Tuesday, October 10, 2006


My Posts from WWW.Prettyboring.com

http://prettyboring.com/?cat=39
September is Menopause Awareness Month!!
Now, there's really no need to continue and write a full page on this topic because stating the simple fact that a Menopause Awareness Month actually exists is funny enough for me. End of story. However, opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one and I have many (opinions, not assholes that is.) I found this rediculous enough that I needed to write at least a little something about it.
I was going about my business this morning, rooting around the medicine chest, past the mega box of tampons when I heard from the TV, a mature, smooth, womanly voice that bordered on sexy announcing in a sympathetic way that September is Menapause Awareness Month. Simultaneously, both my face went into that screwy "huh?" expression and my brain made a small plea that I was hearing not the Today Show that I was tuned into, but a commercial. I must interrupt myself here and say that there are so many things that are wrong with a "Menopause Awareness Month" ever existing. Hopefully I will touch on each of them. When I got over to the TV, thankfully, the voice was the voice of a drug company pushing it's latest menopause relief concoction, but I was still dismayed. First of all, the slogan: Help Stop Menopause. Excuse me?! Stop menopause? I'm sorry, but last time I took a survey of women I know, 40 years of menstruation was plenty and most will be happy to "go through the changes" and stop getting a period at around 55 years old. I think most men would agree.
Secondly, is there really a need to make people more aware of menopause. I think anyone who's been around their Mother / Aunt / School Teacher / Co-Worker who's going though menopause with all their hot flashes, crying bouts and snappy attitudes is 100% aware of menopause. Or at least as aware as you need to be. It's as rediculous as having a "PMS Awareness Week" every month. Anyone who knows me is surely aware of PMS and I don't think I need to declare a special week to be on the look out for it or to draw any attention to it whatsoever. My mood swings, break outs and need to devour a jar of pickles followed by a box of cookies do that for me.
Finally, are we all out of causes? I'm all for Black History Month, Women's Rights Month and am doubly for all Cancer Awareness months that do things to raise interest and money for worthy causes, but Menopause? Really? Give me a break. It's just not something I can get behind. What's next? MySpace Awareness Month? In the spirit of rediculous-ness-osity, I did a quick search to see if there are any other noteworthy "Awareness" months or days out there and boy are there. Take a gander:
  • APRIL: IBS (Irritable Bowl Syndrome) Awareness Month: It was my understanding that people want to be less aware of IBS and all it's joys?
  • February 22 is National Thinking Day: WTF? We actually need to designate a day for people to think?
  • May is Car Care Month: Aren't there enough wife-beater wearing, 22 inch rim-cleaning Staten Islanders out there cleaning their camaros every day that we need a whole month to draw awareness to car care?
The list goes on, but I'm too annoyed to continue.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on which Awareness Day / Week / Month you'd like to have and why?

Viva Las Vegas

I've been home for a full 24 hours and have finally gotten in the essentials I needed to begin feeling like a functioning, contributing member of society again. A shower, a snuggle and a good night of sleep have all helped fade the memory of 2 filth-soaked days in Sin City. The last thing I expected to garner from this experience was any sort of life-lesson or useable information for the future, but in the strangest way, class was in session from even before we stepped off that plane and were told by security that our files would be marked for the future (I'll get into that later or just look for us on a future episode of Airline). On the other hand, if touching down in Newark at 5:45am on a Monday morning, a day and half away from your last shower and at least 3 days away from anything resembling a night of sleep, knowing you have to go straight to the office doesn't teach you anything, then I would say that's a problem. So without further ado, here's my trip to Vegas in multiple parts, as best as I can recall. I guess you could call it my own personal version of It's a Wonderful Life.

The Prep

About 4 days prior to blast off I started having visions of toned, tanned and big-breasted gorgeous beauties lurking in every nook and cranny in Las Vegas. Although I had been working out twice a day for the last 2 months and was probably in the best shape of my life, my nagging insecurities started popping up and I was determined not to feel inadequate. And so it was decided in my head that absolutely needed a) Hair Extensions - from here-on-in termed "The Weave" and b) a tan. I immediately called up NYC's resident White-Girl-Weave expert and screamed "I Need Hair"! Less than 24 hours later I was walking out of Pizazz hair salon feeling like Jessica Simpson / Lindsay Lohan / an Olson twin. I find it necessary to mention that in order to get to this point of celeb-ness I had to first go to the shadiest "office" in Manhattan and buy myself some weft human hair that was probably shaved off the head of some orphan in an underprivileged country. Secondly, I got to take my first trip to a Harlem salon. This experience definitely lived up to everything I expected and more thanks in part to the crack head who walked in and tried to sell me an industrial strength flash light, because hey, you never know when you might need it. Regardless of what it took to get there I was on top of the world as I strutted home flipping my new long locks and checking myself out in every reflective surface I passed.

However, the next morning, after a work out, a shower and my first attempt to blowdry I started to realize that maybe being unbeWEAVEable wasn't for me. I basically ended up throwing my hair in a big bun because I looked more like I was wearing one of those rasta hats with built-in dred locks than the celebrity impersonator I thought I was the night before. I basically locked myself in my office for the day and frantically emailed Hustle & Flow who graciously offered to come over that night with her "tools" and take care of it. In the meantime, I figured I'd feel (and look) better if I just got a tan. So after what seemed like the longest 8 hours of my life I headed home and along the way stopped at yet another shady Russian salon where it took 15 minutes of arguing to convince the lady that all I wanted was 1 session of tanning, not an entire make-over and a year's stock of beauty products. I cranked that bed up to 20 minutes and basked in the glow-de-melanoma. I finally made it home and waited for Brynn to arrive. In less than an hour she had fixed the mess on my head - cut about 6 inches off that too-long weave and instructed me that I was not to get it wet. I felt a lot better about the situation and went to bed ready to conquer the world.

And then I woke up in the middle of the night in the most severe pain thanks to the 3rd degree burns I had apparently inflicted upon myself in this quest for physical perfection. By the time I actually looked at myself in the morning here's what I saw: A Fried Lobster with a Straw Wig. I was beyond sunburned and leaving for Vegas in less than 2 days. I just prayed that it would tone down in time for Friday when we were leaving. Thankfully, it did and I was fairly tan by the time we left, but I vowed to make it my last time ever in a tanning bed.

Only after working to put myself back to where I started, I managed to look as cute as I had hoped when I met Hustle and Flow at Penn Station and we began the long journey. I think this may have been G-d's way of telling me that I'm fine just the way he made me.

Lesson # 1 - Check.

The Plane

Call me a day dreamer, but I had it my head that my flight to Las Vegas was going to be like a ride on a party bus. I just assumed that a 6:00pm flight on a Friday night out to Vegas would be solely occupied by crazed party animals all under the age of 30. Loud Music. Lights. People slamming shots out of tiny bottles of booze and high-fiving each other all over the place. Your average trip on Hooters Airlines. All I can say is Continental doesn't roll like that. However Brynn, myself, and the dude sitting next to us do. We lucked out and were seated right behind the poverty-curtain that leads to First Class in the first row of bulkhead seats in coach. We sat down next to Manny and found out he was 26, from NJ and on his way to bachelor party. Check, check and check! Even better than that, we found out that homeboy was rollin' in dough and married which basically equaled free drinks for us without even having to try and front like we were the least bit interested.

Good conversation ensued and about 15 minutes after take-off the three of us found ourselves double fisted and raring to go. We were throwing 'em back 2 at a time and in the time it took me to get up and pee 5 times (yes 5), take about 20 pictures of flight attendants throwing up gang signs, and get everyone's email address we were making our final approach. I guess one would say we were rowdy, but I at least thought we were being funny. (And so did one of the flight attendants because he was sneaking us free drinks up until the captain boomed "Flight attendants, please be seated for take off.") Unfortunately, there was another flight attendant who didn't think we were so hilarious. The same flight attendant who so nicely grabbed my bag for me when I wasn't allowed to stand up before take-off had definitely had enough of the antics of Hustle & Flow and The Juice and was pursing her lips, shakin’ her head, and muttering "Oh no child" as we were screaming "Viva Yo’ Mama!". The came the last straw. Just as we were walking off the plane and she told us to be quiet and then turned around, Hustle & Flow thought it'd be funny to give her a smack on that extra large caboose. My reaction was a twisted mess of "Oh Shit" and "That's the Funniest Fucking Thing I've Ever Seen." The flight attendants reaction didn't resemble either of those. I now know what Eddie Murphy was talking about in his stand up when he talked about the fear he felt at the look his big black mama would give them right before she smacked him upside the head for doing something wrong.

As it turns out, spanking a flight attendant is a so-call “Federal Offense” and we were told to stay put as the authorities were called. Of course we did the sensible thing and the minute she turned around I whispered, "just go" and we tried to sneak away. At that point, this woman was no longer a flight attendant and had turned into Big Momma Sha Kay Kay. And when Sha Kay Kay tells you to stay put the second time, you listen. Luckily for us, the "authorities" that showed up was a lone, mid-level manager from Continental Airlines. We stood there like two school children while he chastised us, then we promised we'd behave and were told our "permanent airline files" (whatever the hell those are) would be noted. Thanks Dad! I guess it rings true that when Mama yells at you, just cry to Daddy and he'll protect you. We ran down the gangway laughing our asses off and high-fiving each other that we'd almost been arrested within 5 seconds of landing in Vegas.

The only thing I learned from this part of the trip were 1) It's not a good idea to spank flight attendants. 2) I can drink more when I am in the presence of Brynn that I ever thought was humanly possible. She has the same effect on me as the oxygen they pump into the casinos.

I guess I knew both of these things already though.

The Party

After meeting grabbing our luggage, meeting up with Veronica “The Commish” and Mandy “Mandizzle” and getting settled (which included an all out classic college brawl and a few flight changes) we were in a cab on our way to Tao. We chose Tao because our boy Manny had a table there so we figured what better way to party than to continue with the free booze.

When we arrived at the Venetian, drunk and screaming, following the signs to Tao, we were immediately greeted by the first of many packed lobbies, long lines and big dudes with clipboards. I do not know what came over me, but the Juice was in full effect and I had us swept in the VIP, with free drinks courtesy of some 40 year old Czech dude in under 10 minutes. It was on. There’s something about Vegas that makes men want to spend their money on women who make it completely obvious from the first second that as soon as the drink is in her hand the conversation is over. It’s almost too easy. I prefer a little bit of a challenge.

Tao was packed with hairy-chested foreigners, gigantic black men and a handful of locals. Thanks to Brynn and her pink taco shorts we managed to swoop ourselves into somebody’s booth and in under ½ an hour I found myself dancing (aka: thrashing my arms and swinging my hair around) on a ledge high above the crowd. I couldn’t tell you how long I was up there, but sometime after grabbing the big fake boobs of the RythemLESS nation dancing next to me things went bad.

My first mistake was dropping Mathew’s digital camera and watching the button that actually snaps the pictures fly off into the sunset. I would like to send special thanks to the dude who crawled around on the floor with me looking for it to no avail. Mathew’s first prediction came true and the camera was broke. Damn.

I can not recall the events between the camera breaking and what ensued next, but something in there led to me being kicked out of Tao. I like to think of it more as being denied re-entry after being escorted through the door by a 6 foot 5 inch, 300 pound male. But who’s splitting hairs? I was begging the fifteen individuals charged with guarding the velvet ropes to PUH-lease let me back in because my friends were in there when I figured maybe I should prove just how sober I am. How would I do that? The only answer would be to stumble backward over my own feet then drop my phone and watch it shatter into a thousand pieces. Luckily I wasn’t wearing a skirt because I spent the next five minutes scooting around the floor, toboggan-style, like a dog with worms trying to pick up the pieces and put them back together.

Thankfully, around that time my three accomplices showed up and were ready to take me home. V ordered me to have a seat on the fountain and by no means was I to go anywhere. The minute she turned her back I was in a cab on my way to what turned out to be the wrong hotel.

Upon arriving at what I thought was my hotel I was quickly challenged with the feat of finding my way to my room 1504. Here’s the problem: The hotel I arrived at only had 3 floors. But that couldn’t be. I specifically remembered telling the cab driver the Marriott Suites. (Needless to say there’s about 15 Marriott’s in Vegas). After noting that the elevator only went up to Floor 3, I immediately realized, that DUH, I must be in the wrong elevator (not the wrong hotel) and I’d just have to take the stairs to the 15th floor.

What follows next is my best recollection of sights and sounds before reaching my hotel.

There was a stairwell, some heavy doors, a dumpster, a parking garage, a road and some bushes. Then, Viola! I was back in the lobby of the Marriott suites. I’m still laughing when I think back to what happened next. The Marriott had a gift shop which basically consisted of a metal stand in front of the front desk containing cookies and chips. If any of you have ever been beyond inebriated, you know how good that looks at 5am, but in spirit of having strangers buy all my drinks I had no interested in actually paying for it. I grabbed 3 bags of cookies and 2 bags of chips and began my sprint towards the elevators when I heard “Wait!” I swear to you the girl working the front desk must have leapt straight over it because next thing I knew I was face to face with her trying to use my best basketball moves from high school to fake her out and get around her. She was squatted down low, arms out as if she was coming off a defensive suicide drill when she said, “you have to pay for those!” “Oh, of course, I’m sorry” I replied and it was over. A few hours later I woke up next to a scantily clad Brynn as we lay in a bed of cookie crumbs surrounded by half eaten plates of bacon and eggs.

It only gets worse from here….

The Phone

Upon awaking my immediate first thought was to call Mathew and let him know that after almost 24 hours in Vegas with the Destruction Crew I was still in one piece. I flung my arm over to the nightstand and picked up my phone which felt oddly light. Wouldn’t you know it, the fcking thing wouldn’t turn on. I shook it and pressed the buttons as hard as I could, but it was dead. I pulled out the charger and when I plugged it in nothing happened. Finally, I turned the damn thing over and could see through the translucent backing that the battery wasn’t in there. SHIT! Frantically I searched my bag over and over again, but nothing. It became sadly apparent that when I was scooting around the floor in the lobby of Tao doggy-style, picking up the pieces, I had missed a very important one. The Battery.

I used the girls’ phones to call Mathew and my parents to do the “safety check” and after speaking to the girl at the front desk figured I would head over to the mall where there was a T-Mobile stand and get a new battery. Well, hailing a cab in Vegas isn’t so easy so after twenty minutes of the bell-hop trying I finally agreed to pay $10 and split a stretch limo with two 70-year-olds who were heading to the airport.

At this point we had already had two mimosas and were dressed for the pool, so when I actually headed out to the mall I was wearing nothing but a bikini, an uber-short cover-up, and heels. But I figured, hey, it’s Vegas, no big deal. Well upon arriving at the mall I realized no matter where you are, going to the mall half-naked is a big deal. I actually heard one snotty-little teenager say to his friend, “She came to the mall to buy some clothes.” With each step I felt more and more like a prostitute and 4 stores later I headed back to the cab stand, with a broken camera and still no battery for my phone. I guess that’s what I get for using a phone from 1993 that’s made for Asian Teenagers.

Back at the hotel we swam, had a few more drinks and eventually it was 6pm and time to get ready for another night of debauchery. We all headed back up to the room and wouldn’t you know it, I picked up my bag and staring me in the face was the tiny, white battery that powers up my little, blinking Nokia. Beyond excited I put her back in a called Mathew professing my joy and undying love. Woooooooooooo!

I think G-d was definitely teaching me a lesson here: Be more careful with your things or I’ll humiliate you by making you walk around the mall dressed like a street walker.

Lesson # 2 – Check!

Pure

The plan for the night was to eat a late dinner at Nobu and then head over to Body English to work the VIP tickets we had bought in advanced. (Clearly I’m just trying to drop venue names right now to seem like the scenester I always wished I was.) Anyway, as we were chowing down on the best sushi I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating in my life when the Kings of California, Devon and Yawn (yes, Yawn) entered the scene. After finishing dinner and exchanging texts with Devon and Yawn we were handed our comps and brought to the front of the line at Body English. Veronica, thinking she had just been handing a lame flier, proceeded to dump both hers and my comp card into the garbage can and had to go dumpster diving to retrieve them so we didn’t have to pay the $20 cover. And it was a good thing we didn’t because Body English didn’t live up to half the hype that Entourage precluded.

It was a lame mix of bachelor and bachelorette parties all taking too much care not to even look at someone of the opposite sex as if they were the slightest bit attractive for fear that their future Mr. or Mrs. might find out they (gasp) spoke to someone that weekend. I’m sorry, but Brynn and I did not do rock our best Austin Powers girls outfits for this. Thankfully, we met a loner named Ari and within 5 minutes I was at the bar doing my free shots and drinking my $7 bottle of water thanks to his wallet. Just as I was making my exit the text message from Devon came through saying he and friends had a booth at Pure. SCORE! We thought we had no chance of getting in so we weren’t even gonna try, but after a few texts we got the “list name”, Kevin Lane, and were headed over.

I have never in my life seen a line so ginormous to get into a venue of this type. There had to be literally 1500 people in lines twisting every which way in the lobby. Putting on my best runway walk, we strutted over and within 10 minutes the bouncer Tyler was opening up the velvet rope and me and my girls were in cover free. All I can say about Pure is this, I had the time of my fucking life. Standing on top of those gorgeous white couches, a bottle of goose in my hand, dancing my a$$ off with Enrique Iglesias about 5 feet away, I definitely brought sexy back. Two hours later, sexy was gone and sweaty had replaced it.

Around 3:30 am, I was a sweaty, drunken mess as I stumbled out and made my way into a cab and somehow managed to direct the driver to the correct hotel. During this time period, not realizing it was 6:30am on the East coast, I decided to call Mathew because I was all by myself and just really wanted to talk to him. I called about 4 times and couldn’t get a hold of him. The first few messages I left were sweet as pie. The next 75 were a montage of me declaring “This relationship is now over!” since he couldn’t “care” enough to pick up the phone when I’m calling. (Please note the sarcasm here).

Well, I will only say I’m one resourceful beeyotch because I somehow managed after a bunch of calls to 411 and waking up Gregg ( he bachelor who’s bachelor party Mathew was attending in Montreal) I was connected to his hotel room in Canada, in half a rage at this point. Turns out, my phone had accidentally dialed him all through the night so he eventually had to turn it on silent b/c the vibration was waking everybody up. I continued to explain that I just “needed him to be there” when I was all alone and that’s why I was so mad. A few hours later, after the maid walking in on me half naked and snoring several times, I realized I’m an idiot.

The solution: Head over to the Hard Rock.

Lesson 3: Breaking up with your boyfriend at 4am because he didn’t answer the phone because it was 7am where he was is probably unreasonable.

The Pool

It was now 11am and we were 11 short hours away from our flight back to reality. Not having been completely sober since Friday afternoon we figured the best bet would be to hit up Rehab (the Sunday party at the Hard Rock pool) and keep it going until it was time to head home.

Once again, we were escorted right past the massive line of dudes waiting to get in and upon entering it felt like we were in Disney Land. After 3 massive vodka tonics, a few hours of dancing like it was MTV Spring Break, and a dip in the pool (which was basically a sea of STDs), Brynn and I looked at each other and realized we were in the land of trashiness and wanted nothing more than to get home. We cabbed it back to the hotel, scooped up V and Mandy, packed our bags and were headed over to the Bellagio to spend our last few hours with Veronica’s new man, The Commish.

During these two hours, I ran into a co-worker and met the dude who had me kicked out of Tao two nights earlier for spilling. We started snapping at each other and it was clear that it was time to go. Thankfully the time passed quickly and Brynn and I were two dirty messes on our way to the airport to catch the red eye home.

The Plane Ride Home

Just about the time we arrived at the airport was when I began contemplating suicide. I was tired, sort of hung-over, dirty, hungry and I knew that the only thing awaiting me was a 5 hour plane ride followed by 8 LONG hours of work. My body was craving nutrients and sustenance at this time and after getting through security I ordered a burger and fries and scarfed that thing down like someone who had been raised in poverty and was eating her first meal. BIG MISTAKE. HUGE.

We boarded the plane and slept the whole ride home, but when I woke up something wasn’t right. I had the fiercest burning in my stomach that was so bad I could barely stand up right. During the 2 hours it took us to get our bags and get the train back to Penn Station it didn’t subside and at 7:45am I arrived in my office dirty and sick.

What proceeded was the worst day of my life to date. The only reprieve came around noon when I trucked it over to a salon near my office and had the dreaded weave cut out of my hair once and for all. As George removed the last track and shook the crumbs out of my hair I nearly jumped out of the chair and hugged him in a joy. The shampoo and blow out that followed was sheer bliss. By the time I got back to the office and grabbed a muffin, I was beyond ready to leave and only thanks to Mathews phone calls and IMs I actually made it to 5 ‘o clock (okay, 4:45) and found myself in a cab headed home. What followed was the best shower of my life and the moment I had been waiting for most, a hug from Mathew.

Lesson learned: I’d rather be home.

I don’t know what it is about Vegas, but even when you go just to party, and you do nothing wrong like cheat on your wife, drugs, etc, it still makes you feel sort of like a bad person. I spent the next two days after returning home contemplating my life and realizing how happy I was to be back to being a normal, good, productive person who spends most of her evenings getting tasti-d-lite and staying in with her boyfriend. I often reminisce and jokingly call myself lame for no longer being the party animal I was in college and only going “out-on-the-town” maybe once a month because most weekends are spent tending to family obligations, parties, etc. Vegas made me realize that being half-a-homebody isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s pretty awesome.

The girls of the Repression Tour (as we’ve affectionately named it) and I talked about making this a yearly trip. I’m not so sure I can do this to my body every 365 days. Luckily, V and Mandizzle are storming into town in a few weeks so we get to bring the remnants of Vegas to Manhattan, so the good news (for us, not him) is that Mathew will be nearby to direct the mayhem and see us all home before anybody breaks anything. I’m sure he’s looking forward to it. I know I am.

Viva Yo’ Momma! Viva Las Vegas! Viva my bed and my apartment.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

New Leaves

I've been doing a lot of thinking and thanks to, amongst other things, a fortune cookie I have decided to change my MO from Self Excusement to Self Improvement. I think I've already reached my lifetime allowance of the phrase "Oops...my bad" and have decided to make a few changes. Most specifically in the following three areas:
1. Add a few new and improved moves to my dance repertoire
2. Relax
3. Be nicer
Number 1 was was easy thanks to the advent of the My Lumps video (on my profile). A few minutes with those guys every morning and I'm golden. My next goal en route to Soul Train stardom is to convince Mathew to choreograph a few moves that we can bust out at social gatherings (i.e. weddings, bar mitzvahs, etc). I'm only asking for a simple 8 count, nothing fancy, but he still refuses. Stay tuned though, I generally get my way. As a side note, the handshake Mathew and I developed a few weeks ago had it's first public unveiling last Friday night thanks to my PIW (Partner in Whining) and a few Margaritas. The bride and groom to be got a sneak peak and it was glorious.
The next item on my list has actually proven to be easier than I would've assumed. A few weeks ago, after devouring a plate of steamed vegetables from Spades Noodles, I tore into my fortune cookie. I was expecting the usual, nonsensical Asian proverb along the lines of "An elephant is not a horse tail" or some shit like that. You can imagine my pleasant suprise when I saw the four simple words "Relax and Enjoy Yourself." Now, generally I don't find inspiration in Mu Shu anything, but for some reason this phrase struck a cord with me and has drastically improved my quality of life. The simple reminder every day to Relax and Enjoy Myself has mellowed me out and made everything I do a little more fun. Granted, I still get the urge to pound the receiver of my phone into the cradle repeatedly after I finish any conversation with my VP, only now I fight that urge by reminding myself to relax. Who knew it would be so simple?
So far, the road to Self Improvement, according to my three criteria, has seemed to be pretty smooth. That is until we get to number three: Be Nicer. When I say that I want to be nicer I'm not talking about being nicer to people I come across or letting strangers cut me in line at Starbucks. What I mean by "be nicer" is that I would like to be nicer in my thoughts, nicer as a person. Inwardly and genuinely. However, living in this city is proving to make that far more difficult a task than one would imagine. Perhaps if I lived on a farm, or even in some small town where I wasn't confronted with a freak show every three feet, my thoughts would be pure. But I live in New York and when I walk home and see a woman wearing a magenta shorts suit (yes ladies a gentleman by shorts suit, I mean polyester shorts - almost culots - paired with a matching business jacket), panty hose, sneakers, and big ass bangs, I simply can not be "nice" as I define it.. It's almost as if she's forcing me to be a bitch and laugh at her. Not to her face of course, that would be mean, but to myself. It's just that when I see something like this, I'm forced to start prepping the jokes I'm going to make about it later to my friends. And then there's the BBWs (big beautiful women). Having struggled with a weight problem in the past, I am not one to make fun of someone for being overweight. On the other hand, I feel I'm almost obligated to point out and comment to my boyfriend when I see a large lady with a set of knockers that are skimming the pavement because she refuses to wear a bra. Seriously!
Walking home from work everynight provides me with endless fodder for my favorite kind of humor - finding the funny in what I observe. Thus, it's been fairly difficult to be nicer, according to my definitions, as my immediate instinct upon seeing someone with busted hair / teeth / clothes, etc is to whip out my phone and text msg whoever would find the particular flaw funniest. I just can't help myself.
I guess, as Meatloaf once said, two out of three ain't bad. I will continue to chill out and work on my dance moves if you can deal with me busting on the ramrod wearing white linen man capris. Deal?

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Another Day, Another Dollar

Lately as I flail aimlessly between a job and a career, between what I should be doing and what I am doing, I am left to contemplate the ugly reality that is my current state of employment. It is far from uncommon for my peers and I to complain relentlessly about what we're doing as we are consistently bombarded with success stories of balls-to-the-wall entrepreneurs smiling atop their yachts on the covers of magazines and on our cable networks. As I sit back saying to myself, "Why didn't I think of that?" I get even more frustrated when I evaluate my current situation.
Basically, if we were to compare the software industry to, let's say the porn industry, I am the equivalent of the Fluffer working a porn flick. There's the girl who's the star of the movie, getting all the "glory" and making the big bucks. I compare her to my Vice President. Then there are the guys banging her. They're having more than their fair share of fun and getting paid well to do so. I compare them to the Sales Guys that I work with. Finally, there's the Fluffer, she's off to the side, working her ass off, keeping everybody "pumped up" for the big game. She's not getting paid nearly as much as those actually on camera yet she's working just as hard. If she's lucky, they may let her earn a few extra bucks by cleaning up the spluge when it's all over.
That's me. I am merely "The Fluffer". Making a decent dime but nothing near the caliber of the guys in the spotlight. I work increasingly hard to ensure that we "put on a good show" but am compensated less than accordingly. There's no commission for me for a job well done, no bonus, sure, I get to "go on location" and be a part of the fun, but where's the payoff?
It seems to me that the longer your job title the more accurately it can be said that you are merely someone's bitch. Here's what they call me "Senior Field Sales Support Administrator, Americas." Six long words in my title. Six long words that indicate I am here to be used, abused, and slapped around. To be honest, I think they just threw the word "Senior" in there to make me feel important. There's no Junior Field Sales Support Administrator, Americas. Like I said, the longer the title, the lower on the totem pole you are. I was watching that show Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel the other night and the host was interviewing the man who cleans up Giraffe poop at the zoo. They asked him what his title was and I kid you not, it was at least 10 words long. Yes, that's right, the guy who cleans up giraffe poo at the zoo has a longer title than I do by four words. Are you seeing how this works?
I used to say that the worst job in the world is the Jizz Mopper at the peep show, but at least that guy doesn't have any stress. He does his easy job, collects his pay, and goes home to sleep without a care in the world. Not the Fluffer, she works relentlessly and stresses that the show will go off without a hitch. Then they tell her that her check's in the mail, promise her that maybe next time she'll get some time on-camera, and send her home with an aching jaw.
That pretty much sums up what's happening with my career. Luckily, I am not one to sit back and whine while not doing anything about it. Not this Fluffer. No sir. This Fluffer is going to get out there, work on her moves, fit in that extra work out, tanning session, and wax, and get her ass in the spotlight. Now that I've taken my metaphor too far, I'll leave you simply with the promise of my future success. After all, three years ago, I started out as the lowly giraffe poop cleaner upper and have worked my way up fluffer status. Who knows what my next stop will be? I can't wait to find out.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

CAUTION: DEEP WATERS AHEAD

I know it's early in the week and you're probably expecting a rousing recap of whatever crazy shenangins went on over this past weekend, especially since it was spent celebrating Jaime's last couple weeks of Bachelorette-dom. Please accept my apologies but there will be no laugh-out-loud tales of drunken mayhem for two reasons. First, I completely blacked out and don't remember much. Secondly, how many times can you really tell the same old story? Girl pounds too many drinks too fast. Girl takes off shoes and dances on any elevated surface she can find. Girl calls boyfriend to start fight, vomits, then passes out. Girl wakes up and apologizes to boyfriend perfusely. Same old story, keep moving. Nothing to see here folks. I will say this, I'm pretty sure Jaime had an awesome time which makes the night a success regardless of who had to suffer (sorry Baby, you know I love you).
Moving along, life has calmed down just a tad so I wanted to take the opportunity to rant and rave about a few things that have been on my mind. My apologies in advance, but not everything can be funny.
First, A Rave
As a matter of fact, I could call this the Rave of my Life. I just wanted to take the opportunity to give special mention of my boyfriend Mathew. Every single day I am amazed about how gut-wrenchingly wonderful this man is. If you're already putting your finger down your throat and gagging, get ready for a full on projectile vomit. I find it difficult to be eloquent or witty when speaking of Mathew, our love and all of his wonderful qualities because generally I am reduced to a googley eyed moron when I think about him and smile. It truly stuns me that two people could be so perfect for each other and even more so that we have been lucky enough to find each other. I love Lamp. I love Tiaras. I looooove Champagne. But most of all, I'm so rediculously in love with Mathew that the word love can't even begin to describe it. It is something far more raw and powerful than I ever imagined it would be and that makes it pretty freakin awesome.
Now on to a Rant
I know this has been mentioned in many other venues before and Mathew has even dedicatd an entire page to it, but I really can not speak lowly enough of the sub-human imbeciles that Dunkin' Donuts allows to parade around in their visors and serve the addictive beverage they call coffee. I say that they only "call" it coffee because I am convinced it is really the worlds most highly addictive agent that is manufactured in some government lab buried under a desert. I'm not sure exactly what the purpose of this conspiracy is other than to keep us fustrated as hell and coming back for more. It's like a sick joke. Seriously, how many times can a person repeat their order in five minutes?! How is it humanly possible that after asking me six times how I want my coffee and hearing my answer of 'Cream and Two Sweet & Low' that you hand me my beverage and say, "Here's your French Vanilla w/ Skim Milk and Sugar"?! Please somebody answer me because I am a broken woman. Mr. Dunkin has broken me down to a shell of my former self desperatly sucking on the straw of my incorrectly made Iced Coffee every morning. I seriously hate these mother fuckers. Does it say somewhere on the application "Dunkin Donuts does not employee any individuals who are able to follow instructions or speak English?." I would really like to meet the C U Next Tuesday running their HR Department. I could go on for pages but I'll stop now because I'm making myself exceedingly angry just thinking about it.
A Rave and a Rant
As I am thrust in the middle of this stage in life where we are all beginning to settle down into our respective couples and watch each other marry off one by one, I am left contemplating not the complexity of male-female relationships, but rather the chaotic universe that is relationships between females. I have heard girls say and have said so myself far too many times something along the lines of "Girls are bitches, it's just so hard to be friends with girls." We then go on to tout how the relationships with our male friends are so easy because they're not catty, or jealous, etc. The kicker is that we do this in the company of each other. It amazes me how sometimes we can be our own worst enemy.
I've heard it asserted that the success of all relationships is based on how each party makes the other feel about themself. (i.e. Mathew and I are so happy because I make him feel good about himself and vice versa). I believe this to be at least partly true in that I do not doubt that we are all inherently selfish individuals. Obviously some more so than others, but realistically if we are not each happy and feeling good about ourselves, how can we be the least bit selfless and good to those around us. It is this idea that makes the Female Friendship such an anomaly to me.
We look to our girlfriends to be complimentary of us, to listen to our problems, to tell us our hair looks great and our butts look phenomenal in our jeans. Women need this support and approval from other women. It is in our nature. (Obviously there are always exceptions, but I'm speaking in general terms). It baffles me then, how we are so quickly critical and even take pleasure in the pitfalls that our "sisters" encouter. Whether it be weight gain, a bad relationship, or a public humiliation it remains that watching other women fall off the pedestal of perfection somehow makes us feel better about ourselves. We freely show our distaste for one anothers flaws. Sometimes we do so outwardly with a cutting comment or dirty look. Other times, we do so under the guise of being a good friend, by listening intently and offering good advice, all the while feeling inwardly superior that we do not have those problems. We are truly the more devious and manipulative gender, but alas ladies, we are obviously smarter.
Thusfar you would assume I am simply spewing out the negative aspects of Female Friendship, but the Raving part steps in now. I personally have been beyond lucky to find a few female individuals in my life who's friendship has managed to navigate through these shark (or should I say cat) infested waters of false friendship and have made it to the pure springs of what I consider to be real friendship. There are certain female individuals in my life, friends, who I know for a fact do not take personal pleasure when I encounter my own shortcomings nor do they find distaste, they are just plain accepting of who I am. Simply said, these women do not judge me, nor me them. These girls are wise enough to know that it is never a good idea to let another's successes or failures affect their own feelings about themselves for either the positive or the negative. They are also honest enough to admit both their own downfalls and my own. Finally, there is enough trust between myself and these women that we are able to discuss any and all negatives without shame and somehow are able to laugh. These are the girls that I can call and blurt out the latest idiot-move I made and not feel the need to make a joke about it. I can simply say something like "You will not believe that I did ____ (insert dumb move here)." Just as easily as spilling the beans, I can then go on to these few individuals about how I really feel about and in the end their ultimate response is simply "That's just who you are Jane. It happened. It's over. Move on." Period. With these women, I can be confident that they mean just that, and not "That's just who you are and i'm better" or "That's just who you are and I think it's stupid." Obviously they can laugh with me. They're the women who don't go back to their boyfriends and speak judgementally of me after offering their advice, nor do I do to them, because the advice is pure is the judgement is absent.
I think, or at least hope, that we all have women in our lives like this. I think we are all guilty of judging other women and allowing them to have an affect on us. I hope everyone is as lucky as I am to have found a few people who make this impossible and unneccesary, as it should be. These are friendships that are truly free of judgement and that's impressive. Time and distance are no matches for friendships like these. These are no frills friendships. They don't need to be dressed up and paraded around. They're just there. They are almost as powerful to me as what I have with Mathew and they're really easy to spot. These few ladies are the smartest women I know. They have to be.
Finally, I hope this is not skewed and seen as a passive agressive attempt to cut into "fake bitches" (please feel my sarcasm here). It is simply an insight into the confusion I find in the female friendship and a small homage to those friendships I treasure.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Happy Eastover?
Most of you either know, have the inclination, or have it pounded into your head over and over by yours truly that I am now officially Jewish. It has been a long complicated journey traveling from the land of Sausages and Meatballs to the land of Matzah and Gefilte Fish, but with the support of my friends and, of course, Mathew, I have made it through to the "other side" unscathed. Many wonderful things have come out of my conversion. In fact, there are too many to count, so I will leave it at this: For me, Being Jewish is The Best. There is, however, one small perk that I didn't realize came along with my conversion that I would like to take the opportunity to mention now. Over this past weekend, in which Easter and Passover both happened to fall, I realized that being Jewish has given me something I never thought I'd never get back. ANGST. Awwwwwwww yeah.
Being an angst-ridden teenager was fun, but It's hard to pull off the whole angsty thing at 26. I mean, when I was 17, I had every reason to sit in my room, listen to REM, and write poems about 'blackness' and wallow in the sorrow that is being white and living in middle class suburbia. Woe was me. Can you believe my parents had the nerve to give me a curfew (along with a brand new car)? How can they expect me to express myself if I have to be home by 9pm on school nights!? THEY JUST DON"T UNDERSTAND ME! Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. (If my sarcasm hasn't slapped you in the face yet, please do so yourself.) Even in college, thanks to freshman psych class, The Doors and pot, I was really able to get in touch with how cruel and lonely the world can be. Here and now I am twenty six years old, fairly successful, happy and in love. Shit. There goes my argument of "Nobody Understands Me." Until now that is.
The subject of me being Jewish is always a little touchy in my parent's home and understandbly so since they are fairly religous Lutherans. They've somewhat accepted the fact that there won't be a church wedding and my firstborn probably won't be named Vito. They still have a hard time whenever my Judaism is thrown in front of their face. Take this weekend for example. Of course Mathew and I had to attend my parents Easter gathering whether or not we are down with JC. I enjoy seeing my family and if they're all getting together I'll be there regardless of the occasion. This year, Easter happened to fall during Passover. For those of you who aren't familiar with the rules of Passover it goes like this: a) We do not eat anything that has leavened (i.e. BREAD), b) We do not eat anything that the Maneschewitz family has not deemed to be and brightly marked as Kosher For Passover. Thus you can imagine, my mother's Easter Ham simply is not acceptable to eat.
A week or two back, I shakily picked up the phone and called my mother to tell her that Mathew and I would be bringing our own food to her feast because it was Passover and we can only eat things that are Kosher for Passover. She took the news fairly well. There was no yelling, only lots of snotty comments made about how Mathew and I are missing out and how (please read in a tone that is taunting) "we all make our own choices." Overall I thought it went fairly well. Although the closer we got to Easter the more uncomfortable I began to feel. It may not seem like such a big deal unless you understand that I come from a large ITALIAN family where food is the centerpiece of life. Good Food. Great Food. Amazing food cooked by Tony himself.
The night before, Mathew's mom packed us a lovey dinner for us to bring to my parents house and that's when I really started to get uneasy. Then, when I woke up on Easter Sunday, I was in a full blown panick. We were starting to pack up and I was starting to Schvitz. I was crabby and snotty and doing my best rendition of Little Miss Attitude to Mathew as he tried to talk it out with me. I was so upset and really feeling beside myself. I explained to him how I felt like I was insulting my parents and how I would rather not even eat than bring our own food and not eat theirs. I was nearly in tears when up from the depths of my being came a cry that hasn't been uttered since 1998. I looked up at Mathew with tears in my eyes and said, "You just can't understand what I'm going through. Nobody Can!"
Welcome back angsty angsterson! I sure missed you. Quick, where's my Tool CDs and Stussy T-shirts? It was like my body suddenly transformed to the 17 year old version of itself. At this point I couldn't help but laugh when I realized how rediculous my 26 year old angst was. Don't get me wrong, I can guarantee this is not the last time I'll use it. It's that good.
Here's my recommendation. Next time you're angry or upset or just need to vent. Find something about you and what you're going through that no one else around you can relate to, pop in your favorite CD from high school that you liked to write poetry to and shout something rediculous like "No one understand me!" It's fun. I swear, within seconds you'll be laughing at yourself.
Needless to say we didn't end up bringing our own food and made the compromise of eating only the vegetables and dairy foods and stayed away from the bread (chametz) and meat. It was a great day and we had a great time. I try to be the best Jew that I can while at the same time there's no questioning I am a full blooded Italian. In the spirit of Brangelina and Tomkat, I guess that makes me Jewtalian.
Shalom and Salude!

Monday, April 17, 2006

All In A Day's Work

A Glimpse of the Future...

I decided yesterday that it was absolutely imperative that I turn my pasty white skin a glorious shade of brown as the sun is starting to shine and everyone is beginning to whip out their hottest new spring outfit. I want to whip mine out too, but I just can't do so with see-through white legs. It was important enough that I took an hour out of my busy work day to research my options. A few months ago, I stopped into my local tanning salon for 1 session. When the rude, overly tan salesgirl told me it would be $25, I said "Are you serious?", then she gave me a look like I had driven up in my mobile home and parked my lawn chair, barbecue, and four illegitimate children outside. Excuse me Snotty Snotterson, last time I checked the going rate in Hoboken for 1 tanning session was about $12, now you can imagine my chagrin. I walked out and never looked back, but now the need has arisen. After scouring Manhattan for a decently priced tanning facility, I settled on 5th Avenue Beauty for two reasons 1. They had a three tan for $35 package deal (I'm not a "monthly membership" type tanner) 2. I've been there before for other services (and no, I don't mean a happy ending) so I knew the facility was clean and reputable. Forget the fact that the women who own and work at the place are a group of PUSHY Russian broads who sing "Welcome to the Jungle" when you ask for a bikini wax and then convince you to buy $50 lotions you don't need afterwards, it's still a pretty decent place. I buy my tanning package, strip down, lotion up and enjoyed the next fifteen minutes under the UV rays. When all was said and done, I got dressed and began walking out of there feeling like I had, in the words of Hustle & Flow Rovito, gotten "the most cancer for my buck." I was heading happily down the stairs, fiddling with my IPod, when I looked up and saw, headed into the tanning salon that I was leaving, what could be the future if I continue this. She was old, wearing ridiculously heavy black eyeliner, bleach blond hair, and her skin looked like the bomber jacket I had begged my parents to buy me in eighth grade. Brown, leather, wrinkled, gross. Scary. I was quickly brought down off my cloud and back to reality. Damn. I'm considering cashing in my next two sessions for a spray on tan. Stay tuned.

Really Fellas?

After I shook the thought of Tammy Faye from the tanning salon out of my head I enjoyed the sunshine and walked home down Park Avenue. I made a stop at the local grocery store to pick up some fresh fish and produce for dinner and practically skipped out of there because I was feeling so good due to the spring weather we're having. There I am, listening to Kanye, strutting across third avenue, in front of some giant SUV, when a giant HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK scared the ever living shit out of me and nearly knocked me over. My first thought was that I must be crossing the street and the light has turned and the cars want to go. But that thought was interrupted by the shout of "Hey Baby What's Up! You look nice." from the idiot the in the SUV who had honked the horn. The light was still in my favor. Now, I know it's been a while since I've been single and I may not be up the "pick-up" scene, but I'm pretty sure that scaring women with loud horns to the point where they almost drop their groceries in the middle of the street is not the best tactic. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

ESPNoooooooooooooooooooooooo

I finally arrived home, threw the mail on the table, hung up my jacket and got dinner going in the oven. As I usually do, I flipped on the TV. I checked my email, changed into a sports bra and put down my workout mat in front of the TV. I watched the "news" as I did my yoga, sit ups, and squats. About a half an hour later, when I was done, I sat down on the couch to go through the mail. It was then that it dawned on me, for the last 45 minutes, I had actually been watching Sports Center. Faster than lightning I found the remote and put on something worth while - like reruns of Will and Grace or Friends. Regardless, I still sat there stunned and appalled at the fact that I am so used to watching / listening to Sports Center that I just assumed it was the NEWS. I even paid attention to some of it. What's next? Wrestling? It so happens that any time I flip the TV on it's mysteriously always tuned to ESPN. I think Mathew's trying to brainwash me and it was beginning to work. ESPN always on TV, the emails he sends me of "The Sports Guy's" column from ESPN.com....Shady. Well listen here buddy; I will fight this with every last ounce of my being. You will not get me to join your sick cult of sports-obsessed, stat-spewing freaks. I am woman. Hear me roar (and talk incessantly about celebrities).

Back to Reality

After that early evening sports scare it was nice to turn off the TV and have a nice dinner with Mathew. We ate, we cleaned up, we took our nightly walk, had some Tasti-D-Lite and all was almost right with the world. After watching Scrubs, which I've officially decided is one of the funniest shows on television; it was my turn to watch some important TV. For a hot minute last week I thought I had grown out of some (certainly not all) of MTV's reality line-up. I don't know if it was the ESPN incident from earlier in the day, but I felt a deep sense of importance connected to watching the Real World immediately followed by Eight & Ocean. Thank goodness for hot people, who are now officially younger than me, parading around on TV acting like drunken idiots and fighting about things that are so dumb even I couldn't turn them into an argument. Thank you MTV.

A Dance All My Own

Ever since I was a little girl Ive had a thing for secret handshakes. My father and I developed one when I was around 7 and have been using it ever since. A good friend of mine from High School and I developed one specifically tailored for beer pong matches and I love it. Why then, I asked myself, do Mathew and I not have one? Rest assured people. We do now. The only problem is he hates it. I tried to be courteous and leave out some of my favorite signature moves such as the arm pump, but for some reason, hes just not into it. In fact, Mathew despises the shake so much that we had to lay out some ground rules just to get him to participate in doing the shake every now and then. The rules are as follows:

I get one shake per day.

Said shake will be done only in the privacy of our own home.

Even if an error occurs during the shake, it will not be repeated more than once a day (unless the error is caused by Mathew not giving the shake a solid college try).

If I ask for another shake, after I have already been granted my daily shake, I lose my privileges for the next day. (This rule is void when we are out and drunk and I am bound to ask for, and hopefully receive, more than one shake as I can not be expected to ask only once.) Those of you who witnessed the New Years Eve "Wheres my scrapbooking bag?" question asking extravaganza can understand .

Ladies and Gentlemen: Keep your eyes peeled. Should you be lucky enough to witness it: its glorious.
Bus Fare = $2, Brunch = $80, Hangin Out w/ Brynn = Pricless

It's been a long time since I've written here, though not for lack of inspiration, but for lack of time. The man's been keepin me down by keeping me busy and on the road, but I'll talk about that another time. I guess all it takes is brunch with Hustle & Flow (formerly known as Boo) to truly spark the desire to recap the events of my life. There's something to be said for self degredation and the muse it can be. Sure, I could spew out a list of my most recent accomplishments and successes, but what fun is that? I'm more amused by the things I do when I'm at my worst (which can also be considered my best, depending on who you ask).
After months of failed attempts to get together for brunch, Brynn and myself (aka: Hustle & Flow and The Juice) finally made it happen. After scouring citysearch and menupages for the perfect spot to see and be seen while eating overpriced diner food we swore we'd meet up downtown at 11:30am for a meal at 7A. And we were early bitch! In order to live up to our Sex and the City fantasy in which I am Charlotte (minus the money) and Brynn is Carrie (only she buys her Manolo's off eBay) we both obviously spent a long ass time picking out the perfect downtown ensemble for our afternoon. Lo and behold, we both showed up rockin nearly identical discount zip up Le Tigre sweatshirts. That immediately took us down a notch on our fab factor, but at least we didn't look like we were trying too hard like the rest of the crowd who apparently ALL got the memo to wear a thermal undershirt with a lame pattern like poodles or rubber duckies. Aside from the goth bitch that gave me the finger (more on that later) and the asian sensations next to us, every poser in this place had the same lame shirt on.
After a short wait we were sat at our tiny table. I should've known the day was destined to go awry when I requested the mimosa that comes with the $9.95 brunch and our waitress flatly told me "we can't serve alcohol until noon." Bummer. Luckily it was 11:30 and I had my trusty stop watch and so began the countdown. Our food came promptly and we picked at it like a bunch of anorexics (after all that is what the "fabulous people of this world do - they go to retaurants to be seen, not to eat). We ran through the gammit of usual starter topics including our boyfriends, our clothing, our excersise regimine and sooner than later it was noon and the happy waitress brought me my mimosa (minus the OJ) and Hustle & Flow her Bloody Mary. The conversation got more in depth and interesting (despite our attempts to act like shallow, bitchy New Yorkers who only care about "the scene", the fact remains that we are two intelligent women with a lot to say and offer and always have great conversation and aren't quite as down with the scene as we would like to think we are). Suddenly we were ordering another round and our waitress was asking if we'd mind moving to the bar, when luckily her manager told her it was fine that we stay at our table despite the wait outside.
Time was flying by and the drinks were coming and coming. With each ordered round our waitress gave us a look of shock as if to say "How are you two still functioning?" so we mixed it up and threw in an a round of coffees to compliment our drinks. We had since moved on to beer. The manager stopped by to check on us and in my best attempt to seem 'together' I stated (well, probably slurred) "I swear we're not alcoholics, we just haven't seen each other in forever, and figured, what the hell!" Manager lady was cool and laughed w/ me saying "Hey, it's early enough now where you can still be fine for work in the morning." Good people.
Enter, some not so good people. A group of full-body-tatooed, dressed in black, spiked, peirced, goths were seated across from us as the end of our run was nearing. I said something particulary witty and amusing causing Hustle & Flow to bust into a bout of loud, hysterical laughter, which prompted the tatted up goth girl to give us a snotty look and snear "There's children in here and you two are drunk." Apparently she skipped the class on not provoking drunk people into an argument. By some miracle and in contrast to how wasted we were, we were able to keep our cool and just ignored her and muttered to each other that she was ugly and that you shouldn't bring children to a 24 hour bar anyway. Just to prove how stupit (with a t) this meanie is, when she left, she knocked on the window from outside to give me the finger. Only, the child she was so concerned about, was still sitting in the place, facing the window, directly betwen me and her. So essentially she gave the kid the finger. Nice. I of course, being mature, gave her the finger right back. Only it was that dumb 80's arm pump version of the finger where you cross your arms over each other into an upside down T while giving the finger for added emphasis.
We looked at our watches and to our dismay we'd been at brunch for a record 5 hours. The waitress came by and this time, instead of offering us another round, basically told us she was giving us the check. We said, we'll take another round and then the check and she responded "You guys have had 9." We smartly took our cue and paid our $110 brunch bill and headed off to Brynn's boyfriend's place to sweep through like a tornado, grab her keys, then head uptown to her place. We never did make it to her place, because there are bars uptown and bars are more fun than apartments. I'm not really sure what happened, but a little before 8pm I found myself in the back seat of a cab, waving goodbye to Brynn while talking to her on my cell phone, swearing I'd go home, get changed, and we go try to get in to Bungalow 8. She stood on the corner, pumpin one fist in the air.
Rock on.
Looks like we're going to have to find a new place to see, be seen, and get courteously kicked out of in the future.
Yes, I'm slightly ashamed of myself for getting so drunk on a sunday and spending so much money on brunch. (I still made it home in time to snuggle up on the couch w/ Mathew and watch the Sopranos), However, every now and then, in some sick way, it's nice to be reminded that I'm not quite as old as I think and that the drunken tornado I was in college still exists deep down inside of me. I'm sure I'll be reminded again in late May, when Bad Influence Level 3, Veronica (who is the Samantha to Brynn's and my Carrie & Charlotte) comes stormin into NYC.
I can't wait.
The Devil Horns Inevitably Come Out

Seal said it best. Sometimes We Get a Little Bit...Crazy. More accuratlely, sometimes I get a lot crazy. Even more accurately, sometimes, when I drink mass quantities of alcohol, I get downright psycho, especially when the sun's still up. Daytime drinking has never faired well for me. I site the Dave Matthews concert during the summer of 2001 in which a full afternoon of drinking in the sun landed me in a bed in the Emergency Room watching the doctor stitch up the gaping hole in my foot. Luckily for the rest of you out there, one special person has willingly taken on the task of dealing with these shenanigans even when it's at the expense of his pride, sanity, stress level, etc. I don't even know if I could put up with me. I've been known to piss myself off, make myself cry, or worse, injur myself due to whatever fight I decided was necessary to have while inebriated. This time, I went too far. Again.
I'm not sure exactly when it was that I went from the coolest girlfriend ever who hang's with the boys, drinks like a champ, and never starts drama to an often times Royal Pain in the Ass. I picture myself year and a half ago, when Mathew and I first got back together, watching girls in long term relationships cry over something stupid, start fights for no reason, and bitch about "when the hell are we going to get married." I would think to myself, and often voice out loud, how lame those girls were and promise myself that I would never be like that. Then I would think about how lucky Mathew is that I can so easily shrug off any little thing that might bother some oversensitive bitches, but not me.
Cut to this morning and you see a much different picture. A very hungover Jane Marie is eating McDonald's and crying on Mathew's shoulder apologizing for being such an asshole last night (and the numerous times before hand). A very hungover Jane Marie is remembering that in the course of two hours yesterday I said some very mean things to Mathew in an effort to try and make him feel bad, ended our relationship at least twice, then broke down crying hysterically in order to manipulate him into seeing me as the victim of all of this.
You see, I can count on less two hands the number of things that Mathew has done during the last year and a half that have made me angry or hurt me. I can vividly recount what each of these things is. The reason they are so clear to me is that I have blown each and every one of them way out of proportion. I have managed to turn what should be a short, adult conversation in which I address my concern maturely and work out the issue (if there even really is any) into a mud-slinging yelling/crying match about how this issue is about to destroy our relationship. Then I wake up in the morning, realize what an idiot I am, hate myself for hurting his feelings or making him so angry, and then cry and begin the apologies. This time, I made the mistake of calling my mother in my drunken stupor to bitch. I called her because she's really the reason I started the argument (aka my screaming fest). I knew she would back me up because it wasn't my fight I was fighting, it was hers. When I can't take the pressure from her anymore (or anyone), I take it out on the one person who doesn't deserve it. Mathew.
Consider this my apology to Mathew, and an open apology to those close to me, who have been on the receiving end of the Over Emotional Wrath of Drunken Jane. I know once I get going, it's unstoppable. Perhaps I should reconsider the dream I let go of recently and actively work to become an attorney. I'm obviously an astute manipulator, have a knack for theatrics, and a keen awareness of exactly what it will take to make my audience see me as the victim. All of which are qualities of a talented litigator.
Mathew - Thank you for being so patient and wonderful and the best boyfriend ever.
Brynn - I love your eyeliner.
Amanda - Thank you for the trip to the ER and sooo much more.
Xtina - Thank you for being just as bad as me :-)
Finally, in my own defense, I would like to add the following. I love just as hard as I fight. I pride myself on my loyalty. I make the people I love feel happy ten times better and far more often than I ever make them feel bad with these tirades. Also, I'm damn good in the sack and that's worth hanging on to.
I Would Do Anything For Love

I reached tentatively across our little kitchen for my cell phone and thought about what I was about to do. Contemplating the magnitude of the act gave me pause as I hit the speed dial, but it had to be done. What choice did I have? I listened nervously to each ring drone on until finally, his cheerful, familiar voice said, "Hey!"
I could tell he knew something was wrong after I very timidly said, "Hi Baby", and he reponsded with semi-awkward silence. He had just left work to head home. Normally I would call just to cheerfully say "I can't wait to see you!" or quickly tell him to pick up some random ingredient I forgot to get, but needed for the dinner I'm making. This time, my voice was almost shaky and I sounded shy. It was quite obvious that I wanted something. I needed something. It was quite obvious that this wasn't going to be pretty.
He started, "What's up?"
"I need a favor" I choked.
"Okay, what is it?"
"Mathew, It's a big favor, a really Huge favor."
"Just tell me what it is" he demanded playfully.
So I began, "Okay, um, well, you see," and then I blurted out those three little words, "I need tampons!"
Silence. Then a sigh. Then he said, "I"ll call you when I get off the subway."
"Wait!" I exclaimed. "Just get the box that says - "
"I'll call you when I get off the train" he interrupted. So I just said "Okay," added a sugary sweet, "I love you", and then we hung up.
During the twenty minutes that passed between when he went into the subway and called me back, I contemplated running down to the drugstore myself. I thought about it, but convinced myself that it just wasn't possible.
When Mathew called me from the drugstore the exchange was quick. I told him what box to look for, he told me he couldn't wait to get the hell out of "that isle", and next thing I knew, I opened the front door and he was blowing past me, shoving a Duane Reade bag into my hands, heading to the bathroom to pee.
I peeked inside and was happily greeted by the Big Box of the Tampax Multipack and felt proud of my boy. He did it and did it right. The bag was also filled with a bunch of other items that I wasn't sure we needed, but I'm sure made the whole experience easier on him. Having a basketfull of things on line that includes tampons has got to be better for him than standing there with just a lone box of feminine hygiene products in hand.
After we had dinner we stood in the brightly lit kitchen and discussed the "incident". I profusely apologized, and then Mathew asked why I just didn't run downstairs myself. My only response was a round-a-bout bunch of reasons, but he knew and I knew, that a big part of the reason was I just didn't feel like it. I actually was very busy at home. After all, it's not like I came home from work and plopped down on the coach. I cooked a delicous dinner for the two of us, worked out, cleaned up the apartment, and started a load of laundry. So what's the big deal about a few tampons?
We laughed and discussed and tried to figure out the "female equivalent" of a man buying tampons. Hemerhoid cream? Nah. He went on how there's no equivalent and it's the worst and there is nothing he could ask me to go in and buy that would be equally as bad.
Finally I said to him "Well, what's the big deal?! Everyone knows that they're not for you! It's not like you're an embarassed 12 year old girl buying her first box of maxi-pads."
He stood there looking satisfied and said, "Exactly." He smiled contently, then continued, "Everyone knows they're not for me. It's like I might as well wear a sign that says 'I'm Whipped'."
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! It all became so clear to me and I finally understood the male problem with buying Tam-po-po's. It makes them feel all bitched up.
Now here's what really makes me feel bad about the whole thing. When Mathew said this, and it all became clear to me, I should've felt bad for asking for the favor. Only I really didn't feel all that bad. I guess I secretly felt a little satisfied with myself and was smiling on the inside.
Just when I don't think there's any closer we can get, there's always some small, rediculous, new level we reach. Usually it's gross and involves some sort of unpleasant bodily function. In some way his buying tampons mirrors this, but it's different than that. I think it's deeper. Well, as deep as buying tampons can be.
In conclusion, before you all say shame on me for feeling satisfied w/ myself, just remember, I'm just as "bitched up" as anyone out there and if there did exist a female equivalent to a man having to buy tampons, I would surely do it. Happily. Meatloaf said it best when he crooned "I would do anything for love..."
Thank you Mathew. I love you. I know that a box of tampons can never come between us.