How to tackle a Nor'Easter in style.

Posted: March 30, 2010 - Funny how when it rains it really RAINS in this country. Back in Blighty I used to watch all the Hollywood movies wondering quite how the studios managed to manufacture biblical rain and what was the point given it was clearly over-egging the pudding. Fast forward to not so sunny New York and I'm beginning to get what they meant. They don't just have weather here - they have BIG weather. When snow is forecast, get set for a blizzard and a mound of the white stuff, if it's wind, batten down the hatches and hope those tree's stay upright. This rain though - how do those massive goblets of the wet stuff get created? I've never seen such a deluge. Luckily for me I have a trusty pair of Hunter Wellies - navy blue, thanks for asking - they're at least 5 years old and bought for dog walking not poncing down the high street for some shopping Mr Jimmy Choo! Given we have a slight swelling of water in our driveway - don't want to be saying 'flood' as that might cast one of those '40 days and 40 nights' kind of rain storms on us - I thought I'd don my trusty Hunters and see if I couldn't go and sort the situation out. Armed with a shovel and my Bogner parka (complete with raccoon fur trim hood) I set about the task. After finding initial success in creating a small whirlpool which I figured had sorted the whole problem, sadly the silt was too much for my attention span, and have now retreated to a warm (power filled) house. So what, if anything have we learnt from this : 1. On reflection my raccoon trim hood could have done with staying indoors. 2. Hunter Wellies rock 3. It's time to call in the handyman...

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Shitshine

Posted: March 19, 2010 - Yesterday New York basked in a freakish 70 degree March heatwave and out came the inevitable display of flesh. Stoops burst to life with lovers and smokers and The American and I strolled leisurely down to Union Square and felt the first heat of the year on our faces. Then I saw a man trying to do a poo on the street. I didn't spot it at first, at least I didn't catch what he was trying to do. I saw him from the other end of W16th street because he looked as if he was trying sit down on an invisible chair. Some kind of performance art I wondered? He was wobbling around a lot, so sitting on his make believe chair was quite hard. It's not until I'm next to him that I see it's not so much a chair, than a throne the guy needs. Or a potty even. He is fiddling with his jeans zip when it hits me. "Jesus Christ." I say under my breath to The American ''That man is trying to do a poo on the pavement." "Gross." he says and walks on dismissively without looking back. "Honey, look!" and I point back down the street. "Emma, I don't want to look." "No, you have to! Check him out, he can't even get his pants down." "I am not looking!" "Well I am." "You are going to stand here and watch a man shit on the street?" "Yes." "You're grosser than he is" "Just look! There's no poo yet, he hasn't even got his jeans off." "He probably went already in his pants." "Oh. I feel bad for him now." "Why are you still watching him then? "Because... It is morbidly fascinating." "Watch away, I'm going to get cigarettes." He dives into the nearest deli and I stay outside to watch poo man. He is still trying to sit on his imaginary toilet. I wonder what you have to be drinking to think there's a loo right in the middle of the pavement. I raise my head up to the sun, push my glasses back onto my head and breathe in the sun. I hear a loud rattle and look right to see a lady coming up 5th avenue dragging a giant sack with hundreds of empty soda cans in. She stops right in front of me. "Hey honey! I love your top!" she enthuses. ''Umm...Thanks" "Where'd ya get it sweetie?" "Oh, in the UK." "Pretty!" And then she clatters off down fifth with her bag of cans, each one worth a few cents rebate. The American comes out of the deli, Malboro already in his mouth. "A bag lady just told me she liked my top." I say. "Cool!" he mutters, clearly not listening. "Hello? A bag lady just complimented me on my top!" "And that's bothered you more than that guy taking a shit on the street?" I nod. "You're a real New Yorker now honey." For obvious reasons this blog has been somewhat difficult to pictorilise. So here is a picture of my new beloved Liberty London for Target lamp, to take your minds off poo. More blogs http://welshalien.blogspot.com/ Even more rambloings http://twitter.com/WelshAlienNYC

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Snowmageddon

Posted: March 5, 2010 Friday 26th February I wake up at 7.30 a.m. with a raging hangover to see Snowmageddon part 2 happening outside my window. Except this time it's being called a Snowicaine, which just sounds like a drug euphemism. It's also being referred to as a Snowpocalypse, which has a nice ring to it-but I'm sticking with Snowmageddon, a phrase actually endorsed by Obama. And the most dramatic. 7.45 a.m. and Teenager is still asleep, despite her alarm going off half an hour ago, so I shake her awake and do the "Woo hoo snow!" and she says her usual "For fuck's sake." It occurs to me that Mayor Bloominbonkersberg may have done an overnight U turn on his decision to keep schools open, so I tell her to turn on NY1 and I go off to make tea. I come back 5 minutes later and she is staring at the TV in a trance, managing to miss the red BREAKING NEWS ticker that announces all public schools have been closed. When I point this out she does a fist pump in celebration and announces she's going back to bed. I do the same. By lunchtime I am still under the duvet popping prescription painkillers to make the hangover horrrors go away and watching HBO while watching my fire escape, which seemed to be the best indicator of snow depth. It's growing inch by inch on the steps. 2p.m. It is still chucking it down, alternating fat flakes with delicate flurries and I am wondering how many new words to describe the weather drama. I come up with Snowsaster, Snowastrophe and Snowmergency. A journalist friend emails me to tell me this is already the snowiest month in New York history and there is now 20.8 inches in Central Park, making this the fourth heaviest snowfall ever. Fortunately the plucky vendors on delivery.com are still operating despite the record breaking snowflakes. It takes more than a blizzard to take down Valentino's Gourmet Market in Union Square and it's entirely civil $10 minimum order. One chicken chipolte sandwhich and two diet Dr Pepper's later the world is feeling like a better place-or maybe it's the Tramadols? I'm flicking through movies on demand when the Teenager comes in to my bedroom making some unreasonable demands-like we actually stick to the plans we had this afternoon, including her appointment at the hairdressers. The most I had planned for the rest of the day was staying in bed and waiting the arrival of my parcel of sale goodies from Urban Outfitters which UPS are optimistically claiming on their online parcel tracker, is still due for delivery. The Teenager seems pretty determined too, so I stagger to the shower and try and wash off the stench of two bottles of Rioja seeping from my pores. We head outside and her ''For Fuck's sake'' attitude disappears when she sees a 2 foot high snowdrift and jumps straight into it gleefully. We spend the next few hours sloshing through the dirty grey slush puddles that line the streets around Greenwich Village between the hairdressers, getting coffee, going shopping and taking pictures of broken brollies in the snow. All is well and The Teenager and I seem to actually be having some kind of bonding moment. She even allows me to links arms with her. I think the physical affection is sanctioned because she is unlikely to see anyone she knows on 5th avenue. Nevertheless, we are shiny, happy people until we head to Sephora and see this sign in the window. I expected better of my beloved Sephora. At least there is my Urban Outfitters parcel to look forward to? But when I get back to the apartment there is no delivery. I check the website and there is an ominous message in big dramatic caps explaining why my parcel hasn't come. EMERGENCY CONDITIONS BEYOND UPS' CONTROL Emergency? What the fuck? You haven't delivered my parcel because of the fourth biggest storm in NYC history? The fourth. Not the first. People still need clothes in the snow! When the snow starts messing with the shopping things are getting serious. It's not fun anymore. Snow fun. * More blogs http://welshalien.blogspot.com/ Even more rambloings http://twitter.com/WelshAlienNYC

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Notes from a Stylist is glamming it up in Jackson Hole

Posted: March 1, 2010 Now I know the ski set are a breed apart and I’m just getting my head around all this, but clearly jumping straight in at the high end is skewing my take on how to do a stylish ski weekend so far. We arrive at Jackson Hole and get swept up by a man complete with stetson, cowboy boots and waistcoat. We drive past a motel called The Virginian and I recount a story about quite fancying Trampus from that old TV show - but it seems to fall on deaf ears as I realize that our hosts are a tad younger than us and Laura Ingles with her Little House on the Prairie is more their generation. So back to the man in the stetson, who gamely grabs our bags and loads them on our car – and there are a lot of bags, because who knows what the weather might bring, or where fate might lead us – but its better to be over prepared right? So once ensconsed in our spacious apartment, courtesy of our buddies who have bid high on an auction item that's a condo in a super swanky ski resort and then asked their less fortunate party mates to tag along, it's time to unpack. The thing is the packing/over prepared deal kind of depends on who you are holidaying with - and it seems this weekend, we are traveling with a minimal packer and an over the top packer. I am happily midway between my ski buddies. So the ski lark?, apparently it’s all down to the resort – the Four Seasons is high end and I think, much to the chargrin of my husband, I could become accustomed to this – need to take your boots off? No fear there’s a lady right there to do it for you. Fancy a glass of vino whilst you’re in the hot tub? Relax another nice lady is on hand to deal. Unhappy with your grey ugly ski boots that give you pins and needles when you're buddy has nice white ones with purple fluffy lining? calm down - a nice young man can sort it out for you. Yes indeed, I think I'm beginning to like this skiing thing...

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Wellington Roots

Posted: January 16, 2010 - While on my way to buy rainboots this week I pondered a memory: Many years ago when my fabulous new life in New York was just a twinkle in a social networking site's eye I imagined how life here would be. And naturally, the reality is quite different. But the biggest shock is that I would have been pretty certain that I would do it all in heels. And here I am off to buy wellies. And not in an Alexa Chung 'partying it up at the VIP tent of a festival' way. Just in an everyday wearing way. Scary. It doesn't take a genius to work out what was responsible for the fantasy of skipping around New York in 6 inch stilletos. A certain TV show that we never dare speak it's name after they sold out and made that appallingly saccharin big screen version. When I first started coming to New York in 2006 I figured that I couldn't do the smoking (gave up in 2005) or the dating (had met The American by then) or the Jimmy Choos (skint single mother) but I could do stuff in heels. Ya for heels! I love them, spent my whole life staggering around in them. 'Car to Bar' heels as my mother calls them. Only good for going from the car to the bar. I also found them good for the car to the supermarket, the car to the office and the car to a friend's house for dinn Problem is now I don't have a car to go to the bar, unless I get a taxi-which is reasonable for a night out but not so much for a food shop. Come to think of it, I don't have a supermarket either, just 'gourmet markets' and I no longer have an office. I have only just started to get some friends so you can see how the 'car to bar' shoes start to become redundant. But I stubbornly stuck with those heels in 2006, wearing them to sightsee and shop and I simply ended up with feet that looked like they belonged to 90 year old Grandma. New Yorkers wear flats and rainboots are an acceptable part of an outfit in the snow or wet. I resisted of course, but it was futile. Since I arrived in September my heels have not moved from their place in the shoe rack and my flat boots all need reheeling. And now I find myself buying rainboots. And callling them rainboots. Wellies Emma, they are fucking wellies. ''What is this 'Wellie' you're taking about?" asks The American. ''Wellies?" ''Yeah, what is a 'Wellie?' We don't know that name in America." When the American says Wellie it sounds like Willy so I giggle. ''Galoshes do you call them?" "Rainboots?" "Yeah I want Hunters." ''What is this Hunter? We don't know that name in America." "Yes you do. They sell them in bloody Bloomingdales." Which is where I am heading now. And while I am there I will stroke pairs of heels with a great nostalgia and I will say: ''I will never forget you. I will always love you." Because flats might be what I need right now, but heels will always be my solemates. If you like this blog you can check out more and follow me at: http://www.welshalien.blogspot.com/ Even more musings on Twitter http://twitter.com/WelshAlienNYC

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