Merry Christmas from NYC

Central Park

Frosty

♥ J’aime Bianca

Harlem for Obama

♥ J’aime Bianca

Myspace

Langston Hughes once said, "Life ain't no crystal stairs." He was obviously talking about living in New York when he wrote that. I can't complain though, things have gotten much better within the past three months. You can definitely say life in New York ain't been no crystal stairs...but I think my life might qualify me for the cubic zirconium stairs. I've got new friends who are crazy and sweet, old friends who keep me sane and laughing, and after much praying and fasting I finally got a new job. I love my job because it allows me to do three very important things - put money back in my savings, work styling gigs (because I get off at 2:30pm), and BUY FURNITURE! The first item on the furniture shopping list, a bed of course. I can finally get my luxury mattress off the floor.


I feel it is very important to have a room that is a sanctuary. Sanctuaries take time to develop, and my room is no exception. I started with just a blow up bed and a canvas, so at best, my bedroom was a low budget homeless shelter. After two weeks of my butt sinking to the floor from a deflating air mattress, I upgraded to a Kingsdown luxury mattress. Retail value: $1,091.55; the price I got it for with God's favor: $317. The next step was to paint over the horrible wall color - prison grey that was slapped on top of an odd shade of pink. Two coats of primer, two gallons of Behr Enchanted Amber, and a gallon of Swiss Coffee rescued my walls from its former state. Painting took a while, but when I finally finished I was able to unpack my fiberbed. That's right, MORE SOFTNESS! My mattress is a eurotop, which translates to "sleeping on a cloud" in mattress terminology. But when you match the luxury mattress up with the fiberbed it's like sleeping on the wings of an angel. All I needed was a bed to get it off the floor.

Well, my bed arrived yesterday. And as I was assembling it on my own, I thought about how much easier the process would have been if I had done it with a friend or maybe even a mate. I started comparing the "cute couple's way" to a "single woman's way"...


Step One - Connect the base board and the head board to the side rails

The Cute Couple's Way:
"One of us can hold the side rail while the other one screws it to the headboard and the baseboard"

The Single Woman's Way:
"If I place the headboard face down on the floor and screw in the side rails while they are balanced upward towards the ceiling, that will give me enough leverage to connect the base board after I've connected all the other major pieces."


Step Two - Connect the slates to the support bar and the 4 support legs

The Cute Couple's Way:
"Honey, I'll hold the slates while you screw in the support bar and legs."

The Single Woman's Way:
"How in the heck am I going to do this...Okay, if I brace all the slates against the wall, I can put the screws in from behind, attach the support bar and hope that it stays in place long enough for me to screw the legs in. Then I can tighten the screws once I angle it on the floor."


Step 3 - Place the supported slates inside the bed frame

The Cute Couple's Way:
"That's sounds easy. You grab one end and I'll grab the other and we can place it inside the frame."

The Single Woman's Way:
"What?! These instructions apparently do not apply in New York apartments. No one has that much space to have a bed frame next to slates that are connected. This isn't going to work. Okay think...If I brace one of the support legs on my lamp I can put the frame down on the ground. Nope, that didn't work. Okay...if I brace one of the support legs on my lamp which is then supported by my bedroom door (see image, I really did that), I can put the bed frame down and then maneuver the slates inside the frame. Ooooh Jesus, it's hot."


Step Four - Screw all the slates down to the side rail

The Cute Couple's Way:
"Baby we're almost done! You grab the screws and I'll grab the drill."

The Single Woman's Way:
"You must be crazy if you think I'm going to screw in 28 screws when I just put 8 into the side rail, 4 into the support legs, and 2 into the support bar. There's no way"

28 screws later...

"I should have just given the delivery man $45 to put this bed together himself."


I didn't opt not to pay the assembly fee because I had a deep desire to prove my independence as a woman, I was simply being cheap. And although building the bed alone gave me a great since of pride and achievement, I finished with an even deeper appreciation for community and help from others.

Needless to say, my sanctuary is still a work in progress. I still need window treatments for my gold accent wall, a dresser, and some other things. But until then, I'll be enjoying my space as it is.


♥ J’aime Bianca

Jas & James - Back Together Again

Then

Now

I'm With Diddy on This One...

♥ J’aime Bianca

Last Day of Summer

I like to spend my Sunday afternoons napping and writing, but last Sunday I got a little off track. You can thank my mom, she sent me a digital camera.

Overhead View from the South Ferry to Governor's Island


NYC Waterfall at Governor's Island


Governor's Island


No Cars - Only Biking and Walking on the Island


I don't want to call them picnickers (because the word picnic bothers me)
so I'll just call them "New Yorkers enjoying an outdoor meal"



The Statue of Liberty from Governor's Island

♥ J'aime Bianca

Never Forget

During last semester, in a cognitive psychology course, I learned about the concept of "flashbulb memories." Flashbulb memories are "memories of emotionally charged or especially memorable events that have been claimed to be particularly vivid and accurate." It has been debated that flashbulb memories become less and less accurate and vivid with time; however, when it comes to the catastrophic events that occurred on September 11th, it seems almost impossible to forget.

I remember exactly where I was when I heard the first plane hit the South Tower. I should have been up getting ready to go to school, but I was in bed trying to ignore my mother who was making a fuss in the den. I was positive she was coming to wake me up again, but instead, she ran into the room and told me that a plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. Still groggy I replied, "It's probably the Russians." When I finally got up, I sat in front of the television in complete shock. Peter Jennings was covering the breaking news. During his report, he paused to allow another correspondent to speak about what was happening on the scene, then suddenly, the second plane hit the North Tower. In my life, on that day, it was a life changing news report; I went to school, I came home, and I continued to watch this story unfold from 3,000 miles away. But for many New Yorkers it wasn't a news report, it was real life.

Now that I am a New Yorker, I felt obliged - to the city and to those who passed away on that fateful day - to pay my respects at Ground Zero. I visited the site two days prior to September 11th, and I noticed that the city had a different tone than usual. Volunteers were setting up the stage for the memorial program and architects were delivering a model of the National September 11 Memorial & Museum, yet, they were all working slowly with such caution and precision. Tourist even stopped taking pictures and took a moment to observe the former location of the Twin Towers, SILENTLY. Sorrow and somberness seemed to reach up to heaven because it rained in a matter that seemed like the city itself was crying. I felt so mournful and enraged.

It's possible I left my feelings there that day; I returned to Ground Zero September 11th and could hear the commotion before I emerged from the train station. There were those who were there crying and mourning the lost, and there were those who were speaking about the controversy that surrounds the "attack." I immediately gravitated to a man who was talking about the "unexplained" things that occurred on that day. He argued why the buildings fell demolition style, why many New Yorkers believe that it was only two buildings that were destroyed in the World Trade Center plaza, and a bunch of other incidents that somehow added up to the number seven. Much of what he said - mostly the seven mumble jumble - was senseless, but even I know there are things that just DO NOT add up from that day. Out of respect, and fear of government surveillance, I'll refrain from giving my opinion about what REALLY happened...but if I send you a postcard from Cuba with a picture of me and Assata Shakur on the front, it's because my super came over unannounced to "inspect" my apartment.

Just as I was about to create a soapbox, made of street meat foil, and trump this man's information with facts, my friend kindly pointed out the Tribute in Lights memorial. The memorial was amazing; approximately 88 search lights directed towards the sky, towering over the city as the buildings once did. When I began to take pictures I noticed large unidentified particles floating within the lights. It definitely wasn't snow, and the particles were too large to be moths, so naturally, we walked towards the lights - which were located quite a few blocks away from Ground Zero - to see what they were. As I stood directly underneath the memorial, which was located atop a parking lot near Battery Park, I ruled out every logical object it could be. The New York Times reported they were "insects (and perhaps birds), but I beg to differ. Perhaps it's just something that cannot be explained, or maybe, just maybe, it's the spirits of those who were lost in the tragedy. If they cannot explain how St. Paul's Chapel, which was located directly across the street from the World Trade Center, suffered no damage on 9/11, than its quite possible the objects traveling within the lights are unexplainable as well.


There were 2,970 plus people who died on that day. Four hundred thousand people were exposed to the World Trade Center dust, sixty four of which have died of September 11th related illnesses. Countless volunteers and rescue workers who worked during the relief efforts are now dealing with illnesses that include post traumatic stress disorder, respiratory disorder, and cancer. Seven years later, it is still very clear that we will NEVER FORGET, especially when 9/11 related problems still persist.

My heart and my prayers go out to those affected by this catastrophe.

♥ J'aime Bianca

Fashion Weak

Labor Day seems to invoke a number of different emotions. For those who actually get that day off, it provides a sense of relief because the three day weekend allows you to circumvent the usual Monday blues. For parents, it brings forth an overwhelming sense of joy because it means the kids are going back to school. And for New York fashionistas, Labor Day brings forth feelings of love, passion and creativity because Mercedes Benz Fashion Week is right around the corner.

I must admit, I was eager to be apart of this seasons festivities. I applied to several different internship postings via craigslist with the hopes of being underneath the magical tents. Evidently, I was not the only girl, or guy or transgender person nowadays, who wanted in because my willingness to labor for free was denied. I was completely content with pursing this quest again in the winter, until I met Tom. He was the Wille Wanka to my fashion factory. It is my personal goal to become a fashion stylist, and when I overheard him tell someone he was a fashion stylist on the train, I had to introduce myself. A few extra stops and a business card later, I found myself with the golden ticket – an invitation to a fashion show.

Unfortunately, I let my fashion fantasies exceed my reality. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe I was going to be underneath “the tent” between Heidi Klum and (my all time favorite editor at large) Andre’ Leon Talley, however, the idea of strutting into the promenade or the salon in my lacey pumps had become a reoccurring day dream of mine. The show I attended was not exactly a Fashion Week show; it’s what I like to call a “Fashion Weak” show.

fashion weak (‘fa•sh^ən ‘wēk) noun. – small scale fashion shows that occur during Fashion Week that are not sponsored by Mercedes Benz (does not denote that they are unworthy of attending or that the designers’ collections are weak, they’re just not as glamorous as the shows in Bryant Park).

After fighting the tropical rain storm, spilling pizza grease on my dress (which thankfully did not leave a stain), and breaking the tip of the heel of my shoe on the sidewalk, I stepped off the train at 42^nd Street Grand Central Terminal – a few avenues away from Bryant Park – with my confidence surprisingly still in tact. My bad luck made me perfectly on time to meet Tom and a few of his friends. He greeted me with the same kindness and sincerity that he did when he first met me, and wasted no time telling me about the exciting Verrier show he had just worked at Bryant Park. We watched the Kahri show, which made me covet the “Leader of the Pack” jacket and “Love Child” top, and I made a few new contacts. By 11:00pm, my stain resistant dress and broken lacey pumps were back in the closet, and I couldn’t have been happier. It definitely was not my Fashion Week dream, but it was well worth the adventure.

♥ J’aime Bianca

A Bite of The Big Apple - Pop Burger

I have decided to do a series called A Bite of the Big Apple within my blog to give you a taste of the things I feel are uniquely New York. These blogs will describe events, theatre, restaurants, night life and anything else that can only be found in this bustling city. And for those of you who plan on visiting, this could be used as a great tool to help you pick some potential destinations. So...Bon appetit!


Have you ever wondered about those models who say they love burgers but weigh a mere 95 pounds? If you ask me, I don't buy that "I eat anything I want" bit. But if they were to succumb to the temptation of fried food like the rest of us, I'm sure they would pay a visit to Pop Burger.

Who can resist the guilt free goodness of a bite sized burger? Its not like New York city McDonald's give you the option to feel good about your nutritional choices when the calorie count is posted right on the menu. Big Mac meal...600 - 1200 calories. What's with the variation; is that with or without the special sauce? I say, skip the complicated and go for the smaller joys in life. Pop Burger makes portion control easy, and easy to afford. With two mini burgers you have the option to think about Larz, your personal trainer, before you break your diet; or, you can give him your second burger. And if Larz is completely against beef, you can opt for a chicken burger which has the same amount of flavor but lacks of cuteness - chicken burgers don't come in the mini size.

♥ J'aime Bianca

A Date or Something Like It

As a single woman, being new to the city inevitably makes you new to the dating scene. Yet, it seems as though the men of New York are much like Rubik’s cubes. They look fun and colorful, but they’re not as easy to figure out. For instance, do some men intentionally bypass chivalrous acts, or do they forget to open doors because they are so used to subway and building doors opening automatically. Don’t get me wrong, there is always a man willing to help me carry my heavy grocery cart up the subway stairs or carry my rented ladder from the hardware store to my apartment door. But those things are obvious. Opening doors or walking on the outside are those less obvious acts that really set men apart.

Another thing I have not figured out is when I should consider going out with a man a date…or something like it. I recently met up with a guy I met on New Year’s and had accidentally – my touch screen phone would dial his number in my handbag when my key lock was off – kept in contact with. He is a Brooklyn native, and I had planned on spending my Sunday afternoon at the Brooklyn Flea Market, so we decided to get together. A thunder storm cut our trip to the flea market short and we ended up at a near by sushi restaurant. After wowing him with my sushi knowledge, which was nothing more than a well memorized list of all the things Bond used to order when he took me out for sushi, we went to the movies. Afterwards, we made an impromptu visit to Home Depot, which was followed by a second meal. I had not planned on going on a date, as a matter of fact I’m not interested in dating right now, but as I sat at the bar eating my hot wings listening to him tell me about his last serious relationship and the number of children he wanted, I started to wonder if this had inadvertently turned into a date.

My mind instantly flashed back to an uncomfortable moment Dez and I had a week earlier while having dinner with the Mayor. In the midst of all the great food and small talk the Mayor’s colleague blurted out the most unexpected comment, “This is a great place to have a first date.” With out hesitation Dez and I, in unison, replied, “THIS AIN’T NO DATE!”

I was hoping I could avoid repeating that scenario with my Brooklyn ambassador. And thankfully, I did. There was absolutely no “date” conversation prior to, or during our meeting; and I assure you I am not one to make assumptions. However, it made me wonder about these New York men. At what point does going out with one of them turn into a date? Is it after the third hour, or after the third destination? Is there a financial cap that mayor Bloomberg put into place which allows men to spend only so much before they are automatically considered “on a date?” Or is the idea that a man will ask you out, and allow you the chance to say yes or no, SO retro it is being auctioned off in the vintage category on eBay?

♥ J’aime Bianca

I Think I Love My Life

Many years of school have taught me how to be a scholar. If there is a book worth reading, I want it. So when it came time for me to relocate to New York, I did what I know to do best; I read a book entitled Relocating to New York City and Surrounding Areas. Unfortunately, there is no book or amount of advice - or weekend seminar for that matter - that could have prepared me for such a transition. Although the book was helpful, it lacked some very pertinent chapters. As a result, I feel it is more than necessary to provide you with some personal supplementary chapters.

Chapter One - "All Cried Out"

I'm not typically inclined to burst into to tears, - I'm still waiting for The Notebook to trigger a reaction - but for some reason I couldn't stop crying the day I moved. I was finishing the last of my packing when I had a brief moment in my room; I assumed that would be the end of it, but I was far from being done. When “Bond” (that unpredictable man who finds a way to do something sweet a moment before you consider deleting him from your contacts) came over to help me ship my boxes, I started to notice a pattern. Every time we transitioned from one phase to another, I would cry. I cried when he moved all of the boxes out of my room. Then I cried when he loaded all of the boxes onto the Uhaul. I cried when he unloaded the Uhual and put my boxes on pallets at the Amtrak station, and again when I gave the foreman the money for my shipment.

Afterwards, we returned the Uhaul and headed back to my house. I was confident the crying was under control because there was nothing left to do besides wait for my mother to take me to the airport. When we arrived at my place something strange occurred. It seemed as though my tear ducts became larger and I lost the ability to hold back the tears because I realized it was time for Bond and I to say goodbye. A few months prior I had told myself that this moment would not be like the end of Casablanca; it would be swift and easy. Our goodbye was nothing like Casablanca. It was better. It pretty much encompassed our entire relationship. Honest, funny, and deeply emotional. Somehow, it caught me by surprise. I knew I was going to miss him, but I didn’t know he was going to react to the emotions and the crying so perfectly. I think my love for him might have grown deeper in that instance. After an hour or so of multiple failed attempts to leave, he finally managed to walk out the door.

Ten minutes later, my mom came home to find me lying on the bed, eyes swollen, looking pitiful. She gently placed her hand on my back and asked, “Baby, are your cramps that bad.” I chuckled. Then I cried because it was time for me to say goodbye to the greatest person in my life. My mom means the world to me, and I think the world knew. Why? Because I cried all the way to the airport, through the baggage check-in line, during the security check, and in the diner where I had dinner. I basically cried until it was time for me to board the plane. I was so exhausted from crying I slept through my entire flight.

I woke up the next morning with a head ache and a new roommate. We were so excited to be official residents of New York City. We grabbed our bags, hopped on the Super Shuttle, and headed to Harlem. As we stood in front of the door of our new apartment I was hit with a number of feelings. I was excited and scared, but mostly anxious because I had never seen the place. Dez opened the door and this is what we saw…
Well, that’s just the bathroom. But the entire apartment was cluttered, dark, and filthy. And when we opened the door to my room we found living beings asleep in a fully assembled bed. I called my mom to let her know I had arrived safely. She knew something was wrong because I really didn’t have much to say. I immediately called Jas to ask if we could come over to take a shower and nap – there was no way I was doing ANYTHING in that apartment. I stood in the middle of the living room as my mind raced. I had to sit on the edge of the rancid futon just to keep from losing it. I finally broke. I put my face in my palms and let it rip. Dez followed with a barrage of tears.

Chapter 2 – “Little Child Runnin’ Wild”

There we were, two women, roaming the streets of New York looking like lost children. We were hungry, tired, and funky. I had a backpack, my money mug, and the same “Cali Girl” shirt I had worn while moving. Dez had her small rolling luggage and a dirty sun dress. The only thing appealing about our appearance was our new haircuts. We were the definition of high class homelessness.

We finally satisfied our hunger with chicken and waffles at Amy Ruth’s. Just as we were getting ready to leave, the men at the table next to ours struck up a conversation. Coincidentally, one was a general contractor and the other two were electricians. They offered to pay for our food, but we were hoping that they would offer to do an extreme make over on our apartment. We struck out. However, the general contractor did offer to take us to dinner when he saw us wandering the streets shortly after our initial conversation.

Chapter 3 – “We Live in Brooklyn Baby”

I love Brooklyn. The streets are lined with trees and there is a peace – West of Malcolm X Boulevard – that is a little harder to find in Manhattan. When we got off the A train I was praying that Dez would instantly fall in love with Bed Stuy and agree to ditch our dump and move to Brooklyn. She had more hope in our place than I did.

During my nap at Jas', Dez received a call from the general contractor about dinner…

Chapter 4 – “I Run New York”

Fast forward a bit… “the Mayor” (the gentleman formerly known as the general contractor from Amy Ruth’s) opened the door to Philippe’s Restaurant (no, no, you want to click this link). We started calling the general contractor the Mayor because everyone seemed to know and love him. He walked over to his business partner and a few moments later they were leading us down the stairs, through the kitchen, and behind a curtain. Apparently, the upstairs dinning area was for commoners; people like the Mayor eat in the wine cellar.

The waiter brought over hot lemon scented towels for us to wipe our hands with and the Mayor proceeded to order every possible animal that ever roamed the earth. Somewhere between our second and third course I realized that Russell Simmons was sitting across from us at the next table. I laughed to myself. In less than 12 hours I went from hating my life and wanting to move back home to loving my life…until I had to clean our apartment the next day.


♥ J’aime Bianca


And Bond, thank you for everything you did that day, you were amazing.

This Ain't Sex and the City

I have dreamed about living in New York City for years. I believe it started at a MESA (Mathematics Engineering Science Achievement) competition when I was twelve when I met a recruiter from Cornell University. At that age I hadn't realized that Cornell was in Ithaca, New York - and no where near the Statue of Liberty - but the idea of pursuing higher education at such a prestigious university (in what I thought would be the Big Apple at the time) fascinated me even then.

Now, twelve years later, here I am. I live in a cute two bedroom apartment in Manhattan, with my dear friend Dez, for an outrageously low price. However, knowing that this is exactly where God wants me to be at this time in my life is more satisfying than my rent-controlled apartment.

"So what's the story behind the blog?"

Well, if you know me, you know I'm not the kind of girl who likes to spend countless hours on the phone. As a matter of fact, I don't like most forms of modern technology and communication. My attention is too divided to hold a suitable phone conversation, my email and Facebook responses are few and far between, and don't even bother texting me. I always say, "If you want to be close to me, you have to be close to me!" Translation: You have to be in my presence to know who I really am. So what happens when you and your presence moves 3,000 miles away...you blog!

Currently, the title of my blog is This Ain't Sex and the City. Although Sex and the City is one of my favorite shows, I want people to know that this blog, and more importantly, my life does not play out like that well written series (Note: I have watched many hours of Sex and the City, however, at no point did delusion set in). So until I find a title that fits the personality of this blog, it will remain.

♥ J'aime Bianca