Jaywalking humans aren’t the only daring beings in New York City. Animals of the concrete jungle are just as brave.
Earlier this evening, I headed over to Union Square for a pedicure. On my way back from the nail appointment, I noticed a group of people huddled around a tree in the park. When I joined the crowd, I saw a squirrel less than a foot away from everyone. I started taking pictures of the squirrel, who moved even closer when I approached:
We were all in awe, even though it probably wasn’t all that shocking a sight. I’m just used to squirrels keeping a distance from people, especially in the midst of a televised protest. Not sure what that was all about.
What is the worst time of year to pay for a pedicure? Winter. Maybe that’s why all of the nail salon’s pedicure chairs were vacant when I walked in for my appointment tonight. With my anti-manicure policy, casual style, and aversion to malls, I’m one of the least polished girls you’ll meet. Last year, colleagues joked that I never took my jacket or scarf off during winter. I can do without many things, including large heels and dresses in the snow, so you won’t find me wearing a short sequined skirt in Times Square on New Years Eve.
My one indulgence, however, is a quality pedicure. Though I’ll be wearing closed toed shoes for the next six months, it’s important for me to have polished toenails and soft heels. I don’t care if I’m the only one who will actually see my feet
for God knows how much longer. Pedicures are therapeutic, especially since my broken toe still acts up and could always use attending to.
Good news: I have a place to live in Brooklyn! The area is safe, rent is ridiculously cheap, neighborhood charming and bursting with hipsters, and commute to work reasonable. I’m planning to move to Manhattan with Hillary and Emily in January, so the month-by-month flexibility of this place is perfect. You know what’s also great? It will cost less for me to live in this apartment than both of the DC apartments in which I’ve lived. That could mean one of two things: I paid way too much for my DC places or am about to reside in a bad area. From what others have said, my new home is pretty quiet and tame, so I should be fine as long as I stay away from the subway late at night.
As many of you know, taxi drivers terrify me, but I’m slowly but surely becoming a cab person. Last night, I hopped into two cabs, although the first experience was less than ideal.
At the beginning of the evening, a cabbie blasting pop music rolled up next to me and asked where I needed to go. He had several people in the back of the car and agreed to take us to different places, so I felt instantly relieved that it wouldn’t be just me and the driver. He had the radio on full blast and got into nearly five accidents, so I was tempted to tell him to turn down the volume. Of course, it wasn’t my place to say anything, so I simply gripped the door handle for dear life.
“How far are we from Allen Street?” I asked.
“Just two blocks,” he said. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Nope,” I said.
“Well your boyfriend can show you around,” he said, a clear indication of what he’d ask next. “Do you have a boyfriend? If not, I’ll be your boyfriend.”
“No, I’m good,” I said, turning away.
There was tons of traffic in the east village, so he dropped me off a block away from my intended destination. It took a while for me to link up with my buddy Lyzi, who is well connected in NYC, and we stayed out until 4 a.m. Before we cabbed home, I caught a glimpse of a New York Post van dropping off newspapers across the street. Love it.