Saturday, April 28, 2012

NYC on Business: 50 Shades of Cray

The Misadventures of a Blogger in NYC

Warning: This entry is NOT about how I met some strange, mercurial, billionare who took me down a kinky rabbit hole of whips and chains. And how we all listened to Rihanna's "S&M" song for the whole ideal. This trip to NYC was for business, not reenactments of 50 Shades of Grey. Ha! The closest I got to Christian Grey this week was meeting a young lawyer at a bar who has no idea J and I have created an entirely twisted backstory for him involving a sad childhood, deviant predilections, and yes, a red playroom. Poor Fiddy Esq


Me in a Russian model Sammich at IBS
What this entry does involve is cute shoes, rude cabdrivers, more attempted homicides/kidnappings, Russian models, possibly one African Warlord in disguise, and cosmetics, lots and lots of cosmetics.

Supremely blessed, I have managed to parlay my quirky, mispelled musings into a career where I get to fly to NYC and attend major beauty expos like The International Beauty Show. Picture a giant stadium filled with rows and rows of the latest cosmetics, most of which arent even on the market yet or are only availiable to professionals, models, and free goodies. It's a magical place. A place where you can visit a huge booth dedicated to Essie and leave with a bag full of nailpolish without breaking $10. A place where you can get fusion extensions done by top stylists for free just by asking. A place where you can revel in free makeup to your heart's content.

It's like ComicCon for hair and makeup lovers.

Crowd shot of the massive Javits Expo

Had to snap this cuteness

Since New York is a tyrannical overlord that giveth and taketh away, this post can't be about cute nailpolish, sparkly lipstick, and girls with puppies strapped to their heads, wonderful though they are.

New York giveth me the free makeup and then prompty attempts to taketh my life!

Yes, I know. How many times am I going to write about almost being kidnapped, taken, or assasinated (yeah, that's right. I, the writer of this blog, am now self important enough to be assasinated.)
EVERYTIME J and I get together someone from Africa tries to take our lives. It happened in Paris, where we were accosted by a group of thugs and almost "taken" and now New York.

The Misadventures of Two Cute Shoes in The City

I'm beginning to think it's not the thugs, it's us. All we were trying to do was take our cute shoes out on the town, find a couple of Christian Greys, and dance to that new J-lo song. By midnight I had already located Fiddy Esq. and an Irishman to boot. Eyes were batted, drinks were had, good nights were made. And what thanks do I get for being a good girl and going home to my bed (or J's bed--thanks roomie): a cab ride from hell.

We end up getting into the devil's cab. The driver has no idea how to get from downtown to Harlem, ends up stopping the car, refuses to take us to our proper address and when kindly asked to supply a receipt replies with, "Get the fuck out of my cab."

By this point it was cold and raining. After several minutes of pleading with him to take us to our address to no avail we decide to get out and walk, but not before offering a few words of advise; "Fuck you," someone yells and since I don't know the appropriate procedure for evacuating a hostile cab, I get left behind with a now murderous cabdriver who has transformed before my very eyes into Joseph Kony.

Everything that happened after that was a blur but what I do remember is running through the streets of Harlem with a crazed cabdriver, who had abandoned his car, at our heels screaming, "You DARE scream at me, you insolent fools. I am going to kill you all, muahahahaha!" My heels transformed into Adidas and I into Usain Bolt, and somehow I caught up with my friends. As if we were in our own personal horror movie we make it to our gate and fearfully glance behind us to find the coast clear. Silence. And then, skidding tires as the mad cab from hell screeches to a halt in front of our apartment (Yes, he got back into his car to chase us). The door slams as he, not satisfied with making just one attempt at our lives, gets out again and starts stomping towards us, laughing like a combination of a Disney villain and some crazed African Warlord. I wonder when and how he had time to change into cameo pants and as J fumbles with the keys to her gate, I silently make an oath to God to donate money to Invisible Children.

My prayer is answered just as he's about to point what I perceived to be a machine gun at J's head; the gate opens and we rush through it. We don't even glance back to see if Kony made it through the gate because there's one more hurtle to jump: the apartment door. More key fumbling, more screaming, and more oaths to God made and finally we burst through the lobby, run, up the stairs and crash into her apartment while crying and laughing like lunatics.

We had survived yet another attempt at a night on the town, J and I. It filled us both with bravado. Take that, New York City. What makes you think you can take us when Paris failed! Who do you think you are, Bangkok?
J's Impressive Nail Polish Collection

My trip to New York City proved to be just as unprofessional and ridiculous as I thought it would be. I don't know why I thought flying in for business would change that. But, if it wasn't for Kony the crazed cabdriver, I wouldn't have had anything to write about except all those rows of lip-gloss and all the nail polish J bought after sneaking her into the show. And though I did not find my 50 Shades of Grey, New York definitely proved to be 50 Shades of Cray!

Till next time <3s

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