me for an emergency appointment at his Rockefeller Plaza office.

I rushed to the appointment in full panic, frantically cutting off cabs and elbowing packs of tourists on 5th Avenue. I didn't open my mouth until I reached the revolving door outside the doc's office. I caught my reflection in the building's shiny black glass.

Then, finally, I started laughing. I was a total toothless freak show. I imagined myself greeting a client at work or smiling at a cute guy next to me in the subway. The snaggletooth was nothing less than startling.

At the building security desk, I attempted to speak with my toothless mouth turned toward the floor.

"What was that?" the security guard barked as I told the floor I was here to see Dr. Hurowitz. "Who are you here to see?"

"I'm here to see Dr. Hurowitz, the dentist, because I just lost my front tooth and I'm freaking out!"

Did I mention I was now speaking with a horrendous lisp as the acoustics of my mouth were totally thrown off? Hurowitz came out more like "Hurowithz".

The guard's comforting response, "You know it's expensive to fix a tooth."

Pacing the dentist's waiting room I wondered what I would have done without my boss' connections. It was a Friday afternoon. I don't even have a dentist in the city. Without strings to pull the earliest appointment would have been Monday. And, at that point, my only option would have been to check out of society for the weekend- hide under my covers or if an outing was totally necessary, wear a burka.

Sure it's adorable on a 5 year old. But I learned the hard way, as an adult there's no way to function without your front teeth.

A couple hours after the run in with the Nature Valley bar, I was good as new. But days later I have to admit I'm still a little shaken up by the fiasco.

That one little change to my appearance flipped my world upside down. I went from confident to a sobbing mess in seconds. Is my sanity that precarious? Am I too vain?

God, give me bad hair days or big zits, but please oh please leave me my teeth.

***

So why did I pull the post yesterday? The truth: I imagined the next dude I date browsing my blog, coming across this post and finding the whole fake tooth thing unattractive.

Sure, it's sorta TMI. But it was also hilarious, and after careful consideration, if a man can't handle my (rather sexy) fake front tooth then I'd rather not handle him.

When in Rome...

Pizza is my desert island food. I could happily eat it for more consecutive days than I should publicly admit. I don't indulge as often as the Cathy comic managing my cravings would like (because of the consequences to my badunk) but when I do it's never less than blissful.

Last weekend I was in Chicago visiting my big sister and her husband who recently moved there. My sis rattled off our agenda as soon as I arrived: architectural walking tour, a few museums, Lincoln Park, authentic deep dish pizza... She probably listed at least 5 other exciting Chicago to-dos after that but I wouldn't know. Cathy and I were drooling over visions of fluffy crispy crusts and bubbling cheese.

We skipped lunch Sunday in preparation for dinner at Pequod's Pizza, a 40-year-old pizza joint in Lincoln Park (named after the whaling boat from Moby Dick). My brother-in-law bragged about its "locals only" status. Walking in it looked like I wanted it to- exposed brick walls, neon beer signs, those tall red-tinted plastic tumblers. To cut to the chase, our large half-peperoni/half-sausage looked and smelled nothing less than glorious when it was plopped onto our table 45 minutes after we ordered. I'm pretty sure I clapped when it arrived.


As my slice was carved out of the cast iron skillet and hunked onto my plate the local we were eating with explained that Pequod's is famous for a black "caramelized" crust that comes from decades of baking in pans that they supposedly never really clean. Sure enough this "dirty crust" was my favorite part, adding a toasty hint of nuttiness to the slice. The couple inches of bread weren't too soft, holding up the gobs of cheese and sauce well. To be honest, it didn't really taste like pizza. It was this decadent slab of saucey cheesiness that strangely felt like dessert.

Better than New York City thin crust? They're apples and oranges- both perfect in context, impossible to compare.

Deep dish might just work better on that desert island. More carbs. Cathy agrees.

Manly Men

After four days and five nights in Portland, Oregon I came to one very sure conclusion: I dig West Coast guys.

To unfairly stereotype, they're nothing like the big city boys I've gotten used to- with their Molton Brown lemongrass shave wax and professionally manicured nails.

Out West they're all hunky, tall, broad-shouldered, mountain-sun-kissed manly men with carabiners clipped to their keys and hobbies like whitewater rafting or, I don't know, lifting heavy things. Exhibit A: Chris Sharma, big deal rock climber and dreamboat


Back in New York this week I shared my observation with a group of coworkers. The men got instantly defensive and asked me to list one thing an Oregon boy can do that they cant.

Change a tire?

Both sheepishly admitted to never having done it."BMW assistance is a button away and I probably wouldn't do it right." Point proved.

Full disclosure: As much as I swear up and down that my type is rugged and outdoorsy with a pinch of hippie, the last handful of guys I've dated have been buttoned up bankers/lawyers. So the suit does it for me too. If he hikes on the weekends and is big and strong enough to pick me up and throw me, even better.

No News is Bad News

Once upon a time I was a newspaper reporter.

As a local features writer most of my assignments were puff: school spelling bees, ice cream parlor openings, how to prepare for the hurricane season and such. I didn't expose many (or any) social injustices or scandals (but I did offer painstaking coverage of the Westminster Dog Show when a local pup made it to the semi-finals.)

So the job was fluffy but working in a newsroom did wonders for my knowledge of current events. Every morning I read/heavily skimmed every section of the New York Times and St. Pete Times. Throughout the rest of the work day I would poke around the AP wire searching for other interesting headlines. At the time there wasn't a water cooler conversation I couldn't participate in.

That was then.

Last week at lunch with my older bosses someone brought up the floods in Pakistan. Everyone at the table chimed in with opinions and information. I stared at my gazpacho. I had no idea what they were talking about. Apparently hundreds of people had died in monsoon floods while I was very busy watching "The Bachelor Pad".

I don't go to work in a newsroom anymore. In fact, as an event planner the only news that officially matters is if Sam Sifton reviewed us yet or there's a financial shakeup that might keep a regular client from ordering white truffle.

But that's no excuse. I should know what's going on out there. I should care.

Today I spent at least 30 minutes clicking through the New York Times Web site. It felt good to be back...even if I did spend a nice chunk of my time there reading the article titled, "Need a Pick-Me-Up? Try Boots." Baby steps count.

No she didn't.

I'm six months single- dating but officially unattached for the last half year. I'll admit, for a while it was a difficult status change to embrace. As much as I wanted to believe there was an independent, finger-shaking, spandex-onesi-wearing, sassy "single lady" inside, a lot of days I just missed the whole girlfriend gig.

Six months later, I'm happy to report that I now have a lot less of those days. Relationships have their perks- trust, intimacy, comfort, substance, snuggling- but singlehood in NYC offers something satisfying too: utter unpredictability. Last weekend I pulled a single lady stunt that surprised even me.

Before I admit this to all 5 people who regularly read this blog, I must preface: my opinions and final judgements of this whole thing are still firmly TBD.

So, I made an online dating profile.

But I swear it's not what you think (OK it's a little what you think.)

I kept hearing about OKCupid, this free dating/social networking site that apparently caters to young New Yorkers. It's basically Facebook: lots of lurking strangers' pictures and personal information with the addition of compatibility questionnaires (Are you political? Do you smoke?). I, of course, gave it a thorough browse before putting up a profile.

As far as I knew dating sites were exclusively for the socially awkward. A lot of guys lived up to the stereotype: balding unattractive creepers with self-summaries like "Everyday is an adventure. Come along." or profile shots of only their chiseled, spray tanned abdominals. But a surprising handful seemed normal, interesting, attractive and even witty. Most notably, it's a site that doesn't seem to take itself too seriously.

So I did it. Mainly because it was a rainy Sunday. A little bit because I'm curious to see how I do. (Eventually they tell you if you've gotten clicked on enough to make it to their attractive person tier where you actually get blocked from the lesser not-clicked-on folks. No, I'm not joking.) Most importantly, I did it because I'm dedicated to my current say yes to everything kick. Wanna go on a hiking trip in Portland? Yes. Wanna try Bikram yoga? Yes. Wanna make an online dating profile? Dear Lord, I'm actually going to say yes.

So far, four days into it, I've received 22 messages from male members. Some just say hello. Others attempt to relate to details from my self-summary. "You're from Florida. I went to Disney once." The vast majority are creepers. "I like rotten food, cheap piss liquor and love girls that don't eat or drink- more for me!" (actual excerpt from message). A grand total of four have come across as normal and kinda cute.

It may take a small miracle for me to actually agree to meet any of the aforementioned kinda cute ones in public (a very safe, well lit, densely populated public), but in the meantime it's extremely entertaining...and, most importantly, destined to deliver blogworthy stories.

Just look out for me on the next online dating commercial. I'll be the the one hugging "Tom" after we get into a flour fight while baking his favorite snickerdoodles. And you'll be jealous.

Kind of a Big Deal

I had dinner with President Obama last Wednesday.

Well, not dinner in the "traditional" sense. We weren't at the same table-- or in the same room while he ate. But I did make sure the table, chair and tablecloth he used were just right. And I did ask him (via White House staff) what he wanted to eat (the sirloin steak au poivre, medium rare). In my mind that qualifies as dinner with the leader of the free world.

Barrack was in town for a couple political fundraisers: one Tuesday at Anna Wintour's house and (the important) one Wednesday at the very restaurant where I run around as an event planner. Fifty of the president's top donors gathered for dinner in one of our private rooms. They ate gazpacho with smoked salmon, maple peppercorn glazed duck and saffron peach pudding (prepared by celebrity chef Marcus Samuelsson.) But Mr. President- after mingling with the party guests- ate separately off of our restaurant's menu in a smaller private room.

His visit lasted just a couple hours but the planning and security clearance started weeks ago. Every employee was background checked. Every person who step foot in the restaurant got metal detected. We're fairly certain all the office phones were tapped (which forced me to hang up on my always tactful Rush-Limbaugh-loving mother who called on the big day to ask if "Barrack HUSSEIN Obama!" had arrived.)

At least 70 Secret Service agents invaded the restaurant. And when Obama pulled up, through a tent and tunnel that was built off of the closed New York City block, every inch of the restaurant throbbed with energy. He came, schmoozed, ate quickly and left but I can't help but feel like it was well worth all the hoopla.

It was one of my proudest professional moments- second to last year's lunch with the Dalia Lama (and Bethenny Frankel peeing in one of our wine buckets, of course.)

I felt especially lucky to do what I do.

And it didn't hurt that one of the Secret Service guys asked me out.

The Apple's Worms

Oh the many ways this great city can creep me out.

On the subway, sidewalk, park bench or bar stool a little too close to mine, the never predictable residents of New York City effortlessly insert crazy into my daily routine.

Last week the city tossed two especially memorable and blogworthy creepers into my path.

Friday, 5:30ish, Downtown 6-Train: I shuffle onto a packed subway cart shocked to see a glistening free wedge of seat in the middle of a row. I "excuse me" my way in it, plop purse in lap, look up and quickly realize exactly why it was the only vacant seat during rush hour. The young guy standing above me is singing along to his iPod. Well, not singing but dropping beats- loud unbelievably vulgar beats. Doo rag tight, pants bagged to mid-thigh, facial hair neatly groomed into a sharp chin strap- this fellow passenger is rapping the "p" word and "c" word and every other raunchy slang for female genitalia along with a generous mix of "n" words at an uncomfortably audible volume. The hipster across from me is biting his lip to hold back church giggles. The other 70 percent of the train is appalled. And there I am, seated directly below the Hispanic Marshall Mathers, inches away from his exposed boxer shorts, praying to God we don't make eye contact.
Just another commute home from work...

Sunday, 6:00ish, Chelsea: I'm strolling down 19th Street, headed to Trader Joe's for some groceries, on the phone with my older sister when my shriek pauses her in mid-sentence.

"Wait, what?" she asks.
I let out at least five "Oh my Gods" before I can piece together an explanation.
"A man just walked past me with his wiener out!"
"Wait, what? What do you mean?"
"He's walking down the street in broad day light with his zipper down and wiener out."

Yes, an otherwise normal looking man passes me on a busy sidewalk with his wang al fresco like it's another arm or leg. I'm traumatized for at least 2 blocks, desperate to scrub the picture from memory.
Just another trip to the grocery store...

I guess every apple has its worms.

Anything and Anyone

25 is a tricky age.

I'm definitely not "old" but in a lot of ways I'm not all that young anymore.

It's this sometimes frustrating limbo between carefree youth and not-so-carefree adulthood that makes decisions tough. If I date this guy, take this job, move to this city, how much weight will it have on how my life unfolds? Will it mean nothing, everything?

Should you date someone who's probably not the "one" or work a job you couldn't really see yourself in 5 or 10 years down the line? My gut tells me I'm too young to worry about it, but is it healthy to not even have the slightest clue what's in store?

Sorry, blog readers, for the barrage of "dear diary" rhetorical questions. I'm not really in crisis. Most days, I'm perfectly content where I am: on no specific track.

When I moved to New York a couple years ago I vowed to make this period of my life strictly about compiling worthwhile experiences and meeting worthwhile people. I had no agenda. I just wanted life to get interesting. So far, so successful. But my ducks are nowhere near in row.

Most days I'm comforted by this uncertainty, the idea that anything and anyone is still possible. But lately, while coaching a few friends through rough patches, the realization has bubbled up some nerves.

The everyday novelty of life in this city is exhilarating. Whether it's the opportunity to meet the President of the United States at just another Tuesday night on the job (blog post to follow) or simply watching a man drum an unbelievable beat into the bottom of a plastic bucket on a subway platform, it's a city that keeps me on my toes.

But, at the same time, the whirling pace, changing scenery and friends who seem to come and go often leaves me aching for depth, substance and intimacy. It seems harder to find here than anywhere else.

I'm happy for now, still determined and excited to chomp this apple to its core. But, I'm also determined to never lose myself in the shuffle.

I'm still game, New York.

Photo by Joseph O. Holmes of 20x200.com

30% Miserable, 70% Amazing

July started with a week-long stretch of unbearable 100-degree days. A sticky, suffocating, everyone-on-the subway-smells heat wave the whole city was griping about. So, naturally, when my perky coworker asked me to join her at Bikram yoga- aka hot yoga- on the most sweltering Tuesday night of the summer, I agreed...then I Googled it...then I panicked.

I'm not the least athletic person I know. I take spinning classes and work out often. I've survived regular yoga, kickboxing, a class my gym calls "arms, abs and ass" and at least four semesters of GatorFunk sessions in college. But I do have a pretty scary tendency of fainting-- at the beach, at soccer practice, while climbing up the Acropolis in Greece. When I'm too hot, I pass out and Bikram pretty much revolves around getting too hot. It's a 90 minute class that includes 26 different postures that fold, twist, pull and stretch your entire body. A Bikram yoga room is heated to at least 105 degrees, an environment that's supposed to warm up your muscles for a deeper stretch, rev up your cardiovascular system and, through all the sweating, flush out all the waste and toxins in your body.

My coworker and her Jennifer Aniston arms swear by it so I figured it was worth a shot, despite the 50 percent chance I would pass out.

The class was jam packed with rows of mats and half-naked classmates. I wore Spandex pants. Rookie mistake. 10 minutes in, I envied the (probably gay) man stretching next to me in nothing but a black and lime green striped Speedo. 20 minutes in, I was drenched in sweat. Everything was slippery. 40 minutes in, after dipping my head and neck forward for a posture, I started to feel dizzy. I was either going to puke or pass out. I kneeled on my mat and begged for neither. The break helped and after I repeated "Relax, Vanessa" at least 50 times, the spins subsided. I was shocked to be able to finish the class faint-free.

It was 30% miserable, 70% amazing so I went back the next day and have made it to class at least every two or three days during the last 2 weeks. And, turns out, Anna Chlumsky (Vada from "My Girl") also takes yoga there.

Leave it to a Florida girl to find the hottest most humid room in Manhattan and pay to be there.

Weekend Warrior

I woke up to five ripe purplely-black bruises Sunday after a Saturday in New Jersey. Don't worry; I wasn't clocked in the face Snookie-style by a roided out Jersey shore bar dweller. Instead I earned my wounds in battle, literally.

Paintballing has been on my really-wanna-do list for a while, at least in theory. Like sky diving, hiking 14ers, getting a post graduate degree and being the main hoochie in a rap video, paintballing is something I've always said/hoped I'd do.

So, when a guy friend asked me to join a big group for paintballing Saturday morning I quickly agreed. The trip was planned through Urban Escapes, a company that organizes weekend getaways for young city folk like me. They usually mix an outdoorsy activity with alcohol like kayaking and wine tasting or in this case, paintballing and brewery tour. I signed up without hesitation. I could use a little spontaneity and adventure.

When our vans pulled into the paintballing place in Jersey Saturday morning, fear came over me quick. A group of grown men in full camouflage from bandanna to clunky combat boots were using the course before us. It was all a little more intense than I imagined.

They passed around guns and Power Ranger-esque masks and warned us that if we took them off we'd probably get our teeth knocked out.

As I ran out into the first "junkyard" course, hiding behind a rusty old fridge, clenching my gun to keep my hands from shaking, I wondered how in the world I got from Manhattan to here. The first paint bullet hit me smack dab in the center of my mask. I threw up my hands in surrender and zig-zagged back to the safety zone as quickly as I could with yellow paint splattered across my goggles. Another bullet pegged my chest before I made it to safety. The body shot stung, like getting pelted with a marble, but only for a minute...not scary enough keep me out of the next five rounds that followed.

I was surprised by how much I liked it...romping around a random field, ducking behind tires and trees, strategizing with teammates, shooting perfectly nice strangers in their backs. It was all pretty badass. And the big bruises on my back and legs, those are just badges of honor.