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I’m leaving today. I want to be a part of it: New York, New York. So I’m off to New York City for the weekend to enjoy a well-deserved break from all the daily madness and overwhelming responsibility that is childless stay-at-home motherhood. I know some of you are saying, “Wait a minute? Didn’t you just tell us you were going to Atlantic City? Was that all a big fat lie? Are your pants on fire? Everything I believed to be true is false! Is your name really even Jenny?”
I know how this looks, but really, I can explain. I tried to book a last-minute flight to Atlantic City, but the closest I could get for under $500 was New York City. And since I know some folks in NYC, I decided that maybe I should just hold off on my dreams of becoming a world champion poker player for a few weeks, and enjoy the sights and sounds of the Big Apple.
I’m actually hoping that I’ll have a few madcap adventures while I’m there so that I have something to write about when I get back. I’ve got my autograph book ready just in case I spot any celebrities walking down the street. Some people are uncomfortable approaching famous people on the street. Not me. I figure if Will Smith is comfortable asking me to shell out $9.50 to see him trade snarky comments with a robot, he darn well better be prepared for me to send a waiter into the men’s room to get him to sign my Parents Just Don’t Understand CD.
I also like to practice my “subway face” whenever I’m in New York. It’s a technique I perfected while living in Paris. Have you ever seen those 3D posters in the mall that you have to stare at for a really long time in order to actually see the image? That’s kind of what I do in the subway. I relax my eyes so that I’m really not looking at anyone, but am actually looking through everyone. That way, crazy people can be waving and yelling and playing the kazoo right in my face, but I don’t even see them. Then they start to think that maybe I’m the crazy one, and they usually switch cars.
Another goal I have is to finally put to rest this ridiculous feud between New Yorkers and Chicagoans as to which city is truly the hot dog town. Now, I will say that I’m going into this with my mind already made up, but I’ll give New York one chance to prove me wrong. If so much as one person offers me catsup on my hot dog, that’s it. Game over. Chicago wins. Catsup on a hot dog – what kind of an abomination is that?
Finally, I plan on scoping out some of the local tap dance nightclubs to steal some street moves that haven’t made their way to Chicago yet. Then when I go back to tap class and my teacher tries to blow out my kneecap by making me do some sadomasochistic hop-shuffle-hop-shuffle-hop-shuffle-shuffle-shuffle combination, I’ll just push her aside and school her triflin’ ass with some F-train throw down I picked up in the Village. Yeah, that’s right – Momma said knock you out!
So with all this on my agenda, I’m afraid I won’t be able to post any new entries until next week. I’m really going to miss you. A lot. I miss you already. God, I can barely remember what you look like. Maybe I shouldn’t go. Are you sure it’s okay? You’ll see. I’ll be back soon, and it will be like I never left. Be good, and check in on the cats on Saturday, won’t you? You’re a peach.

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