Last night I went out with some friends from work and we had the most amazing tai food. I was literally in heaven. It could have been that I was just starving (huge shocker) and a Junior Bacon Cheese Burger could have satisfied me as well, but, holly Moses, it was a fun time and great food.

The restaurant was in Hells Kitchen, just off Times Square-known for the aspiring actors who live there-the insanely rich who want to live within walking distance of their high-dollar jobs, and then those who stay on what I call the “shady” streets that haven’t been revamped and inflated until you have to live paycheck to paycheck just to pay to settle in a closet where you won’t be accosted by homeless people and you won’t have to cross over a bridge of tunnel to get to The City.

Anyway, I digress…..so I opted out of going to see the off-Broadway play, I’ve been out and about every night this week, and I just needed to chill. But I did want to head to Macy’s in Harold’s Square on 34th St to look at some picture frames and lust over Coach purses.
Macy’s in New York is my favorite department store-far surpassing the more glamorous and sleek Bloomingdales, and the overt ostentatiosness of Sakes 5th Ave. Macy’s has this unique historical quality. And every time I ride down those original wooden escalators I am filled with a sense of history and can imagine that I am Doris Day or Katherine Hepburn, wearing 3 inch pumps and dark red lipstick-bantering with Cary Grant looking and sounding like a sophisticated high-class siren. I’m a romantic and those wooden steps represent something that hasn’t been usurped by the fast pace and changefulness of the most amazing city on the earth. They may be slower and more clamors than their new metal counterparts, but they are warm and cheery and for a few moments riding down to house wares or up to women’s dresses…my life can sit back and just breath, and in my own personal time machine I can reflect on a time past and a type of class that modern day movie starts and fashionable people have never quite been able to recapture.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

I distinctly remember the first time someone told me to "go to there blog and check out their life". I was at a wedding, (ah the joy of seeing old friends, and the annoyance of running into people you usually try to avoid.) Go to your what? You want me to go on the internet and read about your LIFE? The idea was insulting and I instantly vow, with a fake southern smile plastered on my face: “I will never have a blog.” Conceit defined. So why, I’m asking myself even as I write….am I doing this….?