New York, Same Pauline

After a whirlwind two weeks on the West Coast, I jetted off to New York for work.

I had been to New York three times before- once as a child, once when I randomly left college in the middle of the night and went to NY last minute alone for three days and didn’t tell a soul (ask me about it over drinks sometime), and once for my orientation as an intern at Google 2.5 years ago.

The circumstances are always different, New York is always the same, and I? I’m the same, but different. (That makes sense in my head, and I’m a little hungover, so just go with it.)

On that note, I can never decide whether or not I like New York.

Sees trash on the sidewalk

“Animals! Savages!”

Eats a lobster roll

“I was born to live here.”

Gets shoulder checked on the street

“Excuse me?! Rude! I could never live here.”

Goes to a NYC rooftop bar

“I LOVE THIS CITY!”

NY finance bros slide into my Instagram direct messages telling me they live near Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment

“So, when’s my flight out?”

Needless to say, I had a wonderful time. I went out with my dear friend Nick, who I met in New York the first day of my internship a few years ago (and by first day I mean the night before when a group of us went out and he told a woman in an elevator that she smelled like beef.)

We went to Le Bain and PHD, where I learned a thing or two about being a New Yorker as we watched people get turned away in line.

“Pauline, don’t smile at the bouncers. Just smile less in general. This is New York.”

(I’m a Midwesterner and I don’t know how to not smile at strangers or say “Oops, sorry!” if I accidentally bump into someone.)

The tactic seemed to work though, judging by the stamps on my arms.

I also learned that I really ought to stop believing that I drink gin and tonics until 4 in the morning, catch some Zzz’s and make a 9am flight.

I’m still going to make it in time for brunch in Detroit but believe me when I say that last night’s makeup, workout leggings, and sprinting through an airport in high heeled booties is not a good look on anyone, myself included.

And with that- it’s time for takeoff.

My Luck is My Ladies

“Hey, want to go to Vegas for my golden birthday?”

See, it all started as a half-joke. I mean come on, even the term “golden birthday” is kind of made up. I’m turning 24 on the 24th and thought it would be fun to celebrate with a girlfriend or two in a big way. Vegas seemed fitting, of course.

But what I didn’t expect was for the “YES!”s to just keep coming at me.

Not just one or two but seven of my best girlfriends all took a gamble on a girls weekend in Sin City and flew out for my birthday.

(Not sorry about the puns…)

Lucky for me, these ladies shared my mindset: if you’re going to do something, do it right.

We got two adjoining suites at the glamorous Venetian (which honestly I might like a little more than I did actual Venice because it’s less crowded and they have a pool) and spent the weekend basking in the glitz and the ritz.

We wore fluffy white robes and soaked in a marble tub while eating cake and drinking Champagne (we took turns of course because we couldn’t all fit.) We sat front and center for the musical BAZ (great musical, but everyone dies in the end so it’s low key sad), and sang (okay, screamed) our hearts out at 3am watching ZEDD perform. We won big playing slots and roulette (and proceeded to promptly lose most of it), and we splashed around a day-club in our teeny bikinis (and loads of sunscreen because sun safety is key.)

Yes it was fabulous, but here’s the real secret sauce to my perfect weekend:

If you had taken away the glitter and sexy dresses, the bottle service and the suites, the limo and the shows. If that were all gone, I still would have been the luckiest lady in the world.

It was my golden girls who made it perfect.

Things are things, but good people are every-thing.

While I’m still not over the fact that seven humans got on airplanes to celebrate that I have aged another year, nor is my body over the trauma of three days of champagne and cake, my heart is so full.

To my beautiful friends: Thank you. I hit the jackpot when I met you.

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Domestic Diva

While I do consider myself the Martha Stewart of our generation, I’m referring to domestic in a slightly different sense.

I have temporarily traded in my international travel for domestic instead, embracing the life of a road warrior for my cool new career.

Seattle. Los Angeles. New York. Phoenix. Atlanta. Boston. Anywhere, I’m there.

Maybe you’ve noticed (you probably haven’t) but I’ve never really written about my travels within the US. In fact, I find it hard to blog about anything at all when it’s not about some fabulous and exciting foreign country.

Alas, I have decided that domestic destinations carry their own validity and their own stories and it’s about time I start sharing those as well.

Let’s start with the fact that today I managed to pack 14 different outfits, five pairs of shoes, and three handbags into a carry on.

People, if that isn’t an accomplishment worth writing about- then I don’t know what is.

More to come from this high heeled road warrior and her pink suitcase. Stay tuned, and thanks for flying along.