Before and After in Williamsburg

In 2012, then-boyfriend and I moved into THIS STARTLINGLY RUNDOWN, yet adorable, first-apartment-together apartment in Williamsburg. I had the presence of mind to catalogue our arrival.

Before:


Cackling with glee, we rejoiced at our "one" "bedroom" "find" in a prime spot—no scare quotes for the location, because it genuinely is partay city. Fun when you're 24, less so at 28 (going on 100).

While we were a little bit stunned to see the decade-faded, stained scene in the weak light of moving day, we still knew we'd be able to turn the place around and make it our own. And over four and change years, we did.

After:


Before:


After:




Now, of course, I only see the flaws—low, peeling ceiling, troglodytic inner rooms, grody-ass bathroom, terrible neighbors, no doors. But for a young couple, the super cheap rent and unique layout was perfect. And we had the best bars and restaurants in the world right around the corner.

Before:


After:


Before:


After:


Before:


After:




Before:




After:






Before:


After:




Fin. We decided to go for something bigger and brighter—and essentially double the rent—in a beeeeautiful new 'hood. So long, Williamsburg. New "before"s coming soon.

(Also aw this so cute.)

Rewards That Aren't Food or Shopping

I crossed paths with this delightful list of rewards that aren't food or shopping, and it inspired me to gather some of my own. I'm a biiiit of a sybarite, so I indulge in wonderful relaxing things as much as possible—proudly. Here's how I reward myself without food or shopping.

• Weekend recovery sleep. Bonus if I can finagle coffee room service from the hot bellboy. (I can.)

• Take a long lunch—whether it’s running errands or seeing what's new at Sephora.

• Sing along to Joni Mitchell’s Blue from start to finish. Cry. Husband is not invited to the party. (Best song)

• Catch up on blogs and then read the shit talking about said blogs on GOMI.

• Find books to read and leave blunt (but fair) reviews for ones I hated on Goodreads.

• Visit someplace new from my list. I’m determined to hit every good museum and garden in the area.

• Use my very special PTO move: take off Monday and Friday for two instant long weekends.

• Online window shop, then put anything cute safely into Covvet or add it to one of my many wish lists.

• Take an extra Bar Method class, because I’ve become a deeply annoying person.

• Borrow new goodies from the library or wander around the Strand.

Home

A photo posted by Anna (@heyimanna) on Feb 27, 2016 at 3:42pm PST

• Finish an entire series on Netflix or Prime, even if I don’t love it—because finishing is the BEST.

• Walk instead of taking the subway. Rent a Citibike instead of walking.

• Spend some QT with my plants—pruning, polishing leaves, fertilizing, singing them lullabies… I have a dumb hippie belief that people should reconnect with their star signs when they get stressed. As a Taurus, I know hanging with a book in full view of my plants calms me down more than anything else. Except Valium. Those work great too.

• Read a magazine. I get Martha Stewart Living and Bon Appetit, but I’m always game to sneak a gossip rag into the stack.

• Plan a dream trip—but only the fun parts. Actual mind-bending details, like browsing flights or paying for anything, are horrible.

• Do an extra-long pamper session. I always make time for my beauty routines—because ACNE!—but as a treat I’ll do a really long facial massage or use a bath bomb while drinking red wine, as God Herself intended.

A photo posted by Anna (@heyimanna) on Apr 10, 2016 at 3:39pm PDT

Night at the Museum

So look, I don’t want to oversell myself, but: I am a fucking genius.

 Two weeks ago, instead of the usual post-work couch flop, I rerouted the SS Crowl into Culture Port for an evening of stunning social intercourse, starring the new Whitney Museum. How did it go down? In a word: flawlessly. (Aside from skirting a teensy snafu.) The life pARTner gets free admission from work, and here’s the tick: the museum is nearly empty after 7PM. We waltzed in, wandered around and then waddled off for delicious dinner at Frankie’s 570.

 

Bloomin' Gorgeous

A few months ago, my favorite florist, Amy Merrick, had a pop up at Steven Alan. (Favorite florist, is that even a thing? Whatever, blame Instagram.) I hightailed it over to Tribeca on a weekend—on a WEEKEND—to get an arrangement. I named a price and she created the most GORGEOUS, MAGICAL bouquet that has ever been seen. I took it home on the subway, obviously, and people open mouth gawked at the beauty.



What. Even.



And it died as it lived, getting prettier as it drooped further to each side. Until its spirit moved on. RIP O you flowers, who warmed my cold, black, not-at-all melodramatic heart.

In Bloom

One thing I can always count on is getting at least two bad colds every winter. Some years, the cough goes into my chest and becomes good old pneumonia (see: college). Other times, it lingers for weeks and I literally have to carry a box of lotion tissues around with me to ward off the dreaded Red Nose (see: field hockey practice, every year in high school). This year, my cold became a sore throat, which became a doctor's visit to confirm it's not strep.



After getting a negative test and a script for penicillin, I headed to the Union Square Green Market to grab something pretty to cheer me up.





My dream is to take a floral arranging class with Amy Merrick but, short on floral arranging class cash, I improvise.





And the beautiful bundle of baby's breath I picked up last week is still going strong. There are bunches of it in various vessels scattered all around the apartment.



Let's do this, Spring. We're all waiting.

Fresh Powder

Did everybody hear the east coast got a light dusting of snow over the weekend?



Of course you did. There's no storm like the palpable fear of millions of outdoors-averse people preparing for (and tweeting about) the anticipated disruption of Seamless delivery.

Rome fell overextended, bloated with power and corruption. New York City will crumble if ever faced with a week sans wifi and Thai take out.

Friday night's storm was the perfect excuse to hunker down, cook burgers, finish House of Cards and watch the snow fall. (And while we're on the subject: House of Cards. Watch. It.)

The night before

I most definitely choose blizzard over hurricane, in terms of New Yorker panic management. Hardly any snacks were choked down in fear. No bath tubs were filled with an eye on disposing future fecal developments. My duck boots got their feet wet (and kept mine dry).

In short, it was snow that I've experienced countless times, having come of age in Chicago and Boston. Lovely, lovely snow.

Snow pirate?

New York, I Love You

From 2008, before I hardly knew ye.

On Touristing Your Own City

When I studied abroad, I forced my ass out of bed early every weekend and went exploring. And taking a modern art class in Paris encouraged me to check out most of the major, must-see museums. I touristed, guys. I touristed like a big, fat touristing thing.

(Speaking of Paris, I nearly had a run in with some art at the Pompidou during a class trip—after returning from an all nighter in Prague, I started nodding off in the direction of one of the works. Afterwards, I schlepped home, took off my clothes, got into bed and cried with exhaustion and relief that I could finally go to sleep.)

I do an okay job of seeing the sites in New York, but it's been a long time since I tried a new museum. After sleeping in this morning, I pried myself off the couch and decided it was the perfect day to visit the Guggenheim.



Thanks to the aforementioned modern art class in Paris, I've seen a good amount of the stuff. Dada manifesto? I speak it. I was excited to see the Guggenheim, because I know they have a solid collection, plus a little side gallery of Impressionists.





I was not disappointed. The main gallery was doing the usual suspects (Pollick, De Kooning, Rothko) and there was a Kandinsky retrospective to boot.

The gallery is laid out in a big spiral and reaching the pinnacle does bring with it a sense of accomplishment. Look at me! I climbed the Gugg! I HAVE done something today!



Plus, Shake Shack after. Come on.



And so I am glad to have touristed my own city today. I still want to see Fireflies on the Water by Yayoi Kusama at the Whitney and cross the bridge into Long Island City for PS 1. And I imagine the New Museum is like the Palais de Tokyo—weiiiird shit—so that's on my List too. Three cheers for being half an hour away from WORLD CLASS ART, GUYS.

Fire Island

This past weekend, the Hawaiian shirted boyfriend and I headed to Fire Island with our two friendly hosts. We stayed in a little house right on the beach, drank lots of strawberry daiquiris, and tried to avoid turning a complementary shade of pink. It worked, mostly. (Please forgive the iPhone pictures.)



Fire Island is a long, skinny skinny spit of land about two hours train ride from Manhattan, off the coast of Long Island. It's a very popular LGBT vacation spot, which means boyfriend got catcalled by fellow male vacationers multiple times a day. It. Was. Awesome. We saw a few drag shows and got invited to an underwear party at the Ice Palace, so I guess you could say we're regulars now.

Aside from the nightlife, the properties are gorgeous, the views stunning, and the people amazingly friendly.





I only get sunburned in strange places, apparently.



And he gets the best burnlines.



A drag pool show that managed to keep us entertained for hours.



Which is where I made friends with this little guy.

As far as I'm concerned, Fire Island ticked all the boxes: relaxing stay, fractionally increased tan, little to no attention paid to my bathing suited body (gay), and ability to suck down frozen drinks within mere feet of lapping water. Win/win/win/win.

The Bike Has Landed

THE BIKE IS IN THE BUILDING. REPEAT: THE BIKE IS IN THE BUILDING.

My bike is here! It's a 2012 Mercier Elle City (bleep bleep bloop, I don't speak bike) and I got it online and it came "90% assembled."

I don't necessarily know what that means, other than I have to somehow get it home to a bike store so they can tune it for me. Easier said than done, with home being across a bridge. Or at least one subway ride away.

It was delivered to my office in TriBeCa because I don't have a doorman or any real thief prevention at home. So. Operation: Get Bike Home commences.

Now

Approximate future render

There are several ways I could get it home. Because I'm almost literally Liz Lemon, I made a list of the different strategies to see which one involves the least crippling embarrassment.



Cab

Pros:
Easy transport

Cons:
Expensive
Hard to hail/impossible
Have to force cabbie to drive me by threatening to call 311

Subway

Pros:
Cheap
Straightforward (go down 4 flights of stairs total, then wheel home)

Cons:
Heavyish
Awkward looks from everyone else on the platforms, train and walk home

Ride

Pros:
Hard
Uphill?
Potentially dangerous (no helmet or bridge navigation skills)
Could ruin bike

Cons:
Free
That's what a bike does

I think I netted out at subway. BONUS: My willing boyfriend agreed to accompany me after work. That negates the "heavy" aspect. And, as he says, "being an asshole is better in a pair."