Day 23: Never have I ever... attended the St. Patrick's Day parade

It's St. Patrick's Day! I'm Irish and unemployed... Parade here I come!

Marching Band

I've never done the St. Patty's Day thing in NYC. I have been in Chicago when they turn the river green, and that is pretty cool. But, I'm generally not into huge mob-crowds. They're oppressive, annoying, and potentially dangerous. But I decided that I'd probably be OK if I got to the parade by noon. How drunk could people be by noon? 

Flag bearers

The answer: Very drunk. People were shoving and pushing, and I felt like cattle being herded onto the slaughterhouse truck. I nearly stepped in puke. And there were more stupid outfits than Halloween at a frat house. Felt leprechaun hats, bouncy shamrock headbands, spray-painted green hair, even green tulle tutus. Everyone was decked out, I was practically blinded by all the reflective green sparkles. 

The un-stupid outfits were all IN the parade. I have to say, the parade itself is really cool. Huge bands with elaborate outfits, bagpipers with kilts, Irish dancers in gorgeous dresses, color guard and flag bearers in uniform. It was festive, indeed. Though it was very difficult to see over the throngs of people. I can only imagine that the people along the front barricades had been there since 8am. You gotta really LOVE St. Patrick's Day to do that. 

All in all, watching the parade on a beautiful, sunny March day with a cold Guinness in a cop-friendly thermos was a lovely treat. This is something that I would never ever take the time to do in regular life, but I'm so glad that this project afforded me the chance to do it. 

A wall of American Flags

Though I probably won't do it again. Because with rare exception, these are the main crowd demographics at the St. Patrick's Day parade: 

1. International Tourists
2. Teenagers
3. Bridge and Tunnel Assholes 
(And to clarify, I'm not saying all B&T'ers are assholes...)

Grand Central Station. Mid-day.

Walking down to the subway, every bar was packed. I picked up the 4 train from Grand Central, and I have never seen it so crowded in the middle of the day. It looked like 8:45 a.m. on a Monday morning. Except a really weird Monday, where everyone is wearing green and falling down the staircase. 

Results: I came. I saw. It was fun. I went home before things really got ugly. 

Status: Slàinte! 

Day 21: Never have I ever... been to a Trampoline Park

[For the time-conscious... skip  down to the bottom and click on video montage of our hour at the trampoline park. And try not to laugh too hard at my outfit.] 


Somewhere on these great interwebs, I heard about a trampoline park in San Francisco. It looked amazing. So, I looked up the generic search term "Trampoline Park" just in case there were others like it... and found them to be more widespread than I had thought. In fact, there was one in Boston. And it just so happens that my best friend lives in Boston! Score. 

Weeks ago, we made plans to go to the Trampoline Park during my next visit. We did not, however, plan for her to break her ankle the day before my arrival. (Sad face.) Unfortunately, trampolining was out of the question for her. But since she had to work during the day, I decided that I could still find time to check it out. And I enlisted a friend! Our pal Courtney, visiting from the deep South, graciously agreed to accompany me on a spunky afternoon adventure. She had no idea what she was getting in to. 

We arrived to SkyZone and immediately realized that this was no typical quiet Friday afternoon. There were children everywhere! Why weren't these rugrats in school? Oh. Spring break. Great. 

Check out those sweet sneaks

First, they give you some supercool high-top sneakers to wear for a) ankle support, and b) to ensure everyone is jumping in smooth, tread-less shoes. Getting over the gross-factor of sharing these shoes with thousands of sweaty children (yes, they handed me a boys' size 6 to wear), I actually kind of liked wearing high-tops. Brought back memories of 1992 and my sweet L.A. Gear kicks. Oh yeah. 

Before we could jump, a young referee had to give us the "rules speech". I believe the rules were: 1) If you need to rest, come off the court, and 2)  Don't jump on anyone's head. Got it. 

We were in. It was basically like jumping on a trampoline except you could jump all around, and even off the walls. The sensation immediately brought me back to being 11 years old. Weeee!! I'm jumping so high! I'm like a superhero with super jumping powers!!!

But I quickly realize I am not 11 years old. My heart feels like it might explode. So does Courtney's. We are sweating. We are panting. We look at each other, embarrassed to admit that 7 minutes of this activity is potentially all that we can handle. The kids are flying by us like the gummi bears, bouncing here and there and everywhere, laughing and talking and not winded at all. We are old. 

Over in another area we see some women about our age. So we jumped over towards them. Moms!! Yes, moms are more our speed. They're jumping, sort of. In fact, we feel pretty spry next to these ladies. We feel downright nimble! Except for that one show-off mom, who was doing flips and stuff right next to her daughter. She's probably a former Olympic gymnast and beauty pageant queen.

Me and the Ref. He kept us safe. 

Next, I begged Courtney if we could play trampoline dodgeball. The ref told us that due to "our size", we had to play with the "big kids." Thanks. An elastic pen with 14 tweenage boys, 10 balls, and no mothers in sight. It smelled like feet and hormones. The boys were about, oh 12-15 years old, and raging with an angry sense of insecurity-fueled competition. Right away, yellow-shirt-kid sensed my weakness. As soon as I stepped on the court, he waled a ball directly at my face. I ducked. Take that, yellow-shirt. I threw a few impotent balls in retaliation, and then Courtney and I just ducked and bobbed our way around until the ref blew the whistle (THANK GOD), and we scurried off the court. The smiling ref said "C'mon, don't you want to play again?"  Maybe another day, when I'm wearing a hockey mask and have taken some testosterone injections.

As my grand finale, I decided to try to flip.  So, I went over to a crash pad area and was able to successfully hurl my body forward in a 360-degree flip. It wasn't pretty, but I did . I even landed on my feet two of my three attempts! But I didn't stick the landing. Oh well.

Though we had only used 40 minutes of our hour long sesh, we were both exhausted. Now I understand why SkyZone claims that an hour-long jumping session torches 1,000 calories. I believe it. 

The Queen Bees who snubbed me.

Just as we were about to leave, amid a sea of boys, I saw a group of tweenage girls gathering near the dodgeball area but not seeming interested in jumping. I always hate it when girls sit on the sidelines as boys get out there and jump into the world (pun inteneded), so I walked up to them and said "Hey do you guys want to play a girls game of dodgeball?!"..... and.... silence. They looked at me with furrowed tween indifference, and I'm pretty sure the ringleader rolled her eyes at me. A few minutes later, they did line up for a girls' game of dodgeball, but they didn't ask me to join. It was sixth grade all over again, except I didn't care this time, because I'm 30 and can buy beer. 

Courtney and I came down off the court and took our shoes off; the floor felt so oddly unyielding compared with the rubber floor we just enjoyed. We debated if this would be a fun adult activity after a few beers, but we both decided that we'd probably barf. 
 

Results: Oh man this was fun! Possibly the most fun I've ever purchased for $12. It's a novelty experience that I highly recommend. 

Status: Success!!!

Day 17: Never have I ever... crashed a black tie gala

I live a reasonable life in a fabulous city. I am not the woman with the perfect, shiny hair laughing over a glass of white Bordeaux in a sleek SoHo restaurant. I don't frequent establishments with velvet ropes of any sort. Though I am a fan of establishments with other sorts of ropes, like climbing or nautical. And my black-tie gala experience is mostly comprised of some lovely events I've worked on.  (I usually attend these events sweaty and frenzied, having changed into my gown in a hotel bathroom stall while simultaneously shimmying my pantyhose on and shoving a piece of pizza in my mouth.) Glamour. 

But the fabulosity of New York City is an intriguing environment to inhabit. Some days I love it. Some days I hate it. Sometimes I'm envious. Sometimes I get exhausted just looking at the fabulous people leading fabulous lives because, Dear Lord, I just couldn't look that fabulous all the time without the help of a daily blow-out, manicure, make-up artist, and personal stylist. And a therapist to help me with my impending identity crisis.

Party-crashing has reached epic proportions in recent-ish media. How hard is it to be faux-fabulous for a day? I dared myself to crash an honest-to-goodness black-tie gala as an imperceptible interloper. Haven't we all wondered if we have a little Gatsby in us? 

Pre-crash mirror-shot

This task required buddy. I knew exactly who would be up for this silly and somewhat daring challenge: my pal Beth, the ultimate performer. She agreed to be my wingwoman without hesitation. Hesitation is the enemy. 

The plan was to pick a gala, dress to impress, and then brush right by the registration area while speaking French to each other. (I didn't say it was a good plan.) Beth speaks French fluently and impeccably, and I planned to say the minimum number of French words required to feign a normal conversation. If approached, act confused and attempt to explain that we were searching for a party, in broken English, of course. Should we get nabbed, we figured that flat-out lying was a no-no and could land us in hot water. But friendly, lost French ladies? Innocuous! 

For Plan A, we picked a Mother of a gala: The Director's Council Winterball for the Museum of the City of New York. Held at none other than The Plaza Hotel. Attendance by invitation only. $3,500 per ticket. Yikes bikes. For Plan B, we picked the 100 Black Men Gala at the Hilton New York. Mainly because I've done several events in that hotel, spent literally hundreds of hours inside of it, and know the Ballroom names, floorplans, and square footage by heart. Plus, the security is a joke, and I know it. 

@ the Plaza, longingly peering in

We learned that the Winterball began at 6:30 pm, so we arrived around 7:45, hair did and dolled up. The Plaza was crawling with hotel staff, men in penguin suits, and ladies in floor- sweeping sparkle gowns. Confidently, we nodded at the hotel greeters and breezed right through the giant floral arrangement in the lobby. Straight ahead there was a set of glass doors and a small line formed in its opening. Beth concentrated on our faux French dialogue while I scoped out the situation. We followed the other guests and stood in line with them for a hot second, until I craned my neck around the huge blond head in front of me and saw a firing squad of a registration table.  Then I was blinded by the flash of hired paparazzi-like photographers. Crap. This wasn't going to work; there was no way to get past these doors. Abort mission! I motioned to Beth that we should step out of line, which we did. From there, we worked our way around the outside of the windowed ballroom for a clear view inside. The set-up was intense. Once past the registration table, every guest was then funneled into a receiving line, where two photographers took photos of every...single...guest. We slipped out the side door. 

Next, we headed over to the 100 Black Men Gala at the Hilton. Into the lobby, up to floor 4 where the ballroom balcony would likely be empty. Bingo. We walked right in and peered down over the edge at the hundreds of guests below. There were several empty seats, and it would have been a piece of cake to go from the balcony to the ballroom. But, we arrived just as Mayor Bloomberg was speaking about the night's award recipients. There were several men standing in line, waiting for their moment of glory. And they would all have speeches. Long speeches. We were already a little buzzkilled from the Plaza ordeal, so we decided to leave during the dinner portion of the gala (which we didn't feel right about crashing, anyway), and return for the after-party. Having checked out the after-party room, it was enticing. A big dance floor, two large bars, and a huge stage with a 8-piece band set-up. 

When we returned a few hours later, we waltzed right into the after-party. La-dee-da. Unfortunately, we came back a bit too late. The band was still going strong, but the dance floor now held only a few stragglers. The surrounding cocktail tables were still populated by event guests conversing and enjoying the band, and so we sat down at an empty table. The bars was open (hooray!), so yes, we did order a glass of wine, and no, we weren't charged. Oh, this is the whole crashing part. It felt wrong and exciting. Weeee! 

The party featured a fantasic jazz rock band. The lead was a Grammy-winning (and gorgeous) female soul artist named Maya Azucena. She was joined by a voluptuous secondary vocalist named Honey, a rapping keyboardist, an androgynous saxophonist, and a groovy lady bassist. The band alone made the night worth it. We toasted with our free glasses of wine and soaked in the great music, fashionable guests, and all around fabulousness of the dwindling party. 

Results: Plan A went bust; the Plan B for Plan B did work, technically. With a little confidence and dressing the part, we did go to a black-tie gala for which we weren't invited guests. It wasn't quite our epic vision of mingling and dancing the night away, but we didn't get arrested or held in hotel jail (yes, they have one), and that's a win.  

Status: Mild Success? Primary Fail? You decide. 

Day 16: Never have I ever... sample the fruits of a real Indian market

Another belated post.  Why is 30 days so long, but also so fun?

After a tasty Indian lunch last weekend, we popped over to the Indian market conveniently located next door. I didn't know exactly what to expect, having never been to one before. We went in search of prepared/frozen Indian vegetable dishes, on recommendation from the parental units. But what else would I see? Fresh goat meat? Curry in bulk?

As soon as I walked in, I was in an Indian market half frenzy/half trance. It was awesome. Big barrels with new and interesting dry beans and grains. Indiscernible flavors of cookies with adorable smiling Indian children on the box. Exotic soda flavors. A huge display of incense (that I embarrassingly mistook for candy. brightly colored boxes!) And my personal playground: the produce section. I loved walking up and down the aisles examining all of these edible plants that I had never seen before. The shapes and colors were fantastic. Roots, legumes, leaves, and fruits... I had no idea how any of them tasted. How are they prepared? Had I ever eaten it before without knowing what it looked like in it's raw, whole form? I was so curious.

I selected a vegetable medley that spoke to me. The ones with most interesting skins and textures and colors. There were literally dozens I wanted to try... every single one! But I reined myself in, leaving with a harvest of six: toori, karela, tindori, white muli, parval and chayot. 

The next day, I googled each one. All are technically fruit, save for the white muli which is a root. (though chayot and toori are "gourds" which still falls into the fruit classification.) 

 Clockwise from top center: white muli, karela, chayot, parval, tindori, toori. 

Tindori and Parval. Both looked a lot like miniature cucumbers; Tindori looks quite similar to cornichons, but smoother, and parval looks like a baby garden cucumber. Short and fat and smooth. Raw, they have a lower water content as cucumbers, and both tasted like a young zucchini. 
Toori. Also known as the ridged gourd, this fruit is popular in African, Arabic, and Asian lands, and looks a lot like the offspring of a zucchini and a starfruit. The skin was very thick and rough, and so I used a peeler to take off the most rigid part: the ridges themselves. I left the balance of the skin on. Raw, it tasted like a mealy zucchini. 
Karela. Also known as bitter melon. This was the most interesting to examine, as it looked like a warted up pod or freeze-dried sea creature. My google research yielded two interesting factoids: 1. It's touted in ayurvedic cooking/medicine and supposedly works wonders for controlling blood sugar for diabetics, is known to balance various skin ailments such as acne and psoriasis, as well as being regarded as an antiviral, anticancer, antimalarial, and even antiscabies. What can't this plant do?! 2. I also learned that if you cut into a karela and eat the red seeds, this is anecdotally linked "Brain Fever", which is Victorian-era speak for meningitis or other viral infections that affect the brain. These two factoids contradict each other, I know. I cut my karela open and found... red seeds indeed. Oh well. Brain fever here I come. Raw, this thing tasted like ass. Bitter ass. Nothing melon-y about it. 
White Muli. This big guy is the parsnip's secret twin, in terms of looks. Would it taste like one too? Nope. It's the Danny Devito of twins, tasting like a biting and spicy radish over a verdant and earthy parsnip. 
Chayot. It looked a little like a mango or other tropically delcious fruit. It's bright chartreuse hue was appealing, but it's form odd. At the bottom there was a navel that looked like a toothless old man pursing a big lip-less mouth. Inside, there was one large seed, and I found the cut form to be much more aesthetically pleasing than the whole. Raw, it tasted incredibly bland. Just the general flavor of plant.

I sliced, diced and chopped each one and then sprinkled with salt. I then sauteed with olive oil, salt, pepper, a little chili powder, red pepper, and turmeric. Basic spices to enhance flavor, but not overpower. 

Cooked veggies, nom nom

Results: Cooked, the chayote was the tastiest of the group, now having a fresh and easy flavor. White muli retained it's radish-like flavor and now was just cooked radish. Parval, toori and tindori were still bad zucchinis, with parval as a slight favorite due to it's crisp texture. Karela was just as unpalatable cooked as it was raw, and I spit it out each time I tried to consume it.  It was great fun to experiment with these foreign fruits and vegetables, and to imagine how second-nature the preparation of these items are to so many millions of women in the world. And to me, they are an exotic kitchen adventure. Perhaps our most banal of produce staples, like mushrooms or celery or carrots, are alien plants to many peoples of the world? They eat these dirty, odorous fungi that is grown in horse manure! And these weird green stalks that taste kind of bitter, with chewy strings inside! And then there are these beautifully orange spikes...

Status: SUCCESS! 

Day 15: Never have I ever... eaten Goat (Indian food fun part 1)

I'll try any meat once. I've had venison, lamb, kangaroo, rattlesnake, ostrich. But I would never try goat, despite being emphatically told it was delicious by several palates that I trust well. 

Something about eating goat just doesn't sit right with me. I think it has to do with the fact that when I was growing up, my childhood best friend's family had several sheep and a goat. We would head down to the barn to feed and play with the animals in their large pasture, and Gretchen, the goat, had a lot of personality. Sometimes Gretchen was a friend, sometimes a foe, but I liked her. And now, I find it weird to think of eating an animal with that much personality. I know, I know, I will happily scarf down chickens and cows and pigs and ducks, and I know they may have winning personalities as well. But what can I say.... every time I see a plate of curry goat, full of bones and meat, I envision that I'm consuming spindly little goat legs, better meant for climbing meadowy hills! (yes, I know that usually legs are never eaten...) 

But at Indian lunch yesterday, I tried the curry goat, indeed. The meat was succulent and tasted more like beef or veal than lamb. It wasn't gamey at all. But it was hard to truly discern the meat's virgin taste through the thick veil of curry and coconut flavor in the sauce. 

Results: I came, I ate. It was good. I can certainly understand why many people of all cultures enjoy goat meat. Perhaps if my Gretchen-guilt subsides, I'll enjoy a goat dish again in the future.

Status: Success! 

Day 13: Never have I ever.... skied a double-black-diamond

Most avid skiers have blazed down double-blacks all over the Rockies, the Sierra Nevadas, maybe even the Alps. But not me. I'm a pansy. I stick to my blues and zig-zap happily down the mountain, sometimes I even like to sing as I ski. I'm not exactly a mountainside daredevil. See, I'm fond of my face, and all four of my limbs. And I've heard one too many horror stories (Friend A broke his leg last year in Wyoming. Friend B required medical heli-transport in order to survive her skiing accident. Friend C broke his arm and leg, requiring six permanent pins in his bones. Need I go on?) I just don't care to ever know how it feel to ride down the mountain on one of those red sled-gurneys. 

Warning: Ski Patrol's last sweep is 3PM. If you ski this trail 

after 3PM  and become injured, you will  not be rescued, 

and will  likely die  alone overnight on the side of a 

freezing cold mountain. Happy Skiing!

But, I went skiing out in Utah this year. And it was gooooood. Thigh-deep powder. 50 inches in four days. Trails called "Mystic Pines" that literally made me weep. Constant falls, near-constant fear. Runs so long, I had to stop seven times on the way down. And when I ski east coast mountain, the blues suddenly feel  like greens. The blacks were like blues. I'm not really challenged? This is strange. So, since I was skiing with some trés advanced skiers that day, I felt the confidence to go for broke. (no bones.)

So, I saw the double-black-diamond trail called "Outrage" and thought.... I want to be Outraged! I'll do it! Down the wooded, steep, mogul-y trail I went.

Results: My form was terrible. The trail skied me. But, I was in control about 90% of the time, and the other 10%, I was lucky enough not to crash or fall.

Status: Success! 

Day 9: Never have I ever... tasted the Jewel of the Sea

Mushrooms. Cilantro. Blue Cheese. Oysters. Filed under "foods you love, or foods you hate." There is no middle ground with these dealmakers and dealbreakers. Have you ever noticed that no one is ever so-so about cilantro? People have opinions about cilantro. 

And I had opinions about oysters. Completely unfounded opinions, because, until yesterday, I had never tried one. But I held firm in my opinion: they are gross. Who wants to eat something that looks like a pack-a-day smoker coughed into a barnacle? 

Let it be known that this wall doesn't extend to any other type of seafood. J'adore les fruits de mer! And I have always watched my entire family eat, offer, and glorify oysters. It's the jewel of the sea! A wonderful delicacy. I'm sure you will love it, it's like nothing else you've had. No deal. They just don't get me. It wasn't until a recent outing with three friends where I watched them happily slurping down oysters that I thought "Gee, maybe I am missing out here." 

Last night, I went out for drinks with friends. We enjoyed fancypants cocktails at Raines Law Room, an establishment where you must ring a doorbell to enter, and patrons pull a small metal ball-chain next to a velvet banquet to call the waitress. The motion feels like turning on an antique lamp, except the light is an attractive waitress who asks you whether you prefer a cocktail that is refreshing, bitter, or herbaceous. This sophisticated Gatsby-esque hideaway was the perfect primer for my great leap into the high-class world of oysters. After several drinks, we headed to the nearby Blue Water Grill, the upscale seafood palace. Unfortunately, we had a little too much fun ringing for the waitress, and it had gotten late. Blue Water Grill was closing, and taking the integrity of my blog with it. I asked the waiters if they knew of anywhere nearby that served oysters and might be open. Without hesitation, one replied "Yes, across the street, the Coffee Shop Bar." 

Oh. The Coffee Shop Bar. This is not a place known for seafood. It is known as a late night dining spot to the pretty and the pretty drunk.

We ordered half a dozen oysters and I ordered a glass of white wine. (You know, just in case.) The plate arrived minutes later, and my partner-in-crime noted that the oysters looked a little funny. Great. Now I'm really excited. We raised the open shells with an air-cheers, and I placed the fleshy, watery lump in my mouth. The flavor was underwhelming. It tasted like sea. But the texture overrode any flavor distinction anyway. It was like swallowing a slimy dead slug. I tried a second oyster to give it another go. Yep, slug again. 

Results: Two oysters consumed. The flavor was fine, actually. There wasn't much about that to dislike. And now I know definitively that a) oysters don't make me sick, and b) if I'm ever in the position where oysters are being served, I am good to go. But I didn't really enjoy consumption, and from the way people go crazy for these little suckers, I'm clearly still not getting something. My oyster-loving friend Chris who accompanied me insists that this was a terrible introduction to oysters. He's probably right. I intend to treat myself to oysters from Aquagrill, Pearl, or the famed Grand Central Oyster Bar sometime in the next few weeks. I'm not too proud for a blog redaction. 

Status: Success! 

Day 7: Never have I ever... driven draft horses

Ithaca is home to the multi-talented, all-around awesome husband and wife team Kirk and Jen, two of my most unique friends. Kirk, a farrier who hails from South Dakota, and Jen, a doctor of veterinary medicine and fabulous chef, live together with two dogs, four horses, and a cat and on 100 acres of their own beautiful Arcadia. 

I was thrilled that a visit to the their compound would coincide with this blog project; a weekend with Kirk and Jen is a welcome departure from our urban (or suburban) norms. Their home is heated entirely from one wood-burning stove. The wood is felled from their own land. Jen bakes bread from scratch. Kirk taps his maple trees, and makes homemade syrup. They raise pigs in the spring, and enjoy bacon all winter. During this particular visit, we enjoyed a delicious White Chicken Chili....except the dish wasn't made with chicken. Try wild pheasant. And Jen shot it herself on a recent hunting trip. 

Saturday morning meant fresh coffee and some of their delicious homemade bacon, followed by an outing to 'the barn', the newest addition to their dominion. This barn is another unbelievable feat: made from wood that was felled and milled by Kirk himself. He built the whole barn, too. Every nail. 
I know. Being around them does make me feel utterly useless, too. I was proud of assembling an Ikea dresser?!

Bob, Pete, the Barn, and the Rig

Kirk harnessed up two of their four horses, Pete and Bob, a Clydesdale and Percheron. He hitched the wagon, and we all piled on top of the hay bale seats. We were off. A few minutes into the ride, he passed me the reins, and I guided the horses from my position. I held the reins with both hands, trying to steady. Whoa Nelly,  this was tough. 

Within moments, Pete was out in front of Bob. The horses had detected my inexperienced hands and lapsed out of sync, like devilish children with a babysitter. I tried to correct this imperceptible problem, but it only got worse. Kirk told me to stop the horses. I pulled gently on the reins and said "Whoa". They came back into alignment.
"Let's start them going again," he said. Turning forward, he called "Waalllk", as I gave a gentle jolt on the reins. They started going forward.  
"Did my rein motion get them started?" I asked Kirk. 
"Nope, not really."

I did not have the talent or experience for this task. I asked Kirk how I was doing. "Well you're driving them," he said, "...but not well." Gotta love Kirk. Man of few words. 

I began to get a little freaked out as the open path started to disappear into a tiny trail. The wagon's weight is huge and burdensome on the horses, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to handle navigating the tightly wooded section up ahead. I didn't trust myself, and I think the horses sensed that. Since "never have I ever been in a wagon accident" is not at the top of my to-do-for-blog list, I decided to relinquish the reins back to Kirk and enjoy the ride. 

Holding the reins

Kirk guided us through the snowy woods with effortless ease. The horses respected him entirely. He used the occasional "Gee" or "Haw" to maneuver Bob and Pete left or right, over some treacherous terrain that left us clutching on to each other, giggling. I paid close attention to his voice commands and hand motions, because I would love to try my hand with these beautiful horses again sometime. Next time without four of my heckling friends watching. (see photo right of heckler #3) 

Results: The wagon ride was thoroughly enjoyable... as a passenger. I felt like a smiling pixelated bot from Oregon Trail as we traversed Kirk and Jen's beautiful land. No one suffered Dysentary. And I think everyone in the wagon felt more secure with the Horse Whisperer holding the reins. But yes, I did technically drive two draft horses and a wagon. Briefly. 

Status: FAIL. 

Day 2: Never have I ever... Bouldered.

I've heard Boulder is a lovely city. Legend has it that it's the jewel of the Rockies: a postcard-worthy town against snow-capped mountains, packed with shaggy-haired folks who bathe infrequently.... an irresistible trifecta! Luckily for likeminded New Yorkers, there is a headquarters for this type within city limits. Brooklyn Boulders, abbreviated BKB for those in the know. (I'm not in the know.) 

I've wanted to try out BKB since it opened last year, and I even had a $5 off coupon sitting in my desk. But it wasn't until my friend Ethan provided me with the impetus to go that I finally made it through the door. And by impetus, I should say awkward self-invitation. You see, we were at his birthday party discussing a good date to meet up with some friends. The interaction went something like this:
Me: So, are you free this Monday, the 31st? 
Ethan: Ah, I can't, I'm going rock-climbing with my friend Chris on Monday. (points to Chris a few feet away) 
Me: Ooooh! Rock climbing!! Where are you guys going?! In the city?? 
Ethan: (calling to Chris) We're going to Brooklyn, right? 
Chris: Yep. 
Me: Ooooh! Brooklyn Boulders!? I've heard that place is great!  I've been meaning to check it out! 
Ethan: Yeah, well, Chris goes a lot, I think he likes it. 
Me: Really?! That's so cool! Um, could I maybe come with you guys? I mean, would that be OK? I mean, if you guys want to just hang out just the guys, I totally understand, but if I'm not crashing the party then maybe I could come and, yeah, I really like rock climbing, it would be fun, um...
I don't need to keep going, do I? You get the idea. Ethan graciously encouraged me to come, despite my clumsy breach of social protocol. He didn't even make me feel like an overexcited asshole about it. Which I kinda was.

So that's the story of how I ended up at Brooklyn Boulders at 8:30pm on a Monday night.

BKB is the mecca for cool, urban hippie-types. Overlooking the fact that the entire, gi-normous establishment is seasoned with eau de B.O., the vibe of the place is laid-back and non-judgmental. The staff was familiar and competent, and the place was PACKED. Mind you, it was freezing cold Monday night in late January. I can only imagine how crowded it must be on weekends...

I have climbed many times before in my past, so climbing in itself isn't a new experience for me. In college, we had a free climbing gym on campus, and my high school was even lucky enough to have a climbing wall right in our gymnasium. But that was all top-rope climbing. With a harness and taut rope attached to one's pelvis, you have security. Actually, falling is fun. You swing back and forth suspended in air. It's like the circus!

But this bouldering business was new to me. Bouldering, for those who don't know, is a style of climbing without a rope and on lower walls over a crash pad. If you fall, you fall. The walls are only about 15' high, so falling wouldn't kill you, even if you were landing on hard ground. But would you want to jump out of a second story window?

On my first attempt (on a V0, the lowest level), I slipped reaching for the second set of holds. Lame. To add insult to more insult, all of the cool, urban-hippie-types scrambled up the much-tougher nearby walls like it was no big thang. I sheepishly looked back to Ethan and Chris and asked if we could start on a wall that didn't have an inverted angle.

From our newly-selected wall spot, I began to hit a stride. Chris pointed out some good routes for me. I silently instructed myself to chill out and ignore the fear of falling. A few half-successes up the wall later, I felt my beginner skills coming back to me. My moves were by no means pretty, but hey, I was climbing.

Finally, I made it to the top! It was then that I realized how friggin' high this "short" wall was. I looked down, clung to the wall, and hollered "So, guys...what now? I just have to jump?" I was freaked out. Chris told me I could jump, or climb down a bit. I chose the latter, and then jumped to safety on the marshmallowy crash pad below.

Yep, there it was. That same feeling I used to love: the jello-jigglers legs sensation. Like your knees have started yodeling. I'm not sure how else to explain it... but if you know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean.

We played around on the boulders for about two hours. I succeeded on two or three routes, and made valiant attempts at many others, including a "fun one" (as labeled by Chris) where you start clinging to the wall, almost horizontally, and then climb up to a vertical position. I failed miserably. Moments later, the friendly staff member who gave me a free climbing shoe rental came along and Spiderwomaned it.

Ethan and Chris* both did much better than me, but they are muscly boys and I'm just a tiny little woman. I asked the very nimble Chris how long he had been climbing, expecting his response to be in years. Turns out he's only been bouldering twice a week since November. (NOVEMBER?!?) Evidence that regular practice and dedication brings great reward, sometimes even speedily.

Results: A lot of laughs with two fun people, a reinvigorated interest in climbing, and one very sore body today. (My quads and arms are aching!)

Status: Success-ish

*Huge thanks to both for letting me tag along, coaching me up, and pretending that I didn't completely suck at it.

Day 1: Never have I ever.... Gone snowshoeing!

I love the fluffy white stuff. It's so purty. I usually appreciate the snow in one of two ways: 1) zooming down a groomer, or 2) watching it fall gently through the window as I sip cocoa next to the fire. See, I don't really like to be cold. I hate it, in fact. So it's safe to say you won't find me as winter outdoorsman without a Thermos full of whine.

But yesterday I strapped on some stainless steel 26" snowshoes and traversed 2.5 miles of the deep, snowy trails of Caleb Smith State Park Preserve on Long Island. I embarked on this expedition with D.Coops and his parents (who benevolently provided us with all our 'shoeing gear, and then whizzed ahead like agile gazelles on X-country skis). It was an easy skill to master, though getting the "right" stride took some experimentation. Due to our most recent blizzy, the blanket was 3' high, which really added to the cool-factor. It wasn't quite the graceful picture I'd imagined (us gliding across the top of a great expanse of the snow like Jesus on the Sea of Galilee,) the shoes and poles sunk in about 3-4 inches and we plodded along slowly and clumsily in our enjoyment.

Terribly unflattering photo of too-large snow clothes.
Dave eating a yellow snowball. 

Result: A stunningly beautiful winterscape and a surprisingly good workout! We wove our way around a winding creek, snow-covered trees, and pristine white meadows, and appreciated a glimpse of winter wildlife (fine, some ducks). Overall, it was a great new way to enjoy the outdoors in winter.  Being cooped up all season isn't good for our bods, and my lungs appreciated a few hours of crisp, fresh air. I'm not kidding about the good workout part, either. 90 minutes of this strange, new motion was exhausting! About 1.5 miles in, I tried to bitch out by taking the short route, but my snowbuddy kept me motivated and we did the full loop. I'm so glad we did.

Status: Success!