If Carrie Drank Beer

After my SATC post, I got to thinking about if Carrie were more like me, she would clearly prefer a pint over a martini glass. But to entice her interest, there would have to be a beer to match her personality...a sort of personified doppelgänger to the Cosmo.


...slightly shallow, definitely fabulous, pink and frothy, goes down smooth...you get my point.


Only in New York does such a beer exist and it's thanks to one of the city's home-grown breweries, Heartland Brewery, a great place for a plate and a pitcher and also host of NYC Brewfest.


The Beer: Berry Champagne Ale, served in a tall, thin glass with an etching of a long pair of legs in fish-nets and red stilettes.


Take a sip, slip the beer goggles on, and start looking for Mr. Right...er...or better yet, Mr. RightNow.

Later that night I got to thinking about

sex and the city...

Signs in ticket booths across the City announced that all matinees and evening shows for Sex and the City were sold out. But I waited in line with a friend until it paid off and the 86th St. theater ran an extra showtime. I stood for the extra 4:00 show with a mass of women and a few men, most of whom were native New Yorkers excited to welcome their girls home after a long vacation. I listened to conversations around me as friends prattled about each the women. They speculated on what each might be up to as if they had just bumped into them in line for coffee. Some laughed about "old memories" as if they had repeatedly held broken stall doors for Samantha or Miranda in a bar’s bathroom or had brunch at a UES diner every Sunday afternoon with Carrie and Charlotte. I couldn't help but be swept up in the chatter, wondering if my Carrie would marry Big. Because after years of watching the show on DVD and later on TBS (even syndicated, it's still good), I felt like she and I were old friends. Now while I’m not one to be completely swept up by TV characters (books however are another story), I, along with many others, am fascinated by Ms. Bradshaw.

In true SATC fashion, Carrie narrated the film, offering witty quips to the plot of her life. But missing from the movie was the one constant: a blank computer screen filling with that perfect question that impacts each of the four women on the show and all of the viewers. And of course as the familiar *bing*bing*bing and New York City images flashed across the screen, I found myself wondering in typical corny, cliché Carrie fashion:

If all of these women had followed Carrie through the six seasons of her life, though obviously at different points, did they each take away a lesson about sex and the city? Will the re-runs now teach a new generation those same lessons?

In 1998, when the show first aired, I was 13. I was not thinking about sex and I lived in rural Pennsylvania, a far stretch from the city. I was in seventh grade and the only thing I knew about relationships and love were from those my sister had already been through. Sarah was twenty-five, in the realworld and in reallove. She’d gone to the prom, been heartbroken and re-bounded. She’d found her girls, her core who shared those secrets in a language only their group truly understood. They couched together each week and sipped wine as they were introduced to sex and the city on HBO. Together, they experienced Carrie’s big successes and bigger failures, until she finally made it Big.

I grew up literally years behind my sister…so while never in her shadow, I instead got to grow up seeing her learn and reflect from her mistakes (there weren’t too many…) until she found her Big. But I still had a long way to go from 13 to 25 and now from 23 to 35.

At 13, I spent Friday nights at Warrior Stadium, where the lights from high school football games switched on at dusk. I met friends just inside the entrance and circled the track again and again, never paying much attention to the game, worrying more about who was holding hands with whom, who opted to sit on the main hill and on whose blanket they chose. We endlessly chattered about which boys names filled the margins of our 5* notebooks. For me at the time, Adam scripted over notes in my Pre-Algebra and Social Studies notebooks.

I met Adam at one of the first football games, when the weather was still warm. He was the new kid. And I liked him. It took me four laps around the track for to say “hi.” The next three were spent whispering with my friends that I thought he was cute. We walked by the bleachers and the high school band trumpeting “The Hey Song,” by the visitor stands, by the hill where all high schoolers pretended to watch, and the food shack where parents spooned cheese on nachos later. And 10 full loops later we were boyfriend/girlfriend.

Today at 23, I realize I’ve scratched through a lot of different names on my notebooks. And I guess what I’ve discovered is that even when I buy a new notebook, those faint traces from where I wrote too hard are still etched in. Their names still on the tip of my tongue; and believe it or not, I think if pressed I could probably recite each of their phone numbers by heart. So in 1998 when Adam and I broke up after two months of middle school bliss, and I thought my world was shattering around me, it wasn’t. And I had my sister to fall back on…Sarah told me the world was not destroyed (I was a tad over-dramatic then, some might say I still am…) and wouldn’t end with him (“Look at him…” she said, “would the world really end over him?”). She repeated this in varying phrases when I was being a silly college girl, and now when I’m an adult in New York City.

It’s been ten years since Adam, ten years since the first premier of SATC and while I still am not sure of the ingredients to a cosmo (Niamh knows, so it’s close enough), I can tell you a few things a bit more surely than I could at 13:

I don’t need a cosmo when I can have a good beer (thanks Rick), I don’t need designer when I can have Kohl’s, and I don’t need a guy when I have New York (but…clearly everything goes topsy-turvy if your name happens to be Mr. Big…).

That’s my lesson and if you are a fan, you should know the episode…

A Birthday Girl, A Smithwicks Pint, and A Galway Hooker

Sounds like an Irish Drinking Song…and in many ways it should be. You’d think this combination would be cause for a good time, or at least a good story…let’s hope for a good story.

The Hook—

The birthday girl, none other than Neever dealt with the onslaught of aging one more year through denial, rage, and ultimately found acceptance at the bottom of many Imperial Pint glasses, courtesy of Eamon, bartender extraordinaire at Midtown’s The Galway Hooker Friday night.

Charmed by his Irish accent, un-even teeth, and random bursts of U2 lyrics (hokey and cliché, but all true), Neever (now more of a persona than nickname) routinely held up her pointer finger and with a little nose-scrunch order pint after pint (along with a carbomb and cosmo at midnight). Eventually the crowd changed over from happy hour (4-6) to nightlife (8-4). We held our ground in front of the taps, and eventually found our group of eight whittled down to the two of us. No surprise there. Since I’d met Neever, we’ve managed to close or almost close several bars.

As we sat, judging the clientèle around us, we began to be approached….by…well I wouldn’t exactly call them men, but they seemed to be of that same gender.

The three actors were the first to approach. Fred Savage (a chunky version) was introduced to us by his friend, who I decided resembled Kevin Bacon (as he was known the rest of the night), and Tom Cruise ambled over a short while later, deeming us important enough to approach or just lonely at being left by his entourage of less than attractive look-a-likes.

We gave our names, Kate (Neever) and KT (me).

Kevin winked when we met, winked as we talked, winked from across the room while Fred chatted with Neever and me about his work with the government….at which Neever (persona) interjected that he was thus the reason we were still in Iraq with a bit of a smiggle. Fred took offense and sulked off. Tom Cruise lost interest early on and went to prey on other Holmes’ (Katie’s) as we clearly did not make the cut.

The Line—

They were replaced a group of raucous 36-year-olds who surround the pair of us, leaning around and between to order Jack n’ Cokes and Bud drafts. After some lewd remarks over our heads, one made contact…with me. As Spitz (he provided me with saliva sprinkle each time he spoke) zeroed in on my 3-foot bubble, Neever met Droopy Puppy.

Droopy Puppy, age 39-ish, had eyes that were deep-set in caverns of black shadows. His smile was a pout and his stomach a pouch. Feeling the confidence of the Captn’ in his veins, he tried his best line on Neever.

“If you could name one book that I could read to get you to go on a second date with me to discuss it, what would that book be?”

Little did he know, he’d struck gold with the English major working in Publishing. I was too preoccupied with Spitz to hear much of their conversations as he was busy trying his ‘technique’ out on me. In an effort to impress, he figured the key to my interest was to share all about himself.

He worked for an Investment Bank, successful, single, straight.

“But I work with a bunch of Ivy League assholes. And there I am, out of Rutgers. They go to the Hamptons on the weekends, play golf in pastels…”

All sounding very good to me…

“And what do you do,” I dared to ask.

“I can’t even tell them that I spend my weekends getting black-out drunk (I must interject here—at age 35+ mind you) with my buddies, so drunk I pass out in a corner, wake up not knowing where I am and realizing I’ve puked all over myself…” Spitz sprays me with a fresh mouthful of saliva as he laughs at his own ‘sweet life.’

And this was to impress me, or as I over-heard him tell his friends, “she’s in the bag.”

While I was in the bag, Neever continued to heatedly converse with Droopy Puppy, ultimately deciding any book by Margaret Atwood would score him a second date with her. He whipped out his phone, spilling his rum and coke on my dress and into my shoe. Oblivious he tapped in her phone number (oh…you better believe she gave him the real thing) with the promise that in 3 weeks he would have it read and they would have dinner.

The Sinker—

He moseyed off to share his good fortune with his friends, while one, Nice Married Guy (NMG) came over to talk to us.

“My friend over there told me the author he needs to read is Margaret Atwood. He knows I’ve read one and said I should come over and find out the book...” He took a seat on the free stool. “I just want you to know he’s a great guy and we’re the types that don’t do this well…we’re, you know…pretty awkward about this stuff.”

Neever looked at his hand, and scoffed, “You’re married.”

“Yes. And I think all it takes is that one connection (I wish I was making this up…but word for word, this is what he said). You never know when it will happen or how, but when you have that one thing, that connector…I just want you to know he’s a really great guy and though the drinks he’s had tonight have made him bolder, he’s a good guy.”

At this point, Neever asked, “You have kids?”

“Yes two, one 8 and one three months.”

“Pictures?” She continued.

He took out his cell phone and we stared at a squat, grainy, younger version of NMG. Neever, interest quickly evaporating, announced she had to use the restroom, then mouthed “is that ok” at me.

She left and NMG turned to me asking, “What’s the deal with your friend? I mean you seem nice and approachable, easy to talk to. I think you’re probably honest and genuine. Why is she so guarded? Why are you taking care of her?”

Not sure what to say, I sat back and listened as he eloquently tried to deconstruct my drunken friend...

And tried to process it, remembering that he was married, met his wife in college, so thus probably had no clue as to what the New York City dating scene really was. Remembering that it was approaching 2:30 in the morning, so by this point, no one really makes much sense when they are interpreting society’s social constructs. I tried to remember that I would never see this guy again, so the fact that he called my friend guarded and me her babysitter shouldn’t really be taken to heart.

So when Neever finally came back, and I shared with her NMG’s professional opinion of the two of us in front of him, I was not surprised by her reaction. It was the same as any 20-something single female in New York City would have. She turned to him with pursed lips and explained…

We are young and free—no string or fishing line attached and this is our time to be reckless, casual, silly and fun. There’s no way we want the baggage NMG’s lugging around with him.

So the consensus is I’m pretty sure he, and Spitz, and Tom, Fred, and Kevin were all jealous. Of the fact that we are 20-something and fabulous—out late, drinking pints, with no ties except the one to our favorite Hooker (boat that is).

Office Politics

The Cubicle Effect

It’s fairly safe to say that when I started my job nine months ago, I was completely ignorant to corporate bureaucracy. Because of my ignorance, I did not take offence when on day one, my boss led me to a workstation instead of a cubicle.

You see, a cubicle has three sides that rise almost as tall or taller than the employee who sits in them. Space is left for a door if you so desired screwing one in. It has several drawers for filing and to hold personal belongings. Often it even includes a chair to be used for quick meetings between colleagues. Two-thirds of the cubicle is lined with a beige metal shelf to hold products, files, clutter and beneath the back wall, fluorescent “track” lighting glows on the desk. The computer keypad hides beneath the main desk on a black stand, making the entire work space appear sparse, clean and organized.

But walk ten feet and you move into my ‘open’ workstation. I am about a foot taller than my three ‘walls,’ two of which seem to be more like partitions. The top of my boss’s head is clearly visible as she bops round the corner with a knock on the…metal cabinet which serves as my drawer, my door, and my desk. I am only allotted one lengthspan of desk space with no drawers and no little black stand for my computer's keypad.

The Office Dictionary

More and more often now I am brought into meetings. My Outlook Calendar blinks orange 15 minutes prior to the scheduled time, and just as I do with the morning alarm, I snooze it to 5 minutes before I need to be there. I sit around a table with twelve others, three of whom dial in on the conference line. Their voices chime through at various times during the meeting, but otherwise I forget their existence, until one focuses on a specific point He disagrees with.

Several pairs of knowing eyes in the room meet, roll, and dart up or down. People smirk into coffee cups or chew their pens while He continues harping on His point, long ago moving away from whatever topic was originally on the agenda. The looks continue as He rattles from this argument to that until one person finally interrupts,

”Guys I think we should take this up, offline.”

Offline—Probably my most favorite phrase I’ve encountered since entering the working world. What I’ve gathered in terms of meaning is that it's a politically correct word for one of two statements:

“This is f-ing ridiculous. Why are we wasting my time discussing it”

or

“You’re wrong and your idea is stupid. We will nix it later”—i.e. Offline.

Either way it's perfect and I believe it to be a welcome addition to my person vocabulary.

Set a Reminder

The coffee-cup gossip that would involve my name still makes me flush with embarrassment, even though in the end it did no real damage. Since my workstation lacks the proper space for any personal belongings, often they just sit out and I fish through them for my gum or lip gloss throughout the day. My bag usually packed with clothes and sneakers from my morning gym trip, my lunch and other odds and ends, remains open for most of the day, without any additional thought from me.

But a few weeks ago, I learned a lesson when I stepped into a catch-up with my boss. While I was away from the desk, my very own ‘Michael Scott*’ swung by to ask me a question. A co-worker saw him hunting for me and let me know when I returned. I sat down to shoot him an email when I happened to glance to my left. There, for all the world and Michael* to see was my favorite, tattered sports bra, just chillin’ outside my bag, hangin’ out...just air-dryin'.

As I sat there staring at my oldest, ratty undergarment, knowing it should be in the trash, all I could picture was Michael* recoiling in disgust as he gave-up looking for a post-it to leave me a note and shrank back to his safe, sterile office with a door he could close and a drawer for his personal stuff.

At that moment, I couldn’t wait to become management.


*clearly not his real name

The Small-Town New Yorker

So I am not really sure how to start this blog. I thought about an introduction, telling you (whoever you may be) about me, but then I figured that most of you know me and I have probably already told you I am starting a blog, so what’s the point in introductions.

Then I debated about just jumping in with some of the random posts that pop into my head throughout the day, when I turn to my friend Niamh (rhymes with Steve, not Ni-am-ha) and say “I want to blog that.”

Or maybe the best choice is a story since that seems to be what I do best; tell stories. But which one should I go with, which one should set the tone for this blog…keep you interested in reading again?

I think I’ll start with me.

Nine months ago I began my New York City experience, moving up from rural Pennsylvania with 3 suitcases, 2 parents, 1 job and no place to live. I transplanted from a town where the ratio of cows to people was 3:1 and the ratio of monuments to people, 2:1. I didn’t think I’d find many similarities to the Big Apple and my Apple Country, but surprisingly a few do exist. Bobble-neck pigeons seem to outnumber humans in the same way as the cows, a 3:1 clump I constantly dodge. Their impatient surges from the sidewalk have me batting my hands in a wild attempt to swat them away.

The monuments of Soldiers and cannons lining cornfields were replaced by obelisk skyscrapers shadowing suits and skirts, their height soaring in comparison to the transit masses.

I learned a great deal in those first few months. I grew to recognize the man at the top of 33^rd and Park’s subway stop who yelled, “Paper, Good Morning New York, Free Paper, Get Your Paper here…AM New York” then leaned over to nod, “nice skirt” at me as I tramped up the last few steps. That was probably the coolest part (not the man's compliment), but when I learned my way around, I no longer felt like a tourist.

And that’s when I finally settled on what this entry should be about. My first New York Moment as a New Yorker (though I get that I am not technically allowed to call my self one for what…10 years of surviving here or something ridiculous like that?).

The worst month to move in this city is definitely August (I changed from sub-let to apartment August 1). The worst month to walk by mounds of garbage that sit out for most of the day is August. The worst month to do anything outside, including walking one block to work, is August. You can’t stand still without having rivers of sweat puddling in precarious places (gross I know, but you know too). In this weather my shirts…changed color, my make-up smeared to an abstract watercolor painting, and my hair frizzled to Don King heights.

But there were some great things about summer in the city. And my Moment that still can make me pause like a tourist was my first Happy Hour on a Rooftop Bar in Midtown. On one evening, my co-worker invited me for drinks after work at a bar close to our offices. A co-worker I’d never met was leaving and this was naturally a reason to grab drinks. The bar was around 35^thand Third Avenue. When we got there, I order a vodkatonic (one word in my dictionary) and squeezed by people to the group we came with. As the new comer, people asked a lot of questions—where was I from originally, did I like the city, how was I adjusting?

They seemed to look at me as a new exhibit on display, “Small Town Artifacts” (not an interactive, hand-on display--more of a gwak and point showcase). And I made it worse by casually mentioning how I got on the subway to go up to my sublet on 96^th and Second Avenue. I had stopped at a supermarket and picked up some ice cream for dinner after spending the afternoon with a friend in Times Square. I pulled out a book on the train (to fit in with the other natives) and waited to get to my stop. It was raining when I stepped off the train and looked around for which direction I was supposed to go….and I stood there…and a little longer still until I realized that I was not anywhere near my apartment. In fact, I was the Upper West Side, and yes I lived on the Upper East Side…you know, the other side of the island. I had to ask a cop how to get to Second Avenue, which clearly involved going all the way back down to Times Square across to Grand Central and up to 94^th.

As I told the story, I watched as these seasoned New Yorkers made pitying eye contact with one another and laughed at my rookie mistake. So I took advantage of my newness by saying that I actually love having these New York Moments.

Cassandra frowned at me and asked what I meant by a New York Moment. And I dramatically swept my arm around and said, “This.” Obviously.

There I was in my first few weeks in the city on the third floor of a roof bar. The sun was setting and I stood facing the Empire State Building, sipping a vodkatonic, watching as the sky kaleidoscoped from reds, pinks and oranges to blues, blacks and violets. They laughed as I shared my moment, shaking their heads I guess at the fact that I was still a wide-eyed lover of all things New York. But eventually they cracked their shells and shared a few they’d had when they first moved here.

Cassandra’s was a favorite: Every morning coming up the subway from Brooklyn, she stopped at the same metal box bagel and coffee stand on the curb for a small cup of coffee. Her first sip, the anticipation of it as she came up the subway steps, and the walk savoring it was her New York Moment.

So that's my first post. I'm KT. It's nice to meet you.

Tell me your New York Moment, good, bad, or made-up…