So I was staying a luxury hotel overlooking Central Park, and when I checked in they were all like “OH!  Would you like your regular, super-wicked fancy-ass room?” and I was all like “Obviously.”

Thank God for the Chess set, as I enjoy spending many-a-time playing the Chess.

Yawn.  This was my view.

While taking this picture, I was petrified of dropping my iPhone and accidentally killing someone via “accelerated gravity-induced iPhone to the head”.

Seriously, though, I was actually there to ”work”.  When I say “work”, I mean hanging out in the Presidential Suite of a luxury hotel over-looking Central Park, taking pictures of myself like a baller while supervising a video shoot.  Yes, I know it’s basically exactly the same as my last trip.  Deal with it.

Except this time I was an “extra” in the shoot, so I got to get my hair and makeup done by a professional make-up artist.  WHAT????

Incidentally, I was coming down with a cold and my makeup artist (who is Russian), told me to use these Russian nose drops that you basically put into your nose and it burns like the fire of a thousand suns and then you are cured.

Some of it accidentally went in my mouth and I was worried I was going to have radiation poisoning or Dioxin poisoning or something else dramatic and Russian-mafia-esque.  But I survived.

ALSO.  I bumped into Lionel Richie in the lobby.  Whaaaaa?  Yeah.  He literally hasn’t aged a day since the 80′s.  Here is an artist’s rendition (note Lionel’s sweet ‘stache):

ANYways, after my fabulous stint as a movie-star-slash-extra-because-I-was-the-only-person-there, I headed down to the lobby bar for a fancy drink and dinner before coming home.

While in the bar, I got approached by a man.

An old man.  I’m not being mean.  He had a cane and could barely stand.  Pants up to armpits.  Like, I was so concerned that he was going to fall over from his weak standing ability that I rushed to get him a chair next to me.  Big mistake.

He talked to me all nice-like for a while about his wife and kids while I tried to eat my dinner.  Since I am a nice person who is unable to be mean, I humoured him for about 20 minutes while trying to eat my fried portobello mushrooms.  Then this:

Old Guy: This is going to sound strange but when I see something I like I just go for it
Me: *awkward smile while eating fried portobellos*
Old Guy: You are so pretty.  I would like to call you some time
Me: *starting to choke on portobellos*
Old Guy: Can I give you my number?
Me: Oh… no… no… that’s ok.
Old Guy: No, I want you to have it.
Me: Oh… no… no… I don’t think so.
Old Guy: Take my number please I really want you to have it.
Me: *awkwardness* Ummm fine ok fine I guess.
Old Guy: *starts writing number and his HAND IS SHAKING SO MUCH FROM OLDNESS THAT HE CAN’T COMPLETE IT* I’ll just tell it to you and you can write it down.
Me: *extreme, powerful awkwardness mixed with pity for old man* Uhh… ok fine.

I then got up to leave in a hyper-rush to get the FUCK out of there.  Seriously, I was like a termite running under the fridge when the light turns on.

Old Guy: I REALLY hope you call me.  Seriously.  I really hope you call me.
Me: *BLURRRRG!!!!*

My hypothesis is that, for some reason, even though I was wearing jeans and motorcycle boots, and was very unattractively eating a plate of fried mushrooms, and even though I mentioned REPEATEDLY that I was there on business and was flying out in a couple of hours, he thought I was a prostitute.

This is the last thing I’m going to say about this.  MAYBE I was mistaken that he thought I was a hooker.  MAYBE he just gave me his number to talk.  However, note that my “he likes me” radar is GROSSLY underdeveloped – I always assume that no guy ever likes me ever, and it is very difficult to convince me otherwise… and here I was 100% convinced that this man had just solicited me for sex.

So this: what kind of fucked-up world is this where a chick can’t eat by herself at a bar in a hotel without a guy assuming she is a prostitute?  This happened to me when I was travelling in Austin, too.  By a similarly old man (the young men do not enjoy me, apparently). Like, I said about 60 times that I was there for work.  WHAT the FUCK.  CHICKS HAVE JOBS.  JOBS THAT AREN’T HOOKING.  THEY NEED TO EAT.

So then I went to the airport and my flight was cancelled.

Till the next morning.  YEAH.  BALLS.

You know what else was balls?  The fact that there was some mystery event or some shit going on in NY and EVERY SINGLE HOTEL ROOM IN THE WORLD was booked.  Seriously.  I called like 20 hotels.

I ended up having to call my boss, who happened to still be in town, and sleep on her room’s pull-out couch for the night.  The end.