Category Archives: dear diary

Everyone’s been talking about it, so I downloaded Tinder. And my lesson? Guys are clueless. Because if they weren’t, they wouldn’t post photos like these to try to attract the ladies:

Jus’ sayin’.

OVERDUE PHOTO ROUNDUP | A man gave me an Altoid. The next day, I sent him an email: “I found the Altoid in my back pocket today, and I couldn’t be happier. Thank you again!” The next week, he sent me a box:

Monika took me to the North Fork for a weekend. It was a freezing-cold version of the perfect impromptu getaway. Her artist grandfather sketched us:

I made a Beddie pillow to go with my ALB one:

Lex and I fought people to get into a photo booth:

I made some awesome raspberry oat bars – you know, for my coworkers:

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My name appeared in newsprint:

Central Park warmed up:

And some amazing roses came home with me for the weekend:

xALB

My new favorite yogurt (well, tied with my old favorite: Emmi grapefruit yogurt):

“Hi! I’m so sorry, but I’m running late for my appointment with the dentist. The E/M trains aren’t running to 5th Ave/53rd.”

“Ohhhhh that suuuuuucks.”

“Okay, well my name’s Alainna, and I am in a cab. I’ll see you soon.”

“Man that really sucks about the train. But okay, I’ll let the dentist know.”

Healthcare front desks in NY are a unique experience indeed.

In 2004, I went to prom with a guy named Wythe (pronounced “with”). Last night, I met a guy named Guy (pronounced “guy”). Here, the problems those milestones presented:

PROM

Friend: “Who are you going with to prom?”

Me: “Wythe …”

Friend: “With … who?”

Me: “Wythe Horbal.”

Friend: “Huh? You’re going with Horbal? Who the hell is that?”

Me: silent

LAST NIGHT

Friend: “Who’s that guy you were dancing with?”

Me: (pointing) “Guy.”

Friend: “Yeah, who’s that guy?”

Me: “A guy named Guy.”

Friend: “What guy?”

Everyone: drunk and confused

This morning, Monika, now less two wisdom teeth, called a remote meeting of the Bryant Park Lunchers club at Franklin D. Roosevelt Four Freedoms State Park on Roosevelt Island. Cultural Sunday at its finest included a much-anticipated ride on the Roosevelt Island tram:

Roosevelt’s four freedoms, btw, are:

1. Freedom of speech and expression
2. Freedom to worship your own god
3. Freedom from want
4. Freedom from fear

Tulips came home with me … as did these things I overheard today, both spoken (yelled) by 8 year old boys on my way to work:

c. 9:15 am: “What’s the difference between a cute girl and a not cute girl anyway?”

c. 9:30 am: “If we want to say ‘boogers,’ we’ll say ‘boogers’! Okay?”

In other unexciting news, my hookah still works. And I get home from work around 10 pm. And I can eat 6 English muffins in 5 days and drink a half gallon of milk in 2. And Dr. Dennis Gross Skincare daily Alpha Beta Peels are a new staple in my beauty regimen. And Emily Dickinson is back on my nightstand. And my poor dog Bella, who lives in Virginia, had a near death experience because the vet broke a Q-tip off in her ear, and my heart is still broken. But she’s okay. So that’s good.

Also, I asked a coworker in Paris to bring me back a man. I made a similar request to my aunt when she was in Japan – but I’m convinced the only reason she didn’t come through is that I was about 8 years old at the time. (And I knew the difference between a cute boy and a not cute boy back then.) Hopefully Jason takes my ripe age into consideration and brings me back a Frenchie.

I’ve cried so much since Friday’s shooting, shedding tears over everything from eulogies to political action.

Tonight, when I asked my cab driver to let me out early because we hit some traffic, he said “No, sweetheart. I’m gonna get you home. I don’t want to read about you on the news. You deserve to get home safe.” He stopped the meter. And when I got out at a $6 fare, he said, “Just give me $3.”

My faith in humanity is being gradually restored by tiny acts like this.

I went to pay for two bottles of prosecco.

The cute guy working there: “Oh! What are you celebrating tonight?”

Me: “A bad fucking day.”

Cute guy: “Oh. Well. … … … Um, bubbles … …. Bubbles fix everything! Especially … … two bottles of bubbles …”

Me: “Yup.”

Did you know that you can send Just Wink e-cards for free? They’re amazingly hilarious.

Went to the premiere with Monika last night, and I’m still not sure about whether I liked Les Miserables. I might have been more into the bondage heels Anne Hathaway was wearing.

It’s just such a long film … and so much singing …

The MoMA after party, though, was like the best wedding party we’d never been to:

A Motown band that sings Carly Rae Jepsen? Yes, please.

On the other hand, the Page One meeting at NYT orientation was probably one of the cooler things I’ve witnessed to date. It was so surprisingly calm and nice.

Orientation makes me newly obsessed with my office:

Did you know that Times Square is named after The New York Times? It is.

Orientation also makes me hungry.

“I’m gonna die alone, and Merry Christmas.”

After a long day of chatting with a princess, working as site rep at a photo shoot of Mirishka whatever-her-last-name-is from Law & Order SVU (not for T!), getting over a cold, sweeping up a million shards of broken glass, walking in the cold rain without a coat to get coffees for people I didn’t know (but needed to get away from for 5 minutes), and walking an hour home (in wedge booties), all I wanted was my bed. And my hookah. And an Ants in the Pants cocktail.

A tiny voice in my head said make it a double:

Holy shit, it’s huge. And two sips and three puffs into my night, I’m officially flying high.

Ants in the Pants:
1 shot gin
1/2 shot Grand Marnier
1/2 shot sweet vermouth
Dash fresh lemon juice
- shaken, poured over old fashioned ice cube