Last night we saw the hilarious Dirty Rotten Scoundrels with John Lithgow, which was tremendously exciting, and then dined at Joe Allen. It was very New York and perfect for our last night in town.
The boys left at the break of dawn for sailing in Maine, which I believe they're doing now. That left mom and I a day to explore by ourselves and we decided on the Chanel exhibit at the Met and then lunch and shopping before catching our plane back home. (Well, not home, exactly. Oakland.) As we strolled from the subway to the Met, I marveled at how much I adore my new flouncy skirt. I pretended to pay attention to my mother as I admired myself in store windows. This joy was shortlived as a huge and unending gust of wind (perhaps a northern cousin of the hurricane) swept upon us and took my skirt with it. For what seemed like hours, I repeatedly exposed myself to all five boroughs. Worse, I was wearing incredibly unattractive grandma underpants, which frighten myself, much less those forced to examine them on 82nd and Madison.
Moving on, the Chanel exhibit was spectacular and afterwards, we enjoyed a lunch that was both appallingly wonderful and expensive at E.A.T. Cafe, brainchild of food god, Eli Zabar. I also spent some alone time on the roof of the Met, marveling at Central Park below and being coerced into taking group shots of tourists who refused to thank me. The just grabbed their camera from my hands and turned away, as if I was hired for this sole purpose.
Mom went off to meet some clients so I made one last stop at H&M, grabbing cheap apparel as fast as I could, convinced it'll be years before this mecca of fashion makes it's way to San Francisco.
We cabbed it to the airport and hopped our JetBlue flight. Perhaps I wasn't informed, but most passengers were required to possess a screaming baby and disregard for others. I did enjoy the DirecTV and watched a 3 hour documentary on the history of capital punishment before giving in and catching up on my Blow Out.
I also had a rather unexpected run in on said cross-country flight, and in yet another bizarre twist of fate, wound up standing in the bathroom line with someone who considers me the Anti-Christ (which I am, although not in this particular situation.) That's always fun. While we pretended not to see each other, I debated tapping her on the shoulder with, "I bet you'd rather I be a terrorist as this is horribly awkward."
I survived the flight, grabbed my bags and mom and I were off. I am now home, safe and sound, having hugged my roommate and written my blog. All is once again right with the world, as Spots is back in the 415...