Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Life with Sophia (Page 6 of 27)

Dancing with the Stars Recap

April 14, 2008 / / 11 Comments

Did you all see Dancing with the Stars on Monday night? What did you think? The show just gets better and better.  (note:  read with sarcasm)

Here’s my weekly recap:

Tonight on Dancing with the Stars, Marlee Matlin’s Samba was only so-so. The music was too fast, and Matlin, who is deaf and counts the steps in her head, was falling behind.

Last year, the gimmick contestant was Heather Mills, who has an artificial leg. This year, it is a deaf actress.

“Who will it be next year?” I asked Sophia during the commercial. “How can they outdo themselves after a contestant with an artificial leg and then someone deaf?”

“Maybe someone who is blind.” she answered.

“I think it is probably harder to dance being deaf than blind.” I said.

“You’re probably right. Being blind doesn’t really “up the stakes” for the show next year.”

“Maybe someone deaf AND blind.”

“Someone in a wheelchair.”

“That would be cool.”

“Someone not very bright.”

“They’ve had plenty of those before.”

“Someone with even more plastic surgery than Priscilla Presley.”

A promo came on for this ABC comedy, “Samantha Who” about a woman with amnesia.

“Someone with amnesia!”

“That’s good. Someone with recurring amnesia who forgets the dance routine minutes before the performance…!”

“…and also has a wooden leg!”

“But really… is it that much better than someone who is deaf?”

“Maybe not. A midget?”

“Eh… it’s been done.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere.”

“I got it. A transvestite!”

“That’s stupid. A transvestite can still dance.”

“What if the transvestite is also deaf… and not very attractive.”

“Ok, I buy that. Let’s see if ABC does.”

Tomorrow: The “elimination” show.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Married Couples

Here’s Our Toilet Seat!

April 8, 2008 / / 60 Comments

When Sophia came home and saw my last post, the first thing she said was, “you chose the wrong photos!” We had taken a few different photos earlier, and I had obviously chosen the worst of the bunch.

“Of course this Whoorl wasn’t impressed with the haircut. You’re grimacing like a villain from a bad movie.”

I know I shouldn’t care about how I look to any of you, because sexiness comes from within, from self-confidence, from being comfortable in your own skin and not caring…

Eh… screw that.

So, for all those readers who stopped by earlier and saw those photos of us, please burn them from your memory.  I realize that those photos are still embedded in that post, and also exist in the vast basement of the Google archives, but just play along.  Make believe they don’t exist.  From now on, please ALWAYS think of the two of us as looking like the photos in THIS post, since we are much more glamorous in these than in the other ones.  You’ll probably not even notice the difference, but WE DO —

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In this one, Sophia put some spit in my hair and made me look more like one of the guys on American Idol.

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I am publishing this one of Sophia looking sultry, just to win some brownie points with her.

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Isn’t this one better than before? Progressive babes (who usually put out on the first date) — please note the peace sign on the shirt.  Although, to be honest, it’s not really mine.  I  accidentally took home someone else’s shirt from the laundromat.

Sophia also wanted me to come clean about another matter.  She thinks that I always make her be the heavy. In the last post, I quoted her as saying “no,” when I asked her if I could photograph the toilet seat in order to show it to you.

She never said anything about the seat, because we never had this conversation.   I made that up.

In my defense, I still believe that if I had asked her, she would have said “no.”  She insists that that she has no problem with me taking a photo of any toilet seat in the house and posting it on my blog.  I love her, but I take that statement with a grain of salt.   Please tune into next Tuesday’s Dr. Phil Show, as Phil McGraw helps us be more honest with each other about what we can and what we can’t photograph in the house.

As an apology for making you read through TWO posts about nothing, here is a little gift —

A photo of our beachy toilet seat.  Enjoy it!

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How I Learned to Love Body Scrub

March 9, 2008 / / 51 Comments

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It’s not easy being a modern man.    You try to be a good male feminist by promoting a woman candidate to be the first female President, until all the women you know start telling you that it is the MALE candidate who is better at understanding the needs of American women.   What next?  A male speaker at BlogHer?!

And then, if I ask for photos of female bloggers’ bras for my birthday, I’m a sleazy, typical male.   But if I profess my love for ABBA, I get emails like this one, a list of the “50 Gayest Songs Of All Time” —

20. Dolly Parton “9 to 5”
19. Coming Out Crew “Free, Gay And Happy”
18. Village People “In The Navy”
17. Frankie Goes To Hollywood “Relax”
16. Village People “Macho Man”
15. Judy Garland “Over The Rainbow”
14. Bronski Beat “Smalltown Boy”
13. Diana Ross “I’m Coming Out”
12. Cher “Believe”
11. Gloria Gaynor “I Am What I Am”
10. Alicia Bridges “I Love The Nightlife”
9. Madonna “Vogue”
8. Olivia Netwon-John “Xanadu”
7. Kylie Minogue “Better The Devil You Know”
6. Pet Shop Boys “Go West”
5. Kylie Minogue “Your Disco Needs You”
4. The Weathergirls “It’s Raining Men”
3. Gloria Gaynor “I Will Survive”
2. Village People “YMCA”
1. ABBA “Dancing Queen”

Now, I actually like ALL of those songs (other than #19, which doesn’t sound familiar to me), but so what!

This was not the first questioning of my sexual orientation this week. 

On my birthday, Sophia gave me the best present she could have given me – she was super-nice to me.  Although things haven’t really changed between us — I’m still moving out — at least we don’t have to glare at each other as we pass each other in the morning.  I give her a lot of credit for making things better. 

I always complain on Valentine’s Day that the woman gets flowers, while the guy nothing, so I was surprised when Sophia brought me flowers for my birthday.  How thoughtful.  I know it is corny for me to ask for flowers, and sort of ABBA-ish, but I appreciated the special gesture. 

Later, I told Sophia about this old Italian restaurant nearby that a friend recommended, so we went there for dinner.  Wow, was it a bad choice.  It was the worst food either of us ever had.  Open since 1945, the restaurant’s menu only had two items — spaghetti and lasagna, and each was awful — soggy pasta and ketchup-tasting tomato sauce.  The patrons seemed to have been bused in from a convalescent home.  Normally, a bad restaurant choice on my part puts Sophia in a bad mood, but this establishment was so lousy, that it was quite amusing.  When our hapless waiter asked us if we would like to have bibs with our spaghetti, we both laughed out loud.  It was that type of place.  Sometimes bad experiences turn out memorable.

On the way home, I called my friend and asked him how in the world he could RECOMMEND this place.   I told him how much Sophia hated it. 

“Dude,” said my friend, being one of those guys who says “Dude.” “This is totally your fault.  I said this is a place where WE should go.  You don’t bring a girl there.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” I asked.  “And why would I want to go there even without Sophia?  It’s terrible.”

“Yeah, I know it sucks.  But they have cheap beer.  And it isn’t fancy.  You know, it is a place to go with the guys.  Like having a chilburger at Tommy’s.” 

The last time we met, we had a chiliburger at Tommy’s.

“So you think that when I’m with Sophia, I go to a nice place with good food, but when I’m on my own, I just go to Tommy’s for a chiliburger?” 

“Sure, don’t you?” he asked.

“No, I actually don’t like eating crap either.  I like good food.”

“I can’t stand those fake Beverly Hills Italian restaurants where they give you little portions and put pesto sauce on your pasta.  That is so gay.”

“I like pesto sauce,” I stated.

Silence.

Why do some men still use that “gay” term to describe something they think is “unmanly?”  And is pesto sauce really that unmanly?

Anyway, back to the body scrub.

Now that Sophia and I reached a detente in the house, we decided to get our lives a bit back in order before I start my apartment searching.  The house was in a serious mess.  Neither of us had done the dishes in days.  The patio, once a haven of beauty, was in a state of disarray again.  I threw some of the old pots and scrubbed some of mud away.  Skanky water filled some hanging pots without the proper filtration.  I emptied them out, holding my nose, hoping not to catch malaria.

While I dealt with the patio, Sophia met with the cable guy, who had come over for the third time this week, trying to fix the spotty TV connection. 

After helping outside, all I could think about was… a shower.  I felt utterly disgusting, with all this mud all over me.  I went into the bathroom upstairs, undressed, and turned on the water in the shower.  Now, I love showers, for a whole number of reasons.  They are relaxing.  I can think.  I can sing.  I can dance.  Who doesn’t love a shower?  But today, it was all utilitarian.  I wanted the dirt off.   But there was no soap!

I jumped out of the shower, soaking wet, ready to grab the soap that is usually by the sink.  But it was another casualty to our in-house tensions during the last few weeks.  No one had put out any new soap.  I was about to open the bathroom door and run to the other bathroom for soap, when I heard the cable guy working on the TV in the next room.  I jumped back into the shower. 

That is when I discovered Sophia’s “body scrub” sitting on top of the railing, next to the shampoo and conditioner. 

I had seen it there a hundred times before, but like a workaholic who never stops to smell the flowers, I had never thought to actually try something called a body scrub.

The liquid was grainy and reminded me of the texture of some long-forgotten acne medicine.  Unlike that teenage elixir, this liquid was fragrant, making me feel as if I was running naked through a grove of wild apples.  I put the body scrub all over me — my back, my feet, my face — and scrubbed away.  When I was all done, I had never felt cleaner or more refreshed. 

Body scrub, I don’t care if you are in the same category as ABBA and pesto — you have won me over!   If YOU are considered gay to enjoy… well, then I am proud to march in your parade.

The Last Few Days

February 18, 2008 / / 93 Comments

Valentine’s Day has always been tough for us.   The pressure of Valentine’s Day, with all the hullabaloo and candy-giving, makes us question our already unsteady relationship.  How can we ever live up to the romantic images on those Hallmark cards? 

Sophia and I got into a fight on the night before Valentine’s Day.   I went to find somewhere else to sleep.   I felt uncomfortable calling up a friend, so I drove to the nearest Holiday Inn to see if they had any availability.  All the rooms were booked except for the “Honeymoon Suite” with a Jacuzzi for $250 dollars.  See: Irony.  I was too tired to keep on driving, so I went back home and parked my car in the driveway, exactly where I started.  I went into the backseat, curled up, and decided to go to sleep, using my sweater as a pillow.  I had always heard of people sleeping in their car.  Hey, it was almost cool – like I was in a rock band!   I was woken up a few hours later by the metallic sounds of a torrential rain storm pounding on the roof of the car.  I felt like I was stuck in a car wash that had been taken over by HAL from 2001.  It was noisy, the rain and wind shaking the car.  I don’t know how I did it, but I fell asleep again.

In the morning, I woke up.  Have any of you ever opened your eyes in the morning and realized that you were sleeping in the back seat of your car?  If you have, you will understand how I felt.  I stumbled out of the car, my legs all stiff and asleep.  Standing a few feet away was my next door neighbor, a well-dressed attorney in her business suit, heading for her Lexus.  I stuck my head back into the car, moving my hands back and forth, making believe that she just caught me “cleaning out the back seat” of the car.

“Good Morning, Lindsay,” I said.

“Hello, Neil.” she said, sternly. 

I’m not sure I fooled her – at all.

I walked over to Starbucks, where I peed and washed my face, like a homeless man, feeling like Starbucks Inc. owed me for all those overpriced lattes.  A few hours later, I headed to Beverly Hills for a meeting with a Hollywood producer!   The meeting went well.  Maybe he mistook the “fire in my eyes” for my bloodshot look from sleeping in the car.

I’ve been in a hotel since then.  

Why am I telling you all this?  I probably shouldn’t be.  I have all these new, wonderful people coming here to read interviews, so it is a bit uncomfortable airing my dirty laundry, but as every blogger knows, a personal blog is about both the good and bad of life.  We’ve all been there, and I am inspired by the openness of many of you.

I love Sophia.   We have some problems.  Some of you have been reading about us for three years now.  We both attend therapy, but are finding it difficult to fix things.  Maybe living together while “separated” is not the answer.

Who’s at fault here?   Well,  you would hear very different stories depending on who told the tale, but basically we are both responsible for our own marriage. 

Today is Sophia’s birthday.   She’s probably upset.  I hope I get to see her later, but if I don’t, I hope she does something fun to celebrate her special day.  Please wish Sophia a happy birthday.  She’s a big part of this blog and I know many of you care about her.  

Happy birthday, Sophia.

She Knows All

February 7, 2008 / / 30 Comments

Besides my new part time jobs of running an interview empire and amusing my therapist with my blog posts, I’ve been working with a writing partner on some screenplay ideas to pitch to a producer.    Last night, my writing partner was over at my house, and we were getting hungry. It was around seven o’clock and Sophia said she was going to be at the gym until nine o’clock. 

“Let’s not wait for her.  Let’s go eat.” 

I took him to one of the many fast food Japanese places nearby.

Half into our meal, the woman from behind the counter came over to our table.

“Are you Neil?” she asked.

“Yes.” I said, confused.

“Your wife is on the phone.”

I went to the front counter where the owner gave me the phone.

“Sophia?”  I asked.

“You forgot your phone at home.”

“What?… how did you know I was here?”

“I just figured that this is where you would take him.  I called up and asked to speak to the tall customer with messy hair and glasses.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.  I’m just leaving early and wanted you to order me some sushi.  I’ll be there in a few minutes”

“You called for that?!  I still don’t get it.  There are hundreds of restaurants I could have gone to.  How did you know I was here?”

Twenty minutes later, Sophia was sitting with us and telling us a story about the time she lived in Israel.   She needed to ask her boyfriend a question.  Unfortunately, he was in the Israeli Army at the time, at some top-secret camp in the desert.  Sophia made a few calls and inquiries.  A few hours later a member of the Israeli Army ran to Sophia’s boyfriend, who was in the middle of doing military exercises.    The soldier was carrying a cranked-up military telephone in the middle of the desert. 

“It’s your girlfriend,” he said.

Attention, U.S. Government — I think we need to put Sophia on the job of finding Bin Laden.

My Wife is a Midget

January 14, 2008 / / 26 Comments

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Today’s blog post was nixed by Sophia. She thought it was too personal. I’m respectful of that. She is absolutely amazing. She “allows” me to write pretty much anything I want. Of course, being a tinge passive-aggressive, I wanted to make sure that my artistic freedom was still intact.

Sophia: You need to check with me first before you write anything personal about ME.

Neil: Do you mean WRITE or PUBLISH?

Sophia: Write.

Neil: Well, I appreciate what you are saying, and I respect it, but you can’t tell me WHAT not to write. I can write anything I want about you.

Sophia: No, you can’t.

Neil: Yes, I can. I just can’t PUBLISH it. But I can write it.

Sophia: Well, I don’t want you to write it.

Neil: Sorry. I’m in therapy now. I know my rights. If I want to write that you are, say — a midget, I can write it. As long as I don’t show it to anyone.

Sophia: But I’m not a midget.  I’m not even short.  You can’t write it.

Neil: I can write it. Even if you aren’t.

Sophia: I’ll sue you.

Neil: You can’t sue me for writing it. You can sue me for publishing it. But I can write, “Sophia’s a midget” all day long if I want — a thousand times in my own Microsoft Word — and you can’t do anything about it.

Sophia: How about this?

Sophia hits me on the head with the newspaper. Conversation over.

P.S.. Just for the record, Sophia isn’t a midget, but I have no problem saying it in the privacy of my own home — when Sophia isn’t here.

Sophia’s Dream

January 8, 2008 / / 27 Comments

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Sophia and I had the worst flight back to Los Angeles. Sophia had a cold. The obnoxious couple in front of us had a crying baby. The airplane was cramped. When we arrived in Los Angeles, LAX was backed up because of the RAIN! We waited in the airplane for two and half hours!

This morning, back at Redondo Beach, Sophia is sick in bed, drugged up on cold medicine. She turned to me as she woke up from an unrestful sleep.

Sophia: “I had a weird dream. But it was so vivid. Like it was real.”

Neil: “About what?”

Sophia: “About the laptop. It was broken.”

Neil: “A virus?”

Sophia: “No, it was physically broken. And I really wanted to use the laptop, but every time I would lift up the top, it would just fall down and do nothing. Like it was weak. It was totally frustrating.”

Neil: “Could you turn it on?”

Sophia: “Of course I can turn it on, that’s not the problem. I kept working on it, over and over again, trying to keep it up. It was as if my life was depending on it. I kept on trying to prop it up. But the top would just fall down, useless. Up, down, up, down. And then I got tired of trying to make it go up, because it would just stay up for a second, then flop down again.”

Neil: “That’s a weird dream to have about your laptop.”

Sophia: “Yeah, it was especially weird because I was actually trying to use YOUR laptop.”

Neil: “My laptop?”

Sophia: “Isn’t that weird? Why would I have this dream?”

Neil: “Hmmm… You know, maybe you should take another Contac, go back to sleep, and hopefully you’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

P.S. — Hey, what do you want? I can’t write heartfelt pieces about Kissena Boulevard forever!

The Two Sisters

January 2, 2008 / / 48 Comments

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After writing a post about me finding my fifth grade diary, someone told me about Cringe, a monthly reading series held at a Brooklyn bar.

On the first Wednesday of each month, brave souls come forward and read aloud from their teenage diaries, journals, notes, letters, poems, abandoned rock operas, and other general representations of the crushing misery of their humiliating adolescence.

Leahpeah had organized something like this in Los Angeles, but Cringe is the big momma of this genre.  It is hosted by Sarah Brown, a popular New York blogger, and there is even a Cringe book being published. 

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(via Que Sera Sera)

My plan for tonight was simple.  I would attend this reading, my diary in my knapsack.  At a certain point, I would volunteer to read.  I would stand in front of the Brooklyn hipsters and wow them with my elementary school wit.  A literary agent would be sitting in the front row and ask me to write “The Penis Monologues,” which would become a huge bestseller, and I would become so famous that men all over the world would stop calling their members “Dicks” or “Johnsons,” but rather will all call them “Neilochkas.”  Millions of women would be screaming for “Neilochka” each night.

But life has a funny way of changing a person’s plans —

Sophia’s father loved marriage.  He loved it so much, he was married five times.  From everything I heard, he was a nice and exciting guy, but difficult to live with.  Sophia’s parents divorced when she was young.  Recently, Sophia learned that she had an older half-sister who lived in Brooklyn.  The woman, Anya, was born to Sophia’s father and his very first wife, twenty years before he married Sophia’s mother, Fanya.  Anya… Fanya…the whole story is more complicated than Crime and Punishment, or All My Children.

Sophia decided that today was the perfect day to meet her half-sister.  We would meet Anya in a restaurant for an early dinner, and then Sophia and I would take off to Cringe.

We picked Anya up and headed to Spoon, a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach. 

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It was a very joyous meeting, which was surprising, because there was a lot of tension before the actual get-together.  It was almost canceled because at first Anya refused to have Sophia come up to her apartment to pick her up, and Sophia was somewhat upset and confused as to why wouldn’t her long-lost sister want to invite her into her home.  Once Sophia understood that Anya was insecure about how her Americanized new relative might judge her modest home, she wasn’t feeling hurt any longer and laid Anya’s worries to rest.  Both women were also nervous about what this meeting meant.  For all their life, they knew nothing of each other.  Are they instant “sisters” now or still relative strangers with little in common?

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The jury is still out about where this relationship goes, but Sophia and Anya seemed to bond well.  We all had a lot of fun together.  Anya’s English was decent enough so I could talk with her, and I impressed her by singing the one Russian song that Sophia taught me.  Since we were on Anya’s territory, she insisted that she pick up the tab to the restaurant, and proceeded to order enough food and drink for fifteen people. 

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What I look like when I start to get drunk. 

After the huge meal, Anya invited us back to her home for dessert, and to meet the rest of her family. 

At first, I wanted to say no, since this would mean we would miss Cringe, since it was already getting late.  Then I realized that this meet-up was so much more interesting and authentic than reading from a diary to a bunch of strangers.  A diary is all about connecting to the past — but only through words.  Here, the past was coming together in the present…in actuality!  Two women from the same father, both testing the waters to see if this vague family bond matters in any tangible way.  Who needs Brooklyn hipsters laughing at old diaries when I could witness real life?!

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At Anya’s house, there was more food, dessert, and more drinking.

Putin may be bringing Russia back into the Cold War, but no one can doubt that Russians know how to party!

To the half-sisters!

P.S. — After all that, when we got home, we saw that the Cringe reading was cancelled tonight. 

Luck is Getting Three Chopsticks

December 19, 2007 / / 35 Comments

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Today, on the second day of my New York trip, I felt my luck changing.  Why?  Because we went out for sushi and when I opened my package of wooden chopsticks, there were three individual chopsticks inside.  Now getting three chopsticks seems as useless as three shoelaces in one package, but the waitress said that in her seven years of waitressing, she never saw this happen before, and said it was “for good luck.”

It is important to work hard and take chances, but let’s be honest with ourselves — there’s a lot of luck involved in life.    Sometimes, we just find ourselves in the right place at the right time.  I know there are some of you that think that everything is dependent on some “secret” or that God actually cares if you win the big game, but that’s insulting to the important concept of “LUCK.” 

Getting three chopsticks is pure luck. 

Unlucky is paying fifty bucks to take a romantic buggy ride through Central Park and getting stuck with a driver who spends the whole trip gossiping on her phone with her girlfriend from Brooklyn. 

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Unlucky is getting a modeling job where you have to sit around Rockefeller Center in your underwear… in late December.

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Unlucky is coming to New York to take a photo of your family in front of the “big tree,” not realizing that 1000 other families are also there, blocking your view.

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We had a nice day, so we were lucky.

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Feeling a Little Blue

December 18, 2007 / / 40 Comments

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Sophia, Flushing

I enjoy getting comments which read “Oh, Neil, that was so funny. You made me morning.” I like them so much, I hate bringing up times when I’m feeling a little down. I’ve only been in New York for one day, and while I should be absolutely joyous, I’m feeling sort of blue. I’m not sure if it is the bleak sky, the cold, or just missing therapy this week. Even seeing my Mom and eating the perfect bagels hasn’t broken me out of the rut.

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Bagels, Flushing

My screenplay pitch is still on the backburner while the writer’s strike continues. It is hard convincing yourself that you have the “greatest comedy story ever written” for more than a month before you start having doubts. There are a couple of big expense concerns coming up, and thinking about money makes me anxious.

On Monday, at LAX, we had a hour to kill before our flight, so I watched travelers running around, catching fights. It is big world out there, with so many countries and cities I want to see. Will I get to visit everywhere I want? Will I have the time? The money? Today, I found my old stamp collection in my closet. I had organized all of my international stamps into little envelopes titled France, India, Madagascar, etc. I must have been around ten years old. Some of the countries on the list, mostly African ones, don’t even exist anymore! I’m sure I dreamed of traveling to all of these places one day. Now, I’m less sure of myself. Maybe I won’t ever get to Madagascar after all! And that would be sad. Time is moving too fast.

Time also plays games with the mind. Although my mother had done a great job in redecorating the apartment in the last year, the memory of my father is still strong. Everywhere you look, there is a part of him, from his collection of slides he took in the army or massive collection of ties. His essence is here. While it is nice that his presence is felt, it is sad that he is not here in person.

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A familiar view from my old room while lying on the bed

I’m glad Sophia came along to New York. She’s always fun (except for the traveling by plane part where she brings too much luggage). Still, we are theoretically moving closer to the date when I will move out of the house. We both think it would be good to take a break and have some alone time. My therapist didn’t even think it was a good idea to travel to New York together, but what fun would it be without her? Sophia is sleeping right now, and I’m feeling all sorts of emotional ups and downs about our future.

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The confusion over our relationship has created problems for my sex life and my dreams are becoming more anxiety-ridden by the day. Last night, I combined all my fears about writing, Hollywood, and sex in to one big stew of bizarre dreaming:

In the dream, I had just spoken to this movie producer on the phone. The writer’s guild strike was still going on, so my pitch was postponed again. I needed to quickly make more money, so I looked in the newspaper. I ended up getting a job with a CSI crime unit. I was hired to be a special “closer.” My daily assignment: I would go down on a female suspect, and from her taste, I would learn all these facts about her. “She’s 32, runs two miles a day, and loves Cheerios,” I would say to the police captain as I lifted my head up from between her thighs. “She’s a graduate of Princeton with a B.A. in Religion and she is lying about hitting her husband over the head with that baseball bat.” My authority was never questioned and this Princeton religious studies graduate was thrown in jail for committing murder. Rather than feeling good about myself, I fretted about my “interrogation.” I had the nagging feeling that I tasted her incorrectly and put the wrong woman behind bars.

After this dream, I woke up with a terrible headache. And now there’s two more weeks without therapy! God help us all.

Tomorrow, we’re going to MOCA, and maybe meeting Tamar of Mining Nuggets for coffee (that is if she’s not afraid of me after hearing about my dream). Email me if you live in New York and know of some cool things going on or restaurants that you love.

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