Last night the bling-eratti were out in full force in NYC. Chalk it up to perfect weather, but I say NYC doesn't seem to have gotten the memo about the recession. I saw not one but two pairs of Chanel gun heels. Yes, Chanel made a high heel with the heel shaped like a revolver. And let's just say they will set you back $2,200. No, I did not forget a decimal point in there. That's two thousand two hundred dollars for a pair of high heels.
While out on the town for a bachelorette party, we ended up in the lounge at the new Cooper Square Hotel. It's a beautiful enough space, and certainly fulfills every cliche on it's checklist (model waitresses, the flamboyant gay hotel bar manager with the expensive suit and the kerchief poufed just so out of his lapel, the requisite music industry group who found it necessary to invite their pug out for the evening, etc...) But what really got me was when I exited my toilet stall in the ladies room, I was gently greeted by some poor member of the waitstaff, a pretty enough girl but apparently not tall enough/pretty enough/skinny enough to make it to front-of-house waitstaff status, this minion was dismissed to the loo with a tray of wine glasses, asking every chick who just peed if she'd care for a glass of chardonnay. I kid you not. As if I was potty training and getting a reward for actually "making" in the toilet. "Could I offer you a glass of wine? We're so grateful to have you use our restroom." I wanted to snatch this poor girl up and shuffle her out of the toilet catacombs to above-ground level, rush her out the front door of the place under the comfort of my wing (armpit), and let her breathe the fresh, New York City air, so she could once again feel womanly. And worthy. And not like a urinal waitress. And then I remembered that I was in a luxe hotel on Bowery (it's own wild contradiction) and that the outdoors smelled a little like pee too. And I remembered that we were in a recession and this girl was lucky to have a damn job. So I snapped back out of my Save-a-Toilet-Girl daydream, whisked a glass off her tray and traipsed back upstairs to my friends.
Only in New York, kids. Only in New York.
While out on the town for a bachelorette party, we ended up in the lounge at the new Cooper Square Hotel. It's a beautiful enough space, and certainly fulfills every cliche on it's checklist (model waitresses, the flamboyant gay hotel bar manager with the expensive suit and the kerchief poufed just so out of his lapel, the requisite music industry group who found it necessary to invite their pug out for the evening, etc...) But what really got me was when I exited my toilet stall in the ladies room, I was gently greeted by some poor member of the waitstaff, a pretty enough girl but apparently not tall enough/pretty enough/skinny enough to make it to front-of-house waitstaff status, this minion was dismissed to the loo with a tray of wine glasses, asking every chick who just peed if she'd care for a glass of chardonnay. I kid you not. As if I was potty training and getting a reward for actually "making" in the toilet. "Could I offer you a glass of wine? We're so grateful to have you use our restroom." I wanted to snatch this poor girl up and shuffle her out of the toilet catacombs to above-ground level, rush her out the front door of the place under the comfort of my wing (armpit), and let her breathe the fresh, New York City air, so she could once again feel womanly. And worthy. And not like a urinal waitress. And then I remembered that I was in a luxe hotel on Bowery (it's own wild contradiction) and that the outdoors smelled a little like pee too. And I remembered that we were in a recession and this girl was lucky to have a damn job. So I snapped back out of my Save-a-Toilet-Girl daydream, whisked a glass off her tray and traipsed back upstairs to my friends.
Only in New York, kids. Only in New York.
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