Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

Style matters when it comes to the Dance Battle Friday: Tom and I went to the theater and saw Silver Linings Playbook. I came away mighty inspired by the Dance Move whereby a crotch was thrown squarely into the face of a crouched sexy man. (Spoiler alert, there). In that phantasmagoric moment, I knew there would be a Kinnect Dance Battle in my future. I vowed to line up some worthy foes. Saturday: I bided my time, went through my closet, readied a headband. Carbo-loaded on whiskey beneath a decadent forest of fake pine boughs, sparkling glass icicles and baby dolls strapped firmly to the ceiling. Sunday Morning: At the crack of noon, I hit the streets, on the way to brunch with Ron, Gina and a posse of onlookers. Ron sat across the big round table in a flannel shirt and tough-guy jeans and talked about jack hammers and building permits but i was not fooled. I know Ron has a bachelors degree in ballet and he can jump in the air and kick his legs really fast. That is ba

So far, in 2013: Campbell Apartment With no introductory small talk of any kind, I informed two strangers at the very fancy Campbell Apartment on 42nd Street that I have nightmares about losing my cell phone. Both muttered sympathetically and may have considered patting me on the shoulder had I not darted off with their cocktail menu. I heard a distinguished gentleman call a mouse in a mouse competition an "ivory satin buck" and describe this mouse as being "racy," "manly," "hairy of foot," and "in lovely condition." A client mentioned he once was arrested for pushing a wrecked Suburban SUV over the border in Tijuana. I met three random Italians and said to each the only Italian phrase I know: "The chair is upholstered in corduroy." One was impressed, two were not. Over some Caribbean chicken, a doctor we know brought us up to speed on his latest research investigating the impact of penis size amongst gay and bisexu

"Aunt Stacey, what does drunk mean?" The Highline, featuring drunk people railing. It all started innocently enough. Jack and I, up on the Highline on a Saturday afternoon. He wanted me to unfold the kick scooter I had slung over my shoulder. I told him that the sign by the staircase clearly stated: No alcoholic beverages; and  No bikes, roller skates, skateboards or letting your nephew stand on the front of your kick scooter while you weave in and out of tourists at top speeds like it's a crosstown sidewalk. So naturally the kid's next question is, "What is an alcoholic beverage?"   "Beer," I answered. "Why can't you drink beer on the Highline?" "Because they don't want drunk people running around up here," I replied. ( You can see where this is going.) Jackson. When Jack popped me with the grand finale "define drunk" query, I was flummoxed. I certainly did not want to see m