Monday, April 18, 2011

shout. out. loud.

I have a confession that I must get off my chest.  You can call it an addiction, you can call it infatuation, or perhaps a little crazy; however, I call it jealousy. Over Christmas break, my entourage, which included 4 of my gal pals, and I flew to the one and only New York City.

Hold on to your britches readers, the next four NYC posts will transform your mind, body, and soul into a full believer of white powdered substances and have you believing that you and lady liberty have an incanting resemblance of each other. Don’t turn green with envy that you didn’t jump on board this extravaganza just yet….what happened this trip, none of us saw coming. But before I can relish the happenings of this NYC trip of a lifetime, I must first introduce you to the characters.

It hit us like the stench of the subway in China Town, our first New York morning minute.  Snuggled up in the quaint hotel beds, the first breath of the previous night’s apple martini to break the honking cab horns and street commotion was Pinky, signaling for a roll call. Pinky, our beautiful Indian princess and closest thing to culture we had in our travel group, shot up out of the bed, whipped her hair back and forth, and said southerly slow “pr-e-se-nt”. The sound that escaped her mouth was not Pinky’s normal southern chime. Mugged and left for the pigeons, her vocal cords were a force to be reckoned with, resembling a cross between an ESPN sports caster and the 3rd and 45th jazz player. The previous night Pinky’s voice worked every room she entered, signaling to the local boys to sing like the piano man for her grace and charm. She found herself that night taking a stroll in Samantha’s shoes, embracing every stitch of Christian Louboutin thread, weaving her hot red sole into all the gentlemen’s hearts.

A few minutes past and everyone rolled back into their mattress indentions to hear a faint “present” coming from the bathroom.
        Huh? Head slanted. Eyes squinted. Jaws dropped.
The sluggish moan, echoed off the bathroom walls and onto our deconstructed faces. Little did we know we were in the presence of royalty.  The queen herself was tucked behind her castle wall curtains, lounging in her throne, enjoying her private suite...tub, snuggled up to her stunning vintage, scalp to heal fur vest. Spike. The only person in the world who has the power of Moses. With feet shoulder length apart, the crowded NYC streets parted ways perfectly around the perimeter of her fluffy fur vest, to clear a straight path to move through. All because her sinfully obsessed love for spotting trends and finding deals takes on roadrunner characteristics, exuberating clouds of smoke behind her, leaving only one thing on everyone’s mind: who let the dog out?

The queen had spoken, and the room began to shake with the thunder of our hotel room door slamming shut. We had an addict in out group. Quest. That morning, Quest fled like taxi cabs in search of a hand in the air, toward her nearest corner.

A country girl, raised on the farm learning to drive a tractor and shoot a gun before the age of 10 goes beyond the stereotypical southern sweetheart. Her obsession with the wild city of NYC came at every corner this trip. Whenever in the absence of Quest we knew we could locate her on the corner. Four bucks. That's all she costs. Simple. Easy. And quite the catch. Every corner would indulge in her southern charm at least twice a day. Starbucks. Being the supportive traveling companions, we encouraged our friend in her growing relationship with her time spent at her corner each morning.  She clinched her venti sized cup, filled with driven navigational talent, that routed our destiny through the squared streets of the island with star power that even  google earth couldn't map quest. Her guiding north star qualities left no travelor behind, as we wished upon the NYC lights for her guiding light each night.

Her light shined on all of us that morning to get out of bed and reach for the stars, for it was a beautiful 32 degrees in the city that never sleeps. Last to open her big baby blue eyes was Pesto. Still green from the night before and discovering her morning beauty, Pesto, rolled over on to a sour patch kids tiff with what lied ahead of her that trip. Her love for life, trying new things, and taking party planning anuchative,  proved to us all in a later night, dont mess with the shorty in stilettos. Pesto had a special spunk about her no one could deny. Maybe it was her inevitable ability to fall to the ground for fun or her sick sense to fit perfectly into the biggest little city in the world at such short height. Pesto's self discovery and to be frank, our discovery of Pesto, alarmed all Italian boys to migrate toward her luscious looks and I'm single, hard to get qualities. She actually needs no further introduction in this post...as she has a post dedicated to the sweet, saucy flavor she stirred into the NYC wintery mix new years eve.

Open up that sence of humor lingering in your satire deprived sole and into the trip of our lifetime.

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