Depeche Mind

I got laid..

2009-04-08T09:48:00.011-04:00

...off, that is.

This monkey wrench in the wheel that is my life is just another statistic, however, in the numbers rolling out of the mouths of D.C. babes. This title for a news article pretty much sums it up:

Unemployment high in March, Officials Say

Brilliant in its simplicity or simple as in Billy Bob Thornton in Slingblade simple? You decide.

In the wake of this occurence, I had two options: A) Treat it as the earth-shattering, traumatizing event that this was supposed to be and go unwashed for the next three months or

B) Carpe Diem! Seize the opportunity with Robin Williams dancing on my shoulder blathering "O Captain, my Captain!" I'll take life by the horns! Make lemons out of lemonade! Yeah!

I chose neither of the above, because C) a girl needs to eat.

I'm not kidding. Maybe not my first thought, but one of my first thoughts upon receiving the news was "Maybe now I can finally get to try The Little Owl?" Seriously.

Before getting laid off, it was clear to me impending changes were going to happen regarding my incomings. Thus began a loosely orchestrated Plan B. Here's what I know:

1. Contrary to my glorified image of new motherhood, where I snuggle with my newborn daughter in her Baby Bjorn during maternity leave and sip cappucinos at cafes while chatting with friends, I was the post-natal, sleep-deprived equivalent of Pig Pen from The Peanuts Gang up until the day I returned to work. The day before that, I took a shower.

2. While on maternity leave, the world fell apart to which I was oblivious.

3. In my return to work, however, it became abundantly clear that juggling new motherhood and the increasingly strained work environment was going to be a wee bit of a challenge. Therefore, work stress and new baby combined meant I did not have the wherewithall to live what is commonly known as A Life.

4. My net income on unemployment benefits would exceed that of what I was making at work after deductions for childcare each month. This is New York City. Believe it.

And in general, life was sucking a lot more than I had hoped for being a new mom.

So Plan B was kicked into gear and I got my ducks in a row. My desk was cleared out two weeks before they gave me the boot (hence the modicum of satisfaction derived from watching The Snake's face when she escorted me to my desk to Voila! There would be no joy had in watching me pack up an already threadbare cubicle!) Our apartment has been put up for sale. I paid off certain bills, while scooting down to the minimum on others.

And breathed a sigh of relief.

Now, a month after being laid off, I'm less gray, less stressed, less irritable. (Note: not completely without irritation, but less so. I don't claim to be a saint.) And A From LA, who actually is no longer A From LA since she's back in New York, is, well, back in New York! And we have planned jaunts to local dining establishments that we have been dying to try but previously had no time to do so. We may not have the money either, but we'll work that out. Sharing is caring, ya know.

All that with a baby in town while I look for a new job, along with the apparently 13 other million people who are doing so as well.

So...watch this space. (I really mean it this time!)

The Perfect Christmas Gift

2008-12-25T08:36:00.021-05:00

Since I presumably celebrate Christmas now on behalf of my daughter, I've been immersing myself into the mindset of Christmas shoppers, scanning the retail horizon for what could be potentially perfect gifts. Consequently, my eyes have been opened to the absurdity of what actually passes for desirable purchases out there and the fact that people actually buy them. Let's begin:

Snuggies - otherwise known as The Blanket With Sleeves aka the bastardized version of what is commonly known as a Poncho. It's so monk-like, too. What happens when people put it on? Do they start chanting?

"IIIII....ahhhhhhmmmmm.....the suckkkkerrrrrrrr....who bought Snuggiesssss....the blanhhhhhhhn-ketssss.....with shleeeevessssss!"

But that free book light offer, that's what gets them everytime. The Slanket didn't stand a chance.

FlowBee - the home haircutting system. I have never been an advocate of DIY haircuts, having been the victim of some horrific efforts on behalf of my mother. And for some reason, these exercises in humiliation always had to take place right before school photos were taken and said haircut was recorded for posterity.

So this, to me, just has WARNING!!! written all over it. Plus, the fact that it's called a vacuum haircut is worrying. Because things can go seriously awry when introducing a product like this to market, there is a simple equation at work here:

FlowBee + a bunch of drunk frat guys = YouTube history

You know I'm right!

Although...if you do buy the FlowBee, you can be like Cloris Leachman here and suck out whatever was left of your brain that led you to buy the thing in the first place

Adirondack Ski Chair - You have to click the link to see what I'm talking about, but it looks comfortable, no? And there's an ottoman! At $500, it better come with some lift tickets too! Just think of all the stories this chair has to tell. I think I recognize one of those skis belonging to that guy I completely wiped out at Killington in 1989.

Lucky Golden Poo - I kid you not. It's a charm in the shape of Poo. But it's Lucky. And it's Golden. Therefore, that makes it the perfect gift to give at Christmas. Ah, what the heck, make it any special occasion throughout the year.

It really says "You mean so much to me", don't you think?

Enough said. Merry Christmas.

And bebe makes three...

2008-10-25T06:41:00.011-04:00

So, it's like this - I'm a mom now. Which doesn't excuse why I haven't written anything for at least 5 months, but I was kinda busy harvesting the child that is now sleeping at all hours of the day, while I'm...not.

As I have the baby monitor parked besides me, practically in fear that she will wake up after I just put her down, I consider the fact that this morning at 5 am, I was completely wasted, uttering jibberish with spit-up in my hair. Which goes to show the wierd trajectory of my life since the last time I found myself in this position was in my college days, stumbling out of a club.

I could tell you all about the joys of motherhood in the month since she's arrived or even the excitement of awaiting her arrival while pregnant, complete with birds singing around my head and bunnies hopping around my feet, just like in Disney films. But this is Moi we're talking about. So let me lay out it out like this:

1) I had a pretty easy pregnancy, only exacerbated by the fact that I worked with crazy people. Given the situation of her mom's co-workers and bosses who Simply Did Not Give A Shit what condition she was in, I'm relieved to say my child was born healthy and, from what I gather, relatively unaffected. But anything that she throws at me - even if it's twenty years from now -that's easy, I will blame it on my current job.

2) Ladies, no amount of preparation can ready you for the actual delivery of a child. Nothing. Nada. So the next time you're sitting in your birthing class that you plunked down your credit card for and they do you the injustice of whipping out a video (yes, as in VHS, not DVD) from the 1980s...call Bullshit and demand your money back. You do not want to suffer through watchng a husband-and-wife team with matching mullets going through the process, he in parachute pants and coaching her to "ride the waves" up until the baby's born. Yes, that's right. He said that. But when he's talking about riding the waves, he means the waves of PAIN.

Hey, at least I'm being honest and MY advice is free.

3) When they say, pack your bag and have a plan, they mean it. You do not want to be me like me and find yourself in labor a week before our due date, parked on the sidewalk in an office chair at 4 in the morning, while your husband runs a 2-block radius around you looking for a cab, any cab. John Travolta is practically begging for this to be written into a treatment of Look Who's Talking 4 for the shot in the arm his career so badly needs.

Doing that Scient-ah-lagy hoodoo he loves so much

What is true is that nothing prepares you for the arrival of your own child. Especially if you were not really a Baby Person like me and can only handle kids after the age of 2. Like a heat-seeking missile, your own kid will come into the world and pretty much blast through all the defenses constructed over the so many years you've existed before they graced this Earth.

Which is why I am completely wasted and uttering jibberish with spit-up in my hair at 5 am in the morning. And, for the most part, loving it.

This is your sock. This is your sock on drugs. Any questions?

2008-04-24T07:45:00.009-04:00

The things that inspire me to come out of my blogging doldrums.

So I'm folding laundry this morning in utter exhaustion having come off a whirlwind business trip when I smacked in the face with a Crime of Fashion, courtesy of C. I have avoided addressing these Crimes of Fashion out of respect for my husband's privacy and somewhat dubious choices of attire. Until now. The gloves are off and I'm comin' out swingin'!

At first I'm disbelieving, not sure that this is in fact what I'm actually seeing. But this is C, he of the Amazing Three-Button Nineties Suit, and I realize that something has gone terribly awry if I let this one get by me. I present to you Exhibit A of what is now becoming a long laundry list of questionable items of clothing populating C's closet:

For starters, something is not quite right when the insignia on any sock deviates from the innocuous logo or symbol variety. But when I start seeing construction symbols on a sock, no matter how sleep-deprived I am, that's a flag-waving, siren-blaring Red Alert to me! It's a construction symbol for "this is so not okay!" However, further inspection of said sock has me disturbed, perturbed, and aaaaaallllll of the above.

That's right, ladies and gents, there lies a construction symbol of a man lifting a beer with the inscription "Men at work!"

What? How? And more importantly, why?!?!?!??! It is clear to me that I have slackened in my fashion-enforcing, clothes-monitoring wifely duties if my husband was able to slip this by me. Obviously, C's judgment has been impaired during the purchase process of this particular item, as he obviously did not see the "DO NOT BUY IF YOU'RE OVER 21 AND YOUR BEER PONG DAYS ARE A THING OF THE PAST" warning sign flashing above it. I have an inkling that a recent visit to England and the encouragement of a particular best friend may have something to do with this.

You may be thinking "It's a sock. So what? Nobody will know it's there". But you're wrong - I know it's there. And there ain't no shame in saying I am that particular. So if it means having to do a trade-off with him and throwing out a pair of my Granny Underwear that he hates so much, I am quite ready to do it.

So it's like this...

2008-03-09T11:40:00.005-04:00

I'm pregnant. Three months, to be exact. I'm thrilled, but you wouldn't be able to tell since I've been basically asleep ever since I found out. Like, I've been known to nod off while at the dinner table or when I put my head down on my desk at work. Which doesn't go over so well, considering I still haven't told my boss yet.

See, my boss isn't exactly the model of thentitivity when it comes to this kind of news. Flashback to when someone else was expecting in the office and he asked them when the parasite was due.

Yeah.

So I'm trying to keep this on the downlow and just let him think I like my food. Which wouldn't be hard to deduce considering my regular tops are starting to look snug around my middle and I'm prone to mid-morning refills of my Honey Nut Cheerios, which have made a serious comeback into my life after I stopped eating them since the 4th grade. At the rate, I'm going to turn into one big, round Cheerio.

But aside from the sleepiness and occasional mood swing, I'd like to think my disposition hasn't changed much as I haven't been too affected by the customary symptoms of pregnancy. Granted, some lifestyle changes have been in order, like the absence of sushi, beer, rollerblading, roast beef sandwiches, turkey subs from Publix, nova lox on a scooped-out everything bagel with scallion cream cheese, tomato and onion...

So yeah, I'm a little cranky, but hey - no projectile vomiting...yet.

And with the absence of the aforementioned items comes the introduction to my life of Tums, a squishy middle, maternity jeans, crying at Charmin commercials, and flatulence that can send even my dog running for the border.

So...am I glowing yet?

The Bar-Mitzvahzilla

2008-02-27T10:21:00.012-05:00

So I have to go to my cousin's son's bar mitzvah in a few weeks and I was looking forward to it. It meant we get to see our favorite other cousin and chill out on a three-day weekend in Montreal. C and I would have time to check out the Underground City, have brunch at our favorite spot, and take advantage of a three-day weekend.

My cousin, however, had other plans as per her e-mail. My wedding wasn't even this mapped out:

"Just a reminder that A's big day is fast approaching.

Here is the schedule for the Bar Mitzvah weekend:
Friday: casual supper at our place so we hope you can all join us !
Saturday: we will be busy having our hair and make-up done in the morning and the photographer will be at our home in the afternoon....
Saturday Night: cocktails at 6, ceremony at 7.....
Sunday: Brunch at our house ( details to follow ) and you're all expected of course !
Monday: no plans yet !!"

Don't even think of making fun of the yarmulke

New Year's resolutions

2007-12-31T10:31:00.000-05:00

As I managed to escape moments after posting the last addendum to my previous post, I never really did get to finish on a thought that began that day. And that would be my New Year's resolutions. Let's go:

1) To stop shopping as a recreational sport. Window shopping, online shopping, whatever - you name it I love it. And C is my partner is crime. And most of the time, nothing comes out of it because I really don't have the cash flow to actually be buying anything. So what's the point in that??? I need to be more productive with my time.

2) To clear up any debts we have left as a result of our move and shopping as recreational sport. Which means I need to go hide in a bunker somewhere until 2009 if we're hoping to see any results.

3) To learn Photoshop. Mostly because I can't wait to clip and post a photo of Zoe Dawg wearing a turban in India, just for laughs.

4) To get back on skis this winter. Seriously, I need to break this streak or else I run the risk of doing the involuntary Triple Lundy somersault that I did in Crested Butte one time after a long dry spell. While I'm sure bystanders remember it fondly as "Remember the time that chick just went flyyyyyinnng over that mogul like a cannonball shot?", my back has still not forgiven me for that.

5) To wish all of you a happy new year. There, done.

Post-Christmas mini-hangover and sleep deprivation diary

2007-12-26T10:00:00.000-05:00

9:42 AM - I am one of those sad suckers at work today, watching the tumbleweeds go by. Everyone is either sleeping off last night's drinks or eating bon bons in bed, as far as I'm concerned.

10:04 AM - A From LA is in town, hence the mirth and merriment that kept me out past my self-imposed 11:30 curfew and had me holding up my finger, saying "Just one more". Twice. At Niagra Bar of all places.

10:51 AM - I love how I'm on the phone with my mother and she starts launching into a big diatribe about my relationship with my brother. But after I tell her this is not a conversation to have while I'm at work, she keeps repeating back to me "Like I said, this is not a conversation to have while you're at work". Grrr.

11:41 AM - As we're watching my parents' neurotic dog, Jaxon, while they're away, we've been overly concerned with his well-being. He's depressed, he misses them, and being a country dog, he is very confused as to life in the big city. So his toilet habits are serious indicators of his well-being during his stay with us. This is where shrubbery comes in, essential in order for him to successfully execute. So we patiently search this morning at 2 am, for that one perfect shrub in the caverns of Wall Street. And thankfully, we do eventually find it.

Which is why my last recollection as I fall asleep is C saying to me, with his eyes closed and a smile on his face: "I'm happy because it was good to hang out with those guys again. And I'm happy because Jaxon pooped."

1:50 PM - I'm back from an extra-long lunch break that included stops to the library and checking out the post-Christmas sales, all necessary to recharge my tired batteries. And not one e-mail, not one stinking e-mail. Remind me why the office is open again? Thus, the plotting to sneak out early begins.

2:32 PM - Sending e-mails to myself has not improved aforementioned situation.

3:07 PM - Did I mention the in-laws are coming tomorrow? And did I mention that originally they were talking about doing Times Square for New Year's?

Oh. Yes.

Thankfully, we were able to convince them that this was an irrefutably bad idea, well in advance, but I could never perfectly sum up in words why. But now, having come up a well-put summation of those feelings, I can present this to you feel and vindicated. This, my friends, is why.

And this totally has nothing to do with the year I was mistaken for a prostitute by a tourist while I was trying to find my friends at some bar in the area. Because obviously, a short dress and knee-high boots on New Year's Eve can only mean just one thing.

Calling Savion Glover

2007-12-17T14:20:00.001-05:00

So this past weekend, I’m watching an old Alanis music video. No, I wasn't breaking out the plaid and thinking about dreading my hair; the only reason I’ve just discovered this video is because there’s a Six Degrees of Separation thing going between this music video from the 90s and the movie I Am Legend, which we just saw on Friday night. Don’t ask.

So….anyway! I’m watching this video, getting really into the vibe (and what are you doing to do about it?) when I notice something which I had hoped was banned around the start of the millennium. And that would be The Tap. Do you know what I’m talking about? It’s those tap-dancing sounds employed in videos and films when they're trying to convince you that the people are actually tap dancing. Here…a perfect case in point – Paula Abdul in "Opposites Attract" at timestap 2:57 when she does that little pas de deux with Mr. Cartoon Cat:

Now we all know that cats can't tap. But we do know Paula Abdul can. Paula has made abba-solutely, pah-ha-sitively sure that we know she can tap. See the beginning of "Straight Up", hence a surge in the rate of broken toes in 1989 (including mine) from little girls thinking they could be anything close to the tap-dancing fool that was Paula Abdul. Hey, that rhymes!

So why is The Tap being employed here? To make it more…tappier? Paula Abdul don’t need no help tapping!

Fast forward to the Alanis video. She can dance, right? Considering all the moaning and groaning she does when she sings, literally and figuratively, so heavy was she with the philsophical musings on life and love, I’d never have guessed she was that light on her feet. I’m suitably impressed. And then at the timestamp of 1:27?

I present to you The Tap

At first, I’m looking over my shoulder like “Where’s that sound coming from?” And then it’s like “Aw, man! Is that The Tap?” The whole thing just becomes so fake. Faker than fake. Because you can't just pretend to tap! You must feeeeeel the tapper tapping, seeeeee the tapper tapping!

If The Tap is the audio version of steroids, that would make Alanis Morrissette the Jose Canseco of tap dancing.

Balducci's = Doesn't get the several thousand years old memo

2007-12-09T08:18:00.001-05:00

Just in case you were wondering, this is a promotion not customary for the Festival of Lights.

I don't know what's funnier - this or the fact that the blogger who stumbled upon this has now turned this into a cottage industry replete with shirts and magnets on Cafe Press. No wait, the funniest would be the people who actually click to BUY the things. Click here to read more.

Happy Hanukah

2007-12-05T22:45:00.001-05:00

Xena Dawg joins me, her owner J, and our fellow Chosen Peoples in wishing you a Happy Hanukah.

S.O.S. from M

2007-12-03T19:46:00.000-05:00

"I work with crazy people"

Mini-hangover diary

2007-10-31T16:11:00.000-04:00

This falls under the “mini-hangover” category, as my hangover is neither here nor there. Because although we had another Bitchfest (read: work happy hour) last night, it wasn’t a Booze-a-palooza. So this is what I get for trying to go home early and getting into bed early, thinking I can sneak one past the Hangover Monster. Instead, he kicks me in the ass by waking me up at 5:30 am this morning, reminding me that I can’t sleep with any kind of alcohol in my system.

9:10 am – I have walked into the office. I have worn brown today. Brown is the color of our cubicle walls. Hopefully, I blend in and no one notices me here.

9:11 am – Someone noticed me.

9:13 am – Someone else noticed me as well.

9:20 am – This is getting to be a problem

10:38 am – Unfortunately, the Jedi Mind Trick is not working and people are penetrating my Invisible Wall, feeling the urge to converse with me today. This does not make me happy.

11:25 am – I wonder if anyone would actually say anything if I unfolded a cot underneath my desk and decided to chill out there for a little while?

12:01 pm – The Big Man wants me to go to a lunch meeting with him last minute and give the rundown on a big event we have in September to a dude I’ve never met before. I lie like a dog and tell him I have a conference call at 1. Maybe that’s when I’ll unfold the cot.

12:15 pm – Time to sneak out and pretend to get lunch before my "conference call" (air quotes!) at 1. Even though I brought lunch with me.

12:52 pm – Oh, what the hell. That noodle soup looked good, so I wound getting that. I’ll save the other lunch for tomorrow, which is also soup.

1:00 pm - What do you know? The conference call was cancelled!

1:25 pm – That other lunch turned to be pretty good as well. Love me those lentils.

1:52 pm – But those lentils don’t love me. I’ve been walking around smiling at everyone with a lentil skin covering one of my teeth, until someone was kind enough to point it out.

2:12 pm – I pretend to work on my computer. What I’m really doing is impersonating a snake and sleeping with my eyes open.

2:49 pm – Happy Halloween by the way.

3:52 pm – I’m so out of it, I forgot to post this live and keep it running throughout the day. But I’m doing it now?

4:40 pm - Actually, the day is ending on a high note with this photographic missive from C:

Because I'm not the only dog who had her day

Gawne baby, gawne!

2007-10-17T18:33:00.001-04:00

So I overdid it over the weekend. Rather than having a nice relaxing weekend in Florida, we met up with A From LA at the Hard Rock hotel and I proceeded to get very schnockered on Guinnii Sunday night. Olympic sprints in the casino optional because I'm such a klassy gal.

So I wasn't looking forward to coming home on Monday night, given my thentitive condition and having to return to work on Tuesday. Add to that a barfy, poopy puppy waking you up at 5 in the morning and it can only go downhill from there. However, while I'm wheezy with a cold due to all the fun and games, there is actually a light at the end of this tunnel.

But while we're on the subject, it's no fun being Wheezy

Let me start by telling you that hell indeed has frozen over! That pigs are flying out there doing loop-de-loops over the Empire State Building. And yes, we have discovered that the pope is in fact Jewish!

"Shalom, my peoples!"

Why? Because they fired Mr. Incredible. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Goldenballs Has Left The Building! We now have a kinder, gentler environment in which to work in! You know the lil' song and dance the Munchkins do when the house falls on the Wicked Witch of the East?

Ding dong, the ding dong is dead!

They describe rapture as a mixture of "all your birthdays and Christmases rolled into one". (In my case, that would be a whole lotta Hanukahs!) Well, this occurrence is those two things aaaa-haannd...

The day I met C

The day I got married

Getting my driver's license

Some other days that shall remain nameless in this family-friendly blog

And the birth of my future child. (No, I'm not pregnant, but my guess is motherhood ranks pretty high up there.)

It's aaaaalllllll that and more! Although I was not in the office at the time it happened, I can live with the fact that I never got to say goodbye. Yeah, sure. That and the idea that I will never have to look at his smug, bad-writin', Verdana-lovin’ mug again.

What am I saying...I don't wish unemployment on anyone. And I really should not gloat at someone else's misfortune.

Oh, who am I kidding? Payback's a bitch, sucka! Yeah, I suppose that means my soul needs some saving, but I'll worry about that later. Right now, all I want to do is gloriously roll around in this feeling like Zoe Dawg does in other dogs' scat when we go to the park.

C'mon Wheezy, let's dance!

E-mail for the day

2007-10-16T15:36:00.000-04:00

I am delirious from a near-miss with my dog's projectile vomit at 5 am this morning. Was slightly mollified by some veddy, veddy interesting news regarding Mr. Incredible, so I decided to plug ahead with our work happy hour, otherwise known as Bitchfest. The sacrifices I make for my job.

From: M
Sent: Tuesday, October 16, 2007 11:02 AM
To: K; J; L; A; C
Subject: Zeitplan für das bitchfest

5:00 pm – leave for Public House, go to ATM, etc etc

5:10 – 5:30 – Discuss latest development (this would be the non-bitching portion of the evening)

5:30 on – Back to our regularly scheduled bitching

More on Mr. Incredible after I get the lowdown on this Bitchfest break...

Sour 'bout mah lunch hour

2007-09-30T09:25:00.000-04:00

Lunch. This is a very sacred thing to me. I don't think some of my co-workers understand this concept, especially when I'm bringing it from home. Trying to go from the office kitchen to my desk with my lunch in hand is seriously a monumental feat, like trying to walk through a minefield without setting any off. Because it never fails. As soon as I sit down at my desk with my lunch, I wait. It could be something as complex as leftovers from our Sunday roast or something as simple as a sandwich, but sure enough:

"What smells so good?"

Seriously? I should just get on a microphone and broadcast to the office what I'm having. It would save me a lot of trouble.

May I have your attention please? Today, I will be having a roast beef sandwich. That's right - a roast beef sandwich! So, please feel free to stop by and marvel at the modern miracle that is the roast beef sandwich!

Because it's not enough to just answer the question. On most occasions, the next question after that will be:

"Did you make it yourself?"

And there's no way around this one. It depends on the person asking. Scenario A is I will then have to list the ingredients used to prepare said roast beef sandwich, including the type of mayonnaise and how many grams of salt and pepper were allotted to the preparation and assembling of this dish. Scenario B is that I will have to then listen to the other person list the nuances of their roast beef sandwich preparation, how it's different than mine, and why they're forever bonded to their sister's classmate from the 2nd grade because their roast beef sandwich basically saved this person's life.

I kid you not.

And this kind of inspection of my food is why I've basically stopped eating hard-boiled eggs in the office. Because every time I did, there's this one person...

"I SMELL A HARD-BOILED EGG! WHO'S EATING A HARD-BOILED EGG?"

I'm sorry, but it's generally not difficult to deduce what a hard-boiled egg smells like. It smells like a hard-boiled egg. And personally, that's something I don't really want announced to the office, n'est ce pas?

I just want to eat my hard-boiled egg in peace, but I can't. Thus my personal hard-boiled egg embargo at work.

I don't do this to anyone else, but as far as I can remember this always happened to me. I come from a long history of being the owner of desirable lunches. At my first job, this one girl would always come over with her eyes roving all over my food, making me feel like she had been visually consumed before I could even set my teeth in it. Every. Day. Followed by: "What you got?"

Seriously? This became a running joke in my family. And because it was my first job and I was so naive, I even on occasion - embarassingly enough - brought a duplicate lunch to shut her up. It didn't work.

So now, it's over ten years later, and this shit is still happening to me. I will be sitting there, practically climbing the walls from hunger while my co-workers ooh and ahh over my lunch. Turning my back to everything doesn't help. Sticking Post-Its announcing that I'm eating above my head doesn't faze them. And I'm too much of a wimp to just tell them to Back Away From The Lunch and leave me alone.

So it may be too late for me and I've resigned myself to putting up with it, but you don't have to. Learn from this, folks. Don't be a Lunchtime Sucka.

File under Really Bad Idea

2007-09-25T10:48:00.000-04:00

Mr. Incredible wants to name his child after a computer font. No, seriously. The man wants to name his future child - ostensibly a girl - Verdana. As opposed to...say...Helvetica or Tahoma.

Is that not the most moronic thing you’ve ever heard? When I heard this, all I could say was: why??? You are marking the child for a lifetime of playground abuse.

And if you actually think Verdana is actually somehow…pretty? Well, it ain’t so pretty when paired with Mr. Incredible’s last name! I would share said last name, but that would present a problem as far as discretion (and my job) goes. So think along the lines of the letter N. Like, two more sets of the letter N, taking the whole name into Bananarama Land. Because of this unfortunate pairing of names, I have not been able to get that Muppets song “Manamana” out of my head, making this shit B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

Seriously, somebody please make it stop.

Or maybe I’m the idiot here for not recognizing the plethora of unique and unusual baby names that Microsoft Office provides, rendering Hollywood creations “Apple” and “Kal-el” dull and unimaginative. Something with flair, like….Garamond? That has a touch of the Three Musketeers to it. Or how about Albertus Medium? Caesar would be so proud. And if you have twins, problem solved:

I present to you Wingdings and Webdings

Seriously? It's just downright wierd. But this is Mr. Incredible we're talking about, so you can't say I didn't warn you.

Patron Saint of the Iron Stomach

2007-09-23T08:35:00.000-04:00

Williams Sonoma. A monument to aspirational living. Martha Stewart incarnated as a store. A place where you walk out instantly a shinier, better version of you because you bought that $89 pear cornucopia.

Money well spent, no?

If that doesn't appeal, well there's always the monogrammed steak brander, you know, for when you want to brand your beef after it's been taken off the pasture.

Because even Martha has her cowgirl moments

I don't belong in Williams-Sonoma. And I know it. But what I also know is when you're shopping for your parents' anniversary gift in a mall that considers itself too upscale to have a food court - and you're just plain hungry - it's time to hit up the Williams-Sonoma for the food samples. Word to the wise: this is a boon especially during Christmas time.

Admit it, you've done it too. You have no intention of buying anything in the store, not their $20 jar of salsa or $400 set of bamboo spoons carved by missionary nuns in the rice fields of Vietnam. You just want the samples.

Sure enough, upon entering the store, I smell something baking. Cinnamon-y goodness in the air. We have a winner. So I stroll around the store, nodding politely at the seemingly endless blonde, apron-attired Martha clones that work in the store, while seeking out the goods. No joke, I'm starving at this point and I'm fading fast.

Finally, my eyes land on a cake stand populated with little mini-muffin somethings. The card next to it reads their pumpkin streusel thing-amabobs. Pumpkin and streusel muffin thing-amabobs are not really my gig, but I'll take whatever I can get. So I covertly take half a piece and bite into it while scurrying towards the back of the store, pretending to shop until it's safe to make a move for the exit.

But I have to admit, they're pretty damn good. Good enough for me to want to grab a box of the exorbitantly priced mix they're selling along with it. As I'm crunching my way through my little snack, I look around to see if anyone will notice that I'm going to be a piggy and go back for more. Nope, so I swoop back into the cake stand. This time, I grab the mx and a whole streusel thingy, made up of two pieces with some kind of icing cementing them in the middle. Keyword: cementing.

But this is Moi we're talking about so the only thing I am is so excited because this bit of cake will definitely tide me over until I get home. As I go up to the register to pay for the mix, one of the Martha clones smiles at me.

"Would you like to try a sample of our pumpkin bread? Fresh out of the oven!"

Blinded by a row of white, pearly teeth, I say, "Sure!" Oink, oink.

She hands me a tiny, little paper cup with a 1-inch cube of pumpkin bread, considerably smaller than the fistful of cake I'm holding in my other paw. She and the lady behind the register smile at me. I'm a little confused now, but now that I'm under the safety of being a Paying Customer, I ask, "Is this the same stuff as on the other side of the store?"

She looks at me. "Where?"

I point over on the other side, but I see she's not getting it. Figuring she may think I'm a pig, but that she can't take it from me, I hold up the cake. "This."

Instead, the sample lady nearly tackles me taking the cake out of my hand, only after exchanging a quick look of horror with the cashier. "That's a display item! That must be at least two weeks old!"

So that's why it was a bit crunchy.

I try to save face. "Ohmigod! I'm so glad I didn't eat that! I just figured since there wasn't a cover on the stand, it was okay."

The cashier looks at me like I just grew two heads. "No way - you could get really sick from eating that!"

I pay for my mix, thank them and shuffle out of the store, hoping they don't notice that there's another piece missing from the display. Because I'm the asshole that would wind up eating the store display and not notice in my blind fervor that the cake was hard as a rock and very nearly chipped my tooth.

Funnily enough though, it's 24 hours later and I feel fine.

E-mail with my dad

2007-09-13T20:29:00.000-04:00

From: M
To: Dad
Subject: hi

Are you home or in the office?
-------------------------------------------------
From: Dad
To: M
Subject: RE: hi

I am home.
-------------------------------------------------
From: M
To: Dad
Subject: RE: hi

I got a promotion. My new title is Senior Manager, Professional Development (sort of a BS title, but whatever)
-------------------------------------------------
From: Dad
To: M
Subject: RE: hi

I think this is good.
-------------------------------------------------
From: M
To: Dad
Subject: RE: hi

I just found out that Mariah Carey is moving into my building.
-------------------------------------------------
From: Dad
To: M
Subject: RE: hi

Her move was part of your promotional remuneration?
-------------------------------------------------
From: M
To: Dad
Subject: RE: hi

She heard I was rising through the ranks and decided it was a good career move for her to get to know me better
-------------------------------------------------
From: Dad
To: M
Subject: RE: hi

That makes sense.

"You and me, M. Karaoke at your place Saturday night.

I'll bring the beer."

Bottled water is your friend

2007-09-08T11:38:00.000-04:00

Reflecting back on our road trip, I have learned a very harsh lesson from doing a very stupid thing:

I drank the water.

Big deal, you say, you guys were in California. It's not like you were travelling in Goa or something. But my riposte is that I don't care if you're the other side of the world or the next town over: Don't. Drink. The. Water.

There I am in beautiful Santa Barbara, sitting in the sun, wolfing down a fish taco while staring at the Pacific Ocean. And because I'm in beautiful Santa Barbara, sitting in the sun, wolfing down that fish taco while staring at the Pacific Ocean, I am thirsty. Thirsty enough to thoughtlessly drink down a glass of tap water next to my plate. Down my gullet goes hundreds and thousands of minerals and bacteria cultivated in the Pacific water system, completely alien to my East Coast gastrointestinal system. Those little buggers laid assault as they hurtled through my body and I would say...hmmm...yeah, they won.

I, of the mighty iron stomach, neverending seeker of regional cuisine and new flavors, was felled. Felled by a stinking glass of water. The one who shrugged off a strange rash that materialized after eating in some back alley restaurants with university students in Beijing. This Does Not Happen to Moi. No. This happens to C, he of the thenstitive stomach, he of the Mighty Throne - our commode. Not Me.

But I was so, so wrong. I have never, EVER been so ill in my life! As a result, I'm convinced I have permanently altered the biological makeup of my own body.

That night, as I alternated between curling up on the bed in the fetal position and racing to the bathroom every ten minutes, something had become clear. I had altered the universal balance of things in my relationship with C. Me getting sick from ingesting something...it just doesn't happen! So if I'm actually sick from just that, pigs are about to start flying outside our window and hell is freezing over. And if he still had any illusions that I was this delicate flower of a human being before all this happened, trust me, those have been laid to rest. After moaning, groaning, and releasing insufferable gas through all hours of the night, I don't think my husband will ever look at me the same way again.

So, with a somewhat perplexed air, he fed me a steady diet of Immodium tablets and these electrolyte sachets you dissolve in water. Which, by the way, were the most dees-gust-hing things I have ever tasted in my entire life! It was like drinking water that had been through several rounds in the dishwasher. He couldn't see what I was complaining about, but he's been through this so many times, he probably killed all his taste buds from drinking that stuff.

Seriously, I'm still fascinated with this occurrence even though it's now been over a week since it happened. I never knew my body was even capable of this kind of behavior! And I was very afraid. Not about what was wrong with me and why was my body betraying me this way, but what was going to happen if I dared venture more than twenty feet away from the nearest bathroom. In my case, there was no rest for the weary. For the remainder of the trip, I was somewhat better, but forced to visit many commodes I would not otherwise have seen the interior walls of. Even (shudder) porta-Johns.

Now, raise your right hand and repeat after me: I will not be an asshole like M and drink tap water outside of the 5 mile radius of my home.

So glad we sorted that out.

Where Dirty Harry was boss

2007-08-29T11:14:00.000-04:00

We're in Carmel now and C is sleeping off a bad...cold. And to be honest, he couldn't have chosen a better place to get a cold. There's not much to do here, as beautiful as it is. So we don't feel guilty about vegging out in front of the TV, catching up on episodes of Rock of Love and just whiling away the hours doing abba-solutely nothing.

I believe this is what they call "relaxing".

Doing nothing is a foreign concept to me, but I'm starting to get the hang of it. I was going through something like a stress withdrawal two days ago, but I'm over it. Although it probably wouldn't have been good for the purposes of vacation, I could have easily spent another two days in San Francisco.

'Cisco - my kind of town

A special mention must go to The Stinking Rose in North Beach. If you are visiting SF for the intents and purposes of a romantic vacation, then beware this restaurant that states "We season our garlic with food". But since C never saw a garlic bulb he didn't like, we went for it. Ohhhhh, we went for it!

I will say, it was a fabulous, deliciously stinky meal. One that I may never want to repeat again, as I'm convinced that for the next 24 hours we were emitting fumes of the unholy kind from every pore and orifice of our bodies. We weren't blinging, we were zinging! I'm quite sure that after checking out of our hotel, housekeeping reported the smell of a dead body coming from our room.

But It. Was. Worth. It.

The cool thing about California is that you're exposed to wildlife of all kinds in their natural habitat, which serves to relax you even more:

Sea lions sunning themselves on rocks in Pacific Grove...

...seagulls waiting for that next bit of food in Monterey...

...pink bunnies in The Castro

Hey, this is California we're talking about here!

Popping the In 'N Out cherry

2007-08-26T11:17:00.000-04:00

Our long awaited vacation has arrived - the mini road trip down Highway 1 in California is upon us and not just me, but the both of us couldn't be happier.

Just to fill you in, this summer has been crazy. Ker-razy! Between a previous trip to Montreal, Zoe Dawg having two surgeries, hanging out with friends, and life in general, we needed an escape from New York. Now we have it.

Starting your trip with this view of lovely Oakland, CA from your hotel room means it can only get better from here

I will say that if it wasn't for the fact that one of my closest, oldest friends moved out to LA last year, this trip would have been motivated by one thing and one thing only: the In 'N Out burger.

You see, In 'N Out is a burger franchise primarily located on the West Coast and the source of much breathless rhapsodizing and dilated pupils, as people recall their experiences at this fine fast-food establishment. The number of people talking about In 'N Out in person and online inspired a lot of jealousy in this Yankee. New York is supposed to have the good, meaty burgers, not grass-chewing, tofu-loving, veggie-capital-of-the-world California! So why was I being denied?

It was time to make things right.

After taking the BART from Oakland to San Francisco and checking in, C and I looked at each other in a bleary haze. We were hungry and far from the nearest In 'N Out, which was actually in the last place we wanted to be at the moment - Fisherman's Wharf. We don't do touristy.

C: "What do you want to do?"

M: "Do you mind?"

C (rolling eyes and handing me cashews): "Here, some nuts for the road."

And so we were off. The good thing about marathon travel - inadequate sleep after getting on a cross-country flight after a long day of work, during which you had a hangover from you boss' farewell do the night before - means that you can subsist on a stomach with just a few nuts in it and be totally okay with it. After all that, what's another two hours to figure out how to get across town for a double-double animal style? (That's a double cheeseburger with all the trimmings, special sauce and the fries with the special sauce to boot. Yeah, I already got the lingo down pat!)

Upon landing at Fisherman's Wharf, I won't lie. I zoomed in like a heat-seaking missile for that burger. Alcatraz? Nope, didn't care. San Francisco bay winking at us in the sunlight? With the sailboats lazily going by? Just begging us to take pictures in front of it for our Wall 'O Pictures? Another time. It was like M, get thee to that burger! And then:

Like a moth to flame, I wuz

I am ashamed to say I don't have any pictures of what it was like inside. The hordes of people waiting for their food. The employees in their cute, identical hats wearing their In 'N Out baseball hats that I contemplated buying for myself (I did not). And sadly, I did not get pictures of the food. Because upon walking in, I had entered a Zone.

You know what I mean - that Zone. Like "I cannot believe that my little human existence in the great universal scheme of things has traveled this far to be actually doing this one thing of huge significance." 'This' can pertain to the being at the Great Wall of China. 'This' could be visiting the pyramids of Egypt. 'This' may be hunkering down and living amongst the indigent people of the Amazon rain forest, as they live their daily lives unfettered by progress and The Man.

'This', for me, was entering the In 'N Out burger chain at Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco.

In the end, I will say I was satisfied. A little perplexed as to the mythical status of this burger, but willing to digress and say it was pretty damn good. I'll get slated for this by those In 'N Out lovin' fans, but: it was not the best I've ever had. It was Up There in the echelons of Burgerhood, but not The Best.

But then again, it could be an aberration. And with 9 more days to go as wind our way down the California Coast, with In 'N Outs dotting the way, there are plenty of more opportunities to find out!

August post

2007-08-20T21:48:00.000-04:00

This is my August post. That's because I've realized I haven't posted once in August. This is no good. I really must work on that.

But for now, my August post. Voila!

Perfection in a candy

2007-07-13T15:23:00.000-04:00

Strawberry Starbursts. You know what I’m talking about! Tart and sweet in perfect harmony, it's like a delicately balanced wine. I mean, this little square of chewy goodness is some serious candy. No disrespect to Cherry, Orange or Lemon, but it’s all about Strawberry when it comes to the Starburst fruit chews. And I’m really tired of having to buy whole bags of them just so I can pick out the strawberry ones and get my fix. Like a crack addict, I ferret through my bag for the strawberry ones and leave a Hansel and Gretel-like trail of the pink Starburst wrappers behind me.

I mean, why is the Starburst company not selling bags of only the strawberry ones? For some inexplicable reason, there’s a line of Strawberry Starburst bath products including shampoo, conditioner and a body gel, but no bag of just the actual candy. That is just so wrong! It's like waving a bottle of rum in front of an alcoholic. Can you be a strawberry Starburst alcoholic? Because one day, C is going to find me in a corner drinking the shampoo trying to fill up on that strawberry goodness.

I mean, look at the Japanese. They came up with strawberry KitKats! Could that not be more genius??? Look at that. That strawberry KitKat is just calling my name.

C, if I’m not there when you get home tonight, that’s because I’ve moved to Japan.

Doggone it: A PSA from Moi

2007-06-29T13:23:00.000-04:00

To know me is to know I lurrrrrve doggies. Seriously bananas about dogs, especially mine. Which is why my heart broke a little bit when Zoe Dawg was diagnosed with Lyme disease last week.

Who knew a nasty little tick could wreak so much havoc? But it has, causing her to limp and hobble while claiming its assault on her back leg. It could have been worse if we hadn't caught it. I'm talking about things like organ damage. Scary stuff. She's on treatment now and hopefully will get better, but don't be an asshole like Moi and assume ticks are just a summertime thing. Because they're not. Not when cute looking Bambi is running around the woods all through the year, carrying nasty ass ticks that are just waiting to have your dog for dinner. Now my little girl is afflicted with a disease that will never be cured, just treated, and all we can do is keep looking out for her.

My favorite pic of C and Zoe Dawg

Talk about parental guilt. C and I have some serious parental guilt, so we wound up dropping $150 on Pet Goods last week. There we are, laying claim to cases of the best dog food and treats we can get, which will be eaten from the brand new, matching bowls Zoe Dawg now has, because nothing is too good for our dog, capische?

Honestly, it's much cheaper to buy your dog a tick collar.

Now what would a dog post be without a doggie clip? A shout out for all the Norwegian service dogs in the house!

Now go and give your dog a hug.

Greer Childers Freaks. Me. Out.

2007-06-25T19:47:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure you if you know who Greer Childers is. She's like Morgan Fairchild's long lost sister on crack. I only recently discovered who this chick was, when I caught an infomercial for her product? weight loss plan? diet pill? called Shapely Secrets. It's obviously a very good secret, because I can't even tell you what she's trying to sell.

But the freakiest thing is...no, not the bleached out mullay-type haircut. It's...no, not her name which is like something straight out of a V.C. Andrews novel. It's the face. With only her eyeballs moving and that lower jaw pumping away as she talks, man, I could sit and watch Greer Childers talk for hours and hours on end. Because nothing moves. Nothing. Nada. It is so well preserved, it's like watching a skeleton talk but with skin. She can barely blink. Those eyes are looking left to right like "Help! Get us out of here!"

And it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen in my life.

I wish I could find a video clip for you and say Look what a Botox & Collagen cocktail can do for you! But sneakily enough, even her website doesn't feature any clips of her talking. Which is good for me, because I swear there's some mind-altering trick to this that I haven't yet figured out. All I know is: sit me down with a vodka tonic in front of a Greer video reel and that's the last you're seeing of me for a while!

So what I can offer you is this video clip from another era, a gentler time when Greer Could Move Her Face. Judging by this video, it's probably how she got into this mess to begin with.

In the interest of full disclosure, I watched this at my parents' house over the weekend. Since he couldn't see the screen, I'm convinced my father thinks I was watching porn on his laptop.

C & The Amazing Three-Button Nineties Suit

2007-05-30T19:53:00.000-04:00

The morning after C and I arrive in Florida, we look out the window at cloudy skies, look at each other, and say one word: "Aventura".

A trip to Florida is not a trip to Florida without hitting Aventura Mall. It's our version of vacation crack - if we have not ventured forth into this gleaming biodome of a mega-mall within 48 hours of our arrival, one of us starts twitching uncontrollably while the other is taking down little old grannies for their Big Brown Bags. They just don't make malls like this in New York.

So there we are in Macy's, laden down with purchases and still going strong. My pupils are dilated from a shopping-induced high brought on by the fact that:

A) It's Memorial Day Weekend. And on Memorial Day Weekend, there are sales. Compute.

B) I have arrived at the Bloomingdale's the morning the sale has started. No slim pickings for this biatch. It's mine, aaaallllll mine!

C) I have a member card that gives me an additional 20% off all sale items. BOO-YAAAA!

In the midst of searching for my dad's birthday gift, C waves me over to show me a suit. I follow him into the dressing area and while he's trying on clothes, I'm ferretting through my bags and mentally planning my wardrobe from here until September.

"What do you think?" I look up to see him sporting the aforementioned suit. The pants are great. The jacket, however, is not. It's just not okay, it's more than not okay. It's like a bad acid trip and I'm hurling back through time to Mr. Refkin's Geometry class, Z. Cavaricci pants, and Marky Mark the Calvin Klein Model, not Mark Wahlberg the Actor.

C sees the look on my face. "What?"

Heavy D called and he wants his look back

"No." I failed to remember that a sale in Florida, as opposed to a sale in New York City, are two very different things. If I'm not careful, that jacket could take over and my husband could walk out of here looking like an extra from Beverly Hills, 90210. "I don't like it."

"What's wrong with it?" He gets a defensive look on his face and I see he really likes it. Oh dear. Is it just me or is that a bolero tie sprouting around his neck?

"Come back to 2007, babe. Seriously? That's a three-button suit straight out of the 1990s and it's not a good look."

"I don't care about fashion, I just like what I like." Now I just saw a hoop earring grow through his left ear.

Because Milli will not rest until he has his Vanilli

"C, please." I cringe at the thought of a certain 90's pop group who were the poor cousins of Vanilla Ice. At least Ice wouldn't have been seen sporting that jacket hanging all the way down to his knees - it would have clashed with his Fade. I drop the bomb on C. "You look like a member of Color Me Badd."

C's eyes widen and I realize I've made contact. He pouts a little. "No, I don't."

Fashion police says: Color Me Blind with a no, no, no and a big fat NO (that's you on the right I'm talking to there, Mr. Pirates of Penzance)

Time to bring out the big guns.

"Ooooohhhh, ooo oooo!" I watch his ears turn a little red. "I wanna sex you up! All nighttttt, oh woahhhhh!" What the sales clerk outside must think, but I. Am. Not. Letting. C. Leave. With. That. Suit.

"Stop that." He shrugs off the jacket.

"I wanna sex you up! Woo hoo!" I do a shimmy in the dressing room. "We can do it til we both wake up." What kind of line is that anyway??? I'll keep on shagging you no matter how bored you are, until you wake up dammit! Someone please explain.

C hangs the jacket on the hanger and I can see he's at that fine line between putting back on the bar or taking it with him to the register. He gives me a look. "Oooohhh!" And he hangs the relic from the past back up.

Never underestimate the power of Color Me Badd when settling a fashion dispute.

Houston, we have a problem on the landing strip

2007-05-23T06:18:00.001-04:00

So, I'm leaving for Florida tomorrow on a well-deserved break. This calls for pre-beach grooming. I'm talking about getting the nails did and a visit to the waxing lady.

Because right around this time, people tend to mistake me for a certain pre-historic creature

It was time to get everything looking pretty and nice for my week on the beach.

Well!

Since I had no time except on Monday to go to this appointment - the day my usual waxing lady is off - I opted for one of her co-workers. Bad idea. Bad, bad, BAD idea!

I go in, I go out. I'm happy. My legs and bikini area are smooth and hair-free. I go get my nails done and then head home. Florida, here I come!

Then, I'm packing and doing that thing girls tend to do when they pack, which is basically try on every outfit to see if that's even what we want to take. And since I have a full length mirror...well, while I was in the midst of changing vacation outfits, I noticed something was not right.

"Heh?" I waddle up to the mirror, with my beach pants still around my ankles and get a closer look. "HEH?!?"

"Someone call air traffic control - this runway's no good"

I run into the bathroom and get the portable mirror we have in there, check things out, and proceed to scream for my husband. "Ceeeeeeeee!"

C comes running in. "What?!? What's the matter?"

I point down. "The waxing lady made my vaja look all lopsided!"

He looks down and sees what I see - a nearly perfect bikini line with the exception of one big deviation from what should be a straight bikini line. A half-arc of well, okay I'll say it - hair, looking like it's trying to make a break for freedom. How I missed this, I don't know - but now it's like I paid a visit to Mrs. Magoo the waxing lady. C starts laughing. Not just a little, a lot.

"Don't laugh! This isn't funny!" I huff. As I stomp off, I hear him start laughing even harder.

Yeah, you laugh, buddy - my wonky vaja and I aren't speaking to you until you apologize!

You're never too old to have a crush

2007-05-21T20:18:00.000-04:00

Confession time: I have an itty bitty crush on Anthony Bourdain.

"M, look into the eyes of man who only wants to cook for you"

Yes, yes, I know. Me and my wierd celebrity crushes. No lusting after Brad Pitt or George Clooney for me. Oh, no. From Ted Nugent to Donald Sutherland (pant, pant) to Patrice O’Neal (but only when he was hosting Web Junk), I love me some wierd crushes! I almost had a crush on Tom Petty, but now that just would have been too wierd.

I don't know what it is, but Ah like Tony Bourdain! Hey, who doesn't lurve a man who cooks? But not just that, he's from Jersey. This badass is from my neck of the woods in New Jersey and therefore gives instantaneous credibility to my much-maligned home state. I can walk with my head a little higher and give a little lip back to anyone who gives me shit for it, because Tony Bourdain is a Jersey Boy and that's all the back-up I need.

When I first saw him, surrounded by a halo of smoke at Siberia Bar in 2000, I'll admit it: I was a little scared of the guy. He looked so grouchy, like he just wanted to be left the fark alone and not deal with drunk, loud twenty-somethings like me going up to him and trying to hang. I hated Siberia Bar, but I always found it interesting just to watch him. He was so...watch-able.

And then I'd spot him all the time on 7th Avenue in later years, it was uncanny. Thousands of people walk right by me on the streets, but like a heat-seeking missile I always seemed to spot him when walked down the street. And it wasn't like I was crushing then, he just seemed to gravitate to wherever I was.

Could it possibly be that Anthony Bourdain is following me?

Yeah, in my dreams.

Ironically enough, just when C and I starting becoming compulsive fans of the show No Reservations, the live sightings stopped. The more we watched Our Man Tony travel and eat his way around the world, the more we got glimmers of the person behind that steely facade I saw years ago, he virtually disappeared off the streets. And the more I started harboring a big honking crush on the dude.

But such is life and I've got a great guy at home. And we all know there's nothing wrong with having a celebrity crush. Even if they're chain-smoking, thrill-seeking men with a death wish and nearly twice my age.

Quick vid link

2007-04-23T19:00:00.000-04:00

So wrong, but so funny. I've been obsessed with this video clip courtesy of Will Ferrell.

Potty mouth

Seriously, how long do you think it'll be before that kid gets to see the video for herself?

Corporate Slang: The Second Generation

2007-03-17T08:47:00.001-04:00

Corporate lingo is something I think we all have some familiarity with. Even if you don't work in the corporate world, you may have mocked it, seen a TV or website mocking it, or watched Office Space.

Office Space: Modern parable for our lives

Recently, I have noticed terms being floated around that do not adhere to oft-overused "think outside the box"/"added-value" variety. Maybe I worked in a such a loosey goosey environment before (uh oh, did I just one?), but all of a sudden I've been hit with an influx of corporate speak that it's insinuated itself into my everyday life and not always in the right context.

Widgets: The front-runner in today's office slang. This is the penultimate word used in corporate examples when a business professional is trying to illustrate a point, but don't have a clear subject with which to highlight it. I had no idea what the word meant, just that it was the little weather thingy Yahoo installed on my desktop. A look-up reveals aside from this somewhat cloudy meaning, the word is supposed to be synonymous with "gadgets". If your office is not up on their corporate slang, peppering conference calls and meetings with"widgets" left and right, then they're going bust within two years.

Corporate world: "Let's say we were doing a special advertising section on, oh, say...widgets. We would do it this way and that a way and really get our bang for the buck."

Me: "Many years ago, Pee-Wee Herman was arrested for playing with his widgets at an X-rated movie theater."

Monetize: Another overused word that I never even heard of until I started work at my recent company. It's just another way of saying to make money.

Corporate world: "We need to think of new ways to monetize our website, as users are clicking off our pop-up ads without even looking at them."

Me: "I found two skirts during the move with the price tags still on. I know I'll never wear them, so I can monetize them by selling them on eBay."

ROI: Everyone in the corporate world wants to know what the ROI (Return On Investment) is on just about anything they do. So do I.

Corporate world: "What's the ROI for my brand if I decide to run with your magazine, as opposed to theirs? What's in it for us?"

Me (to deli counter guy): "What's the ROI if I have my sandwich with honey mustard instead of mayonnaise?"

Loosey goosey: A term implying non-commital or vague.

Corporate world: "The client is being loosey goosey. I think they may be considering another vendor, as they appear to be holding off on signing our contract."

Me: "She didn't answer her phone after she left with that guy she met at the bar. Was someone being a loosey goosey last night!"

Poop: A surprising alternative to the word "information" that features heavily in everyday corporate speak, at least in my office.

Corporate world: "The brochure should say something like 'Get the latest poop on how to hire, fire and revitalize your workforce.'"

Me (walking with C in a park and nary a bathroom in sight): "I have to poop."

Still awake

2007-03-03T03:55:00.000-05:00

Reading the headlines and see that Daniel Radcliffe has signed on to do all of the Harry Potter films. A paycheck's a paycheck, especially when you're playing Harry Potter. But with at least three more of these films to go, by the time this thing is done a huge suspension of belief will be necessary here.

"Dammit, Voldemort, my gout is acting up. Can't you just leave me alone?"

Going in, not out, in style

2007-03-03T02:37:00.000-05:00

It is 2:30 in the morning after my move. I am not the person I once was. I'm afraid moving just might have broken me. Either that or the fact that our mattress wasn't delivered today and we are sleeping on the floor of our bedroom. Wood floors, people, wood floors.

Upon reading the chronicles of fellow blogger G during his move , I waved my hand and said "Eh, bubkes." Now, as I sit here on the floor typing away, I'm wide awake, a burned out version of myself, and thanks to a dinner of chicken chili and three Heinekens, I'm feeling rather tooty.

You take the good, you take the bad...you take me eating salt and vinegar potato chips before I go back to bed and snuggle up to C

Looking back on the day, I think Macy's Furniture Gallery is out to get me. There is absolutely no way their service can just be that bad while they stay in business. And they're in cahoots with Moishe's moving company. After months of planning and coordinating, with the last week spent making sure everyone submitted the necessary documents for security clearance in the Financial District, how did it all go wrong? Why was I having a hernia at this young and tender age?

This was before the chili, mind you.

When the movers decided not to inform us they had arrived and started stacking our stuff all over the hallway unattended, I got a bad feeling. After finding more and more boxes of our things with each corner I turned, I knew it was time to call Macy's. Macy's, the bane of my existence the minute I darkened their doors. Macy's, devil personified in a furniture store. From start to what I hope will soon be finish, it's been painful. Never, ever again.

I had scheduled the separate delivery of our mattress from our furniture. Give me the mattress today, the furniture tomorrow and I'm happy. Wallowing on the kitchen floor, typing away with my tooty self, I admit defeat to the cadres of customer service reps who are probably toasting a beer right now to the fact that they have me sleeping on the floor tonight.

Sleeplessness has been plaguing me for the past week in anticipation of the move, so this is major. My father, my father, was compelled to give Ambien earlier this week to try and help things. This does not happen. Despite visions of myself inhaling whole loaves of bread and barbequing in my sleep, I actually slept well. The irony is that with no Ambien tonight, I'm inhaling whatever I can get my hands on at this hour. I am like the MacGyver of food, making gourmet creations out of stale power bars and seeing what happens when you mix honey mustard with aforementioned potato chips.

I do have an excuse. The stress that was brought on by engaging in commerce with Macy's and Moishe's. Today, I. Was. Seeing. Red. There's an episode on MTV's True Life called "I'm Getting Married" where Charlie the Staten Island groom goes abba-sol-loot-ly ballistic on his limo driver for being late on the day of his wedding. It's the stuff of legend since the episode aired, watched by millions of viewers. We're talking eyes bulging and veins popping. But after today, I think I get him now.

No, I wouldn't threaten to gut the movers like a fish, but I have stomped around the hallway yelling on my cell phone, much in the style of Charlie, while my neighbors considered calling the men in white coats. The upside of having your brand-spanking-new neighbors think you're nuts is that they'll be too afraid of you and so will never, ever want to fark with you.

"Have you met the new neighbors next door? A guy and a girl, right?"

"Yes. He's alright. She's...she's lovely."

Topping it all off, I can't sleep and suffering this chili, an ill-advised decision out of hunger with very few rations in our cupboard. It's amazing what you will craft out of the few food items you transport with you during a move.

Tomorrow is another day. Oh right, today is tomorrow.

Living with the 'rents - is there a light at the end of this tunnel?

2007-02-25T08:22:00.000-05:00

For the past 5 weeks C and I have been living with my parents, while we wait for our new apartment to be ready. At this point, it has been a mind-bending, exhausting experience for the both of us, one we're both ready for to be over. But I have learned many things including:

1) I have never fully appreciated the grime, frustration, and crazy people who see Jesus reading the New York Times on the subway, as much as I do now. For the past 5 weeks, I have been commuting back and forth to the city from New Jersey. By car. With my Dad. This should really explain everything, but I suppose I'll have to elaborate for you:

The commute means I have to wake up around 6:30 am and I usually don't get home until 6:30 or 7 pm. For all the people who will say that's a normal commute and what am I complaining about: get over it. I like my sleep.

By car means when I drive in by myself, I witness the evil that is my road rage. This I have managed to avoid until now, by not commuting by car in the nearly ten years I have been living in the city. I hope to never see that side of myself again.

Commuting With Dad means exactly what it means. Just because I am his offspring does not mean I want to be assaulted with words and hold lengthy debates at 7 am about the best route to work, mortgage rates, and media coverage of Britney's bald head. I just want to stroke the travel mug that holds my java and mumble incoherently for the first two hours that I am awake each day.

2) I really miss my computer. It's packed up in a box somewhere and I haven't been able to enjoy the full use of a computer since our move. If I try to use my dad's computer, it's not like I have extensive use of the thing. He's addicted to it, whether he's doing work or just wants to play his millionth game of Freecell. It is his domain. So if you're stealing a few moments on his laptop, he's like a dog trying to mark his territory. He hovers. He lurks. He'll eventually say, "I thought you were just checking your e-mail?"

Subtlety is not his forte.

3) I miss DVR. I am thrown back into a time when DVR/Tivo didn't exist, having to wait for my favorite shows to come on. And I don't like it.

4) Water pressure is a glorious thing. My parents' house is 40 years old and the plumbing system reflects that. C and I like to take showers together and we have been deprived of our showering sessions for over a month now. Not because it's my parents' house, but because it is damn near impossible to share that trickle of water they call a shower and adequately bathe yourself. There has to be at least a month's worth of product buildup sitting on my head now. Dreadlocks for me are just one miserable shower away.

5) My mother's cooking. God bless her. I love her cooking, I grew up on this stuff. But my arteries are taking a hit. A meal is not a meal in their home unless it's got some measure of trans-fat or complex carbohydrates in it.

6) Deers scare the shit out of me. Somewhere in the past ten years, I forgot that I used to run after the deers that populate the area and delight in watching them run away, because I was an evil little kid. Now, when I see them while walking the dogs, I have this vision of a crazed papa deer sending my body rocketing off into the trees Bambi-style.

7) Living out of a suitcase is not fun. When I was in college, I used to have visions of myself as this Drew-Barrymore type that would gallavant around the country on road trips, meet interesting people in different towns, and maximize my wardrobe from two pairs of jeans and cute t-shirts I picked up as part of my travels. Having tried to cull together outfits out of the one suitcase I designated as my wardrobe during this move, with everything else packed away, I now know the truth.

I'm getting old. I want the creature comforts of my home. I want a routine and to be able to pick my clothes out of a dresser that has been purchased from Room & Board or Sundance Catalog or some other corporate monolith trying to masquerade as an indie design house. Pottery Barn just may also have to be a part of this equation.

8) I have inherited my inability to function in the first hours of the day from my mother. For the sake of our relationship, it is highly advisable we avoid each other until noon every day or I move out. Soon.

9) Despite his activity level and incredible work ethic, my dad is in fact becoming a senior citizen. This has been reiterated by his discovery that he can get two cups of coffee by recycling the coffee pods that my mother uses to make coffee. Never mind the fact that the second cup tastes like pondwater, he's saving money.

There you have it. Lessons learned, yes, yet they barely touch the tip of the iceberg of my experience in the last month or so. However, my dad will be waking up soon and you know what that means.

I really can't wait to move.

That's IT!

2007-02-07T13:24:00.000-05:00

I'm about to start flipping out.

A long while ago, I posted on motivational speakers and how their reps constantly solicit me for speaker engagements at our events. And I’ll be honest - to the quadriplegic who climbed Mount Everest and the woman who died and came back blind, but is more self-fulfilled than ever because she saw “the light”? My audience doesn’t care. No offense, but they don’t. The only thing that inspires them is finding out how they’re going to make more Money, with a capital M.

Me? I’ll probably be weeping buckets at your story, but that won’t stop my attendees from stampeding towards the Exit sign in droves. Unless you tell them that climbing Mount Everest with no arms and legs will make them rich beyond their wildest dreams. Then I foresee them reconsidering how much they value their limbs.

I have one word for you: prosthetics

Having said THAT, let’s just go back to why I’m so fed up in the first place – John Paul Warren. I have no idea who this guy is – nor do I care. But if you read the comments posted to that post, it’s John Paul Warren Overload. A tempest in a teacup, much ado about nothing, big fish in a really, really small pond type of thing. Either he’s brainwashed these people into a weird cult or my post has been turned into one GIANT advertisement for John Paul Warren!

Seriously, the guy doesn’t register on anyone’s radar outside of Bumblefuck, USA or wherever he's from. I did an informal poll of my colleagues and conference planners – no one’s heard of him. He’s not on Wikipedia and Google turned up one link to his website within the top ten searches under his name. I’m not even going to link back to his website, because I don’t condone evangelism in any religion. I think it’s bullshit and I can't stand proselytization. There, I said it (ducking crosses).

And just for comparison’s sake – little old me has four hits in Google’s top ten when you search my name. In the Google scheme of things, if I’m a little ant, John Paul Warren is an ant’s toenail.

So to all the sycophants who have been bombarding me with pro-John Paul Warren posts, back off! I may not be able to post as much as I used to, but don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. You can’t have my soul and you most certainly cannot have my blog!

80's PSAs = Little nuggets of YouTube gold

2007-01-31T08:30:00.000-05:00

I'm sick. Boooo. I have a whole day to catch up on something called My Life. Yayyyyy!

It's not all work, work, work at my job though, as a recent conversation with a co-worker of mine will attest. Somehow the conversation turned to the concept of the PSA ie the Public Service Announcement. There's a really special place in my heart for the PSAs of my childhood, as they have taught me many things, given me that edge on pop culture trivia, and mostly gave me too many nightmares to count.

I start with a classic, the hallmark of all PSAs. The one that started the aforementioned conversation and sent us down memory lane - a clip from the wildly popular Singing Pills.

If you grew up on Saturday morning cartoons in the Tri-State area, you know this clip. And you know that these singing pills made look in your parents' medicine cabinet to see if theirs sang too.

Next up, a PSA from He-Man and She-Ra.

Well-intentioned, maybe. But would you want a steroid-pumped Little Lord Fauntleroy, dressed in medieval bondage gear, talking to you about being touched in bad ways?I didn't think so.

Sometimes, PSAs are required as part of a celebrity's probation agreement when they've been really bad boys and girls. Yet they wind up making us feel like we're the ones being punished when we have to watch it.

Remember, crack is whack.

Moving on, one of the popular "Time for Timer" PSAs. In brief, witness the birth of my cheese obsession and sudden, Tourettes-like outbursts of "I hanker for a hunka cheese!" throughout the course of my life.

Now, here lies the difference between East Coast and West Coast PSAs which warn us not to use drugs. In the West Coast version, it's a pop video with dancers in candy colors while Duckie sings in the background.

West Coast PSA (YouTube vid link is broken)

But on the East Coast, we don't play around. We just try to scare the ever-loving shit out of you.

And finally, this one is not the 80s, but an honorable mention from the 90s. How do you develop a life long fear of New York City rats, before moving to New York City or encountering a rat? You watch a PSA directed by David Lynch of Twin Peaks. 'Nuff said.

Is that rat smiling???

Stop everything! It's Time For A Birthday Holla!

2007-01-26T11:27:00.000-05:00

I admit, I have been remiss in posting on this blog. More importantly, I have been very remiss in posting a very belated birthday hollah that has been sitting in the Drafts section of my Outlook at work. So sad, all these posts waiting to happen, sitting in that pocket of my work e-mail. Ponderances over things like zebra stripes, New Jersey announcing a squirrel-eating advisory (oh boy), and more work rants, all lying in wait. Either they will one day come to fruition on this blog or I get fired.

Now...This Very Special Edition of Birthday Holla is for one of my oldest, closest partners in crime...J!

Whereeeee to begin?!? Well, let’s start with my first gift: A tiki idol to ward off the Brazilian Kumba Kumba curse that has plagued us since our teenaged days. That is the curse that has provided us with many hours of extreme immaturity, as we slap each other on the forehead and then start running away, screaming “KUMBA KUMBA KUMBA!”. The only way to remove the curse was to do it a second time again, hence one of us would be throwing ourselves around the legs of the other pleading, "Take it back! Take it baaahhhhaaaaack!"

That's right. Yell out "Kumba Kumba!" whenever J and I are in the room and I promise you - hilarity will ensue. Flash to the future where we're 90 years old with stumps for teeth and we're terrorizing the nursing home staffers with "Kumba Kumba!" while they're changing our Depends.

Wear the little guy close to your heart

We first learned about this curse from the wise person who was our manager when we had retail jobs at Merry-Go-Round in high school. Two teenaged girls...a bored store manager...in a mall with no customers...and Kumba Kumba was born.

And if you know what Merry-Go-Round was and its Mecca status in the ‘90s for Guidos and Guidettes, bonus points for you. So it’s only apt that I pass along a birthday wish from the crew over at Dance Party USA, a show taped in the Philly burbs with a few kids from Jersey (my peoples!!!) bussed in. My first experience watching this show that was in fact with J. See, she was actually a Guidette when we first met, but not like the Joisy Guidettes that are commonly associated with the title now. If there had been a Spice Girls for this local area phenomenon, J would have been Posh Guidette.

And I…well, I was a bit of a nerd. With Coke-bottle glasses and rugby shirts as my initial attire of choice, I could not believe it in high school when I befriended this peacock in pink flamingo boots. Then she introduced me to Dance Party USA. Had I known then what I know now, I would have realized the hours of bad television programming J would subject me to, most notably Cops. But I watched in rapture as the hosts Princess and Bobby introduced 80's freestyle song after 80's freestyle song, while dancers bopped around in their Z. Cavaricci pants, high top Reeboks, and lots and lots of hair gel.

After my first viewing ended, I turned to J, bowed my head, and proclaimed ever so solemnly, “J…make me a Guidette”.

The peeps at Dance Party USA know that you can take the girl out of Jersey, but...

Seriously, this show was so popular, you had bragging rights if you actually knew one of the dancers. So if I've made anyone so excited that they feel cheated out of an opportunity to find their inner Guido or Guidette, they can always sign this petition to make USA Networks bring the show back.

Next gift for J - a very special pair of cowboy boots to complement the Texas Two-Stepper that you are whenever you drag me to Red Rock Saloon, Hogs and Heifers, or any of the other white trash bars that you love for reasons I can't explain.

They are Gold. They are Studded. They are J.

And finally, I have retained Nobu Matsuhisa to be your personal chef for a whole month. Because there are not too many people I know besides C that are foodies to the core and willing to try everything and anything. From the English curries we make at home to turkey tazz to soup dumplings in the deeps of Chinatown to some really funky fish, you're not easily put off by the possibility that you will be nursing Pepto-Bismol for at least a week.

Except for certain types of sushi that follow you home in your bag - holy mackerel!

I did think of giving you a free pass to try out the restaurants all over the city and get into some really funky things, but who can turn down having Nobu at their beck and call three times a day to cater to your every whim?

"Explain to me this 'Dutch Oven'"

Happy belated Birthday Holla, girl! I look very much forward to toasting your birthday during a weekend of mirth and merriment!

Doggie dentist or Dr. Feelgood?

2007-01-23T12:16:00.000-05:00

At this very moment, my parents’ dog is high as a kite.

He’s getting his teeth cleaned and since my dad was opposed to him going under general anesthesia, Jaxon The Dog has been given a plethora of sedatives and gas to boot. If this is anything like when I had all four of my wisdom teeth pulled at the same time, then this dog is flying. He’s probably so far gone, he’ll be meowing.

This is your dog's brain on drugs

There goes Jaxon running in the meadow of his dreams, chasing purple polka-dotted pussycats with gimpy legs. Nice big bags of dirty laundry are all around so he can sniff to his heart’s delight and T-bone steaks are just pouring from the skies. And they talk! Those nice big, juicy steaks are falling all around him saying, "Jaxon, eat me!" "No, eat me first!"

What's a dog to do?

And when he gets tired, he can just roll over onto his back because people are lining up just so they can rub his belly for hours and hours and hours on end. I almost feel sorry for the dog when he wakes up. He has it pretty good, but nothing can compete with this vision of doggie Utopia.

Mr. Incredible - a long overdue work rant

2007-01-08T19:38:00.000-05:00

If your New Year's did not include dancing relatives (blood-related and non) on top of bars, the gradual theft of a ham - slice by slice, and leaving your coat behind at the site of the ham theft, you're off to a better start than I.

But moving forward, I haven't talked much about my job not because I'm afraid of Big Brother, but because I love it. No, seriously. I'm one of those sick puppies who actually likes what they do. I walk chirpily to work, looking forward to my day. I'd rather eat lunch at my desk and get work done than go out for an hour. I've come in early and I've stayed late. All the things I didn't do when I was working with Nose Digger, Whiner and The Idiot Prince. I've even worked on weekends.

From home, yeah, but voluntarily I have logged into my network and worked from home. Why? Because I farking love my job!

I'm a sad, sad case, I know. But you have no idea what this means for me. I've paid my dues, y'all. Granted I took a step back in my position and salary to work at this place, but that was the only way I could convince them I was meant to work in events. And you know what? It worked. I got promoted after ten weeks. After years and years of bullshit co-workers and office politics and being reduced to tears on certain occasions, I am wholly gratified by my job.

Well, not quite.

See. There's this asshat in my office. No, it's not a hat made out of an ass, but if there were such a thing, he should be forced to wear one. Every Day For The Rest Of His Natural Life. Okay, if the word asshat confuses you, then let's do this: let's call him an a-haaaaassssss-hooollllllleeee!

Okay, okay, okay - let's call him by the nickname he has at the office. And that nickname is...drumroll please...Mr. Incredible. Make no mistake, this is not a compliment. It's far from it. Because it is not a reference to his character (or lack thereof), but his uncanny physical Meathead resemblance to a certain animated superhero by the same name. Although in the spirit of sarcasm, the name works rather well.

Imagine this image in human form, with a touch of rosacea. Scary, eh?

Seriously, this summumabitch is out to get me. I don't know what his problem is, considering we barely say two words to each other. He's a vice president at our office - his title reads "VP of Something Very Important Sounding". But after one drink too many at a happy hour, a few of us agreed that his title should be "VP of Bullshit", coasting on the backs of others and then taking credit for it. The general consensus around the office is...well of course the general consensus is that he's an asshat, but that's not what I was gonna say. The general consensus is the reason he doesn't mingle with the masses is that he has something to hide. And it's becoming more apparent with the digging we've all done that what he's hiding is his lack of credentials.

Yet he's still managed to sell The Big Man At Top a bill of goods and convince him that he is worthy of a VP title. The joke around the office is that his motto is "Overpromise and underdeliver". It's mind-boggling to me how, when he barely communicates with anyone who isn't upper management, he was once in charge of the Communications department.

(Blinking) The Man Who Does Not Communicate was in charge of our Communications department. And now he's a VP. Not only does the man not communicate, he can barely emote. Smiling takes a tremendous amount of effort on Mr. Incredible's part. And when he does, you get the feeling something really, really bad has just happened. Like somewhere in this world, the locusts have invaded and rivers are running with blood. So, really. I don't get it. Did he grunt his way to a promotion???

Facial Expression No. 2

Moving on, we barely talk to each other, right? Because I'm too lowly for him to waste breath on and frankly, I don't see what he can contribute. since the word 'teamwork' does not seem to be a part of his vocabulary. But on two separate occasions he's seen fit to meddle with me, going to my boss and saying I seemed unprepared for my job and on a second occasion, telling her I wasn't staying on top of one of my events. Thankfully, not only does my boss rock but I'm doing very well at what I do (knock on wood). So she thought to address Mr. Incredible's "concerns" with me immediately, instead of just believing him. In return, I was able to point out his thoughtfulness by choosing not to interact with me in the six months I've been there. So how da hail can he be the expert on what I am or am not doing all day????

Seriously, what kind of punk-ass bullshit is that? This is not the second-grade. You have a problem, or you think you do, you come see me. I'll set you straight first, then kick your ass before I go on happily to orchestrate another event.

Another thing. There's a lot of writers in our office, some good, some bad. I'm not saying I'm great, but I think I'm a good judge of what sucks. His writing sucks. The hilarity in all this is that he's actually referred to himself as an "award-winning writer". Yeah, I'm an award-winning writer too. See, I wrote this poem in the fourth grade? And they picked it out in a contest and I got to read it in front of the whole county at this special show and everything! That's right. And the name of this winner was "No More Cookies, Please".

Soooooo, someone Googled him. And we found his award winning work - snicker, snicker, snork. This stuff is award-winning all right. This was the winner of the "Toilet paper I would use only if poison ivy were not available to me as an option" Category.

Let me show you an example of this material that just has "Pulitzer Prize" written all over it:

"By the third cherry vodka and seven up I was ready to hunt anything, kill it with my fucking teeth. They think I'm a pussy city boy, I'll show them what real snipe huntin is all about. I'll take that fuckin twelve gauge and blow them snipes a new asshole. "

There's plenty more where that came from, but I think that's pretty much all you need to know. I mean, seriously. A cherry vodka and Seven-Up?!?!?! That's the drink preference of a bad writer right there. Or hunters. Maybe both. Because I don't see how the alcoholic cousin of the drink known as a Shirley Temple is going to send anyone off into a Badass Hunting Rage. Do you?

I rest my case.

Keep in mind that there's plenty more where this comes from. All cherry vodka and Seven-Ups does seem to do is result in an affliction where the swearing associated with Tourette's transfers itself from the mouth to the hand. I mean, he just spews and spews this dreck. Aaaa-haaannd spews! Much like I am right now. And I should seriously stop.

But man, I seriously do not like this guy. And I'm not alone. Several of us have agreed this is not a man you want to be alone in a room with. Aside from him trying to sabotage my reputation at work, there's definitely something a little "off" about him, in a Jeffrey Dahmer sort of way. Like if you were alone in a room with him, he would give consideration to the dismemberment and cooking of your parts. (Shudder) This is a man who cleans his teeth with the bones of former work colleagues, the ones who dared to get in his way.

But other than that, I really like my job.

Don't quit your day job

2006-12-30T10:36:00.000-05:00

If you recall the early days of reality television, we were besieged with programs that implied the half hour of trauma-drama to come, with titles like "When Bears Attack 3" and "When You Decide to Give The Cops Chase And Ignore The Fact That You're Being Videotaped".

As I cringe at the subsequent videos, I try to ignore the fact that I may, just may, have actually enjoyed these songs at one delirious point in my life. I call this When Actors Sing - dun dun dun!

In honor of having seen Dreamgirls last night, I trot out for you Eddie Murphy's first, illustrious singing effort, brilliantly titled, "My Girl Wants to Party All The Time". But if you listen, it's "par-tay" and not "par-tee", get it? I watch this and wonder how hopped up on drugs Rick James was to be not only making this video, but appearing in it too:

I danced to this video. Many times. Until someone pointed out to me that neither Eddie's singing - or the song - were very good. Let's face it - here comes Eddie Murphy strutting his stuff, looking all slick and smooth...and out comes the voice of a girl. It's even worse in this follow-up effort with Michael Jackson. Never mind Eddie's moves in this reel which scream "Arnold Schwarzenegger dancing" to me. Look at the tank top. Look! The Tank Top. The man is wearing A Tank Top.

From all appearances, I'm guessing this video was filmed during the nadir of his career, somewhere between Holy Man and Vampire in Brooklyn. Because nothing else sinks a career into quicksand faster than appearing in a video...in a tank top...with Michael Jackson...while surrounded by a dancing, prancing circle of swishy choirboys.

But maybe we should start calling him Teflon Eddie. Because like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Eddie Murphy sang out to me in Dreamgirls last night, with acting which is sure to win him a Golden Globe, but...his singing was still not very good.

As for this next one - plot association be damned, this is a Don Johnson video we're talking about here!

I'm seriously confused by this video. Who's 'The Girl' in the video? You know, there's always A Girl in music videos - like She's The One That Got Away. So is she the one in the black? Is she the one in the white? I don't get it and I don't foresee a moment's rest until someone explains it to me.

I'm also fascinated at how the bombed out background of the video morphs around. I mean, how do you go from war-torn Nicaragua into...the streets of East L.A.? (Throwing hands up in the air) I give up. Don Johnson, where are you? But with all these questions, one was answered for me. Now I know where Dweezil Zappa's fledgling music career went - downhill after appearing in this video.

And if you stop at 1:54 in the video, you see a shadow fight that can only be described as a gang member being beaten up by a ghost. Because that shadow just dives right through him, causing him to have a delayed reaction and then fall over, submitting to biggest ass-whuppin' in 80's-video-land. Imagine that story:

"I'm telling you, this ghost, bro, it just dove right through me. And then it jumped up and started beating the ever-lovin' shit out me. I still got the scars to prove it - I'm telling ya, ghosts? They don't play around."

The only video beatdown better than that is in Michael Jackson's Beat It video, where gang warfare is played out in a spangly and sparkly wonderland akin to a Liberace stage set.

Next, one of my favorite all-time songs ever. Don't ask me why, admitting to it is enough. This is when it becomes When Actors Have to Plug Their New Movie By Appearing In The Music Video - a very 80's practice that is now sadly defunct.

Fact: Singing back-up to Billy Ocean in an all-white tuxedo (and shoes!) does not a leading man make. You know who you are.

Fact: Michael Doulgas punches like a sissy. (I mean, what's up with the punching as part of the choreography?)

Fact: Michael Douglas grandfathered the dance that is now known as The Robot.

And a final fact: Danny DeVito has not...aged...one...bit. Bless.

Michael Douglas couldn't look more proud to be doing what he's doing right there, which makes me feel really guilty about even making fun of him in the first place.

But I'll live.

Imagine Julia Roberts dancing with a puppet pig to promote Charlotte's Web? Daniel Craig doing The Electric Slide for Casino Royale? Leonardo DiCaprio doing a cover of "Diamond Girl" to promote Blood Diamond? Come on, Leo, sing it! "Ooo ahhh, you're my diamond girl!"

I say, reinstate the music video clause in movie contracts and make our actors work for their moolah!

Richard Simmons for President

2006-12-27T16:32:00.000-05:00

The Brits like to call certain performers and figures of prominence from their country "national treasures". This is their way of reminding the rest of the world that they've produced people of such magnitude, like Princess Diana and Elton John, that their legacies will no doubt outlive us all.

But we Americans are different, as I like to remind C. We're not as prolific, as I tried recently tried to explain to him who - or what - exactly Richard Simmons is.

Livin' the American Dream

See, we don't like our national heroes to be highbrow. Neh. Rather, Americans love a good rags-to-riches story with a touch of Jerry Springer sprinkled in. We like our presidents to tarnish their good names, whether by Watergate, female interns, or a proclivity for polishing off a whole case of Budweiser in one go. Our country is built proudly on a mix of white trash and pop culture, which is why Britney Spears is Prom Queen USA and gadgets like The Clapper are our contributions to technological advancement.

But Richard Simmons, my friends, he is king. Never, ever understimate the ability of Richard Simmons to transcend "Sweatin' to the Oldies" and really reach into the soul of Americana with his earnestness and sincerity. My fellow Americans, you know if you heard someone making fun of him, you'd be the first to jump and defend his white-boy 'fro, shorty short-shorts, and girlish giggle.

He made us get healthy. He made us laugh. And sometimes, just sometimes, he made us cringe and say, "Ew."

See? There's just no way to explain the man. He just is. He embodies what an American national treasure should be - endearing and lowbrow in a circus-sideshow-freak sort of way. This man, who's been such a huge success without ever having come out of the closet, hey - Clay Aiken could learn a thing or two from him.

Yeah, yeah, so the Brits may have their Beatles, the band Queen, and Her Royal Highness The Queen. But Richard Simmons makes me damn proud to be an American!

Elf Yo'self and more Christmas fun

2006-12-25T10:23:00.000-05:00

As I'm Jewish, Christmas has always equated to a day of total mooching around for me. As a kid, this was an endless day of boredom encapsulated by hours of mind-numbing TV due to the inability to go anywhere. Everything was closed and most of my friends would be with their fams.

But times are a-changin' and thanks to the Internet, I have a portal with which to amuse myself for hours and hours on end, as C is at work. And I've found a wealth of Christmastime amusement thanks to OfficeMax, who can find out where to send me the check by clicking on the Contact Me information in my profile. It's clever, it's fun, and it's saving me from the boredom of the day.

I love this video, because it's basically a video of people doing what they shouldn't be. They're checking out that box, like, "Hmmm, what's in here for me? That stapler I nicked from the supply closet just isn't going to get me through the holidays."

That one lady doing the little dance with her hands up in the air when she's caught? She's not "raising the roof", she's doing the Dance of Shay-haaaammeeee, my friend. Is that dance not similar to what the police ask you to do when they catch you stealing? Aaaahhhhhh! As for the guy who can't stop laughing, that's a, "Ho ho ho! I just got totally busted with hidden cameras at work. I'm never going to get that promotion now! Ho ho ho!" laugh.

Love it.

Then there's this video of the hilarity that ensues when you have mistletoe in an elevator and three actors in on the gag. I have nothing to add to this, it speaks for itself.

And finally, I've elfed myself. After watching it for more than a few seconds, I realize how truly capable I am of annoying my own self.

Enjoy!

Mrs. Garrett and Mr. Belding would be SO proud!

2006-12-24T22:22:00.000-05:00

What do you get when you cross the Incredible Hulk, Janet from Three's Company, and Kato Kaelin with Seinfeld's Soup Nazi channeling Bruce Springsteen?

An embarassing display of what some of my favorite childhood stars will to get a paycheck from Smirnoff, and the possibility that I may not be able to get this song out of my head.

Tootie, Blair and Jo - take note of this gift idea: Natalie needs some singing lessons. Merry Christmas!

Belated Birthday Holla for My Hubba Hub

2006-12-18T14:36:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was C's birthday. Since I was busy spending it with him, he gets his birthday holla today.

I took him to Peter Luger’s steakhouse for dinner last night. I think we could make like polar bears and live off of our own fat from that meal for the whole winter.

See that bear? That's a bear who went to Peter Luger

I mean they pour the grease from the steak over the meat when they serve it to you at the table. Some places are all about a clean presentation and making it looking like designer steak, but at Peter Luger they don't give a shit. They want to make sure you know they're all about clogging your arteries. I think I'm suffering chest pains while I type this, but I'm telling you - GO.

In addition, he got the full collection of James Bond DVD from start to finish. Well, actually...he would have the whole collection if Amazon hadn't messed up and sent me the first season of Mission Impossible instead of Volume 2. So while C enjoys the 3/4 of his James Bond collection he has now and we wait for the final set, here are some aspirational birthday gifts for mah man:

Your very own plane, because you are an airman at heart. It's probably not the right model, but what do I know about this stuff?

A "Charlie and The Chocolate Factory"-style visit to Best Buy, with the grand slam of owning the joint by the end of the day. For anyone who doesn't know C, seriously? This would make his year. Scratch that. It would make the rest of his life.

A week on Necker Island with all of your friends and family. Richard Branson's expense account included.

A big backyard, with a pool, because I know sometimes you need your own personal Zen spot when city life drives you crazy sometimes. Thank you for moving all the way here and putting up with it so you could be with me.

And last, but not least...

Lots of wet kisses from Zoe-Dawg and me, as we love you very, very much!

Sigh of relief

2006-12-15T17:37:00.000-05:00

A quick post to report that Zoe's lump is just a fatty deposit and nothing that poses a threat to our little lady. Between this scare and last month's - which is a whole other, grisly story - we have become very popular at the vet's. But we are thankful that in the end, she is fine and bossy as ever.

So thankful, in fact, that we took her out last night to American Trash bar with C's friends from England. Partly to celebrate and partly because these days, I don't want to let her out of my sight. But putting her in a roomful of tipplers waiting to rub her head and pay her attention, you would never, ever have guessed that anything could have befallen this dog.

Hopefully, this weekend is about catching up on the sleep and good humor that seems to have eluded me for the past month or so. The bags under my eyes can hold a week's worth of laundry and my nerves are just a *wee* frazzled. So I'm really all about the R & R for the holiday season and achieving this thing they call a peace of mind.

Unless my dog has other plans for me...

No laughing matter

2006-12-10T09:56:00.000-05:00

Last Sunday, I was sitting on the couch with Zoe-dawg and C, when I felt a lump on her chest the size of an olive. Now's the time I start making some deals with God.

Zoe has featured heavily in this blog, since I first started writing in it. That's because she's so much a part of our lives. If C and I go together like peanut butter and jelly, Zoe is the glass of milk that makes it all taste that much better.

The day I bought her home, I had no idea the impact she would have on my life. I've had dogs growing up, but I was never their sole caretaker. There wasn't that personal responsibility then as I have now. The love I've got for her is no more than the dogs I had as a kid, it's just entirely different. So when there's any indication something might be wrong with her, it shakes me to the very core.

I keep searching her eyes to make sure they haven't lost their sparkle. When I walk her, there's that undercurrent of waiting to see if her gait is any less bounce-y than before. As we wait and wait to see what the vet has to say, C keeps trying to reassure me that she'll be okay. She only had her routine check-up last month, so this insidious lump has really come out of nowhere and we've caught it early.

But I'm the Zoe-Momma and I will worry.

This dog is what got me through those difficult days when C was still in England and we were doing the long distance thing. There was no moping allowed when she had to be walked properly at least three times a day. There was no time to be sad when she was busy mooching around the park and running around like a bat out of hell once I let her off the leash. She kept me sane.

Even though C is now here, she's still my sidekick. A combination of feisty and sweet, she's my little pal. She lets C know she will share me, but only for a little while. Yet in her own ways, she lets him know she loves him too.

I've got tears going down my face as I type this, not because I'm scared - which I am, a little - but I've got this great big ball of love for what I've got. Me, C and Zoe - that's our crazy little family unit right there.

So start sending some good thoughts our way. Because this dog is Loved, with a capital L, and we're loved right back.

Revelation for ya

2006-12-04T19:37:00.000-05:00

Godiva's marshmallow dipped in milk chocolate.

Next...Big...Thing.

NASCAR, basketball...and spelling bees

2006-11-30T20:59:00.000-05:00

On a recent visit to Florida, we hit the local Wal-Mart. When you live in New York City, where there's no Wal-Mart or Target, you too will make them high-priority stops on your vacation.

This recent visit has only furthered my amazement at the fascination people have with spelling bees. I've posted twice about this phenomenom twice before I know, but I still have to show you this:

That's right, ESPN presents to you "The Best of The National Spelling Bee". Do you know what this means? I don't know what's scarier - that ESPN has produced this dreck or that a spelling bee video with the words "Best of..." in it implies that this is not the only one.

And it gets better. Better than the cover photo of those three kids, looking all hopeful and poignant, almost touching the soul. Almost. Then you remember that right there are three no-hope suckers, who probably get noogied on the playground and like sitting over a dictionary, spelling like it's going out of style.

It gets better when you read the back cover and realize that someone in Copywriting got a wee bit carried away. Just a touch.

"Watch with bated breath as you relive all the best moments from the last seven years of the National...Spelling...zzzzz....zzzzz...what? Oh, sorry."

I mean, you don't want to miss those controversial moments, right? The human drah-ma. Pit the English kid against the American kid in trying to spell favorite/favourite and it's better than anything the WWF has to offer.

This beatdown has been brought to you by the letter U

Cladam, I think I've found your Christmas gift.

The answer was: A sneeze

2006-11-24T07:27:00.000-05:00

On Thanksgiving, there's nothing to do other than wait for dinner to be ready and watch lots of bad of TV. So in the spirit of family togetherness, and to drag my dad away from his computer, C and I got out the Trivial Pursuit yesterday for a game with him. A 1981 edition of the game, no less.

I pull out a question-and-answer card. Reading the question, I start laughing, imagining many nights of bad Tex-Mex food.

Me: "Okay, Science and Nature. What human bodily function occurs at the breakneck speed of 200 mph?"

C busts out with: "Sperm!"

I just completely lose it, while my dad sits there, looking mildly horrified.

A very special birthday holla

2006-11-19T08:49:00.000-05:00

A belated birthday holla for my oldest best friend, JMS. I'm so high school that way - I've got a long-distance best friend, a high-school best friend, a college best friend...you get the idea. I also have a supermarket best friend who I shop for groceries with, one that goes with me to the bank, and a male best friend for when C refuses to agree with my point of view and I need to be right. See, I can't do anything by myself.

Anyway, JMS and I met in the fourth grade on her second day of school as a new kid. In the interests of accuracy, I will confess that I was the designated Class Dweeb. I personally didn't see myself as a Class Dweeb and knew I was far more superior than the rest of them on the Biological Food Chain, but no matter. They still picked on me, beat me up, and stole my things.

Which is why I love this thing called Time. Because it happens, you know. And when I ran into one of my cruelest tormenters several years ago, I was comforted to see she was a rather acne-addled, overweight, sour thing frowning at me and her sister catching up on old times.

And let's not even go there with MySpace, which I love. How else would I find out that the kid who stole my glasses during gym - repeatedly - is now a janitor at a correctional facility. What was that? Oh yes, Karma is most definitely a bitch. And I'm not mature enough to pretend I don't enjoy it.

But going back, JMS was my only friend for a large portion of grade school. This was a result of her defending me that second day at her new school. For the next several years, I was the latchkey kid moderately protected by her popularity from school bullies, until I discovered the thing that made me what I am today: my snarkiness. After that, some scores were settled and life went on.

And with that, I present to JMS the following gifts:

Shoulder pads. As my friend and confidante, you've got to have some pretty big shoulders and I'm sure even hers get tired sometimes:

Yes, those might just make the cut

A pug puppy to add your current little pack. They're ugly, noisy little things that keep me awake all night whenever I visit her, but she loves 'em.

Pugs = Marty Feldman in canine form

A birthday at Disney World. Yup, you read right - the girl loves all things Disney. The only person who's allowed to make fun of her for this is me. You make fun of her and I'm coming over there and kicking your ass.

Photo from the last time someone tried to make fun of her in my presence

She even got married there, rehearsal dinner and everything. Because I love her that much, I endured. But not without the help of getting tanked at her wedding as the maid of honor.

And finally, an airline ticket to come back to come see me in her old stomping grounds. Because I don't think I can take another trip to Orlando, as previously recalled in this blog. No, I don't think I could.

You have no excuses now, missy!

The Camp Monroe fixation continues...

2006-11-15T09:53:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: Since this was post was published, the definition on urbandictionary.com that I linked to has been since changed. So for those of you who erroneously think I authored the original definition which did refer to the Camp Monroe same sex showering society (which I personally find hilarious):

Get. Off. My. Back.

Now, back to the original post:

And obviously I'm not the only former constituent that has been permanently scarred by their stay at this illustrious summer camp and Chef Henry . The feelings are such that the place has carved its little place into the tree of modern lexicon.

My jaw did drop indeed when I read this. A secret same-sex showering society? Maybe I got out of there better than I thought!

Cheese-tastic confession No. 2

2006-11-14T12:25:00.000-05:00

In deference to my love of all things cheesy and ghost-related, I have another confession to make. It is up to you whether this is worse than my Kelly Clarkson admission.

I love Ghost Whisperer. And not only do I love Ghost Whisperer, but I am the proud owner of the Season 1 DVD (ducking tomatoes).

Hey! I’m not alone, ‘kay? Unlike Ghost Hunters on Sci-Fi, which legitimately Freaks Me Out, I know this show makes ghosts the most un-scary thing since Casper. But I don’t care. There’s a reason why me and millions of other people park our asses on the couch to watch Jennifer Love Hewitt and co-star, the False Eyelashes, help ghosts cross over every Friday night.

"I am the ghost of your real eyelashes. Either you match the ten percent the falsies get or we sell our story to Star."

Like Miz Kelly cast her spell onto me, I got sucked into this show. Put the word "ghost" in the title of a show and I'm all "oooohhhh, I gotta see this!". I have a need to satisfy my Inner Vern. It was only several episodes in did I realize that:

This show is not scary whatsoever

and

I am watching the millennial version of Highway to Heaven

False eyelashes, take note - Michael Landon's hair got twenty-five percent in that show

But it was too late. Melinda and Jim and all those smiley folks of Grandview insinuated themselves into my brain and They're. Not. Letting. Go.

Maybe my enjoyment is tinged with a grudging respect for Melinda. I mean, the girl sees ghosts all day! If I were her, I'd be wrapped up in a comfy white jacket, drooling on myself in a padded cell somewhere. She'll have the ghosts of burn victims and people with eyes all whited out, stalking her and making dolls come alive, and she's just chatting away at them like it's normal. I mean, alright, the show is cheesy, but when they start pulling out the dolls? Hello?!? Are dolls that come alive not some of the creepiest shit you've ever seen?

Seriously, if that were my life? I'd be keeping the adult diaper industry in business all by myself.

Chef Henry, I hardly knew ye

2006-11-13T15:50:00.000-05:00

Since my birthday post to Cindy, I have been reflecting a lot on my time at Camp Monroe. In particular, I have reflected much on the camp's cook, Chef Henry, and his prep cooks, Ben-Wah and Ben-Well. Listen, I know what you’re thinking and even I couldn’t make that up!

I realize now that the camp's owner, Stanley, had no business putting my 16-year-old self and peers in near proximity to these individuals. I suppose that on top of charging us room and board, making us slave away all day, and serve snot-nosed kids three meals a day for eight weeks, they were going to break down all of our teenaged defenses by making us work with the kitchen staff. I can personally attest to this fact, having had a meltdown after a carrot whizzed by my head in the sixth week. Entry into the real world begins at Camp Monroe.

There are really not enough words to explain Chef Henry. I was at my parents' yesterday and could not find the picture of him I had once taken, just for kicks. That could be because I did not want to be reminded. And maybe it's better that way. I wouldn't want to be responsible for what happens to you upon viewing of his visage. Think along the lines of The Ring.

Although his origins and background were a complete mystery to pretty much everyone, I’m thoroughly convinced that Chef Henry was a byproduct of post-World War II Germany. In addition, whisperings of “The War” (probably the Korean War) and its ensuing trauma surrounded him. So on top of losing two of his fingers, his hair, a few teeth, and seemingly his mind, he also lost all fashion sense - hence the chef’s hat perched jauntily on top of his ill-fitting toupee.

Simply put, Chef Henry was not right in the head; each day was a matter of life or death for us waitstaff. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. An older generation will tell you the hardships they suffered and how they had to walk through the snow four miles every day to get to school. I’m telling you that I worked as a Camp Monroe waitress in a time before Xanax existed.

Granted, some days you walked out of the kitchen relatively unscathed. Other days were not complete without the “Chef Henry salute”, which consisted of him waving his three-fingered hand, a butcher knife pointed at you in the other, and screaming in that crazy accent: “Get the book out!!!!”.

I lived in a certain amount of fear of Chef Henry, as we all did. At any moment he could freak out and when he did, hilarity ensued. Imagine at least six teenagers falling over each other with their trays in a domino effect, doing their damndest to get out of the kitchen as fast as possible. It got to the point that I tried to avoid eating hot food, as he was responsible for the preparation and distribution of it. Therefore, I gained 15 pounds stuffing my face with bread from the pantry and whatever cans of Chef Boyardee I could smuggle in, eating it cold out of the can.

Meet my new best friend, the can opener

The amount of bacteria and starch I introduced to my stomach was necessary, because:

A) His freak-outs unnerved me (and I was not alone).
B) That cheap toupee sitting on top of his bald pate really bothered me. I had visions of it softly shedding into our oatmeal.
C) Who really knows where those fingers ended up???

Can you really blame Cindy and I for trying to order that pizza?

The icing on the cake was (pause again) Ben-Wah and Ben-Well. Respectively from Pakistan and France, they stayed fast to their thick mustaches and short shorts, reminiscent of a era long ago.

Magnum P.I. - The patron saint of summer camp prep cooks everywhere

There were whisperings around the camp about these two. The camp song began with "Friends, friends, friends..." but they were rumored to be more than friends and didn't mind ogling the male staff either. But I didn’t care. Ben-Wah - Pakistan's answer to Freddie Mercury - had my back and snuck me the odd bowl of soup throughout the summer. And those illicit bowls of soup replenished necessary nutrients denied to me, thanks to Chef Henry’s frequent flashbacks to Korea.

Yes, my time at Camp Monroe was a learning experience and I wonder from time to time whatever happened to Chef Henry. But who knows? Maybe he discovered the joys of Xanax and good hair plugs, and is now in the company of business titans like Bruce Wasserstein and Rupert Murdoch?

All I know is - Stanley Felsinger, I want my childhood back.

Not-politically-correct random

2006-11-10T21:38:00.000-05:00

As a media freak who's back working in the media industry, I can understand the impact the loss of Ed Bradley has, in and out of the industry. But because I have no filter for my mind, I can't help myself...

When you report for jury duty downtown, they make you watch a video about why it's so good to serve as a juror. And because Ed Bradley hosts it, it's almost believable - it makes you damn proud to be sitting in a room, staring at pea green walls, doing your civic duty. If they showed that video en masse, people would totally be lining up at the door to sign up for jury duty. So I've been wondering this all day:

What's going to happen to that video?

Happy anniversary

2006-11-10T11:05:00.000-05:00

A lot has been going on this week, but definitely not the least was C and mine’s one-year wedding anniversary on Monday. I won’t bore you with what we did and a recap of our year, and to be honest – that’s nunya biz.

What I will say is that it’s essentially also the one year anniversary of us living together and I think we’ve both learned a lot from that.

So, as a result of this experiment, I promise to C that:

- I will fold the towels after a shower, rather than flinging them over the shower door as I’m wont to do…yes, I know this would take away a few seconds from my morning coffee, but I love you that much.

- My daily re-enactment of Hansel and Gretel, starring dirty paper products as The Crumbs, will stop as of now. No more used tissues, dirty napkins, and paper towels all over the apartment. Even in the pockets of your sweatshirt that I like to wear when I walk Zoe.

- The elephant in the apartment in the morning (otherwise known as Moi) has left the building. I will be quiet while you are asleep after working the night shift. No more sounds of clattering spoons, tripping over things, and tap-tapping away at the keyboard. Well, I’ll try anyway.

In return, you must promise that:

- You will stop using our “good” kitchen knives as makeshift tools and slicing devices in our home. This partcularly includes the kitchen scissors that's included in the block. And yes, where I come from, they're Kitchen Scissors and not regarded as an alternative to pliers. Cease and desist from using it in any other manner except for the preparation of food.

- You will never, ever again step on any furniture (especially the sofa) with your work boots on. The same work boots that travel in close proximity to airplanes, along with the oil and grease they produce. Actually, this rule applies to any shoes you may be wearing.

- You will not leave out a package of potato chips in the open again where I can find them. This is for your benefit, as well as mine.

Do we got a deal? :)

As for anyone else there you have it - the secrets to a happy marriage.

New York City Marathon...sigh, again

2006-11-05T13:41:00.000-05:00

Run, Forrest, run!

Every year, a typically quiet Sunday in my neighborhood gets ruined, thanks to the New York City marathon. I pity the fool who's trying to sleep off a hangover right now, because ain't nobody sleeping through the noise of music and cheering that has taken over the neighborhood.

The crowd is whipped into a frenzy as a certain one-balled Texan without his bicycle jogs on by.

As I look out my window and stare at these people cheering the runners on, I have to wonder: Aren't they bored? They're standing around in the cold, praying their mom/brother/friend who's running is not a Turtle, but a Hare in this race, so they can get out of Dodge as fast as they can.

It's every runner's worst nightmare: A giant Poland Spring bottle, without any water in it

Since I live on mile 17 of the marathon, I'll let all you supportive marathon watchers in on a secret: at this point in the race, the runners don't give a shit whether you're cheering them on. All they want for you is to put them and their burning lungs out of their misery.

Listen Friend of Bridget, unless you're running alongside of her screaming the words, she's not feeling the love right now.

And then they're gone. Poof, that's it. All done in ten seconds. You came, you waited, you saw, and now it's time to go home.

I'm sorry, but what's the fun in that?

But Mama, it is not like the pilgrim in the book

2006-11-01T13:32:00.000-05:00

A birthday shout out is in order for my long time friend, Cindy, in Israel.

In one of those weird twists of fate, we first befriended each other in the second grade. I moved away, then we wound up going to the same high school, and becoming best friends. Then she went away to college and two years later, transferred to NYU where I was a student. Now she’s been living in Israel, but who knows? Maybe one day I’ll be crossing the Sahara and we’ll bump into each other at the local oasis. Life is weird like that.

Anyway, first and foremost, a big birthday holla from our favorite boy band way back when. Yes, I know this hurts what little street cred I have left. But these were the ones who gave us reason to practice our “concert faces” and seriously contemplate our outfits for the hard-hitting impressions we wanted to make, over the heads of thousands of other screaming 15-year old girls….

Donnie and the boys say: "Woah-ohhh-ohhh-ohhh, happy birthday!"

And let’s not forget Camp Monroe – the Jewish summer camp where we violated kosher dietary laws by trying to sneak a pepperoni pizza in. Only to have the pizza truck jingle jangle right in front of the office, forcing Stanley the owner to read us the riot act and make us it eat in the parking lot, like we were second class citizens.

And the kids from Degrassi Junior High would like to thank you for your support, during the many hours we were supposed to be studying and not practicing our Russian accents out of sheer boredom:

"Yo, what's that?"

"It's a birthday card for Cindy."

"With a smoove gesture like that, she'll be digging your Garfunkel 'fro for sure!"

And in closing, I would be posting a matzo ball, if only Blogger would let me, to represent the various Matzo Balls we attended. That would represent the numerous times spent at China Club, Au Bar, and the like, fending off advances from Woody Allen types looking for their Annie Halls.

Happy Birthday, shayna maidel!

2006-10-30T21:19:00.000-05:00

It's not too late for a Halloween costume

How cool is this?

2006-10-27T07:26:00.000-04:00

This guy took pictures of himself for 8 years everyday to document the aging process. It's like the video equivalent of trying to eat just one potato chip - you can't pull your eyes away from it. The wierd part is watching the moustache and beard grow.

Random

2006-10-26T22:02:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, I wonder if a tree had a say in what happens to it...wouldn't it have a wanted a more noble death than to be turned into a Delia's catalogue?

Doggie's goin' on a diet

2006-10-25T15:53:00.000-04:00

It is confirmed. My dog is overweight.

I’ve been saying this all along, but would anyone listen to me? Nooo-hooooo! All I would get was, “Oh, stop it. She’s a dog!” But I swear it wasn’t me associating any personal body complexes I have with my dog. She really was overweight.

When we first got her, she was only 28 pounds. She is now 41 pounds. That is 13 extra pounds of dog sitting on my lap whenever I try to get comfortable on the sofa.

Zoe when she was skinny

She was quite runty and sickly when we first took her on, so I was glad to see her gain weight and her health vastly improved. Aside from those first few months over two years ago, she hasn’t been sick since. While she looks great now, there is most certainly a jiggle to her wiggle and dog’s got a few extra pounds on her she needs to shift. And this has been confirmed her vet as of today.

I blame my parents, then I blame myself. I blame them because whenever she stays at their house, it’s an all-out Food Party. There’s food on tap everywhere. She could become positively drunk on food. Because my parents’ dog is funny about food – he has to have someone sitting by him while he eats – they leave food out for him all the time, hoping that one day he’ll become normal and just eat. My dog does not have this problem. Oh no. She just digs in. I know their dog is confused by her interest in his food. No sense of propriety will force him to defend what’s rightfully his in that bowl; he just stares at her with some level of interest, before walking away. If dogs could shrug their shoulders, that’s what he’d do.

Then there’s the table food problem. The problem being my parents like to give table food to the dogs. Zoe knows there’s no chance of food magically moving itself from my plate to the floor right in front of her, so she doesn’t even try. My parents, however, have become accustomed to her eyes boring holes into their head as they eat, and so they will toss her the odd morsel of sometimes the most unimaginable things. Nuts. Tortilla chips. Potatoes. Leftover gravy (i.e. grease) from stews poured over their kibble. If it’s not that good for us humans, then it can’t be good for dogs. But they continute to regard her as a Canine Disposal System, then wonder why I complain she’s fat.

Zoe as of Sunday - don't let appearances fool you

Then it’s my fault for leaving her there so much. I don’t want to get into it, I have enough guilt over this already.

My dog is the champion chomper and has come to expect unlimited portions of food to be her inalienable right. She inhales her food without tasting it. Kind of like me. So it looks like we’re all going on a diet in my little family, as we’ve all gotten a little sloppy. C and I can handle this, but having never been denied by us, I think Zoe is in for the shock of her life.

Not Fronch Fry, Fronch-ify

2006-10-18T11:54:00.000-04:00

Since getting back from France, I have been Fronch-ifying certain words, as they do sound so much better that way.

For example, the word “budget”. Such an ugly word, alas one that comes up in my everyday vocabulary, i.e. “I am on a budget, therefore I eat McDonald’s.” But Fronch-ify this word and voila! You instantly have a much better sounding word and half the shame associated with clipping coupons.

Friend: M, are you free on Thursday for dinner?

M: Alors, I am on a bood-jhay, therefore I will stay at home and heat up a delectable can of Campbell’s Creamy Ranchero Tomato soup for dinner.

Doesn’t that sound so much better?

On the other hand, Fronch-ifying an unsavory word - like “pervert” - disguises the word so that you can relay distress signals to your friends in a discreet manner. For example, this past weekend I was in Florida with a friend. As we floated in the ocean with our flotation devices, I noticed something not quite right about a gentleman standing about ten feet away from us:

M: Um…A?

A (smiling into the sun): Yes?

M: There is a pair-vair taking pictures of our bikini’ed bottoms with his underwater camera and smiling a little too widely for my liking.

A: (No words, just an expression of horror before sprinting across the water faster than Mark Phelps.)

True story.

If you’re not sure how to Fronch-ify a word, I would suggest two things. The first would be to rent the movie “Better Off Dead”. Not because it’s a cult film that stars a young John Cusack playing a hapless Lane Meyer and made him what he is today, but because of The Mother, as wonderfully played by Kim Darby. Poor woman, she's had an illustrious career in film prior to this movie and all I can remember her for is playing Lane Meyer's mother. But when you effectively murder the French language and American-French cinematic relations in the Eighties within the same movie, that empts out any Oscar-winning work you may have previously done.

Vote Kim for President

The second thing would be to a use “le” in place of “the”. Instant Fronch-ification. Le Big Mac. Le cockroach. Le driveby shooting. All vastly improved by the use of a French definite article.

The candy of danger

2006-10-16T14:29:00.000-04:00

You know when you’re sucking on a Tic Tac or a mint or something and you accidentally swallow it before it’s done? And you think you can feel it’s lodged in your chest somewhere - even though it’s a half-finished, tiny little Tic Tac? So you’re just sure that it's going to come back and choke you in your sleep?

Even though it’s technically in your esophagus and not your airway, it doesn’t matter, because you feel like you just can’t breathe right. It's grown arms and legs and suctioned itself to the walls of your insides, and hell no, it won't go! So you're nervous about it until your next meal, thinking maybe that the food will push it down into your stomach. And you would do that now, but...you just had lunch and the Tic Tac was meant to freshen your breath after lunch, so now you feel like it could kill you.

Yeah, I know that feeling too.

An American M in Paris

2006-10-12T06:52:00.000-04:00

"I present to you La Tour Eiffel!"

Up close and personal

I thought New York could be bad, but Paris was worse when it comes to the velvet rope mentality. The Louis Vuitton store on the Champs Elysees makes people wait in line to get in the store and don't even think of messing with the Fronch bouncer posted out front....

"You, with le fanny pack - you are so not getting in!"

At The Louvre, he's on the outside looking in

Yeah, I feel your pain buddy...

The Holy Grail is not at the Louvre, it's here in this patisserie

Poor unsuspecting cheese realized only too late that the Cheese Monster that is Moi was about to hit them...

"Mon Dieu! Run, Brie, run!"

Pere Lachaise cemetery, current home to Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Proust, Modigliani, and scores of other cultural icons

If you ever have trouble finding Jim Morrison's grave - like we did during our visit - we found the signage to be very helpful

Highs and lows

2006-10-11T16:07:00.000-04:00

I'm back from England and France, for which I'll post the pictures with commentary later or tomorrow. Because those fell by the wayside when I got the news that:

After only two and a half months on the job, I've been promoted and got a raise

But...

A plane crashed into a building in my neighborhood, only several blocks aways from mine.

Talk about a double-edged sword.

Going out with a bang

2006-10-05T15:23:00.000-04:00

In spite of the fact that I'm flying long-haul to England tonight and then we're off to Paris tomorrow, I had to have a few drinks last night, didn't I? We had a work event and the bar was on the company dime. And because I wasn't going to be the only going down, I took my manager with me. For drinks at a bar around the corner after the event.

So when she showed up at work this morning, and then had to immediately lie down on a couch in the president's office with a wet rag on her face, that was not good. Not were the echoes that followed me around all day of "What did you do to her?" like I forcibly poured the drink down her throat.

As for me, given the current state of dehydration I'm in plus the 6-7 hours of flying I'm about to do, I will be shriveled up like a prune by the time I see C tomorrow.

"C, it's me M! You know...your wife?!?"

Where in the world is M?

2006-10-02T21:58:00.000-04:00

I have been lax in my posting responsibilities. I thought about posting an Exhaustion Diary somewhere along the way, in lieu of my Hangover Diary, but after reading what I wrote I came to this conclusion: I finally understand why Berlitz is such a popular method of breaking the enemy down.

In the meantime, Chicago was a bust, I had to share a room with my manager, and then I got home on the flight from hell. Remember Planes, Trains, and Automobiles?

Almost, but we didn't share the bed - I don't love my job that much!

And I realized that the bit of Chicago that I did see, which was the view from our hotel, wasn't that much different than the one I had the week before, working an event at Lincoln Center. One had a lake in the back, and the other had trees but otherwise, they kind of...well...look the same.

Chicago, with Lake Michigan in the back:

New York, with Central Park and 5th Avenue in the back:

This was my Vanilla Sky moment. If I don't do something, I too will get lost between two realities and convert to Scientology. So to prevent this from happening, I will be in Paris this weekend. Oh, yes.

That's right, I leave for England on Thursday and then I'm onto Paris on Friday for the weekend. That should be interesting. It will be my first time in that city, but I've heard it's near impossible to be an American in Paris without having your waiter fire off an anti-American rant directed at you and treat you like shit. But as long as they serve me my hunk of cheese on top of a freshly baked baguette, with a side of pate, I really couldn't give a fark what they have to say.

So pray for me and hope that I last amongst the Fronch peoples. And for your viewing pleasure, I will do my damndest to find the French equivalent of that German I saw on the beach in Greece. That and perhaps some more lessons learned by the time I come back next week.

Zoe-dog

2006-09-27T11:23:00.000-04:00

A picture of Zoe Dog from over the weekend, because it makes me smile.

I'm off to Chicago for work now. I've never been to Chicago before and now I'm going for one day for a conference. I wonder if I can see the Sears Tower from the confines of the hotel?

Life is a reality check sometimes

2006-09-26T19:55:00.000-04:00

I was going to write a long post to make up for the weekend and have it be what I strive for it to be - at least somewhat amusing. But then I found out that my cousin was robbed at gunpoint yesterday in Savannah, Georgia, where she attends art college. And that's no laughing matter. Thankfully, she's okay.

And Woof Grrl was born

2006-09-22T10:55:00.000-04:00

It's no secret that I'm a HUGE fan of dogs. If I were a super-hero, I think my super-hero name would be Woof Grrl. You know, like a dog goes "woof" and then growls like "grr"? Never mind. Anyway, my costume would have fur all over it and my mask would have a wet nose with pointy ears on top. My super power would be that I can smell out doggie injustice within a 50-mile radius. The would call me the Canine Avenger.

So this morning....ohhhh, you didn't want to mess with me this morning! I'm dog-sitting for my parents (natch) while they're away, meaning I must commute in from New Jersey and wake up super-early to do this. I'm only on my second cup of coffee and traffic was a snarl because of the UN General Assembly. I was not a happy camper.

Barrelling down 2nd Avenue is a van from Biscuits and Bath. This driver gave new meaning to the words "driving like an asshole". Okay, fine. What was NOT okay was the fact that there was big sign pasted on the rear window saying "Live Animals" on it.

Watching this van cut off other drivers and braking hard in between made my blood boil. I saw red! You don't understand, when I see someone mistreating a dog, I just go off. C will back me up on this. When some schmuck is dragging his dog along the sidewalk without even paying attention to notice the dog is trying to wee, I'll be the first to say something. Like (tap on the shoulder), "Have you noticed your dog is trying to take a piss?"

I'm a big believer in that there are no bad dogs, just bad owners. If I see someone trying to do the "My dog just made a poop and I'm going to pretend I didn't see it" shuffle, I'm hot on their heels waving a plastic bag, "DO YOU NEED A BAG TO PICK UP YOUR DOG'S POOP?"

Dogs are human beings, too.

So when I saw that van, I could only imagine the poor doggies in the back, flying around in their cages while being subjected to what he was doing. That just made me so mad, I was shaking. Because any idiot who decides to drive like an ass - while driving a company van with the business phone number printed on the side of it - deserves to be reported.

Which is exactly what I did. I dialed up Biscuits and Bath and in no uncertain terms, I made it clear to them the following: that not only was this upsetting for me, not only was it bad for their business to have their company van being seen like that - but it was animal cruelty. And I made it very clear I was thisclose to calling the Humane Society of New York City, the director of which I happened to interview for an article last spring. I was assured the manager would be informed. But I'm not done yet, which is why I'm writing about it and naming names.

As Woof Grrl, my work is never done; next on my agenda: banning doggie couture. Seriously, someone's got to save them.

Sleep deprivation does funny things

2006-09-21T07:58:00.000-04:00

Cross the principal from Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Paul "Pee Wee Herman" Reubens...

...and you get A Thousand Different Ways to kill whatever was left of Clay Aiken's post-American Idol image.

Not in my house, you won't!

2006-09-19T12:17:00.000-04:00

They say after planning a wedding, moving is one of the most traumatic things you will ever experience in your life. As C and I will hopefully have moved into our new apartment by the new year, I'm starting to agree.

I don't think I'm prepared for this. I've lived in my current apartment for 9 years. 9 years!!! Apartment-dwelling in Manhattan is like dog years, so I've really lived in it for something like 60! I have a lot of emotional and mental ties to that place. I was practically a wee sprog when I first moved in, and now I'm married with a dog. Wait a second - how did all that happen?

But my apartment has seen me through the years. Different jobs, boyfriends, impromptu parties, and meals with friends - we're talking a lot of memories. When everyone would come over to pre-party before going clubbing. The time the blender exploded raspberry daiquiri like a self-propelled rocket all over the ceiling. The time I stayed awake all night, hugging Zoe-dog, both of us quivering at what we thought was a mouse shrieking in pain. Turns out it was the battery in the smoke detector dying.

And the neighborhood. Don't even get me started. Where else am I going to get ribs as good as Brother Jimmy's? Investing the energy to discover new favorites in a new neighborhood just seems so exhausting at the moment. And what about Mike, the eccentric owner of the pet shop that Zoe loves to go to? Who else is gonna comp her the free doggie biscuits? And being so close to Central Park where, if there's a blizzard out, we'll find ourselves in a snowball fight with 30 other strangers, some of them in Santa suits?

I need a 12-step program for what I'm about to do.

I had to show our apartment last night to a potential buyer. It was a last minute thing, so I had to race home yesterday and deconstruct the bomb that hit our home Sunday night. This would be the one brought on by the trashy magazine/sloppy pajamas/ice cream-induced wallowing frenzy that was Moi. And I had to do it less than two hours.

When this girl walked in, she was like the ghost of my brother's ex-fiance come back to haunt me. Aside from being unnaturally thin, she was her doppelganger - a yenta in Juicy sweatpants, Juicy bag, and her cell phone permanently attached to her ear. She gave me a dismissive wave as she walked in, making me feel like I didn't exist in my own home. I instantly disliked her and wondered could I vote her out of my apartment if she decided she wanted it? I proceeded to show her around, which wasn't going to take very long as my little piece of real estate could probably fit in your living room.

M: "Here's the kitchen, where we recently purchased new appliances and re-tiled the floors-"

Girl: "Oh, I'd rip all that out anyway and make it a walk-in closet."

M (eyes bulging as I recalled the time and effort invested into re-doing the kitchen): "The gas line is in here."

"Yeah, and?" She blinked at me, not pausing to think that one false move with the gas line and she'd be taking off into the sky like a firecracker with a French pedicure.

Moving on, I talked her through the rest of the place, not that she heard me because she kept answering her cell phone and promptly cutting off whatever I was saying. Coming upon the antechamber to the bathroom...

M: "And here is the dressing area-"

Girl (eyes widening and smiling): "Is it a walk-in???"

M: "No."

Girl (gives a disdainful sniff): "How big is this apartment anyway? I thought it could be converted into a 1 bedroom?"

M: "Did you even read the listing?"

Girl: "No, I just saw the pictures. It's 'cute', but it's not for me." (She made air quotes when she said "cute". For that, I could have tackled her Juicy-swaddled ass and force-fed her a double cheeseburger from Jackson Hole. With mayo.)

M: "So you didn't read the listing and you were 45 minutes late, when I mentioned on the phone that I had dinner plans with friends right now?"

Girl (shrugging shoulders): "Stuff happens, you know?"

M (grabbing the back of her shirt): "That's it - you get out of my apartment right now! You and your walk-in-closet obsession have wasted my time and don't deserve to be in here one second longer!"

And with that, I dragged her across the apartment, opened the door, and threw her out into the hallway, Zoe-dog barking her approval throughout.

Okay, well, I didn't. But I soooo would have loved to!

And on Sunday, she wallowed

2006-09-17T22:15:00.000-04:00

Today, C went back to England after a short weekend together.

Going with him to the airport to say good-bye has always been tough. It's five hours of an emotional mind-fuck, knowing I'm going with him to the airport to say good-bye. Walk around the terminal with him, with the feeling that he's leaving soon making it all fun and games. The wierd feeling when I see him walk through security and knowing that if I acted purely on instinct, I'll be calling my parents from jail tomorrow morning. And then the long train ride home, snuffling to myself. On the E train. And you really don't want me to discuss the E train.

But staying home after he leaves is no fun either. Especially as the apartment is our home now. We have our life together, and I've only realized now just how much it's our life now and not really so much mine anymore. And I like it.

So after this weekend, this chilled-out weekend where I had the shock of my life regarding zebra print (different post, different time), it was time for him to go. So I had this brilliant idea that if I'm not going to the airport, then I shouldn't stay home...I should go shopping! (Hitting forehead) Retail therapy! What was I thinking? Of course! Driver, take me to Bloomingdales!

Except it didn't quite work that way. I was in Shoes on 2 and I realized I wasn't really quite paying attention. I was there shopping, but I was not really there. My heart wasn't in it and I knew why - I was already missing C. The knowledge that he would be back in two weeks and the "Buy One, Get the Second Pair 1/2 Off!" sale did little to console me.

So when the salesgirl handed me several boxes of shoes to try on, she looked at me and said, "And how is your day?" Oooh, dangerous question. M, don't do it, M, don't do it. But I did it.

My eyes welled up and I became one of those people who answer a simple, non-committal question with their Life Story. I became a Gusher. In the middle of Bloomingdales, of all places! Listen - Robin Williams can have an emotional meltdown, defect from Communist Russia, and have half of New York City cheering him on in Bloomingdales (see Moscow On The Hudson). But if you are not Robin Williams and start crying to the salesgirl, she is calling the men in white coats. Designed by Michael Kors, of course - it's Bloomingdales!

But by a wierd twist of fate, she actually sat and listened to my rambling. If - as I suspected - she was stoned, then this makes a lot of sense. Otherwise, I highly commend Bloomingdales for the level of customer service this store supplies and everyone should shop there!

Having stumbled out of the store and walked my sorry self home, a friend called me on my cell to check in, as she knew C was leaving today. After five minutes, I sighed, "I'd rather not talk right now, I just need to be alone." But she had different ideas.

7 pm - the phone rings. I'm changing into my slobby pajamas. Answering machine picks up. "Hi. Just calling to see how you're feeling. Call me back when you can."

8 pm - phone rings again while I'm hugging a pint of Better Batter ice cream from Maggie Moo's. Let the machine pick up. "It's me again. Not to go all wierd on you, but you've got me a little worried. Call me at least when you walk the dog."

9 pm - Again. "I hope you're having fun wallowing. I bet this includes an interesting combination of sleepwear and a pint of Haagen-Daaz. Am I right?"

Close, but it was enough to make me crack a smile

Sometimes my boss has no sense of humor

2006-09-14T13:52:00.000-04:00

An actual e-mail that took place earlier today, regarding an awards event we're doing next Wednesday:

-----Original Message-----

From: CD
Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 11:58 AM
To: M
Subject: Event program

This is what I have. Will copy sheet from program and you can update. Don’t forget your credit.

-----Original Message-----

From: M
Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 11:59 AM
To: CD
Subject: RE: Event program

My credit should read:

"And a very big shout out to M in da house - holla!"

-----Original Message-----

From: CD
Sent: Thursday, September 14, 2006 12:01 PM
To: M
Subject: Re: Event program

Sounds great.

I know what you did in the 3rd grade

2006-09-13T14:04:00.000-04:00

Like a phoenix rising from the plethora of character flaws that make up moi, I have one strength that cannot be denied - my elephantine memory. I can tell you what you ate when we had lunch at that place in Little Italy two years ago and I'll remember the birthday of the girl that I worked with at the GAP in high school. Phone numbers roll off my tongue while other people are still looking for them.

My brain is like a personal computer, retaining all useless bits of information, details, and events. Either I'll win a lot of money on Jeopardy! one day or my personal hard drive will crash.

With this memory of mine, it's highly advisable that you don't lie to me. Because. I. Remember. Everything.

Unfortunately, a friend of mine forgot this credo when telling me something about themselves recently. And this something directly contradicted something they told me last winter. It all of a sudden became the same story with two very different endings. Because alcohol was involved in both situations, the Truth Serum Rule could not be applied here. But my instinct could and I'm 99.9% sure I know which of the two endings is true.

But it sucks. Because I saw it coming and thought Uh oh. Do I interrupt them and say, "Yeah, remember when you told me last winter?", thereby deflecting the opportunity for a lie to emerge? Or do I keep my mouth shut and play the asshole who believes them? I may be hurting their credibility by calling them out on it, but I'm hurting mine when I don't say anything at all.

But guess what? I played the asshole and allowed myself to be lied to. I swear my body temperature went up five degrees throughout the course of the story-telling. It was like watching the proverbial train wreck happen, with the emphasis on "verb". I kept wanting to burst out Hey! I know you're lying to me! But I didn't.

And for what? To save them the embarassment, even though I was embarassed for them? So they feel better in believing their own version of events, because it reinforces and even boosts their perception of themselves, however implausble it is? All the while my self-assurance and belief system taking a hit, because I've let them continue on with their altered version of reality.

Yes, unfortunately, by doing that I've either encouraged the image of myself as this unwitting naif who'll believe anything they say, or they know that I know, but don't have the cojones to speak up and say something about it.

Because of all the things I do remember, I've still forgotten to grow a pair.

All hail the Farty Shoes

2006-09-12T10:48:00.000-04:00

I am a fashion victim in the worst way. I have been afflicted with not just one, but two pairs of Farty Shoes.

Yes, you read right. I myself never knew there could be such a thing, and now all of a sudden I have two pairs. We're talking Farty with a capital F! Dorothy had her ruby red slippers and I've got my Farty Shoes

Earlier this summer, I acquired a pair of Donald Pliner one-inch heel sandals. These were perfect for work and ideal for walking around everywhere in comfort. Later on, I acquired another pair of sandals, this time lavender Nicole Miller with two-and-a-half inch heels. Also comfortable while achieving the desired level of fashionability I strive for. Two great pairs of shoes. Stylish, comfortable...and Farty.

My presence is announced even before I enter the room, thanks to the pfffftttt, pfffttttt and the occasional pffffooomp! that accompanies each step I take. The only time my Farty Shoes do not make themselves known is when I'm stepping on carpeted floors, which thankfully most of my office has. But on the way back from the ladies' room, where there are tiles, the receptionist will say without even seeing me, "Is that M I hear coming round the corner?" And if it's a really bad misstep, the sound then becomes what can only be described as a seal with a sinus infection. When that unfortunate ONK! ONK! happens, I should just clap my hands and bounce balls on my nose, you know, for the full effect.

I have devised a strategic walk to minimize this unfortunate problem; however, my legs are becoming quite sore as a result. So pray for me if I get tired and take a wrong step in public company. People step away from me in the elevator. They discreetly cover their noses waiting for the assault they think I have just let loose. Meanwhile, my red face indicates my embarassment, but for entirely different reasons. So this presents me with a dilemma - do I falsely out myself and shout "It's not what you think!". Or should I stay quiet and let them be grateful it's not a Silent-But-Deadly, even though I really haven't really done anything at all?

Do I look like a girl who farts that much? (C, don't answer that question) Granted, we all do it and it can't be helped. But if I really cut one each time I took a step, I should be seeing a doctor, no? I mean, that can't be healthy! The shoe guy on my block has offered to fix the problem for me, charging $50 for each pair to fix their heels and frankly, I'd rather be Farty than broke.

No, unfortunately, my shoes are Fashionably Flatulent and they have found a home with me. Maybe if I practice, I could do a whole dance routine to the tune of Lady "Marmalade", without the music. "Pfffft, pffft, pffftt, pfffttt, pffft yah yah yah yah, sweet lady Pffff-alade!" I could start charging admission and buy a pair of Farty Boots - just imagine the fun I could have with that!

So next time you pass by a woman walking down the street and you think she's just let one loose - give her a break. It could simply be that her shoes are Farty.

Plug, plug = Nepotism at its finest

2006-09-07T22:52:00.000-04:00

If you're in the New York City area towards the end of the month, there's a new off-Broadway show called J.O.B.- The Hip Hopera. My baby cousin, the mini-mogul, is a producer of the New York run, despite the fact that he's a) not religious and b) not a hip-hopper. Who knew?

The show got good buzz in Hell-A, so my friends and I will all be attending in support of my cuz and in hopes of scoring free Mai Tais, with the mini-umbrellas and plastic monkeys, at intermission. Although he's got champagne wishes and caviar dreams, my friends have been briefed what to do if he starts pulling rank: remind him of when he threw a 2-hour tantrum at age 7, because he dropped his chocolate chip cookie on the floor.

I will never, ever let him live that down.

And finally, Psycho Nutter - A rant

2006-09-05T21:25:00.000-04:00

Saturday night, I walk out of the ladies' room back out into the bar somewhere in the south of England. Standing behind C and his best friend is this girl who's staring me up and down. I clock her watching me and think it's either one of two things:

a) She just hit on C

or

b) Psycho Nutter is here and that's one of her goons

Pyscho Nutter is this girl C dated for all of two months right before we met. The problem is three years later, I don't think she's still quite got over it.

Like this, except brunette and shorter. Much shorter.

Seriously? Something is wrong with this girl. I'm joking, but I'm not. And his family will back me up on this. When C stopped seeing her, she didn't take it very well. No, she did not. I know, because she seemed to turn up everywhere we went whenver I visited him in the UK those first few months we were dating. Oh wait, she's still doing that even now. Regardless of the variety of venues, there she is, scoping us out. Watching, waiting. She might be the size of an Oompa Loompa, but she scares me anyway. She just wouldn't go away.

Look, I know what it's like when you like a guy and he doesn't like you back. You try a little harder, thinking you can change his mind. You go to all the places he hangs out, try to be a certain way which is not even close to who you really are. We've all been down that route, but we're all also old enough to know better by now. Her, of all people.

To this day, she still manages to turn up almost every time I'm there and we go out. It's wierd. How does she know??? Saturday night, we hit four different places and by the last place - a place we'd never seen her go to before - I felt relatively safe. But like a bad rash, I spy her friend behind the guys and knew she was somewhere in the vicinity.

I wouldn't have minded Psycho Nutter's shenanigans that night, which were comparatively harmless to previous experiences. I wouldn't have minded that night at all when:

a) she decided to blatantly watch every move we made, especially when we went out on the dance floor

b) she walked over to our table, then realized I was sitting next to him, and started cackling wierdly before hurrying away

c) when, I think, she put up one of her guy friends to make a pass at me when I walked right by the bar

d) when she tried to talk C's friend alone, and presumably started crying when he told her to go away

I would have said Fark it, let's go. Except for one thing. She went up to C to say hello while I was in the bathroom, and they exchanged pleasantries. During this time, she was informed that I - his wife - was in fact in the ladies' room at the moment. That's when she felt it was appropriate to ask him if he was happy, to which he answered yes. And then she repeated the question again.

Pardon my Fronch, but what the fuck is that??? Who is she to ask him that? No, that annoyed me.

I'm a Jewish woman. We like to complain as a form of socialization. It's a cultural thing, bubeleh. Throw anything at me, however innocuous, and I'll find something wrong with it. You say "a pencil", I'll tell you the eraser gets all over the paper.

But when a Jewish woman is quiet, she's happy. Which is why C was very concerned in Santorini:

C: Are you okay?

Me: I'm great.

C: Are you sure?

Me: Honestly? Yes.

C: But you're so...quiet.

Yes, I do like to complain about a bunch of things. But C's not high on that list. So I have to complain about taxi drivers, people who don't pick up after their dog's poop, and idiot co-workers, because he doesn't give me enough fodder with which to complain. Not that I want him to start either.

The point is he makes me happy and I believe I make him happy. So after I learned that Psycho Nutter asked him that question, I stuck my heels in, ordered a V & T, and said, "Right, we're not going anywhere."

The guys looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and ordered another round.

I don't like to mess with heads that are already messed up to begin with, but... given that my stay in the UK was short, and C's there for the next 7 weeks for work? I needed to make an Impact with a capital I. Send the message that in our little universe, she didn't quantify. Several people asked me afterwards why I didn't say anything to her, but that was the whole point. Any attention, any reaction would been interpreted as a crack, a weakness on our part, and ultimately, success for her. I know how those crazies work!

She was trying to get a rise out of us, and the more we ignored her, the more desperate she got. The dancing got a little more frenzied, the staring got a little more blatant. Until the point of the tears, she was practically hanging off the railing to watch us. But we refused to bite and ultimately, walked out of the bar and into the night, messily singing "The Last Train to Clarksville".

Try as she might, and she definitely did try, I was not about to get into a Britney/Justin dance-off with her. But had I wanted to do that, believe you me - one high-kick from me would have sent her ass flying all the way out to Glasgow.

6 am on the M25 to Heathrow

2006-09-05T21:19:00.000-04:00

Intermission from the day

2006-09-05T14:10:00.000-04:00

Random, but since when did I start being called "Ma'am"???

I'm back from England. (Rubbing my hands together) I think it's time we discussed Psycho Nutter, The Ex-Girlfriend of C Who Wasn't.

Stay tuned.

And how is YOUR week?

2006-08-28T18:33:00.000-04:00

Sometime late last week, the Big Man Upstairs was a little bored and said, "You know what? I think I'm gonna have a little fun at M's expense."

You think I'm kidding? Let me backtrack a little here. I'm not exactly the most graceful person. Friends and family are smirking because they would say that's an understatement. My body is a map of scars, broken bones, and wierd angles thanks to a lifetime of slips, trips, and mishaps. I once broke my little toe by walking into a wall as I stepped away from a staircase. And because I needed to even things out, a year later I broke the one on my other foot taking a shower. Don't ask.

If you shaved my hair off right now, my head would not only look like a map of the United States from all the lines of scars on it, but the hills and valleys would be there too. This is thanks to the lumps and bumps I've acquired over the years.

Gorbachev has nothing on me

And don't think my propensity for bodily harm is limited to myself. Oh no. No one within a five foot radius of me is safe. Maybe even ten. After "I love you", C's most frequent sentence to me is "OW!" Which is why, as a kid, my parents had to really think things through before sending me out into the world. Not for my safety. Other people's.

My first day of fifth grade

So why do I bring this up now? Because if you sum it up, in the past week:

1) I've singed the tip of my eyelashes trying to light a match on Saturday night, thanks to an errant spark that decided to bounce back into my eye.

2) A friend's Rottweiler peed on my leg yesterday. And when a Rottweiler decides to pee on your leg, You Let Them.

3) I fell asleep waiting to empaneled during jury duty today, only to wake up to a roomful of eyes staring at me. That would be because the court officer, instead of tapping me on the arm, decide to make an announcement on the PA about not falling asleep during jury duty.

4) Oh yeah, because having one bad eye isn't enough, I nearly took my eye out with a baster while making chicken. For absolutely no other reason other than that I'm a complete and hopeless spaz.

C is in the Bahamas today for work right now, the same Bahamas that has a date with Hurricane Ernesto coming. But make no mistake: he's a hell of a lot safer there than he would be with me right now.

3 am revelation

2006-08-27T11:23:00.000-04:00

Zach Braff and Butthead - from the same gene pool.

Some weird headlines today

2006-08-23T09:49:00.000-04:00

The day's only just begun and there's some wierd headlines turning up today. I'll update if the fun keeps up...

From Yahoo: Kangaroos given contraceptive pills to curb population in Australia - Making the phrase "shtupping like bunnies" so yesterday.

Brits Kick 'Toon Butts Off Tube - A british kiddie network announces plans to stop glamourizing tobacco by banning any episode of a Hanna Barbera cartoon depicting their characters with a cigarette. Said cartoons include Tom & Jerry and Scooby Doo.

(Raising hand) Um, hello? Kids today are getting off easy with the cigarettes. Are we not ignoring the obvious here? Did anyone think to protect my generation from the legacies of Shaggy and the Scooby Snacks? Nyuh-oooooo.

Seriously - what were in those Scooby Snacks???

Industry groups announce smoking ban is hurting Scotland's pubs. Excuse me, they pay people to figure this out? How about this - I predict the outcome of the next country that has a smoking ban for free. No, really!

From 1010wins.com: Today's college freshmen say "Google" was always a verb and have only known two presidents in their lives. With this, I mourn the loss of my youth by playing a Rick Springfield LP, while wearing my Benetton rugby shirt and Wig-Wam socks.

Psycho Killer Racoons Terrorize Olympia Oh yeah? Twenty bucks says our New York City roaches can take on your Psycho Racoons any day, any time!

More from Yahoo: Paris Hilton says her new album makes her cry What about making her ears bleed? Does it do that too?

New York’s oldest bartender still serving at 90 Aw, bless him.

She who has the most bags, wins!

2006-08-21T19:38:00.000-04:00

I have seen into the eyes of evil. And it happened at the Prada sample sale.

The words "sample" and "sale" together in the same sentence will cause most grown women (and some men) to be reduced into snarling, red-eyed beasts. The pupils dilate and the hands take on a claw-like manner, ready to scoop out the heart of anyone who dares even look in their direction. Die-hard devotees show up with their battle plans, wearing unitards so they can save time by not having to run to the dressing room. ”Gotta limber up for that sample sale!”

But since sample sales have become a dime-a-dozen in New York City, the allure and appeal have faded away over the years (for me, anyway) into a understanding that the words "sample sale" do not preclude exclusivity. Not when there's websites and a weekly column in the New York Post devoted to publicizing them.

In most cases, you must be prepared to accept whatever is at hand, as the goods are probably something you never even considered owning until you walked in. And that's after the best bits have already been picked over by fashion editors during the private portion of the sale. But this is where the grade school math kicks in and in assessing the chasm between retail cost and sample sale price, Budget Amnesia kicks in. As a result, my past (and unfortunate) acquisitions have included:

- Wedge sandals in yellow. Not gold. Yellow. Let's not even discuss that they were also crushed velvet.

- A shirt that said "Socialite" in rhinestones. The irony was lost within the first minute I wore it.

- Gucci sandals. Absolutely nothing wrong with that but as much as I tried, I couldn't convince my feet to shrink two sizes smaller.

Let's not even discuss the humiliation of having to try on an item in the open plan dressing room. Although if you've got a dressing room at a sample sale, then you're lucky. It just makes the whole operation seem more like Loehman's without The Back Room. I'm sorry, but standing in the back of some overheated loft, watching sweaty, half-naked women (men: it's not like you think) pick over the same designer skirt, from a pile of clothes on the floor that have been trampled on countless times...remind me just why I'm here again?

So I stopped doing the sample sales, convincing myself that unless I camped out in front of the site eight hours prior to opening, there was nothing worth scoring. And I love my sleep way too much to be doing that.

There's only two exceptions I'll make: Showroom Seven's sale, because they have awesome stuff, and the Prada sample sale, because it's invite only. And I get invited because one of my oldest friends works there and can get me in there the first minute after the press gets their pickings. And today was that day.

So many people who attend the sale dress up for this sale, like it's a coming out party. It's as if they don't really need this sale, but they're going to dress up to the nines and then sneer at everyone else for shopping discount. Well, I don't buy it. They're all mutton dressed as lamb. I saw Helen Lee Schifter roaming around in search of bargains, her eyes homing in on the clothing racks like heat-seeking missiles. This tiny, much-photographed woman could easily take on the entire Jets defense as long as you dangle discount Prada before her. Next time you see her sporting a designer ballgown in the pages of Vogue, just know she took someone's eye out for that dress.

As for my mom and I, we made off with a few bags, relieved that we were there early enough to snag something that wasn't tasselled to death, overtly floral, or so in the moment, by the time I walk out the door it's passe. I'm just not an "in-the-moment" (air quotes! air quotes!) kind of girl. And all this was accomplished without too much bodily harm. Although I can tell you that when they're the scary-skinny kind, those elbows are like pincers.

Having joined us, C had surveyed the fray and deduced - mistakenly - that the feral shoppers, the sweat on delicate foreheads, and the women dropping trou in public to try something on immediately, he assumed that all this was indicative of the Prada-obsessed. But no, darling, this is a sample sale we're talking about. It's a jungle out there and only the most fashionable survive.

Motivation: It's not just Tony Robbins

2006-08-17T20:58:00.000-04:00

As I now work in corporate events, I get calls from sales reps who want us to book their clients to speak at our events. These are mostly comprised of motivational speakers, emcees, and marketing "gurus" (if you're such a marketing guru, why do you have a sales rep doing it for you?).

This is not exactly what we do, but nevertheless the links to the marketing literature and bios I receive make it. All. Worth. It. Here, I pay homage to the God of Bad Decisions. In case you're wondering, they are all real.

Would you choose this guy with the "right back at ya" pose?

Or maybe the guy who looks like the head waiter at your sister's bat mitzvah?

And then there's Tim Dagget, who's been a motivational speaker since winning his Gold Medal in 1984. He's so motivated, he hasn't updated his photo since:

Somebody in Market Research needs to exercise a little more discretion with their findings:

This one's one of my favorites. I have it framed on my desk already:

"I'mma motivate you! Or else!"

Deepak Chopra, watch out for his bad ass:

And he's motivating you like it's a root canal...

Then there's this throwback:

"You gotta motivate and sigh-hignnnn that Declaration of Independence!!!"

Winners, they're all winners.

ETA 2/11/07 - If you're reading this because you're one of those nuts who ab-so-LUTE-ly lurves John Paul Warren, read this post and kiss my a-haaaaaassssss!

Futons, schmutons

2006-08-16T12:41:00.000-04:00

The futon. Let's discuss.

The futon is by no means a foundation upon which you sleep. What is it then? A modern day torture device. The secret to Berlitz’ success? The futon kept hidden away for the "difficult" cases. Photo posting issues with Blogger (sigh, again) prevent me from showing you what a futon looks like, if you don’t already know. But maybe it’s better that way.

The possession of many a college student, futons are the cheap alternative to sleeper sofas - they function as a couch and a convertible bed rolled into one. For adult homeowners, however, they are also a preventative measure to ensure that their guests don't become unwelcome ones. The futon is ideal for when you are taken with the idea of having guests sleep over, but don't foresee them parking themselves on your couch for ten days, littering your sofa with Doritos while your dog looks on, offended at losing their real estate. (Trust me, I know, which is the only reason I would even consider buying one).

Putting it shortly, if your host has a futon, don't get too comfortable. And if it's in a floral pattern, they hate you.

But the dislike goes both ways. If I'm staying over your place, you can welcome me in, serve me a mimosa, and make me feel right at home. But show me a futon and the back of me is out that door lickety-split, dialing up the nearest Econo-Lodge.

Cue Saturday night when I had no choice but to stay over a friend’s place in NJ, because after a night of merriment driving home would have been unwise. Therfore I didn't notice anything until the next morning, when I wondered who rammed a metal bar across my back in the middle of the night. Turns out no one did, just I had been sleeping on a futon. J, if you're reading this, I will be sending you the bill for my chiropractor.

Until Sealy or Serta decide to get in on the cushion action, the shadow of my ass will never darken another futon, not if I can help it! Because no matter how cute or convenient the futon appears to be, let's get real. It's not comfortable. Those mattresses fool you for the first half hour, but then you sink to the bottom and start shifting around, trying to restore blood flow to that particular region of your tusches.

I highly advocate a law requiring this: to purchase a futon, you must show ID or bank statements proving you are either under 21 or still paying off those student loans. Otherwise, futons should be sent to the hallowed depths of Furniture Hell, along with Lava Lamps and Pottery Barn.

I am so not feeling futons.

Big day today

2006-08-14T22:04:00.000-04:00

Today, I touched a black Amex card for the first time. I'm too tired after a whole day of working an event and schmoozing with CEO-types on a golf course in Connecticut, who would have no clue that touching a black Amex card would be a significant moment in my sad, humble existence. But it was.

More importantly, C is safely esconced home as I type.

Now I can go to sleep.

I'm a logical and calm adult...I think

2006-08-10T10:52:00.000-04:00

I'm just barely out the door this morning for work, when C gets a text from his fom his friend in the UK: "Did you see the news?"

Don't you just love messages like that? My mother's a pro when it comes to leaving vague and ambigious messages like that, implying gloom and doom. Then I'll call back in a panicked frenzy to find out she wanted to chat about Pam Anderson getting married to Kid Rock. Actually, that is pretty tragic.

Anyway, those kinds of messages? They're enough to give me a heart attack given the world condition these days. So sure enough, I zoom in with C onto the Internet and try to flick the TV on. He reads out loud the morning headlines about the terror threat to NY-London planes to me and then I am ready to have a heart attack. Because he's supposed to fly out to England tomorrow.

This is where my inner thirteen-year old self wants to hurl myself onto the ground and wrap myself around his ankles, begging and pleading for him not to get on that plane. Throw myself onto my bed and pummel my fists and feet into it, until he gives in.

But I can't. As he is an airline employee, I know it would be unprofessional for him to not at least attempt to get on his scheduled flight tomorrow, all because his wife can be so easily susceptible to media-induced hysteria. Even though said wife knows and has posted the philosophy that we're all probably safer now that it's plastered all over the news, than we were three days ago. But this is not just media-induced hysteria. And besides, I'm allowed to contradict myself - I'm a woman.

Seriously? Keep your fingers crossed not just for C, but for everybody these days.

Beam me up, Scotty...

2006-08-06T09:02:00.000-04:00

Our gal Lindsay Lohan spars with her trainer in a string bikini. Which makes sense. I rollerblade in my cheerleading uniform from junior high. With the pompoms.

But no one told her the next hour is fencing.

Hey, hey, HEY!

2006-08-03T15:12:00.000-04:00

I have a confession to make. Deep breath, exhale...okay...I am a Kelly Clarkson fan.

I know. I knowwwwww. You don't need to tell me. I don't understand it myself! That American Idol biotch just kind of snuck up on me when I wasn't paying attention and zapped me with her sunny smiles and happy, happy singing, no matter what she's singing about. And trust me, had I known it was her, I totally would have shut the damn radio off.

But I didn't. And now I'm sucked in like David Hasselhoff to the nearest happy hour. I can't stop listening to her album. This is embarassment on the "I'm a Celine Dion fan" scale. Which I'm not, by the way. And I find it very hard to accept a singer who - despite having beaten Gwen Stefani for a Grammy - is in the company of Ruben Studdard and Fantasia Barrino. And let's not go there about Clay Aiken, 'kay? That's like off the scale.

The poster boy for the latest MAC makeup campaign

This is all just as bad as liking the New Kids of the Block, and yes, I liked them too (ducking tomatoes). But that doesn't mean I can stop myself from listening to Ms. Clarkson's album, even though she's just so darn happy all the time. She could be singing about being in a car accident and she'll be positively thrilled about it. And I'm eating it up like Star Jones before her gastric bypass surgery.

Kelly Clarkson - Just about as rock 'n roll as Cindy Brady

Of grave concern to me is the desire to be like the people in Kelly's "Walk Away" video. In spite of her poor attempt at street cred, with the faux-hawk and awful Hammer pants (tucked into boots!!! hello fashion Babylon!!!), I love not only the song, but the video. I wanna be pointing my finger in the air like those people, bouncing around to the "Hey, hey, HEY!" part. Even those two guys with the bowl cuts like Shaggy from "Scooby Doo". I am them. They are me. I am so feeling that. If wanna-be Williamsburg hipsters can be jiving like that, then sign me right up!

Aspirational happiness in the form of a Kelly Clarkson video. I may have sunk very, very low in your eyes, but there's nothing you can do to stop me.

1st hangover diary at my new job - yay

2006-08-02T09:18:00.000-04:00

9:12 AM I broke the seal. The "I'm going to behave for the first month of my new job, not go out, and not come in with a hangover the next morning" seal.

It was over 100 degrees out yesterday and I was thirsty. Can you blame me?

10:39 AM You know how if you stare at a word long enough, you question whether it's really a word anymore? You take it apart in pieces and start pronouncing it in different ways. Hence my befuddlement with words like "corrode", "dichotomy" and "befuddlement".

Be-fudd-leh-ment.

11:19 AM I think I should refrain from any form of speaking today. My co-workers keep looking at me like I'm speaking the language of the pygmies and it's making me a bit paranoid.

12:07 PM Random serious moment: I'm a little obsessed with the Mel Gibson story, especially now that he issued his "apology". I understand alcoholism is a disease, but I'm not as forgiving as some other Jews who are accepting that excuse. Andrea Peyser said it perfectly in her column which I was reading during my lunch break: "Mel can't hide his Anti-Semitism behind a bottle."

Serious moment over.

1:32 PM Tickets to Gnarls Barkley at Summerstage are mine. The feelings of elation that I snagged them, before the eBay vultures got to them, supersedes all previous feelings of dehydration, achiness, and complete blankness where my brain used to be. I am giddy, giddy I am. For the moment anyway.

2:45 PM Apparently, I called my mother last night? And of course, she doesn't want to tell me what we discussed.

Me: "Refresh my memory what we talked about?"

Mom: "You know what we talked about."

Me: "Not at this moment, I don't recall." (See, I told you I'm talking like a pygmy.)

Mom: "Just how happy was this happy hour?"

Me: "Gotta go. Love you, bye." (click)

5:05 PM That door is not hitting my ass on the way out of here, trust me.

So many posts, so little time...

2006-07-31T23:09:00.000-04:00

With this new job, I'm actually busy. It's not like my old one, where I could sneak in a post or two. I'm busy. And I like it. But my head feels like it's about to pop up with all those thoughts bubbling around that normally get regurgitated onto here. This will have to be corrected. And soon.

Snake on a plane

2006-07-25T20:30:00.000-04:00

Last week, on our way home from London to New York, I spotted a familiar face in our cabin. Our cabin being First Class, which was only possible because C works for the company.

Cue "Twilight Zone" theme song....

Oh yes, it was Papa Joe Simpson.

I wanted to take him by the collar and bellow into his face, "Do you realize what a Per-hervvvvv you are!"

I wanted to drop kick him across the cabin back to where he came all smugly smiley after having one of the complimentary spa treatments offered to First Class passengers. No doubt he asked for a "happy ending".

I wanted to ask him why he thought it was okay to discuss your daughter's breast size to a national magazine, of all places?

I also wanted to know how he could justify promoting marginal talent in the form of his spawn, as well as that of Ryan Cabrera, who looks like he hurts.

Como se dice "Ouch" en Espanol?

I wanted to tell him that I'd always suspected Papa Joe's haircut was really bad, like a poor man's Vanilla Ice. But having seen it for myself in person, it was worse than I thought.

And most of all, I wanted to ask him what it was like, as a former Baptist preacher, what it was like to have sold your soul to the devil.

I wanted to. But I didn't.

Computer Says No

2006-07-24T19:45:00.000-04:00

Had a great first day at new job. This calls for a celebration, so I'm posting a clip of my favorite Little Britain character, Anne.

Maybe now my friends and family will understand where I got that line from.

Humor me - A final rant

2006-07-23T10:51:00.000-04:00

Thursday night, I got together with co-workers from my last job for drinks and dinner. And I've been left with an odd, slightly depressed feeling since, in spite of my hope and excitement over starting my new job.

Of course, when you leave a job, you'll get updates and the odd bit of office gossip. And since I got back from Greece, there have been IM's, phone conversations, and get togethers like Friday. But after a while, I started to notice that all discussion pertaining to my old office was tinged with this undercurrent of negativity. Regardless of disclaimers by the speaker of gossip, backbiting, and disloyalty, the conversations I had with each person was guilty of one or the other. The willingness to talk about everyone else in the office made me realize I myself was probably not exempt from such disdainful analysis. This already confirmed what I knew and why I left - my old office environment was purely, positively toxic for the soul.

In particular, it's clear that Whiner has been happily trashing me since my departure. That I expected. But some of the things repeated back to me aren't true, or I'm not guilty of, and that depresses me. I was aware of it when I was still employed there, still able to defend myself, and disprove her claims. But the fact that she's still busily doing it after I'm gone is down to one word: pathetic.

To wit, I now have figured it out that people need to stop repeating these stories to me. What I won't know won't hurt me and all that. And I really don't want that shit on the bottoms of my soles (or should I say soul?) as I step into the next phase of my career. Ultimately, people will believe what they want to believe and there's nothing I can do about it.

But the worst thing I realized was that I totally subscribed to that environment too. I was just as bad as everyone of them. After I'd gone and saw what was going on, I was downright embarassed. Why did I spend so much energy obsessing about the behaviors of those people? Not that I was going to find the cure for cancer, but I could have been a lot more productive with myself and my time. And I also realize that being totally immersed in all that just left me sleepless and feeling physically tired all the time. If we all devoted as much attention to the company as we did to each other, maybe the company wouldn't be in the red.

"Rise above it" is a bit over-used, but highly necessary for my mindset these days.

So that's my ramblings, which I really needed to get off my chest so I could start this new job with a clear conscience. No more angry posts by Moi for a while. Happy thoughts only, because nobody wants to keep reading this shit.

Just one more thing though. The brainiacs at my last job still think I'm pregnant.

No place like home

2006-07-23T10:30:00.000-04:00

We're back home now and I've been running around, getting myself sorted before starting my new job tomorrow. A shortlist of why it's so good to come back home from Greece:

1) Full-length tubs

2) Water pressure. Of any kind.

3) Being able to flush toilet paper i.e. no more close encounters with the E. Coli kind.

Okay, enough about the plumbing...

4) A daily diet that doesn't consist of Greek salad, kebabs, and our preferred "mixed grill" option on the menu. But I miss Greek burgers.

To take it a step further:
4a) Blimpie sandwiches
4b) Sushi
4c) Campbell's Creamy Ranchero soup
4d) Punjabi mix from Kalustyan’s
4e) I think you get the picture

5) Zoe dog, who I couldn't stop talking about the entire time we were away.

Keeping the bed warm until we get back

6) Frequent phone conversations with my mom.

6a) C's apparent relief at my now-resumed frequent phone conversations with my mom. His exposure to my 24/7 expression of the inner workings of my mind was starting to scare him.

7) Proper pints of Guinnii (that's multiple Guinness in M-Speak)

8) Being back in the Big Apple, baby!

Last travel tip for the EU

2006-07-20T10:23:00.000-04:00

There is a tax-free shopping program which applies to all of the EU, not just Greece, so you can get your VAT (tax) refund upon leaving any EU country. Although C will beg to differ, this includes the UK as well.

Either the stores don't tell you about this program, the clerks aren't really informed, or there's an unfortunate language barrier, so read this for details. Note that saving all those receipts for the VAT (tax) refund will be a total waste of time, unless you get a form from one the shops you visit.

For some reason, no shop in Greece offered us the form, so make sure you ask for it. If you show up at the airport with all your receipts to claim tax back and no form, you're screwed. Unlike Canada, where fill out a form at the border, you cannot get a form from the agent at the airport when you try to turn your receipts in. I reckon I lost out on about $75.00 in taxes, as the tax in Greece was 13.5%!

What I've learned in Greece - Final Round-up

2006-07-17T04:27:00.000-04:00

#1 There are Acropoli in a good majority of the cities/islands you visit. But really, there is only one and a trip to Greece is not a trip to Greece without seeing it.

The view of the Acropolis in Athens from the top of our hotel

#2 Greek salad is the law. By this, I mean that the Greek government has declared that all restaurants must have Greek salad on their menu. Even if you're in one of the few non-Greek restaurants in any location, it is on the menu. "Today's special: Vegetable samosas, chicken tikka masala, and Greek salad."

This is why their crime rate is so low.

#3 It is impossible to take a bad picture in Santorini. It was hard enough just choosing one for this post.

View of the harbor from Oia

#4 In England, there is a terminology where you can call someone a Chav. I had some basic education as to the meaning prior to my trip i.e. "Kevin Federline is American mutton dressed as Chav". However, after my trip to Greece, I have had the full, Berlitz-style immersion course regarding Chavs, as I have dined and fought for my little share of the beach amongst them. I now understand they are the reason Burberry discontinued its signature plaid. There is a Chav site devoted to the explanation of Chavs; it's a little old, but still highly relevant. With their help, you can name your Chav baby, for which I found that mine would be Chardonnay Charmaine. Britney, are you listening to this?

Make no mistake, Chavs are not a purely English phenomenom. I have learned firsthand, they are an international plague, which is why I implore you that should you ever visit Crete, stay away from Hersonnisos!

#5 In reference to the above, when visiting Rhodes, it's best to stay away from Faliraki as well. Apparently, British Chavs hold their annual, three-month long convention in this part of the island every summer and you are not missing a thing if you skip it. The Chav phenomenon combined with the concept of "Brits on Holiday" is the reason why British tour groups are banned from booking anything in Rhodes Town, which is where we stayed. As a result, C and I were anomalies in what is largely a Scandinavian and Dutch resort.

If you're hardy enough, Rhodes is small enough for you to hire a scooter and make a day of stopping by to visit different parts of the island. Lindos is on the south side of the island and, like Rhodes Town, is a port city. Of the two Acropoli on the island, Lindos has the better where you can get up close and personal to the site. Do it quick, before they rope everything off there too. It's a beautiful town with a crystal clear bay that I've heard makes it ideal for snorkeling, as well as families. But if you want the history of a 12th century castle, a real Old City, and the Colossus of Rhodes, mixed in with a resort element and Bar Street, then Rhodes Town is for you.

Last Rhodes mention for Amantou beach. Go here if you want to get away from the madding crowds and have nearly pure, unadulterated beach with complete peace and quiet. Be sure to bring everything you could possibly need for the whole day.

#6 A wrong turn can be a good thing.

Anger at the world condition in the backstreets of Athens.

#7 It's commonly said, but I can't reiterate it enough - media coverage of world events is vastly different once you're out of the United States.

#8 In Greece, the difference between a traveler and a tourist becomes hugely evident. If the latter is lucky, they'll make a wrong turn after too many shots and catch that 12th century castle on the way back to the hotel.

#9 Not about Greece as I'm in England as I type this, but why do we not have Heinz Curry Ketchup in the States?!?!

What I've learned in Greece, Rhodes - Part IV

2006-07-13T03:20:00.000-04:00

#1 You haven't lived until you've been in a bar full of Dutch tourists trying to sing along to "It's Raining Men".

#2 Apparently, one of the ancient wonders of the world - The Colossus of Rhodes - used to stand here. I think that's pretty awesome. Pictures on that later. Updated: Here you go - apparently, the antelopes indicate the actual location:

#3 If you're like us and you get lost in the middle of the Old City, you may stumble upon a fish restaurant where you encounter a lovely, eccentric owner, who invites you to the kitchen to view that day's catch, before having the best meal you've had in Greece while surrounded by locals. Once you leave, don't hope to find it again. No matter how hard you try.

#4 Sunstroke is not fun. Thankfully, it was mild.

#5 Considering how I'm viewed with some amusement by some locals and expats, I'm informed Americans don't visit Rhodes that much unless they're with a cruise, which I'm not. They should.

More lessons and pictures to come...

What I learned in Greece, Part III - Crete

2006-07-10T15:20:00.000-04:00

#1 Greek taxi drivers must be so confused when they visit the U.S., because 99% of Greek taxis are Mercedes-Benz. Here are all these American big shots preening around and souping up their Benz, while the cab driver from Crete is scratching his head, wondering what the fuss is all about. "Nikos! These Americans, they are crazy! They bleeng out their taxis!"

#2 I'm spoilt for Feta cheese after my visit here. I will never be able to order a Greek salad at home again. The feta tastes nothing like how it is here and it should. I love salt as much as the next person, because Americans are creating a sodium-induced frenzy by what we have done to the poor unsuspecting Feta. Let the Feta be Feta! I swear, if I could find a chunk big enough, I'd float myself home on it just so I could have it in my fridge.

#3 When it comes to signs, menus and stuff like that, the English language sometimes gets mauled. Fine. I can't speak a second language fluently and I wish I could, so anybody who speaks English as a second language gets huge respect in my eyes. Who am I to talk? But after opening up a menu and seeing this, I couldn't ignore it anymore:

Beaked omelette? I'll assume it's typo, but imagine if it wasn't. What a disturbing visual. I mean, considering an omelette is made of chicken eggs, and chicken have beaks, well...you know where I'm going with this, right? It's like "Hello, you've got the foodie equivalent of Bambi right here on your menu! Don't tell the kids!"

#4 Coming to Crete is a bit of a culture shock after Santorini. I'm not sure what to make of it, as I'm a bit shell-shocked. I've never seen so many Europeans on holiday congregated in one space. If you put them all on the Mute button, it's not that much different than the Jersey shore, but nicer.

Post note: Heraklion rocks. I love that city. Forget Hernossious (sp?) - if you ever go to Crete, go to Heraklion.

#5 No other place on Earth besides Hernossious reiterates the fondness most European men have for the Speedo bathing suit when on holiday. I'm not sure why, as it looks rather uncomfortable for both the wearer and the individual who has to witness the sporting of the Speedo. From an aesthetic point of view, hmmm, maybe some guys can get away with it. But 99% of the time, it's. just. not. okay.

But this guy (slapping my forehead)...this guy just had to go that one extra mile, didn't he? Not only did he do the Speedo, but he did it with socks. Because feet can get really burnt, you know! Oh, by the way? At the time this picture was taken, I was eating breakfast. While suffering a massive hangover of epic proportions. You do the math.

Coverage area of sock vs. coverage of all other pieces of clothing =

highly, grossly disproportionate.

#6 I'm not sure why it is, but we've gotten an inordinate number of complimentary shots served to us whether we're at a bar or out to dinner. I'm scratching my (hurting) head over this. I don't do shots these days, but it would be rude not to accept these free libations, no? Of course it would! So we can't decide. Is it because:

a) they really, really like us? (That's my Sally Fields moment right there)

b) they hope that we'll stay longer for more drinks?

c) or they find something funny about seeing an American girl and British guy completely drunk?

Somebody help me with this one.

#7 There is no hospitality like Greek hospitality. Seriously. And this has nothing to do with the shots.

#8 "The Magnificent Palace of Knossos" was a huge disappointment. Not because we were expecting a song and dance, with lyrics by Elton John, on the rise of Minoan civilization, because we weren't. But it's kind of hard to get enthused about a bunch of stones, while the original frescoes have been replaced by the two or three copies that were there. Now, I'm determined to take C back to Pompeii before they take all the casts of the bodies in volcanic ash for someone's private art collection.

#9 Riding on a quad on Cretan roadways had me both exhilarated and swearing C was out to test me. Impromptu off-roading found ourselves at the end of some dirt road, engulfed by an olive grove. My worst nightmare. Not getting lost, silly, the olive grove! Thankfully, I had eaten lunch, so I didn't have to contemplate what I would do if I were really hungry.

#10 I'm going to be so farkin' sad when we leave this country. I am having such a blast, but what am I getting sad for now? We still have Rhodes to go and more lessons to be learned!