NYC: Part Deux

Note to NYC:  What part of "please don't rain while I'm in town" didn't you understand?  I thought I made myself perfectly clear.  Note to self:  quit bragging about Dad's uncanny ability to control the weather.  A little humilty, please.  Despite the downpour on Tuesday, I walk and walk and walk.  I negotiate my way, I maneuver my brollie, never once sending a fellow pedestrian into the gutter, although I'm tempted.

First I walk to Connie's "this close to Central Park" apartment, where the doorman welcomes me with a tip of his hat.  I like this very much.  So much, I decide I need my own doorman.  I plan to hire someone when I get home.  Connie, tall and leggy and gorgeous, loans me a pair of yoga pants so I can work out beside her in the basement gym.  I put on said yoga pants, and in a "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" moment, they not only fit me, they transform the SJG into Connie's long-lost twin sister.  I offer to stand in for her tonight.  "You sit in the audience, I'll play Arlene in 'Next  Fall.' No one will know the difference."  Connie mulls it over for exactly one second and nixes the idea.  Actors! 

Carrying on Tuesday's theme, I walk my ass off in the rain till I reach the Metropolitan Art Museum.  I'm joined by 150,000 other soggy art-goers.  I follow the sign that points to the "American Women: Fashioning a National Identity" exhibit.  I get nowhere fast, and ask a security guard for help.  He gives me major NY 'tude.  "Excuse me, where's the fashion exhibit?" "Not on this floor," he says.  "But the sign said it was."  "Do you see it?"  "No."  "Then I guess it's not here."

In the evening, hubby and I shlep in more rain, eat dinner at Sardi's and see "Next Fall," up for two, count 'em two, Tonys.  I kvell over Connie.  I kvell over the play.  I weep, I emote.  I clap and clap and hug her after the show.  On Wednesday, Dad gets it right and the sun reappears.  I have a play date with my dear friend Debbi.  We eat and giggle and see "Promises, Promises," a peppy show with Sean Hayes and a show-stealer named Katie Finneran.  Thursday, I go to Madison Square Garden, to see the CW Network's upfront presentation, meant to woo advertisers.  It's the reason why hubby is here and I've tagged along.  Katy Perry opens the show.  She tells the audience to "put your f'n arms up" and we obey.  She's wonderful, the presentation is wonderful and now I'm kvelling on behalf of hubby, who's worked his butt cheeks off on this thing.  In the evening, we go to yet another swanky party.  In the role of arm candy:  the SJG.  I do my best to behave, as I talk to hot young actors from various CW shows.  But when I see Shane West of "Nikita," I can't help myself.  I smack him on the arm and tell him he's ridiculously talented.  In case he's forgotten why, I remind him of the fine work he's done on "ER," "Once and Again" and other shows.  He seems genuinely pleased, as if I'm the only one that day to smack him on the arm and praise him.  I tell hubby it's time to leave.  My work is done.