Posts Tagged ‘New York’

Hazy Incognito

It was unsettling.

Everywhere I turned; “Hazy! Hazy! Sign here!” “Hey Hazy, will you write this postcard to my mom for me?” “Aww Hazy, what I wouldn’t give to pick your super-creative, ultra-talented brain for an hour.”

Shouting from every corner, greedy fingers with long black nails clawing at my sleeves, hundreds of white-hot flashes blinding me and oh so many offers of representation, I couldn’t keep track. It seems Hazy had become a household name.

I was overwhelmed. What sort of unmanageable monster had I created? I had to stealthily dart down dark, deserted streets and hide behind parked cars. I had to use an alias. I went incognito.

Okay, maybe the hood was because it was raining and my $14.99 tourist rip-off umbrella broke after 1 minute of use. And perhaps the grim look on my face was not due to the hoards of people vying for my attention but because I was paying tribute to the victims of Ground Zero at the time. Still, it’s nice to imagine, isn’t it? Success of a certain magnitude?

And, why not? I don’t believe that only a select few are earmarked for stardom from time of conception. I doubt we come equipped with some sort of unique barcode that’s scanned at birth and separates us into two distinct piles:

~ will be famous

~ will be a janitor

Not that there’s a darn thing wrong with being a janitor, of course. It takes all kinds to make the world tick. I myself, tend to get a definite and deep satisfaction from the sheen of my freshly washed floor, albeit short-lived. (The sheen, that is)

I believe anyone can be anything provided they believe it too. So work towards it, grasp it, nurture it, buy it, own it, polish it and believe it. Pretty soon, you’ll need a hood as well.

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Airport Nails 2

And as if they knew it was time, the long, phony nails I’d glued on at the beginning of this trip began to pop off one by one, a rogue nail as I fumbled to silence the alarm at 4am, an escapee as I plodded sleepily through security and a rebel while I groped for change to pay for my yogurt and granola. And that’s okay, they were right. It was time.

Don’t get me wrong, make no mistake, let me be clear…insert more cliché segues here…the Sesame Street stoops, dismissed don’t walks, harried honkers and booming billboards…I’ll miss it all, fo sho. That’s for my kids. (note sarcasm) It was amazing to be a small part for a small while of a big city where dreamers do, believers become and impossible means possibility.

But as I sat on the plane looking down at my fingers and the few nails left, I thought of how they’d made me feel brave, self-assured. I’d worn them to take on New York and had begun picking them off to head home.

It made sense, really; New York had been bigger than me and I’d needed the nails. The thing about home, is I write better without them.

Wherever we are, anything is always possible. Location is irrelevant. And, so are the nails.


I sort of sent my last post out to fend for itself, forgetting to tag and categorize it. If you’d like to read it, it’s crying in the corner here.

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Despite the fact that it’s 2 degrees, cool is not the weather it’s the style here in NYC. That’s right folks, Hazy is in the Big Apple; a place where they have shops with names like Mint Julep, Belly Dance and Shoegasm. Ladies, be honest, you’re hot for all three. Men…well, maybe just the last two.

A city where nothing cramps creativity…unless you happen to be wearing super long, phony, glue on nails like me.  Please excuse any typos, but they do look super fab…the nails, not the typos.

I can’t put my finger on it, but this city is validating; makes you feel like you will attain whatever it is your little heart may be yearning for. Different is distinguished, quirky is quaint and weird is wild which subsequently makes for a vivacious vibe.

We should all experience that. We should all feel invincible. We all need a little New York…or maybe just some really good pasta every so often. That’s totally doable, isn’t it? Failing that, a Shoegasm would be a close second.

Alana at Bistecca Fiorentina


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Sometimes, and let me be clear, only sometimes, I don’t think I’m bitchy enough to be a writer. (That alone should be enough to spark more interest in my blog than usual)

I was on a plane to New York last week. My daughter and I pre-booked our seats and got to the airport (absurdly) early for check-in. Long story short, we were well prepared and took every measure to insure we were sitting together and that my girl got the window seat she’d been dreaming of.

As we approached our seats, we were met with a stare of frigid disappointment. A mother sat with her tot on her lap and said;

Oh, we were hoping you wouldn’t be together.”

“Sorry?” I asked, confused.

“My son and I are seated apart, so we were hoping you were going to be able to switch with us.”

“Ah,” I said in an understanding tone. I looked at the little boy, no more than three. I could feel her pain.

I turned to my daughter, only a child herself, and was met with her pleading eyes, but before I could say anything, she relented; “It’s okay, the little boy can sit with his mom.”

I could see she was troubled, only being eleven, but sensing the gravity of the situation, she knew he needed his mommy just a little more than she did.

“Are you sure honey? I asked. “You don’t have to switch if you’re worried. The seat’s yours after all.”

As we were having this conversation, a mere formality, the outcome of which we already knew, we were interrupted by the woman; “’She is just that much older. My boy really needs to sit with me.”

As I absorbed what she was saying, the flight attendant piped in; “Yes, she is older. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Amidst the blink of an eye, and some unnecessary tongue flapping, what had started as empathy for the woman and her child was now bordering on resentment and flirting at the edge of anger within me. I was being bullied.

“It’s alright,” I answered, slightly exasperated. “We’ll change seats.”

We settled into our new digs and I leaned back, glad to be out of the limelight. An aisle separated my girl and I. We looked at each other and smiled. No big deal.

Two hours in, she reclined her seat, startling, but not (even close to) disrupting a woman behind her. The woman’s wild curls bounced and her eyes widened behind her very round, thick-rimmed glasses.

With a cluck of her tongue, she looked down her nose and over her specs at the person next to her.

“This is why I wouldn’t switch with them in the first place. I’m a writer”, she claimed with an exasperated tone while stroking the keys of her laptop. “And you see”, her voice all high and mighty, “I still can’t get any peace!”

So, maybe Ava and I couldn’t cuddle, whisper or giggle and perhaps she couldn’t rest her head on my shoulder while she was sleeping and she obviously didn’t get her much anticipated window seat, but we were going to New York, we did hold hands during take off and landing, we had the comfort that came from doing what was right and I would still be a writer…bitch or not.

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