New York City: Unexpected Twists, Uninvited Guests


I’ve lived in New York for 10 years now, and it’s been well-documented that I love my adopted home.

I love the creativity.
I love the in-yer-face New York arrogance that convinced this guy that by taking a Sharpie to his dirty molester van, he has suddenly created an ELITE business.

I love when classy bridge and tunnel partiers take limos to shithole bars in Midtown.
I love that New Yorkers always see potential in outdoor space, even abandoned train tracks above the city.
I love it in the summer, when hairy, shirtless men get a little too friendly on Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.
I love it in the winter, when I get to wear my faux fur hat and pose in a neighborhood nicer than my own.

But part of what makes New York such a unique place to live is that you really can’t plan for anything. Something will always put a kink in your blueprint.
Case in point:
I hosted an Italian-themed going away party for one of my pals.
There was antipasti, ziti, bruschetta, tiramisu and limoncello. I decorated with red, green and white streamers and a red checked table cloth.

There was a slide show of Italian scenery on the TV. Frank Sinatra music was playing. The patio was lit with candles and tiki torches and everyone was having a good time. All the guests looked great. Funny stories were told, people were laughing, almost in slow motion…you know, like we were in a fancy vodka commercial.

I was looking around at the festivities and congratulating myself on a job well done. Yes, I thought, people are going to leave this party tonight and say to each other, “What a delightful evening! Isn’t Saara a charming host? The food was so tasty. Boy oh boy was that fun!”

Then at about two in the morning, I went to the bathroom. Within two minutes, everything changed.
I came back out and saw stricken, panicked faces. No more slo-mo laughter. Everyone was standing around in an uncomfortable formation.

“What happened? Who farted?” I asked.
“We must have left the patio doors open too long. A mouse just ran past my feet,” said my boyfriend.

(Not a photo of the actual mouse.)

People dispersed. I highly doubt they were discussing the tasty ziti or the Frank Sinatra music. Instead, this party will forever be known as “the time a mouse crashed the Italian party.”

And that, my friends, is New York for you.

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