Bienvenido a Miami

I've been in Miami for a few days now.  Hooray for vacation!  As always, the weather is humid and the people are... non-English speakers.  I LOVE IT!  New York has some beautiful city views, but Miami ain't bad.

Because I love Morgan Lewis and want to see every office possible (See Shainainjapan for visit to Tokyo office) I made arrangements to visit the Miami office!  I had befriended a first year associate who let me know that I could stop by anytime and on Wednesdays the whole firm had lunch together.  I was really excited about the idea of getting to meet everyone at once!  My friends back in New York told me I would look like a loser showing up at work on my vacation for a lunch.  "Hey guys," they teased, "I'm just here on my vacation for a free lunch."

They didn't bother me enough to not show up.  I really enjoyed seeing a different office that was the same - yet SO different.  First of all, you all know how much I hate going up to the 44th floor in my New York office.  The Miami office is on an even HIGHER floor!  53!  I had to take three elevators just to get there.  (Not kidding).

(They work on the top floors of this building!)

I bet you're wondering what they served everyone for lunch.  Pizza and champagne!  Not bad for a Wednesday afternoon.  Gotta love Morgan Lewis!

Stalker

I’ve had a lot of bad haircuts in my life.  They began when my mother used to cut my hair – she would place a bowl over my head and chop around it so that I had bangs all the way past the back of my ears.  My mullet-esque haircut changed only slightly by the time I was 10 when my mom pulled down my wet bangs and cut them where they should have been when dry.  Of course, they sprung up and looked like porcupine quills shooting out of my hairline.

My worst haircut was in eighth grade – unfortunately right when I became interested in boys.  People said I looked like a Beatle (John?  Ringo?) or a lion (to be fair, some still say this).  My friends who knew me back then STILL remind me of how bad I looked.

I finally learned how to use a straightening iron and grew my hair long.  Since then, I haven’t had a bad haircut.  I also haven’t had a great one – they’ve all been pretty much the same.  All the $5 haircuts and the $50 haircuts were certainly workable as long as the haircutter did not cut off too much hair!

Once I moved to Atlanta, I had a few haircuts before walking into Oh La La Salon.  I was a walk-in and a super cute, giggly, slightly goth looking girl about my age named Meg was available for my haircut.  “Just don’t cut it too short!”  I asked, as always.  “Don’t worry,” she reassured me, “I understand, and I won’t do anything you won’t like!”  We spent the haircut gossiping and had a really fun time.  When she turned me around after the blow dry, my mouth dropped!  She did such a great job that I actually went back to HER again.  Going back to the same stylist was something I hadn’t done since I was forced to use the dictator of haircutters – my mom.  I knew I would never have to change hair stylists again.

After having Meg cut my hair twice, I went back for my third haircut with her.  I walked into Oh La La, but she wasn’t there, so I decided to schedule an appointment for a later date.  “Meg doesn’t work here anymore,” the receptionist told me.  What?!  She could tell how upset I was after pleading with her to tell me where I could find her.  Finally, after the salon owner vanished in the back, she whispered to me, “try Grow down the street – she’s cutting hair there now.”  I was so excited as I called Grow and made my appointment.

When I showed up, Meg was shocked that I found her and followed her to a different salon (that was no longer within walking distance of my house).  She told me how much happier she was at the new salon and I agreed that it was nicer.  I was so happy to have found her and knew that I would never have to change hair stylists again.

For my next haircut, I called Grow to schedule an appointment.  “Meg doesn’t work here anymore,” the receptionist at grow told me.  Is it really happening AGAIN?!  “What salon did she move to?” I begged, but the woman told me she had stopped cutting hair.  I was devastated.  The woman, however, did give me her cell phone number in case I wanted to call her.  I was nervous, but I called her.  “Hi, um, this is, um, Shaina, the girl who followed you to the other hair salon.”  Fortunately, she remembered me, didn’t think I was crazy and told me she wasn’t working at a salon but would come to my house to cut my hair!  I was so happy!  She was going to come to my house and I knew that I would never have to change hair stylist again.

Once again, she gave me a fantastic haircut and did not even make fun of me for eating spam fried rice that I had made, although she did politely decline when I offered some to her.  This time, she did the best job she had ever done.  I was so happy with my haircut, although I was sad because I was leaving Atlanta and moving to New York.  To keep in touch, we became facebook friends.  Nothing is more permanent than facebook, so I knew that I would always be able to find her and never have to change my hair stylist again.

(right after my hair cut)

After three mediocre haircuts in New York (yes, it’s true), I knew that as soon as I went back to visit Atlanta, I would get Meg to cut my hair.  I had been seeing periodic facebook updates from her, so when I decided to organize my November trip to Atlanta, I planned to facebook her.  Yesterday, I opened up facebook to send her a message and when I was typing her name, her account did not show up.  I figured I must have been spelling it wrong or she changed her name like some people do.  You know what I mean – if I did it my name would be “Shhh Aina”

Anyway, when her name didn’t come up, I looked up an old message we had sent to each other.  When I found it, my heart dropped.  Her name was blanked out – she had deleted her facebook account.  I began to panic.  Not again!  How am I going to find her this time?!  I began a googling frenzy.

I found an old linked in profile that I thought was hers, but there was no messaging function for it.  I tried to request her as a contact, but how often does anyone check a linked in profile?  Finally, I found her name attached to a party at a gun range!  I remembered she told me she was starting a new job at a gun range… and there was a phone number.  I was so excited!  I called the number immediately, but was devastated when I heard a woman’s voice, “we’re sorry, but the number you have dialed has been disconnected…”

I was nearly in tears – trying to accept that I would never find her again and my hair would be forever just OK.  I decided to make one last ditch effort and find the main number for the gun range – perhaps someone would know where she went.  I dialed it as I tried to think of how I was going to convince someone that I wasn’t a crazy stalker and they should give me Meg’s personal contact information.  Someone answered, “Sandy Springs, this is Meg speaking.”  I almost couldn’t speak.  I found her!  “Hi Meg.  How are you?”  “Good, how may I help you?”

I felt so stupid.  How was I going to explain that I stalked her for yet a THIRD time and I was calling her at her new job?  “Um, this is Shaina”  “Shaina STAHL?!” She asked.  “Yes, and I’m sorry that I called you at work but you deactivated facebook and I….”  I trailed off as I heard her laughing hysterically on the other end.  “I’m flattered you looked for me again!”  I was relieved.  I know that I will never have to change hair stylists again.

A letter to squash

Dear Butternut Squash,

I trusted you.  You lured me in with your delicious taste and excellent nutritional profile.  I was so excited when the handsome farmer (or hipster douchebag according to Mike) offered you to me for merely one dollar.  I put you in a bag that was safe and warm and carried you with me all the way home.  This is the thanks I get.

I think about how I so gingerly caressed you with my left hand as I sliced away your raw skin and scooped out your seeds.  You were tough, but I held you firmly as I prepared you.  You were so clean.  I turned you into a delicious curry but you did not want me to enjoy eating you.

I looked down at the hand that I held you with but it was not my hand.  It was a diseased looking writing tight piece of flesh.  You didn’t tell me that you didn’t want to be touched.  You didn’t suggest I use gloves and handle with care.  You never warned me that your sap would soak into my skin, making my hand nearly unusable.  As I washed my hands four, five, six times, I finally realized, you were serious. 

I googled you and found out I wasn’t the first girl you’d done this to.  Pyjammy posted, “After cutting up some butternut squash for soup, I noticed that the skin on my left hand became dry and tight. What's going on?”  Even robot made of meat commented “I just up 4 squash for the freezer today and my hand looks like an acid burn victim.”  Ttoommyy knew all about you when she wrote, “ Who knew squash were so evil! LOL.”

It was a full day before my hand began to peel and I was able to feel like a normal person again.  I don’t know that I can forgive you.  What’s that?  I just got a text that said you make delicious soup.  Perhaps I will let you back into my life for this http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Farmhouse-Butternut-Squash-Soup-351412.  “Green apple and a dash of cider vinegar provide just the right amount of tart balance in this slightly sweet, down-home soup topped with homemade bacon bits.”  I’ll be more careful with you this time.  If it doesn’t work out, I’ll just tell people I ran into a door.  With my left hand.

Love,

Shaina

New-York-aversary

It's my New-York-aversary!  Yep...it's been exactly one year since driving into the city, getting to our new apartment, and realizing that the movers were coming in 16 hours and the apartment was still currently full.  Oh, the fun of an 8 hour drive and realizing that there was so much work to be done, it wasn't guaranteed to happen before I started my life-consuming job.

I cried a lot of tears the first night in New York.  It was a mixture of sadness (I just left Atlanta, my home for 5 years), excitement (I was there with Mike and couldn't wait to see all my friends), and mostly Panic (what was I thinking moving to New York?).  We were too exhausted to do anything so, for the first time, we did what we would do many many times in the coming year - order Indian food.

Now, I'll take a step back.  When I said we arrived in an apartment that was currently full, I didn't mean completely full.  Nope, there were a few things the previous occupants (Mike's Parents :)) had already moved out.  Three things I can remember specifically: the couch, every single chair, all eating utensils.  Therefore, when the Indian food arrived with no plastic forks or spoons, we had to be resourceful.  We hadn't ordered naan so eating Indian food with our hands was CERTAINLY out of the question.  We thought about using a glass to scoop some food and pour it in our mouths but that just felt gross.  We finally settled on a couple baking spatulas to shovel the curry.  We sat on the floor and ate it off of cardboard boxes.  

Last night, to celebrate our New-York-aversary, we decided to re-create that Indian dinner.  We piled up a few cardboard boxes, grabbed a couple spatulas, and ate sitting on the floor.

I wondered how successful my first year as been in New York, so I made a list:

• Number of Broadway Shows I've Seen:  4 (Rain twice, American Idiot, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and Catch Me if You Can).
• Number of Visits to Rockefeller Center: 2
• Number of New York Hot Dogs Consumed: 2 (One Papaya King, One dirty water dog)
• Number of Times Walked Over Brooklyn Bridge: 1.5
• Number of Times Eating Pizza at Grimaldi's: 2
• Number of Different Types of Pizza Eaten at Grimaldi's: 4
• Number of Speakeasy Joints Where Drinks Cost > $15: 3
• Number of Snowstorms: 3
• Number of Natural Disasters: 2
• Number of Taxi Rides: 200 (Approximation)
• Number of Panic Attacks on the Subway: 2,000,000 (Approximation)
• Number of Rain Boots Purchased: 1
• Number of Hours Billed at Work: >2,000
• Number of Times I Uncontrollably Screamed out "I Love New York":  0

Looks fairly successful to me.  Let's see what the next year brings!

Flea! Flee?

Everyone's favorite Lebanese Californian came to visit New York this weekend - Jeanice!  To celebrate, we decided to hit hipster-central - the Brooklyn Flea Smorgasboard.  It is a food market where local vendors set up stands on the water in Williamsburg and serve overpriced but good food to the Williamsburgers who can rave about how cheap the superior food is that they're eating.  I overheard a patron raving about her $7 fish taco that is so local it was fished out of the east river.  I wanted to brag to these people that I drove a Prius but stopped myself when I saw someone riding a bicycle with wheels that charged his cell phone so he didn't have to plug it in at home.

Nevertheless, the food, and the company, were great.

The Scene

Jess with Vietnamese Hot Dog

Bun.  MMMMMM. (And brown sugar lemonade).

Bulgogi Hamburger (really, not everything was Vietnamese)

All dressed up.  It was raining.

Speaking of September 11, it was September 10, and New York City was on high alert.  Bridges had check points, planes were scrutinized, and police were out around the city.  With this heightened tension, you can imagine our surprise as we look across the river toward Manhattan and see a building.  on.  fire.  FIRE!

We froze and I could not believe my eyes.  Was it a coincidence or did someone actually pull off another attack?  My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and called my mom who was getting on an airplane.  "Mom, I'm in Brooklyn and everything is OK but I am watching a lot of smoke so I wanted you to know that I love you."

We moved closer to the water as everyone refreshed their phones and tried to find some news article about what was going on.

You already know the end of the story.  It was a transformer fire on the roof of a residential building.  Robots in disguise.

Fashion's Night Out!

Chances are, if you're reading this blog, you know Jessica.  She's been my bestie ever since she ran away from me in the mall in seventh grade.  I wanted to brag about her because she designed a bag for Fashion's Night Out!  Look!

Pretty awesome, right?  You can go here and buy it!  https://opensky.com/shopafrolic/offer/exclusive-opensky-fashions-night-out-tote-3

Hooray for Jess!

what SUP

Despite being from Hawaii, I’ve never been much of a surfer.  I’ve always enjoyed the waves and absolutely adored boogey boarding, but something about having to stand up with a board moving beneath my feet makes me fall over almost every time.  When I first saw paddle boarding in Waikiki, I was intrigued.  It looked difficult to balance, but people seemed to effortlessly pull themselves onto waves and never fell off.  Having a long stick to hold on to would surely make balancing easier!  Also, that meant a day of surfing without the next day feeling like someone punched you in the ribs repeatedly.  (If you’ve laid flat on a surfboard for a few hours, you know what I mean).

In 2009, Tina decided she really wanted to try paddle boarding.  While home in Hawaii on vacation, Mike and I met Tina in Kahala and rented two SUP.  (Standup paddleboards.  They’re referred to as SUP.  I’ll refer to them as SUP.  Now you can refer to them as SUP and sound cool, too).  One for Tina; one for Mike.  They looked too heavy for me. 

We drove them out to a boat dock where we were clearly out of place.  We were parked among black trucks with large wheels and Hawaiian flag decals.  There were large men with fishing poles sitting on this dock watching us: a 90 lb. Chinese-Japanese girl, a haole, and “me,” attempt to lift the heavy boards into the water.

Tina gets on her board first but although she is paddling her hardest, the wind is so strong that she is actually moving backwards.  The look of panic on Tina’s face sends me into hysterics.  Fortunately, some local man sees the poor small girl drifting out to sea with her friend immobilized from laughter and reached out his hand to stop her.  We quickly put the boards back onto the car and drove to a safer location.

After this initial experience, I had a few great experiences SUPing.  My mom rented us boards right outside of her condo and we were able to stand and paddle without issue.  So, when we heard from a family friend that they make inflatable SUPs, we knew we had to get them!  Mike got his a few weeks ago, but this weekend was the debut of my 10’ ULI Steamroller!  I couldn’t wait to see how it would compare to Mike’s Fat Ass Quad.

Getting the board was not without issue.  I ordered my board and paddle so that they would arrive together.  Of course, I planned on them arriving the day of Hurricane Irene.  I was anxiously awaiting FedEx delivery notification, so I decided to track my package.

Read the third one down.  Natural Disaster!  Was my board destroyed in the hurricane?  That was quite an activity code for my package.  You can imagine how nervous I was from 9 AM on 8/29 until 7:02 AM on 8/30.  Fortunately, in the meantime, my paddle arrived on 8/29 in a very tall box.  I was happy to have it safely in my home, away from the hurricane, but I did not have time to unpack it because I work a lot. 

On 8/30, my board did arrive and when we arrived home from a late dinner, Mike helped me carry the package upstairs.  As soon as we walked in the door, he turned to me and said, “where’s your paddle?”  The tallest object in our home was no longer where I had left it and I ran through the apartment searching for it.  It was big enough that I knew it could not just be hiding somewhere.  It was gone.  Our housekeeper had come in that day and although it was a large, unopened box, I knew she had thrown it away. 

I ran downstairs to the trash room but it was empty.  We looked outside where large trash is sometimes collected, but there was nothing.  I began to panic and we ran to the doorman to see if he had an idea.  I increasingly felt that my brand new paddle was sitting among banana peels and coffee grinds – waiting to be grinded up itself.  We approached the doorman, completely out of breath and I stammered, “where can we find trash?”  Mike, just as un-eloquently and much more “Freudianly” stuttered, “our babysitter may have done something.”  That broke some of the tension and we burst out laughing.  Babysitter?  Where did that come from?  Fortunately, the doorman knew exactly what we were talking about.  He had seen the trashed paddle and had saved it, thinking it was strange that someone would have thrown it out.  Finally, I was set to SUP.

The promised rain for Labor Day weekend never showed but the wind was strong and the waves were fierce.  Mike was able to paddle his board out past the breakers and back in as he caught a wave that pushed him onto the sand.  The choppy waves were scary but of less concern than the strong current.  Mike said he would paddle my board out if I swam along-side.  I agreed but as soon as a giant wave came toward us, I jumped on his back before he could argue and we paddled the board out together.  Once the waves were just lifting me up and dropping me, rather than breaking over my head, Mike left to get his board.  I was all alone in the ocean.  The bad conditions meant there were no other paddle boarders in the water that day.  But we were brave!  I felt brave.  Then I looked at Mike who was motioning from the beach for me to move a different way.  I didn’t realize I was drifting.  The waves were increasing again and I was having a hard time paddling fast enough.  I remembered Tina and wished a large Hawaiian fisherman was there to save me.  Mike arrived on his board just in time to help as I was thrown off my board into a crashing wave.  “My paddle!” I worried, fearing that it may be lost again.  Mike, of course, took care of my paddle and helped me back on my board and safely to shore.  Not without me getting completely out of breath first.

There were no more trips into the ocean this Labor Day but Mecox Bay runs right into the ocean and had some much calmer water.  My board was inflated to 17 psi and felt just as good as a standard fiberglass epoxy board.  We toured the bay and explored an unknown atoll we named “Bird-Poop Island.”  We saw blue crabs scurrying underwater and watched long-necked geese float about (but didn’t get too close because apparently they are vicious and I was not up to beating a goose with my paddle).

I can’t wait to take this board with me all over the world!

P.S.  Really, Hamptons?

Mike's NY Times Debut!

Imagine my surprise when I woke up to three texts this morning from my mother, "OMG M-Dog in Tymz - chk it out, yo!"  Ok, so it wasn't that.  But it was something like, "MIKE'S PICTURE IS IN THE STYLE SECTION OF THE NEW YORK TIMES!"

There it was:

He's there on the right side, third picture down - it's better than the picture I took!  You can watch the video http://video.nytimes.com/video/2011/09/02/fashion/100000001032512/bill-cunningham--cycles.html where he is shown and is referred to as, "that one guy with a wheel under each sneaker."

Wooley Mooley

After months without seeing my hippest New York pal, Patricia, I finally braved it down to Chinatown, during lunch, for what I knew would be some delicious food.

Since Patricia is the smallest person I know (also the person most likely embarrassed by being mentioned in a blog post) I find it fun to see if I can eat only whatever she eats.  It's usually a difficult task.  For example, we went to an Italian restaurant and she ordered a side order of carrots and green beans.  (She claims she just likes green beans more than any other food.  Don't get her started on cabbage).

Today, she suggested we meet for lunch at Despaña on Broome st.  I told her I was having what she was having.  She protested, thinking that her simple egg and potato omelette sandwich might not be exactly what I wanted.  It was.  In fact, I have never had a better potato omelette sandwich in my life.


The really impressive part, however, was after we ate when she walked me through the streets of Chinatown, pointing out things they were selling on the street like grass jelly.  (grass jelly?  Why would you eat that?  I asked if it was sweet.  The answer was no.  gross).


We ended up at Wooly's Shave(d) Ice cart!  A shave ice cart in the middle of Manhattan!  I was overjoyed!  Usually when I have had shave ice on the mainland it has been disgusting.  First, they call it Shaved ice with a D.  How stupid is that?  When a "D" is added on the end of shave ice I know it's going to be something with large chunks of ice and sticky red syrup that tastes like cough medicine.  This truck, although it used a 'd,' looked authentic.  I found out that the ice maker actually was imported from Hawaii!  YIPPEE!  Everyone knows that the secret to good shave ice is in the thinness of the ice.  The "shave" if you will.


Then, I noticed there were no syrup topping choices.  The choices were for the type of ice - original or strawberry - and for actual toppings on the dessert.  It was as if pink berry met Waiolas.  Mochi, mango, blueberry, and strawberry were all topping choices.  Also, you could get condensed milk or chocolate sauce toppings.  I was skeptical, but I knew if Patricia liked it, I would too!

We both got original flavored ice with "leche" and mochi and mango toppings!

MMM!  Not quite Matsumoto's, but also nothing like any of the gross mainland shave ice I have had.  It's more than good enough to bring back all Hawaii people!