IdeasofAverage

As I am new to this idea of writing useless pieces of information from my life to the public (i.e. blogging, though I'm sure no one is reading this just yet), I decided to do a bit of research. Confession: the only true blog I have ever read is stylefile, and if I should one day aspire to reach such high levels of public or personal satisfaction I'll quit now.  So I stumble around on the internet, and after browsing, or mainly looking at pictures of people's pets, I've determined there might be a little room for originality amongst everyday, average blogs.  Despite my constant mention of my own pet puppy, I have vowed never to commit what I have deemed the following crimes of blogging:

1. do not greet your reader. they know what blog they are reading and I'm assuming want you to get to the freaking point.

1a. do not date the blog. it does it for you.

2. Do not talk seriously about your sleeping problems, your bowel problems, or personal problems of any kind that do not have a funny or entertaining bit attached. 

3.  Do not talk seriously about anything at all, unless of course it is a serious blog, involved in promoting serious issues.  Not the nightmares you're having in your tent while trekking across Montana.

That shall cover it for now.  And after these 3 vows, I've vowed not to read many blogs again.

Many may feel rejuvenated and inspired upon a return to the city post country jaunt.  I, on the other hand, feel slightly more at odds with my city.  My overwhelming sense of obesity could have been from the stoned feast of icecream and banana bread at the lake, or maybe it is just from all the little modelrexics skipping around my neighborhood.  Either way, it always takes a second to move back into the swing of things. (that is a horrid expression, but I'm out)  

That's why I have to choose my bed over crashing my roommates date, because even though my personal model encounter this evening with my pup, while the model's chihuahua humped her, reassured me there were 'average' above average people still in public with flipflops and a sweater on, my trainer's coming really early this morning.

AsianAverage

its Memorial Day weekend, and while your slew of acquaintances runs off to the Hamptons to bring the party to Stereo and PM, you and your roommate and puppy stroll around your tourist ridden neighborhood regretting your paralyzing indecisiveness concerning weekend plans.

post frozen yogurt, new from the favorite deli up the block, you stumble upon the eurotrash hangout on Mulberry.  George the greek, the french owner, and your neighbor who hails from Montreal all sit outside sipping vodka and hacking ciggies with you. Suddenly appears the town crazy, Willy the Asian. Short, porky, and with glasses as thick as thieves, he proceeds to sit down. And an hour later, he's still there playing itsy bitsy spider up your arm. An hour after that he's chasing after you, shoving through crowds of upper east siders, screaming Ellie!!! Ellie!!, the name he has chosen for your puppy.

Waiting for your dealer has never been so eventful, and terrifying.

heres my lingering question (and not "will you love me?" from Willy): when you are solely in a depressed state, ready at any moment to throw a full-fledge pity party for yourself, why do socially promising occurrences jump off the sidewalk and toss themselves into your life, forcing you to instantly decide whether or not to continue on in your self pity? it is a decision who's immediate consequences bring about a self judgement in a way  that should be reserved for times only when you feel satisfied with the current status of your life.

and contemplating whether or not to venture out into tourist land should deem no ones life satisfactory. only average.

AverageEvenings

when you live in nyc, it is common myth and common practice that making plans and following through with them has a success rate of somewhere around 26%. i believe this shall apply to me and those alike for some time, unless of course you suddenly become above average and rule your life with integrity and organization. those of us here without an agenda of course, do not.

this is why when you are at previously mentioned 'bar' with your 2 confidants, and booty call rings on your blackberry (a fun little toy you surely had no business buying) mumbling code words to get you and other stragglers into the box on a thursday night, you oblige. mundane details of booty call's life are not a concern, rather they could be a nice anecdote in another entry concerning men and the lack there of in this estrogen ridden city. 

you enter and proceed to the bar. with vodka rocks in hand, because why skip the middle man, you proceed upstairs where booty call is working the vip room. after a few ciggies and some lame conversation, an accidental encounter with a stranger resembling eminem leads you to the front table for the upcoming shows. 

for box virgins, the burlesque performances usually consist of exposed body parts, provocative dancing, and even some excrement eating. this evening we were treated to anal flavored tequila, beatboxing drummer boys, and your average lesbian strip tease. yawn.

all the while you take in the agness deyn wannabe dancing wildly to your left; the 19 yr old pro-snowboarder grinding with your friend to the right, (athletes are well-known to be rythmically challenged), and a smaller than average man in front of you wearing a tie talking about nyc nightlife in a way that leads you to believe he probably just landed at jfk, direct from arkansas, 2 days ago. 

just as you are about to be drunk enough to forget your most average outfit of black skinnys and keds, eminem hands you a little bag o' fun and suddenly the box bathroom is the place to be.

the evening dwindles and somehow your roommate racked up a tab. the vip room is empty, save for booty call in a fedora and unbuttoned button up, and you and your company proceed to trek the 3 blocks home.

at least the puppy is happy to see you.

the next morning over brunch at colonial (because who actually waits in the gitan line besides tourists) you and your roommate decide against the dark seedy scene. slipping out just as easily as you slipped in. what used to be free fun has now turned into a paying consequence.  maybe average just means you're getting old.  

4pm rolls around and per usual the question 'where did the day go' dawns upon us. magically before we are ever able to truly ponder this, texts for happy hour flood the lines.

normally, i reserve happy hour for the employed suit crowd.  i have never been one to enjoy slurping up martinis in midtown while donning tailored black, but this one promised a bloody social member appearance. so again, we obliged.

turns out, there are ways to take the edge off of happy hour. me and company's method: tequila-a beverage known to take the edge off of everything. perfect.

while chaining and swallowing and freezing up on the hotel roof, while foreigners squeezed by to photograph the beautiful new york view (the main attraction: steve madden sign in pink and black), topics ranged from an acquaintance band's horrid new single to vibrators. pretty standard, average speak. as has been said, "big people talk about ideas, small people talk about events, and little people talk about other people." average people talk about all of the above.

the night ends with a little brooklyn band's concert at the once uberhip lit, which has now been reserved for average and under, just the way we prefer. post mediocre hotspot and rosarios, we must walk the neglected puppy and pass out. there is no television involved in this activity, as the one we own is a 10 inch tv/vcr combo solely for the purpose of watching acting tapes (preferably while stoned.)

stumbling into the bathroom to attempt removing the taste of dough and cheese in my mouth, i think of the little couple that was formed in the last hour. in this evening's hookup case, chivalry rose quietly from the dead as (insert male name) walked home (insert female name. disclaimer: these are my average friends). of course this is not chivalry in its truest form, as the favor is now being returned as i type these last few words, but maybe the facade was enough to spike up the arrow a bit beyond average tonight. because i am sure it was not my vintage dior headscarf that did the trick.

B Average with me....

at the risk of sounding like another whiny privileged chick, while my best friend sits beside me muttering "im not here to judge, im just here to smoke a cigarette in peace," i have begun to wonder rather heavily where all the imperfect, common-place, average people go.

the sole view of new york city perpetuated throughout decades of Warhol partying, the coke filled eighties, and "fabulous" adult ladies running through town in dolce and manolos, has been one of glamourous living free of financial burdens and personal insecurities beyond that of who's engagement ring is bigger and who's getting into the box tonight.

what most do not realize is that there exists a community of young pretty people who rub elbows with the glamorous, but do not speak to them.  they enter, maybe even throw, the weekly parties at la esquina, make an appearance at the box, but no one knows or cares who they are or what they're doing there.  its the crowd in which the stars are allowed to shine.  and their everyday lives are nothing less than average.

when your life revolves around being unemployed and walking a puppy you have recently adopted as yours from your slightly more employed roommate, fabulous doesnt fit much into the equation.  

your wardrobe: H & M and AA basics with a splash of costume national boots bought at an outlet abroad (that i've declined to walk in)

your entertainment: google, style.com, puppy parks, and cinema nolita

your apartment: great, in the context of the youth of the finance world sans trust funds, with 2 bedrooms and lots of noise from the dingy dark bar below and the mexican singing and pot banging out your kitchen window. its most redeeming quality-less than 2 blocks from gitan, where you can stroll by the employed unemployed, who always are hipper and more hungover than you.

your nightlife: pouting at the Beatrice bouncer while those much thinner stroll on by..., tagging along to your roommate's friend's cousin's party, stopping in to say hello to the dj you slept with accidentally one night (early morning) post cocktailing shift at the mediocre hotspot for those just like you. my personal favorite-the bar where you sit with your most trusted confidant and revel in your average unhappiness.

your fantasy: meager hopes of working in fashion, being taken seriously, all while looking 'absolutely fabulous," as has been drilled into your head for the past 7 years, and again now in 9 days with the onset of the older, wiser, and more-fabulous.

as it may become more difficult to come up with average comments, for my life could suddenly transform, i hope i will be a devoted blogger.

aside from the rolling bar at equinox, this is the most fun i've had all day.