Why Is Everything So Much Cuter When It's Mini?

Okay, I'll admit it.  I buy toiletries in travel sizes when I'm not planning to travel.  I buy them just because they're cute.  Yes, I know it's not remotely cost-efficient.  Yes, I know that I can just buy clear plastic bottles and refill them.  I don't care.  Mini sizes are cute.  And I will shell out more dough to bask in their shiny little shrunken new-ness.  Perhaps it's because I had such an affinity for Shrinky Dinks when I was a kid.  (Apparently, that's dating myself).  Who knows.  Who cares?  (Well, other than the mini-making-folks that are reaping the benefits of my fiscal irresponsibility).  In short, minis make me happy.  Well, a few days ago, I found a little shop in Manhattan that played perfectly to my pint-sized predilection.

After a lovely dinner with my friend Bomboy, we happened upon a little establishment called "Baked by Melissa" on the walk from Lucy's (see past blog) toward the Sondheim Theatre.  Now, us New York folks are accustomed to seeing and experiencing every square inch of space on our little island filled with stuff, so the vast emptiness of this bake shop was the exact thing that caught my eye.  Well, and the name.  I mean . . . we'll just say . . . not the most creative.  But, there WAS a sort of homey quaintness to it as well.

"Look, this is cute", remarked Bomboy.  I didn't hear her - I was already dazedly walking through Melissa's door.  In front of me stood a wall of mini cupcakes.  They were brightly colored, perfectly iced, and adorably bite-sized.  Minis!!!  My Pavlovian kindergarten Shrinky Dink reaction jump-started my salivatory glands and I hungrily gravitated toward the rainbow sparkly baked goods.  (Duh).  Bomboy, obviously much more the adult than I, quietly contemplated the pricing.  I followed her gaze to the board that listed the mini cupcake pricing and lo and behold, the prices were anything but small.  One dollar per cupcake.  These bite-sized amuse bouche cupcakes were a full dollar.  Each.  A small bell went off in my head and a tiny voice whispered "overpriced", but it was quickly drowned out by my NEED for one of those cute little mini cupcakes.  Bomboy shelled out two bucks for our treats (thanks!) and we, in the interest of conservation, consumed them in two bites (instead of one).  Brilliant.  A perfect little treat.  Any more, actually, would have been too much.  (Even though, obviously, if I had had two, I would definitely have made them disappear somehow).  I was satisfied with my little treat and, interestingly, not too upset that I (well, Bomboy) was short one dollar.

So, "Baked by Melissa" was not the most exciting blog experience I've ever had.  Perhaps the likes of paintball and trapeze school were much more involved, but I was interestingly just as invigorated by my little new mini-adventure as I had been by my more adventurous adventures.  I tried something new, changed up my routine, and had a fun little time doing it.  The moral of the story?  Mini adventures, much like mini cupcakes, are often just as rewarding as their larger counterparts.  Word.  

Air in the Square

I love inadvertently stumbling across something that is completely blogalicious.  18 months ago, before I started this blog, I would have impatiently pushed past the throng of viewers in the middle of Times Square last Thursday and headed straight to my destination.  Now, partially because I am constantly in need of new subject matter for this blog and partially because (thanks to it) I have a renewed thirst for the adventurous, I stop and check things out.  Well, most of the time, anyway.  As I walked toward my new theatre of employ (the Stephen Sondheim Theatre on 43rd), I ran straight into a looming wooden structure and equally-as-huge crowd.  I stopped to check out the hubbub and was pleasantly entertained and thrilled for the next half hour.

Last Thursday afternoon, if you didn't know, was Air In The Square, a Mega-ramp ASA Triples Event.  Don't know what that is?  Yeah, I didn't either.  So, I stopped and asked an official-looking man setting up barricades.  Turns out, it's a BMX competition.  In Times Square.  For free.  Mama like.  I scooted toward the front of the group of folks, googled, and waited for the activities to commence.  According to my trusty internet-capable phone, this series of ramps was 195 feet long and a scaled-down version of the ramp used in the X Games (and event I DID recognize).  This course, though, had an extra ramp and two 15-feet jump gaps.  Oh, and it was smooshed between 42nd and 43rd street on Broadway.  Okay, I thought, this was getting more and more interesting by the minute.

Soon, the blasted punk/alternative music began to swell and guys on too-small-looking bikes whizzed down the large ramp and did an assortment of tricks in the air over our heads.  It was, in a word, thrilling!  They soared above our heads and I was terrified when I saw one of the first contestants wipe out, but the crowd around me didn't seem too concerned.  I realized as I continued to watch that falling was a pretty normal occurrence and these guys pretty much knew how to take their spills injury-free.  A particular biker did a fabulous-looking move and I leaned toward the guy next to me and asked what it was called.  "A 360", he repiled.  Okay.  Well, it was appropriately named, anyway.  I stayed for as long as I could, ooh'ed and aah'ed along with the crowd, and reluctantly turned toward work.  I became aware that this was an experience most people would pay a lot of money for and here I was stumbling on it while heading to work.  BMX pros warming up the pavement I walk every day.  And this, folks, is one of the many reasons why I love New York.

Knitting is for . . . cats

***Warning: Adult content!  Well, kind-of.  I didn't intentionally put it in here, but there are some adult-esque quotes floating around this narrative.  Not quotes from me, though.  I can't, though, talk about my latest adventure without including them.  So, stop reading now if you don't want to know about it.  The end.***

A few days ago, my latest adventure began with the following text messages:

"Wassup.  Jst got an email abt this kewl xhibit.  I want 2 go.  U near soho?"

"Yup.  When u wanna meet?"

"30 min at Spring St Physique?"

"Word"

Now, I was the first person in the above textersation (the murder of the English language facilitated by the world of texting still makes me cringe, but I, alas, must make my messages less than 160 characters like the rest of the world.) and my friend Zakiya was the second texter.  Per our vastly complex communication, we promptly met in Soho and headed toward a new art exhibit entitled (hold your ears, Mom), "Knitting is For Pu$$ies".  Yep.  And I hate to say it, but the name, in all its crassness, was partially what attracted me to the exhibit.  Also, I'm a pretty avid crocheter, so I figured that someone that shares my penchant for both crochet AND vulgarity was someone whose art I should see.  And yes, there was a lot of art to see.

The exhibit, by a female artist named Olec, was on the second floor of the Christopher Henry Gallery on Lafayette Street and, according to the man at the front desk, had been the hot spot of Soho for the past few weeks.  Alrighty, then.  Ignoring an exhibit of penciled pastel lines that I was obviously not cultured enough to appreciate, I immediately climbed the stairs to the dark second floor, made sure the coast was clear of wax figures (long story), and coerced Zakiya into joining me in what was, quite literally, a crocheted studio apartment.  Everything, and I mean everything, was crocheted.  The walls and floor were crocheted.  The windowsills and throw rugs were crocheted.  There was a crocheted sink, toilet, television, clothing rack, wardrobe, ironing board, and a crocheted man/woman sitting on the crocheted bed and pulling back his/her crocheted blanket.  Most of the yarn was semi-glow-in-the-dark, so the room took on a psychedelic quality that reminded me of a glow-in-the-dark mini golf course.  It was crazy and oddly surreal to stand in the room as the only un-crocheted beings.  I thought of the scarves I crocheted for the cast of a recent show and realized that, at the risk of sounding like Captain Obvious,  this had been an insane amount of work.  (Incidentally, I read later that the artist said she had created her impressive work while watching the Lost series on DVD from start to finish - I can relate to that).  We oohed and aahed for a few minutes.

"Um . . . Michelle?  Have you read any of this?" Zakiya asked.

No, I hadn't.  Bad Michelle.  Read the crochet and find the underlying meaning of this artist's hours and hours of toil.  There must be something she was trying to say.  I looked at the nearest inscription.

"Soul is the part of you that sees a lap dance every time you close your eyes."


What?!?!  Hold on a second.  No quotes from God?  The Dali Lama?  Confucious?

"Ur pu$$y is my soul mate."

"My mother hates Mother's Day".  

Really, Olec?  Really?  I mean, with a name like Olec, people maybe just expect you to spout wisdom like your almost-namesake Olmec from Legends of the Hidden Temple (c'mon, you know you watched that show), but did we have to go there?  Well, apparently we did.  And I've got to say that the quotes above were amongst the less vulgar.  I looked at Zakiya whose eyebrows were so far raised that they were actually creasing her normally-smooth forehead and . . . we laughed.  Heartily.  It was actually refreshing for a New York artist to so obviously take herself with an albeit very dirty grain of salt.  After reading the crocheted phrases, I felt more at home in the crocheted apartment.  Somehow, I was a little more at ease, akin to a friend telling a dirty joke at a tense dinner party.  We strolled around the apartment and looked closer at the plethora of woven objects.  As I was sitting at the desk pretending to talk on the crocheted phone, we heard a couple of women near us suddenly realize what was written around them.  Their response?  Laughter much like our own.  We smiled and headed toward the sunlit exit in gallery below.

Perhaps there was some deeper meaning I should have gleaned from the exhibit.  Perhaps there was some profound juxtaposition of the old-world crochet and the new-world verbiage that would shed light on the state of humanity today.  Or, some chick with a weird name likes to crochet dirty phrases while she watches reruns of Lost.  Whatever.  It was fun.  I figured that was what counted.  I thought of my previous textersation with Zakiya and figured Olec would have liked that idea, too.  Perhaps she would have crocheted it on a wall.

There's a Forest in Times Square

A few weeks ago, I was doing my usual I’m-a-New-Yorker-don’t-get-in-my-way charge through Times Square when I noticed a fairly uncommon occurrence in the middle of what most people call the Concrete Jungle.  Smack dab on top of what is usually a line of theatre-going tourists was . . . for lack of a better word, a forest.  Seriously, it was totally random and weird and out-of-place and kind of interesting.  My first instinct was to stay the course, chalk it up so some over-budget episode of Law and Order that happened to be shooting that day, and be early for work.  On second thought, though, I DO write a blog about trying new things in the city, so what kind of adventurous blogger would I be if I passed up the opportunity to check it out?  So . . . I took a Claritin and a detour.

Turns out, Aveeno (you know, like, the soap?) was the creator of this lush display of greenery, not some TV show.  Interesting.  I went to the nearest counter and asked an amiable fresh-faced young woman how I might best take advantage of Mother Nature’s big apple festivities and she directed me to the entrance to “the garden”.  I walked to the north side of the square, through an archway, and lo and behold, I was in a magical little forest.  After my first three steps, I could no longer see any of the man-made regalia that surrounded me.  I was in a forest full of trees and flowers and butterflies.  It was oh so Amy Adams in “Enchanted”.  (If only I could magically have her career).  The path in front of me snaked from side to side and featured all types of flora and fauna abbreviated with little identifying signs.  I stopped in front of a row of (what the little sign told me were) purple hellebores.  Beautiful.  And adorable.  And SO not Times Square.

I meandered from sign to sign, flower clump to flower clump, and, I must say, thoroughly enjoyed my romp.  Because of the wind-y trail, the length of the path through the trees was much longer than I had expected, and I emerged five minutes later slightly happier and slightly more relaxed.  It wasn't a full day in the countryside, but it was a much-needed taste of peace and quiet.  To sweeten my experience, a nice lady at the exit handed me a bag with Aveeno samples and coupons.  Win/win.  Will I buy Aveeno stuff because they (obviously) spend loads of dough to put a forest in Times Square?  Probably not.  Did my open-mindedness, marginal sense of adventure, and subsequent (albeit abbreviated) walk through trees and flowers make me a happier person for a little while?  Yep.  Good job, me.  Thanks, blog.

The Bourgeois Pig

If you know me at all, you know that I rarely venture south of 14th street . . . for many reasons.  First, the streets down there do not intersect at right angles and I am often very easily lost (particularly when I come to the intersection of 4th Street and 7th Street).  Second, the crowd down there smells of patchouli, more-than-dabbles in body art, and generally makes me feel like the geeky, unhip-sweater-set-wearing-approaching-middle-age American that I am.  And third, well . . . the long and the short of it is that it is a RARE day that I venture down to the bowels of NYU on a whim.  Yesterday, though, I did.  And I was pleasantly surprised by the adorable little discovery that I made in doing so.

Here's the skinny: my buddy Summer and I decided to go on a little impromptu outing to celebrate my newly acquired theatre job (see facebook after Monday).  I happily agreed to meet her in the "Union Square Area" and hopped out of a cab at 17th and Broadway seconds before I got her text that she had found a place called "The Bourgeois Pig" at . . . 111 East 7th St.   'Well', I thought, 'The place has an interesting name and I haven't blogged in a while, so why not walk the ten blocks to 7th and check it out'.  Here's the problem with that plan: it wasn't ten blocks.  It was ten blocks and 4 Avenues.  Did I mention that I also don't do Avenues that are followed by a letter?  Nevertheless, I managed to hobble over to the joint and was (thankfully) pleasantly rewarded for my ambulatory efforts.  The light stucco facade was different than any other exterior on the block and wrought iron lampposts and an iron-looking door gave the building an air of provincial France.  And somehow, the air around the building was quieter than the other sections of the block.  Which, in that neighborhood, is a really good thing.  Summer and I snapped a few pics and headed in.

It was even better inside.  The interior was laden with red velvet, dark wood, and antique tchotchkes that were actually more conversation pieces than eyesore.  A stunning blown glass chandelier hung over our heads and a collection of people that were veritably bourgeois themselves chatted and sipped wine around us.  And speaking of wine, the list of cocktails was staggering.  I had no idea where to start.  For a bar that makes cocktails with just wine and beer, they had a collection rivaling Wildhorn's collection of Broadway flops (sorry, I had to).  I had a concoction called the E.V. Swill that had muddled lime and mint, Lustau Pedro Ximinez sherry and was topped with champagne.  Yum-a-licious.  Summer had a Bergamot Toddy (Earl grey infused Lillet, lemon, honey, and pineapple).  We were off to a good start.  I took a moment to read the rest of the cocktail menu and decided this place would warrant another visit as I wanted to try more than I should in one sitting.

Bad news: The Bourgeois Pig sucks for vegan folks like Summer.  Good news: If you're amongst the Me-types that thrive on cured meat, cheese, and any incarnation of pork, you're in for a party.  I wanted a gnosh, so I ordered an assortment of bruschetta (cheddar and roasted apple, artichokes and prosciutto, and ricotta and eggplant caviar) and (the only not-so-great part about our visit) more prosciutto.  Everything but the prosciutto was fab, but the cured meat was slimy, overly fatty, and flavorless.  By then, though, I didn't care . . . because I was sipping on a Providence Punch (elderflower, blood peach puree, lemon juice, orange bitters, and pol roger champage).  Summer had . . . a toasted baguette.  But she didn't seem to mind either because she was slowly sipping a champagne concoction that rivaled my own Punch.  We chatted for hours in the warm, friendly, slightly-upscale-yet-laid-back atmosphere and generally had a fabulous time all around.

As the evening came upon us and the effects of our imbibement began to take hold, we sleepily headed out and grabbed cabs headed toward our beds.  I glanced out the cab window as we drove away and decided, despite my aversion toward avenues with letters, streets that shouldn't intersect, and patchouli,  to head back to "the pig" some time in the near future.  I figure some experiences are worth a little trek into unknown territory.  And who knows?  Maybe they'll open one in midtown someday.