this imploding heart

I tried to call you on the telephone

Can I please first note that Billy Joel's "She's Always A Woman To Me" has played in a different location for Tiny and I once a day for the last 3 days? It has. Once, from beginning to end, each day. I had totally forgotten that Billy Joel had even existed at all until I heard that song, and now he's everywhere I go.

It's not a terrible song. It's about how ladies break your heart, but that's okay, right? Sure. Sure it is.

On to our day's adventures!

We stood outside our beautiful little temporary home for nearly ten minutes while I asked Tiny if she was really sure I wasn't going to need a sweater. You can take the girl out of the Pacific Northwest...

We bought coffee from the catty girls and sunscreen from the friendliest counterman in Park Slope, then set out for a gallery in Chelsea.

Tiny's mother works with a woman who's aunt owns a gallery, and through this convoluted connection, we introduced ourselves to Helene. Or, Tiny introduced Us to Helene, and Helene's gallery introduced Me to the work of Cindy Sherman.

The exhibit was all Cindy Sherman in self portrait as different clowns. I liked it very much.

Helene made a map for us of which galleries were worth visiting and which were crap. While we semi-ignored the actual map, we did accept her favorite line of advice, "And, you know, you can just ignore any galleries you walk into and don't like right away."

We saw 3 paintings by Hillary Harkness that I liked very much, each dollhouse details of scantily clad ladies in compromising -and sometimes undead- positions. I immediately thought of how much Cake would like them. I went up front to see if there were postcards, but there weren't, and the gallery attendant, like all the gallery attendants before him, was a total assface.

(Dear Gallery Attendants: Please get over yourselves, you're just receptionists who don't have a phone to answer.)

We had gotten into the habit of walking into any room that was painted all white, so we had the supreme misfortune of waltzing into 'comme des s'. comme des s was an upper-scale clothery filled with psudo-inspired fashions, funhouse walls, jerks, and a catfood smell.

I ran smack into my 5th sneering face in 6 seconds as Tiny was trying to figure out why a particular wall was constructed in a semicircle to the side of a room for no particular purpose.

Sonya: in a whisper, trying not to put her fingers in her mouth. "TINY. PSSST."

Tiny:"What's up, Sjet?"

Sonya: "I hate this place! Please get me out of here!"

and she did.

We went to a similarly outrageously priced clothing store next, but everyone there was nice and didn't snarl any more than the mandatory amount. Even when I dropped something in the fountain! (What was that place called? We can't remember. This only proves that if you piss us off, we will be back to destroy, or be snarky about you.)

(oh no. We just had a little blogging interlude, see? And in this interlude, we had a few drinkies. Bear with us, as we have become TERRIBLE drinkers. Nothing of the champions we once were.)

After the clothing store, we went to the catholic church thrift shoppe, where the old ladiesa made Tiny put on sequined dresses and black shoes because she reminded them of Ginger Rogers. I bought a set of coasters from Dubrokovic, Yugoslavia and was asked for the 4th time this trip if I was from Sweden.

(there aren't so many blondes here, I've noticed. particularly not blondes as blonde as my bottley blonde of death and blondeness.)

We had lunch at a french cafe in the meat packing district. We're tending to order the same thing lately, which...for some reason...makes waiters tend to look at us as though we're five year olds dressed up in mommy's clothes. But whatever, they were nice and the food was good (the place was called Phillip Marie, we think. On Hudson street, near all hte things that call themselves 'Hudson __________'. And the catholic thrift shoppe.)

We followed all our free and artsy hub bub with a trip to Century 21, which has always been a real estate agency, as far as I've known, but will now be known as Department of Discount Death. I bought an all white dress that I'm calling my coronation dress, and Tiny found Pants Made by Cherubim. We followed with the 'try things on in the aisles' school of thought, and the staff made known their opinions about our selections. They were very helpful, and helped convince Tiny to buy a very head-turning black and white number. You're going to just DIE when you see it...

or not, whatever.

We had roast beef on the porch and watched the sun set. Stacia came in to town around 9:30, and that's how we ended up with the drinking. The waitress said we should come back, because all the hot guys came to that bar. We left anyway, and another bartender tried to get us to come to his bar. Are there a shortage of women in Prospect Park?

See you loves tomorrow. Click 'more' for pictures, (all photography today by Tiny.)

Posted by Sonya at June 3, 2004 06:43 PM