FML: No Shame Pink Underwear.

I took a shower and put the same jeans back on. Seemingly normal... most people do that. It's Sunday, plus I just washed them yesterday and only wore them to brunch, just to confirm that I'm not a dirtbag. I packed my bag to do work at Panera, left my apartment, and called my mom. We were talking about Avatar and baby cousins when all of a sudden I felt something on my calf, working it's way toward my shin and down to my ankle.

My first thought was MOUSE!!!!!! AHHHHH!!!, because I'm terrified and paranoid ever since I lived in that horrendous walk-up in Hoboken two years ago. Then rationality kicked in and I thought, oh, it must be my missing mitten, but that doesn't actually make sense. Half a second later, I realized it was the embarrassingly pink thong I was wearing earlier. I changed my underwear after the shower obviously and come to think of it, I never put them in the hamper. That's because it's still in my pants.

The plus side is that I'm wearing Uggs. I awkwardly stopped on the sidewalk and pretended to be waiting for someone at first, then I talked to my mom a little more intensely about scanning photos, as if I needed to stop walking in order to have the conversation. As I did that, I leaned down to fix my "sock" and pushed the stowaway skivvies into my left Ugg. Then I proceeded toward my coffee shop destination. No sense going all the way home because of a golf ball sized pair of drawers. So now I'm in Panera and they're just chillin' in my Ugg boot. Is that TMI? A little too personal for the web? I don't care, I think it's funny, plus I have to procrastinate for a minimum of 20 minutes before beginning work. No one actually saw the offending object, but I just look guilty. Another problem: the little rhinestones, dotting the i's in "Birthday Girl" are scratching my ankle. Also, it's not my birthday.

I'd like to... I'd like to say something. Something I prepared. -Alan from "The Hangover"

Anyway, I'm back finally. I sent all of my applications for school in, now I'm playing the waiting game and wondering what to do with so much free time. Well, not really. I can't even find time to do laundry this week actually. I started writing group again, which I love because only other writers "get" writers and it's like a permanent inside joke, which is sad. Today I went to an event hosted by The Economist, which took place at Sotheby's, the famous art auction house at 72nd and York... the very UPPER, EAST river side and an hour from Hoboken. The theme was "The Art of Collecting Art" and there was a panel discussion followed by a private viewing of "Important Old Master Paintings." I'm not being sarcastic. That title was written in gold on the walls. As if the more-than-my-salary price tags didn't clue me in to how important the paintings were already. The panel discussion was interesting. There was a famous art appraiser who kept dropping his microphone (drunk) and another crotchety old art dealer who kept cursing the modern art world and saying how "weird" it was, and a woman who used words like "Philistinism" and "Connoisseur." I know what both of those mean because of my recent battle with the GRE vocab sections, however she sounded pretentious. It's interesting that people invest in art these days without caring about it. They spend millions on work before they see it in person, trusting others who actually do appreciate art to choose the smartest properties for their collection they lock away in a study and brag about or something.

After the lecture, we viewed paintings while drinking "vodka and water" (said with a British accent of course.) Waiters came around with trays of food, but it was 8pm and bite size burgers (1), teeny truffle grilled cheeses, and caviar wrapped in rice paper on a lemon was not very satisfying after a 12 hour day. I actually ate the caviar and it was so disgusting I almost spit it on a $5-7 million dollar painting. Who eats that shit? Pardon my French. No pun intended except I just Googled and caviar is a Persian word, not Parisian, so it's not a pun or funny at all. I didn't think many of the paintings were something I'd want to hang in my foyer, let alone pay a million dollars for one of a bleeding Jesus or a fat courtesan or a pedophile...

I also felt out of place in my trendy Target skirt and Madden flats, while other women wore fur and blew smoke rings and men wore tweed and Burberry. It's weird to think of these impoverished (I imagine) painters who haven't showered in weeks looking down from an alternate universe on the richest investors in Manhattan admiring their works and chatting about the test of time.

I like art, but I prefer the process of making art. I remember an essay I read freshman year of college by Baraka (Jones) called "Hunting is Not Those Heads on the Wall." Art is a verb, not canvas in a frame, so museums are pretty dull. I left after chugging the vodka and water, and took the 6 from 68th to 14th. Then I had to walk through Union Square to get to the Path, and several gay hipsters got ashes on my stockinged legs and a girl in a cap and gown stuck her tongue out at me. Sense: it really made none. In complete contrast to Upper East Side Sotheby's, no one cares who you are in Union Square. I was nearly struck by two cabs, but I liked New York tonight because it is whatever. You can be whoever, whenever and then take a train, exit the station, and be someone else...I think NY is a verb.