Aaaaaaaaaawsnap!

A Few Things Must Stop

2012-01-28T06:13:00.000-05:00

There are a few things going on here lately that scare the bejeesus out of me.

1) I'm getting way too into Downton Abbey. I find myself feeling extreme aggression towards the evil, unfortunate looking sister Edith and putting an exorbitant amount of effort willing Lady Mary and Matthew Crawley together. I also got out of the shower the other morning and actually called to my lady's maid to fetch my clothes and dress me. Let's just say I was waiting a long time....

2) I am officially addicted again to chai tea. I like to think I do not have an addictive personality. I've never met a vice I can't shake but bring on the spiced chai tea and I am a goner. I drink three a day. The staff at David's Tea know me by drink and that is a violation of one of my main rules in life which is to never, ever become the Cliff Clavin or Norm Peterson of any establishment be it a bar, restaurant, boutique or...tea shop, in this case.

3) I was publicly humiliated at Crif Dogs and was unable to get sassy and fight back. One might say my problem is not the public humiliation but rather the public intoxication but those people aren't my friends. Picture it, New York, 2012. I stumble into the joint after spending some quality time at the 2-for-1 Happy Hour down the block. Last in my 5-person group to order, I began to ask questions (yes, a lot of questions) about the hot dogs. Finally settling on the Chihuahua (a bacon wrapped dog with avocado and sour cream), I saw a bubbling vat of brownish-purplish liquid. "Is that loganberry?" I screamed in complete and utter excitement, because nothing says "loser" like practically losing your shit over a soft drink. The register man gave me the snottiest look and made some snotty comment. Now granted I was drunk but it sounded something like, "Get your ass out of my face and sit down." Not one to lose an argument I began to tell him I was from Buffalo and you can get loganberry everywhere in Buffalo, blah, blah, blah. He practically had to call a bouncer to place me at my table. And that would have been all but when my order was up he screamed at the top of his lungs, "Catherine, you know, the girl from Buffalo? Come get your hotttttttttttt dogggggggggg." I died. Had I possessed better fine motor skills, I might have crawled under the table. But there was bacon, beef and some tater tots with my name on it, so I was going to put up with the humiliation for the sake of my ever-expanding waistline.

I'm hoping things get back to normal for me quickly even though normal, for me, isn't very pretty. But, I'll take it.

No (Yes, to the Last One)

2012-01-15T13:00:00.000-05:00

image: ffffound.com

Nearing the fourth anniversary of my little corner of the internet and I am so sad to say I am not as obsessed with it as in years prior. It takes discipline to keep this thing updated, to go through life with an eye for a story to share and then to actually write something people will want to read. I haven't always been so successful at that last thing, I admit. And, I know its because most of the things in my life that make me happy, angry, excited, disenchanted, et al., I cannot talk about in a public forum. And would I want to? Absolutely not. I've always had personal ground rules for what I could and could not share but almost everything is Persona non Grata these days, which makes for a very boring blog (and, arguably, a very boring person). Perhaps things will change. Perhaps they will not. I just thought I should acknowledge the obvious.

Addendum to the Last Post

2012-01-15T12:00:00.000-05:00

I did do something right in 2011, though. I ran a marathon and Betty White didn't die, which means the Golden Girls curse has officially been broken. In fact, I believe Betty recently turned 90. What a relief....

Close Call

2012-01-02T19:13:00.000-05:00

Last Monday morning I had an early wake up call. And, wouldn't you know it? Whenever you have to wake up early on a HOLIDAY, the song my iPod selects to wake me up is always, without fail, the most depressing song ever. This morning was no exception, Johnny Cash covering NIN's Hurt. Foreshadowing, in retrospect.

I dragged my bum from my bed, showered and walked up Houston Street just in time to pass a man, belted into the driver seat of his car, door ajar, passed out and slumped onto the sidewalk. I passed him, rubber-necked for a moment and continued a few steps.

What should I do, I thought? I am late, as usual. But, what if I'm on one of those What Would You Do shows? What if I walk only to be swarmed by a camera crew a block away and exposed as the cold-hearted, self-important slug I truly am? What would the world (or the neighbors, Mom) think? I took two more steps, turned on my heel, stomped a bit, and returned towards the car while dialing 911. Not sure if the man was dead drunk or just...dead, I told the operator I would not be able to wait for them to arrive, as I had places to be. At 645am. On the day after New Year's. All I needed was this man to die in front of me (if he was alive to begin with) and I'd start 2012 on a note that promised my year could only get better.

But, if you're going to pass out and/or die in public, this guy picked the best place to do so - right in front of a fire house. Not sure why I was the first to notice him, face-planting on the concrete? But, so be it, I was. I banged on the garage door of the fire house where they had already received the 911 call. Satisfied I did all I could, I continued towards Prince Street. All of a sudden, the big, red fire engine came out of the garage, sirens wailing to proceed the full 20-feet to where this man was sleeping soundly. This guy better have one hell of a story, I thought. I suspected if there wasn't something seriously wrong with him, he was going to a) feel like the biggest ass ever and b) curse the insurance bill from the ambulance ride he was surely taking as I hitched one on N Train for $2.25.

I've now thought about the man all week and have so many unanswered questions. Did he survive? Was it just a badly-timed nap? Do the seams in the sidewalk leave marks like pillows do? Is this stunt one I can replicate at my desk this week to get out of some meetings? I fear I will never know....

Whoa.

2011-12-11T15:23:00.001-05:00

If I had to choose between listening to Ke$ha or cannibalism, you'd be in trouble because I'd be frying up your right thigh for dinner. Then I heard her cover of Bob Dylan's Don't Think Twice, It's All Right and suddenly you're free from becoming my next meal.

Opposites

2011-12-06T23:28:00.001-05:00

Friends...

Frenemies...

It's Monday Morning and I'd Rather Be Here...

2011-12-05T01:09:00.001-05:00

Musée Rodin, Paris

Internet Love: It's Sunday and I Don't Want to go to the Gym Edition

2011-12-04T11:35:00.001-05:00

Ahhh - the old school Nikes. I had white ones with a purple swoosh, most likely 1985 re-issues of the Daybreak (upon further research, maybe an original Pegasus?).

I will take the mop on the left, of course....

I'm pretty sure Alf gets Keratin treatments.

There are no words, only *sighs.*

Again, no words.

I've asked myself this question quite a bit over the past few days.

And, it's Christmas time!

Technically, it is illegal to deface money; but, can we lighten up the US Code? Abraham Lincoln/Bill Murray? The artist even got the nose right!

In all seriousness, one of my favorite quotes.

XY Issues

2011-12-03T00:32:00.001-05:00

My confusion with androgyny began to show a few years back while on a trip to Las Vegas. It was a crowded pre-Christmas day in Starbucks. I had just waited ten minutes for a Chai tea, which to produce takes exactly one paper cup, one tea bag and 10 oz of boiling water (give or take).

With a cup of tea in, literally, my hot little hands, I made my way to the kiosk of milk, sugar and napkins to proceed with Part 2 of the production of a Chai tea, consisting of me dumping a boat load of skim milk and Splenda packettes into the cup, closing my eyes, gritting my teeth and pretending I had actually succeeded in making a sugar-free Chai Latte. Sure, it takes a lot of imagination, but I'm usually up for the task.

However; that day there was no milk to be had at the kiosk and the male Starbucks barista refilling the napkin dispenser directed me back to the original barista who made my tea for my moo fix. Happy as a lark, not remotely phased by the fact it had now taking approximately 12.5 minutes to get a fancy cup of piping hot water, I returned to the original barista. "Um - hi again!" I brightly said, smile from ear to ear.

The barista didn't acknowledge my presence and kept steaming milk.

Not one to be easily discouraged, I soldiered on. "So, that nice gentleman barista over there?" I said while pointing at the lump in a green apron still refilling the napkins and assorted sugar packets. "He has directed me back to you for some milk. May I please get some skim for my tea?"

Silence. And, no offer of milk, I might add. The barista finally raised his head and looked at me with utter disgust and annoyance. My finger was still aimed at the lumpy barista (I know, you shouldn't point.) and I knew I had made a grave error.

There was a stagnant pause. Still no milk for my steaming cup of potpourri. He starred at The Lump on the receiving end of my index finger, which caused me to turn and take The Lump in for a second time. That's when it hit me. The male barista was indeed a female - a manly female (in my defense) but nonetheless, she was in possession of a vagina.

I looked back at the judgy barista unwilling to give me milk as punishment and we both knew my time was up. I backed out of the Starbucks, plain tea still in hand, for fear he might throw a mixing spoon at my head. My friend, who had witnessed the entire episode, began to laugh uncontrollably and harp on me and my faux pas for the remainder of the trip.

No biggie. In one's life there will be the occasional mistaking of a man for a woman and/or vice versa, correct?

Four hours later while boarding the plane I began to size up the crowd. This is somewhat of a ritual for me at this point. I like to survey the people share the plane with me. It's a little game I play with myself. I scan the crowd, find the most awkward person (you know, the one with Tourette's, the one who reeks of booze, the one who is popping Xanax while clutching their rosary beads) and 9 times out of 10 they will end up in the seat next to me.

While playing my game, I spied a man wearing a short sleeve printed blouse. If you know me, you know short sleeve, button down shirts on a man are my biggest nightmare. It is all very Michael Scott with his woman's suit, Now, add an animal print to the shirt and we've, most likely, found my seat neighbor for the next 5 hours.

No sooner had I pointed out the man in the woman's top to the same friend still making fun of me for my slight mix-up in Starbucks, did said man turn around to reveal he was really a short-haired she with zero curves and a slight arm hair issue. I didn't really have a defense. In the span of four hours I had proved myself to be the Harry Crumb of secondary sex characteristics.

Embarrassed and befuddled, I retreated back into my own head, scared to articulate a single thought or observation for fear of revealing the idiot lurking just beneath the surface.

And, until today, I had managed to keep the idiocy under wraps. But, by 6pm I was tired and unfiltered. Stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on 2nd Avenue, I was a ball of nerves, which is why I suddenly aimed my vision at a man in the cross walk and yelled to my fellow co-workers, "Ugh - that's the kind of guy I would never date!"

"Well, that's great news because that, in fact, is a woman," my co-worker replied.

It took my less than 3 seconds to defend myself. Barbour Coat, khakis, horn-rimmed glasses, oxford shirt and short curly hair while walking down the street at dusk?! Of course it would be difficult to tell the sex of it, I reasoned. But, the fact remained, a pattern was emerging.

I laughed off the entire episode but now that I've had some time to think about my mix-up, I believe I may have a slight problem. Add that to my occasional fear of the dark, my reoccurring nightmare of rats eating me alive and a strange yet extremely strong aversion to belly buttons and, suddenly, I've got an issue on my hands.

I need help and quickly before I cross the wrong androgynous barista and they scald me with my own tea.

The Green Mile

2011-11-20T08:53:00.001-05:00

{image: mymodernmet}

Just as the barren winter begins, I stumbled upon a picture of a train tunnel in Ukraine. Check out more images here.

Penn State

2011-11-14T23:42:00.001-05:00

I do not agree with everything stated in Jezebel's What if Penn State's Coach Had Victimized Girls? article (still a pretty good read about gender double standards in abuse cases) but I will say this: Had a woman walked into the Penn State locker room that day and seen a boy being raped, I can guarantee you she would have pulled Jerry Sandusky off that child and beat him with the fury of a million suns.

Word.

2011-11-13T05:35:00.001-05:00

Image: fffound

50/50

2011-11-09T09:00:00.000-05:00

A year or so ago, I went to a psychic against my better judgement. I knew I had flushed $75 down the proverbial Toilet of Life when she said to me, "You will have to choose between two loves. It's no biggie. Either one will be so-so." Um - thanks?

You Know What I Want Tonight?

2011-11-08T23:21:00.000-05:00

Animal style.

No Doubt

2011-11-08T08:47:00.000-05:00

I finished the marathon. It was the most painful physical and the most arduous mental experience I've ever had. With almost 48 hours of clarity, I realize there was no need to doubt myself. I was hell-bent on finishing and finish I did. I seem to have forgotten that when I put my mind to something, I get it.

I wish I would have remembered this little tale in the days leading up to the marathon.

Picture it. 1985. I was 7 years old and bratty. I was also into stuffed animals. Not in a weird Furries-kind-of-way but rather, in a way that was age-appropriate. Admittedly I had this strange sense of entitlement. If I wanted a certain stuffed animal, I just expected it to be purchased for me. Who would have the cold heart to deny me a new member to my already large, stuffed animal family?

My mom. She was way too into Stuffed Animal Population Control at 31 Fernwood Lane. Such a buzz kill, that woman.

It was mid-December. I was tagging along with her and my Grandma on a Christmas shopping venture. That's when I spotted it: a JINGLE BEAR! I didn't have a polar bear wearing a Santa hat in my menagerie of puppies, lambs, bears and other assorted animalia. Obviously, Jingle Bear was coming home with me....

The Stuffed Animal Police (my mom, again) had other ideas. And since I did not yet have an AMEX Black Card (still waiting....), I was going to have to defer to the woman holding the wallet. I tried every trick in the book. First, I pouted. When that had no effect, I began whining and whimpering. Once I realized I was getting nowhere, it was time to bring out Plan C.

Operation Grandma. Grandma would never deny me, I reasoned. And I was correct. As I began to shed actual tears and stiffen like a board in preparation for a full-on temper tantrum in the middle of Housewares, my Grandma declared she would by me the Jingle Bear. And that was music to my ears because I wasn't really in the full 7 year-old brat character for a two-thumbs up performance that would be absolutely necessary to get my way.

But, I was bear-blocked once again by Bernice, who told her own mother to stay out of it. It occurred to me that I should remind my own mother, as she had reminded me many times, "Don't sass your Mom!" but I knew I was already on thin ice.

I was defeated. I realized Jingle Bear and I were not meant to be. How would I go home, face my other stuffed animals and tell them I failed in securing a key, KEY! member of the posse? I was planning my speech when I stumbled upon a drawing for a Jingle Bear.

Brilliant, I thought! If Bernice wasn't going to buy me Jingle Bear, I would win it! And, in my snottiest, haughtiest voice, I told her just that. She snorted and gave me a look that silently said something like, "You have a better chance walking to the North Pole, trapping a Polar Bear, dragging it home and having Chuck Testa taxidermy it than winning this drawing."

And, as a woman who pays attention to the odds, I am sure she was theoretically correct.

A week later, while eating dinner, the telephone rang. My mother picked up and all I heard was, "Cathy is here. I am her mother. She is 7. Why are you calling her?" Apparently, when a grown man from a department store calls a child to tell them she's won a Jingle Bear, it raises some eyebrows.

I could see the look on my mom's face. She was annoyed I had ultimately gotten that Jingle Bear but impressed at my tenacity and my dumb luck. I, of course, wasn't that surprised. I said I'd get the Jingle Bear, and I did.

My parents have moved several times from my childhood home. In the downsizing, I've lost a few things and my stuffed animal collection is now buried in some Pet Cemetery, but there is one thing I will not let them part with: Jingle Bear. Some may say it is symbolic of my brattiness and stubbornness, but I'd like to believe it is an indication of tenacity and determination in a world of "won't happens," "no ways," and "dream ons."

It is with that same determination that I have declared I will never run another marathon. And, I'm pretty sure that wish will become a reality, as well.

26.2

2011-11-06T06:49:00.001-05:00

I am showered, dressed, my bib is pinned, my playlist is organized and my carbs have been loaded. All that is left to do is think positively, deafen my ears to the nerves and the doubts and take it borough by borough. Thanks to everyone who has listened to my obsess, whine and complain over the past four months and who continued to offer words of encouragement when I was The Grinch Who Stole the Marathon. xo.

Sing It.

2011-11-03T00:22:00.001-04:00

(image: icanread}

A Real Running Partner

2011-10-31T21:15:00.000-04:00

I completed my last long run on Saturday in the rain/snow mix. It was the last 9 miles of the race that took me through Harlem and the Bronx, ending in Central Park at the actual finish line of the marathon. Sadly, most of the run took place on streets I'd never once stepped foot on in my almost 11 years in New York.

On the south end of Marcus Garvey Park (W. 120th Street, FYI), which was mile 5 of the run, a homeless man crawled out of his box just as I was about to pass him. He got to his feet, cracked the biggest smile and began to clap and cheer us on as we trudged through the icy rain. "Keep your feet moving!' he screamed. "Hey - I may be homeless but I've got joy."

I gave him a shy half-wave and did as I was told. Kept moving.

Only in New York, kids.

Memory Lane

2011-10-27T05:59:00.000-04:00

Oh, I remember the days I'd rush home from school, throw my book bag on the hallway floor and sprint to the family room to watch the Fat Albert and The Cosby Kids. I mean, they had a friend named Weird Harold, which makes me thing I should start renaming my friends to highlight their apparent character flaws. To this day, I greet people with a vintage, "Hey, hey, hey," and most have no idea it's an homage to Fat Albert Jackson and the rest of The Junkyard Gang. Sigh, I am so glad I was a latchkey kid. How else would I have gotten away with watching hours of television, eating Bagel Bites and procrastinating the school work I promised my parents I would complete before I even dared turn on the television. Psych!

Looks Like There's a New Girl Scout Badge...

2011-10-25T00:34:00.003-04:00

{image: ffffound.com}

There's No Excuse

2011-10-23T23:15:00.000-04:00

If Rawhide can get an A rating from the New York City Department of Health, any place can (Ahem - I'm talking to you Grey Dog with your grody B rating).

Well, That's Nice

2011-10-23T22:52:00.000-04:00

My weekend began to go downhill at 11am yesterday when my Time Capsule began blinking yellow. The last time this happened I was without internet and cable for the better part of three weeks and nearly ended up in Bellevue due to extreme withdrawal symptoms.

I turned to my Kindle for some entertainment and woke up three hours later in a puddle of drool (and most likely provided my neighbor a cacophony of snorts and sawing from my extreme snoring). After dragging myself out of bed and into the real world, I was still without internet access. Add to that the fact that my iPhone is the communication equivalent of smoke signals or carrier pigeon, I felt extremely isolated.

I got through the remainder of the afternoon with minimal injury or insult. Until I hit the Apple Store to get a new phone. The Apple geek looked at me like I was such a poor, stupid girl when I asked if I could purchase a new phone. She towered over me by at least 6 inches as she delivered her condescending slapdown. Hadn't I heard? I needed to log on to Apple at 8:59pm each night, "refresh, refresh, refresh, REFRESH!" until 9pm when the reservation list opened up for the following day.

Um, ok, I thought, but who drops the iPhones off at the store, Santa Claus? That is the only person who could possible manufacture and deliver iPhones quickly enough, am I right? Or, better scenario, Apple is messing with me and there is a slew of them in a stockroom right now waiting to be reserved for tomorrow's pick up. That seems like the truer tale. But, true or not, I was not walking out of the store with a new phone. I did walk out of the store like a puppy with its tail between its legs.

Fresh off the iPhone disappointment, I decided a late-night movie would be just what the doctor ordered. I hit the 10:10 showing of 50/50 where a friend and I were treated to the real show, which came before the film even began. This is what I saw: A man one row ahead of me, with pants not remotely near his waist line, moving his hand in a very rapid, jerking movement and a security guard removing him from the theatre. I nearly lost my lunch as I began to wonder how many perverts go to movie theatres to get off? Had one been in my seat during the last showing? Did I need to begin bringing a black light to the theatre and conduct a thorough search of my seat? The room began to get very warm and I feared another Black Swan situation.

Luckily I was able to calm down and enjoy the show, blissfully unaware of what would happen next. I was innocently walking down 19th street, minding my own business and in deep-conversation with my friend. In an attempt to get around a large crowd gathered on the side walk, I walked into the street, which seemed like a safe decision since traffic was backed up for the entire block and not moving.

I would surely never be hit by a car in this gridlock, I thought. And I was correct. What I did not anticipate was being hit by projectile vomit coming out of a man's mouth, who was sitting in a cab that was in gridlock traffic on 19th street. That's exactly what happened.

Listen, it could have been worse. My friend saw the entire thing coming about a half second prior and pulled me out of harm's way but my jeans still resembled a Jackson-Pollock painting of puke splatters due to the force with which the stuff hit the pavement.

I woke up this morning felling renewed. My headache was gone, the sun was out - things would most definitely be better on this day of rest, I thought.

But, they were not. I had a 3pm train to catch and I was so punctual, making it to Penn Station by 2:45 so I could purchase my ticket and some magazines in time for my 80 minute ride to Middletown. As I got to the front of the line I opened my bag to find I had left my wallet at home. If I needed an iPod, an iPhone, a Blackberry, a Kindle, makeup, hand cream, a used tissue, a screwdriver, a pair of flats or a Montauk line LIRR schedule, I would have been in luck because I had all of these things! What I did not have was a wallet or enough money on my Metrocard to get back to my apartment.

So, I walked the 35 or so blocks home, missed my friends' birthday dinner and realized how trolling the streets without a credit card is an experience one must have at least once in their lives. Do you know what I learned? The second you do not have the means to purchase a bottle of water is the EXACT moment you become extremely thirsty. I found myself staring longingly at the street vendors with their fantastic displays of sodas, and Gatorade and Poland Spring. 8th Avenue may as well been the Sahara Desert as far as I was concerned.

Upon returning home, I was tempted to crawl into bed, close the blinds and call it a day. However, the Internet Gods were watching over me and my neighborhood service was restored, which was wonderful because I now had a new way to, once again, procrastinate cleaning my apartment.

I am heading off to bed and bracing for another work week. If my weekend is any indication. it's going to be a wild ride.

Noggins

2011-10-16T18:21:00.000-04:00

Let's just say I love hats. I have a shelf and storage bin full of them. Fedoras, beanies, bowlers, cloches, newsboys, floppy hats, straw hats, fur hats; I've got them all. The problem is I've got the smallest head known to man. It makes my already broad shoulders look positively defensive end-esque. So, I never find any that actually remain on my head.

But today I found a Japanese hat store, Arth, that makes hats for my pea-sized noggin. I spent 30 minutes trying on a bunch of different styles and decided to take home a cashmere-knit beanie. I won't dwell on the fact that my delusional, dyslexic brain inverted the numbers in the price and almost had a heart attack when I signed the receipt. I also won't tell you about the New Jersey Housewife dead ringer who yelled at her Sugar Daddy to bring her mini-Pomeranian into the boutique because he "loves to shop with her."

It's a good thing I was too busy with the hats or I could have cut her.

Mrs. Kupiec

2011-10-15T00:04:00.001-04:00

My heart broke tonight when I learned my favorite teacher, Mrs. Kupiec, recently passed away. Those who know me know my love for her runs deep. I've written about her before and to say she changed my life is an understatement. Words cannot express the gratitude I had for Mrs. Kupiec. It seems odd a 7 year old would be capable of having these kinds of feelings, but I did. She was nothing short of a miraculous human being.

Tonight I sobbed like I was back in second grade. Truth be told, this world just isn't as warm a place without Mrs. Kupiec in it. And it may sound cliche, but the world could use more people like her.

I always vowed I'd write Mrs. Kupiec a letter detailing what she did for me, how she put my fragile psyche back together again and I never got around to it. So, let this be a lesson to you. Never procrastinate your declarations of admiration, love, thankfulness, etc. You never really know when you;ll have your last chance to say everything you've ever intended on saying....

Tree Houses

2011-10-13T00:49:00.000-04:00

Confession: When the going gets tough, I dream of escaping to my childhood tree house.

Not that I had one, but if I did, there would be (of course) no boys allowed. And since this is my childhood, let's just go there and say the inside walls would be plastered in Marky Mark (sans The Funky Bunch) pictures from Bop Magazine. Because, that's how I rolled back in the day.

Nowadays, I would need to escape to something a little nicer, a little roomier, something with a few additional amenities. I went digging and came up with a good starting place for my dream (tree)house. You may think I'm kidding if there ever are enough 0's in my bank account, you can count on me having one of these.

{all images via Pinterest}

Still Here

2011-10-12T22:49:00.000-04:00

It's been a while and I am not sure why it has taken me so long to get a few sentences out. My mother keeps nudging me, "You haven't written in a while." How else will she stalk me, which is sadly still legal between parent and child in New York State?

The truth is, I've been busy eating. And, yes, I know I complain about it a lot but the truth is, I may soon need a cargo scale with which to weigh myself.

At first, I just blamed it on the dryer shrinking my jeans, which now feel and look more like jeggings. Whenever in doubt, you blame the dryer and hope a good stretch-and-squat session around the apartment will rectify the situation.

That didn't really help but I reasoned I could continue to eat anything and everything in sight because I had a marathon to run and what runner limits their intake of carbs?

The thing is, it has gotten a bit alarming. I mean, people are beginning to notice I am a little more Kirsty Alley pre-Dancing With The Stars rather than post-liquid diet.

It all began one harmless Wednesday morning. I had just returned to my desk after toasting a bagel, spreading on a liberal amount of peanut butter and topping it off with banana slices. I wrapped that little nugget of future cellulite in aluminum foil and prepared for another grueling day at work.

As I was talking to a co-worker, I became annoyed when she seemed to focus more on my inner thigh than my eyes. I mean, had she been a man, I might have understood (although not allowed it) but this was egregious, to say the least.

Just when I had about enough of the eye-effing of my inner thigh, my co-worker let out a loud gasp.

I froze in horror. A mouse. It had to be a mouse. It must be right behind me. Eating the crumbs of my delicious peanut butter, banana-laden bagel. What else could it be? Nothing else could ellicit such a strong response of fear and disgust in one facial expression. She pointed at me. I began to shake. The mouse must be close. Very close. It must be somewhere near my inner-thigh, I thought, as she recoiled in horror.

I quickly looked down to find my thigh coming out of the seam of my jeggings or jeans. Whatever you want to call them, my right thigh had some sort of manifest destiny. It was hell-bent on spreading way past the borders of the seam of my pants.

Admittedly, I was embarrassed but what else could I do except finish my bagel? After that, I tied a pashmina around my waist and ran out to buy new pants. By 10am, I was back at work and ready to roll (and, I do mean roll).

It reminded me of a time, years ago while working for another company, of my friend and co-worker, whose button flew off her pants in the middle of a 300 person conference call and hit another co-worker in the face. We tried to stifle our laughter but how could you? Because, you see, this stuff is pure comedy when it's not your button, or pant seam that is publicly malfunctioning

As for a public chowing (NOTE: that is a typo - I meant to type showing but this unintentional pun seems funnier so it stays), my current co-worker had already announced to the office I'd had, and I quote, a crotch explosion and would return to my desk momentarily. There was no hiding my growth spurt. Everyone knew and if they did not, that night at happy hour, the story was recounted for an even larger group.

Why, yes, I am the girl who exploded the crotch of her pants today. Welcome to the team. It's so unfortunate we had to meet under these circumstances.

But, still, I continued to eat. Can't run 20 miles on without carbs, I reasoned, as I downed pasta, rice, oatmeal - basically everything your mother has ever told you will "stick to your bones." And, stick it has.

My mother, the stalker, suggested I curtail my alcohol intake, "just drink club soda with a twist of lime," she advised. I think Will Smith said it best, parents just don't understand. So let me make this crystal clear, I'd rather eat rice cakes ad infinitum while walking on hot coals wearing flammable Buffalo Bills zumba pants.

But for now (at least until Nov 6th), the chunk is here to stay. I've got a race to run and no bagel shall be left uneaten. When I'm done? Well, that's another post.

Mr. Jobs

2011-10-05T23:08:00.001-04:00

On a Nicer Note...

2011-09-25T11:42:00.001-04:00

How many times a day do I want to utter this exact phrase but manage to restrain myself? Except, replace "because I hate you" with "because you are stupid" (we weren't allowed to say that word growing up even though it seemed to be my favorite word for most of my teenage years).

And, Erin, if you are reading, I envision you screaming this while banging your mouse against your monitor repeatedly. To this day, I still haven't witnessed something so funny in the workplace.

Entrant #759877

2011-09-25T11:33:00.000-04:00

That's my bib number for the big day, which is a scary 44 days away! I think I may have gotten my confidence back yesterday. My lungs feel better and I haven't completed a long run since Labor Day but I still got through 16 miles yesterday. Next weekend is a 20-miler (7 mile warm-up run and then a half marathon in the park) which means it is a Carbohydrate Par-tay this week! I'm off to get some new kicks - my old ones have bitten the dust after 5 months of training. Is it in poor taste to try and find a pair that is glow-in-the-dark florescent pink or yellow?

Week In Review

2011-09-23T22:18:00.000-04:00

My father and I agree to disagree when it comes to our opinions of George Carlin but like him or not, he has a way of cutting to the chase. This quote pretty much sums up Thursday night. One minute I was sitting upright at a bar and the next, I was shoving 99 cent pizza down my gullet, washing it down with root beer and saying a novena the mixture stayed put in my stomach (it did). I awoke this morning on my couch (picture it: one foot planted firmly on the floor to prevent the spins, the other leg slung over the back pillows), still in my clothes from the prior night with Top Chef: Just Desserts paused on my DVR (yes, I really am that chubby. Some people drunk-text, I drunk-watch cooking shows).

This afternoon I found my receipt from the night. *Joey Lawrence voice* Whoa!

If you could see me now, which of course I would NEVER let happen, you'd see me wearing my leggings inside out (I'm too lazy to correct this) with rain-addled, frizzy hair and a sallow pallor that screams: I'm hungover.

Better luck next time (and when I say next time, I mean tomorrow night).

Foot Fetish

2011-09-18T12:39:00.001-04:00

I bought these shoes recently and after wearing once, wouldn't wish the pain and torture of them on my worst enemy (do you hear that, Jenny K, resident of 70 Fernwood Lane circa 1985, and the meanest, nastiest 2nd grader alive?!). Purposely wearing them, now knowing the pain they cause, seems insane. The pain is so acute, I've considered buying these beauties to wear the day after I strap the above torture devices to my feet:

And, by-the-way, I found the above image by Googling Stylish Orthopedic Shoes for Women. Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder....

2011-09-02T10:49:00.000-04:00

I'm as excited as Richard Simmons today! I've got a four-day weekend ahead of me and I couldn't be happier to get out the city for one last attempt at beach time. See you next week.

Woe Is Me: Doctor, Doctor version

2011-08-29T19:14:00.003-04:00

I'm still sick. By the look of the chest x-rays, it's officially bronchitis (with my fever returning for some sweaty fun). My throat is swollen. My eyes are bloodshot. I look beautiful. It looks like I may have to flush some additional PTO days down the Toilet of Life this week. Whoever owns my voodoo doll, I beg of you, please put down your pins.

Oh, Kids....

2011-08-29T07:47:00.003-04:00

{image: copyranter}

Internet Love

2011-08-28T23:03:00.007-04:00

Here's some love from the internet found while waiting out the storm. Enjoy!

Now, I am not saying you should construct the alphabet out of binder clips when bored at work, but I will let you know I have an overflow of them if you're interested.

A DIY Control key ring. Love!

Loose lips sink ships ;)

A perfect house in the woods! The older I get, the less I need the energy of the city;and the more I need the calm of nature.

Three amazing posters promoting Australian tourism! Visiting The Land Down Under is on my bucket list.

It's a dog! It's a Wookie! It's a Wookie-dog!

Continuing with my Star Wars theme, squirrels with lightsabers!! *giggles*

{images: ffffound.com}

Week In Review

2011-08-28T10:58:00.005-04:00

Monday: No sweat and the best day of the week, in hindsight

Tuesday:

Afternoon - A 5.8 Earthquake in Virginia means New York gets a little shake-up. I feel nothing, most likely because I am too busy ignoring the feeling my throat is quickly turning into sandpaper. I continue to hydrate in preparation for my 6 mile sprint in the park.

5pm - I cease all ingestion of liquids to ensure there are no accidents on my nightly run.

6:45pm - It is increasingly clear my sore throat is indicative of a sickness that is going to crumble my week. Determined or stubborn, depending on your viewpoint, I show up for my run.

6:54pm - Oh shit. I better stop drinking water at 4pm from now on. I have quite the situation on my hands one mile into my sprint. I have to use the restroom in the worst possible way. And my lips are as dry as my throat. The only reason I continue to sprint is because the faster I finish, the faster I can find a bathroom.

7:15pm - Make a note to email my city council representative and threaten to pull my vote unless I begin to see some additional public bathrooms in Central Park. Am now running at a 90 degree angle and loudly mumbling that I think I am indeed dying.

7:37pm - Now whimpering loudly, much like a puppy. Scream at a German tourist as she steps in front of me and breaks my stride. Begin a sharp descent into a dark depression realizing I am officially elderly if I am contemplating wearing Depends on my 19 mile run the following week.

7:45pm - Now finished with my run I am unable to stretch fearing any contortion of my body may result in a, ahem, bursting my very own Hoover Dam, if you will.

8:00pm - Relief.

Wednesday -

7:30am - Wow. My throat feels like it has sprouted porcupine spikes overnight. I crawl back into bed and relinquish my Perfect Attendance award (winner, 2010) as I email my boss. There are a few tears. I had a goal and I failed.

8:00pm - I briefly think I may have Parkinson's Disease. Why else would I be shaking so badly? I've feared a catastrophic illness ever since an erroneous self-diagnoses of Lou Gehrig's Disease back in the 80s. But, back to the shaking. It's as if I am in the midst of my own personal earthquake. I take some medicine, crawl into bed and sweat it out.

Thursday -

7:00am - I awake in need of another shower and a change of clothes. My fever (101 degrees) is making me a sweaty mess. I briefly calculate how many pounds I may lose in water weight. Will it be enough to get into my old jeans? Truth is, I look scary and like I've run the marathon already. My skin has a strange and ugly greenish tint to it. I use another PTO day and remain in bed.

1:00pm - All I want is some toast but I'll be damned if I am getting up to buy bread and make it myself. I order a bagel and juice via Seamless Web. 20 minutes later the delivery man arrives and shoots me a look of disgust because I've made him delivery a bagel one block south and three floors up. Giving in to a classic case of paranoia I begin to defend myself telling the little man how sick I truly am. He backs down the hallway and stabs the down button of the elevator repeatedly and rapidly. I shut the door and collapse onto my couch. It is times like these I thank my lucky stars for a good Law & Order marathon (yay, Lenny Briscoe!).

6:00pm - I awake not knowing where I am. What day is it? What is my name? This is it, I think. The fever has officially cooked me. What to do while I wait for my imminent demise? Order more food on Seamless Web, of course. I place my order for the same restaurant as the morning but this time I want soup, yogurt and tea.

6:45pm - The restaurant calls me to tell me they are out of soup. I am too delirious and busy planning my memorial service to care. I tell them the yogurt and tea will be just fine. There is a pause on the phone and I know an awkward pause when I hear it. It's the same little man, judging me for having a container of Fage yogurt and a green tea delivered. I hang up and move on. I've got an urn to pick out.

Friday:

9:00am - A brief remission in my illness leaves me a short window to run around and build an emergency supply kit for Ilene or Irene. I can't remember my own name, let alone hers.

9:30 am - I've got water, almonds, bread, peanut butter, jelly, batteries, apples and granola bars. If I make it until Sunday, I will be prepared, I vow.

10:00 am - I begin to feel better and briefly regret missing my last weekend in the Hamptons. In usual life-kicks-me-square-in-the-crotch-style, my fever returns. The rest of the day is spent in bed, sweating.

Saturday:

10:45am - All I want is a green juice or a fruit smoothie. I take an ice shower to cool my body down and begin to forage through the streets of the West Village to find a store still open for business. The man at Juice Generation slams the door in my face as I whine, "Are you open?" I make a mental note that if I survive the sickness and the storm, I will never patronize Juice Generation again (we'll see how long that lasts).

11:45am - I finally find a coffee shop that makes smoothies. I return home in need of another shower from the sweat. I am also wheezing. It's difficult to breathe. Make note to get on Web MD and see if this is symptomatic of Parkinson's or if I am dealing with a different monster.

12:00pm - showered, I fall into bed, smother myself in Vick's Vapo Rub and sleep the day away.

7:00pm - The walls are closing in on me. It could be Cabin Fever or it could be the last stage of my illness. I'm not sure but I decide to get out of my apartment. I grab a bottle of rose out of my fridge and head to a friend's place to watch the Weather Channel and wait for the storm to hit.

10:00pm - A chronic cough has begun to annoy me so I cannot imagine what it is doing to the other three people I'm with. I pull on my Hunter's, trench coat and grab my ginormous umbrella and head home. If this disease doesn't kill me, maybe Irene will.

Sunday

8:00am - I awake to realize Irene is a total tease. Yeah sure, there's some wind and rain but I've had a tornado pass right over me, so this is child's play (oh yes, I was at the movies watching...wait for it...Spaceballs when a tornado ripped through the town and I heard and felt nada).

9:30am - Still feeling like death, and inspired by an episode of Law & Order, I begin to contemplate a respiratory system transplant. Do those exist? Google.com.

10:00am - Break into my Irene stash. Move into fetal position. Begin to play Scrabble on my phone.

10:05am - Curse my phone. Curse my immune system. Curse my life.

11:00am - B!tch about it here and then nap.

Another wonderful week, gone. Let's hope the final week of summer brings better fortune. To all my East Coast friends, stay safe. And if you need company, you know where to find me.

Worry Warts

2011-08-26T11:43:00.001-04:00

Tell that to all the New Yorkers running around buying up all the batteries, flashlights and bottled water around. I kind of like a good storm so bring it on Irene!

Goodbye

2011-08-24T21:18:00.005-04:00

{image: Apple Inc.}

Goodbye, Mr. Jobs. You will be missed.

Montauk

2011-08-24T12:30:00.001-04:00

One of my favorite pictures from my summer vacation. I cannot believe it is almost over....

Odd Couple

2011-08-24T11:43:00.004-04:00

(image via Terry's Diary}

Terry Richardson may be an awesome photographer but let's face it, the part of me that is always on-guard for people who just aren't right goes beserk when I hear his name. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, my shoulders stiffen, the alarm in my brain rings repeatedly.

He is notorious for his perverted (to be kind) photo sessions. This is one of the kinder articles. Try this one from Dlisted; it is downright disturbing (you've been warned).

Terry is obviously as sane and rational as my 82 year-old grandfather, afflicted with Alzheimer's, who walked around for the last 10 years of his life with a 3x5 card in his pocket that said: "If lost, please return to...."

Earlier this week, news broke of Terry dating on honest-to-goodness real person, with a real job and a real brain. Are you baffled (as I scratch my head in disbelief)? What I do know is this city's single male pool must be dried up if an intelligent, coherent woman resorts to dating Terry Richardson. I can list a dozen or so other men I'd rather date (if a gun was to my head, of course). I would take Regis Philbin, Richard Simmons, Keith Richards, The Situation (oh man, I can't believe I put that in writing), Donald Trump, perhaps even Spencer Pratt over the dangerously pedo-looking Terry R. In other words, in my Fantasy Marry, Bang, Kill League, Terry always dies.

Now, off to shower the slime away. The research for this post has got me feeling grody....

Devastation

2011-08-19T22:48:00.003-04:00

{image: moi}

This morning I had breakfast with a co-worker at The Grey Dog a few doors down from my apartment. You know the place: hot hippies, good coffee, cute dogs and home of my beloved banana blueberry muffins. As I was handed my coffee I was also given some heart-breaking news: the shop is closing in September and relocating to Mulberry Street. Had I not worked so hard at perfecting my cat-eye liquid liner look a mere 8 minutes prior, I would have burst out into a puddle of tears, fellow customers be damned.

I was so stunned, I swear I had the vapors. Suddenly, I couldn't speak and the room began to spin. Where do the owners of The Grey Dog Coffee suggest I get my daily muffin fix now that they are up and leaving (don't even suggest I could do without a muffin or I might cut you)? I had given up hope for world peace, faithful men and a successful Obama presidency and now this?

How much more can one person take, I ask? Like the cancellation of The Cosby Show, I may never get over this.

Now where is the closest Think Coffee? I hear they make a mean scone....

Here's To Hoping...

2011-08-18T08:24:00.003-04:00

{image: I Can Read tumblr}

A.R.T

2011-08-14T23:11:00.006-04:00

Also known as Assinine Repurposing of Tacky shit.

I really need your help tonight. The thing is, I am known to be the curmudgeon of the group. I always have a comment, snarky observation, or sarcastic jab to illustrate the cruelty which is life in New York. Tonight is no different. However, if I am wrong, let me know the error of my thoughts.

My neighbor, I'll call him Pony, fancies himself one of cultured, refined, urbane tastes. I tend to think I had better taste in art when, at 15, I purchased a Vincent Van Gogh Sunflowers print (gag!) in the Musée d'Orsay, carried it across an ocean, framed it in a $9 brass frame, hung it in my room and pointed my desk lamp at it in an attempt to "light it properly."

Imagine my absolute shock when I opened my door one morning last year and was greeted by this on the wall next to my door:

I recoiled in fear, dropped my keys and clutched my heart. The proportions of her neck! Was she a descendant of some sort of mutant giraffe-human-Maria Callas hybrid? Turns out Pony had some extra "art" around his studio and decided, rather than throw it away, he'd grace the residents of the 3rd floor with his interpretation of fine art.

Weeks went by and I got kind of got used to Scary Lady in Hallway. Waiting, as I was known to call her. On my darkest days I'd glance up at her and share a forlorn glance, a drawn-out sigh, a defeated shoulder shrug. I had just gotten used to SLHW when I awoke one morning to find this piece displayed on the far wall:

Admittedly, I do not know Pony well at all but what kind of 40-year old man has a poster like this hanging in his apartment, I ask? It's either pervy, creepy, highly regressive or screams "I have Norman Bates Mommy Issues." Either way, not a comforting sight at any time of the day. In fact, I've avoided looking to the left as I exit my apartment so much, I've developed a crick in my neck from the strain.

Try explaining these pieces to people visiting you for the first time. Do you warn them about the pictures at the same time your warn them the scary Law & Order elevator only stops on the floor below and above your actual floor? Or, do you let your guests stumble upon the disturbing images for themselves and use it as a conversation piece when you crack that first bottle of wine?

I hadn't quite formulated a plan of attack when this beauty popped up this morning:

This is where I put my (platformed) foot down! I've got Hedda Lettuce staring at me every effing day! He/She looks like he/she just completed a Project Runway challenge involving a kiddie pool and floaties purchased at the Toys R Us in Times Square. If you can bear, here's a closer look:

What kind of meth is Pony cooking that makes him think the other eight residents of the floor want to see the overruns from the Pride section of art.com on a daily basis? Am I overreacting? Should I retaliate and begin hanging the art of my friend's two year old daughter along side these masterpieces? Should I just appreciate Pony's desire to decorate the common areas of the building, pop a Xanax and c'est la vie? I am so torn and so fearful of the next installation....

Moment of Silence: Apartment Edition

2011-08-14T08:04:00.005-04:00

Shut your trap for one moment and revel in what is the most amazing ottoman...ever. I'm sure it costs an arm and multiple legs but one can dream. The fabric reminds me of flocked wallpaper circa 1973. There were remnants of it in my childhood home before it was ripped down in favor of some country-chic floral wall paper monstrosity that defined the 80s (and my mother).

I digress.... Here she is (and she is AWESOME!):

{image: A Casa da Vá}

Taking the Plunge

2011-08-12T21:14:00.002-04:00

I did it! 6 inches...gone in the snip of the shears.

Advice From Chuck

2011-08-07T22:03:00.004-04:00

After finishing a 12-mile run, heading to the beach for less than 24 hours and having an amazing dance party with new and old friends, I head to bed tonight with a grin from ear to ear (and two ice packs down my pants - no joke). Tuesday night, I am replacing my training run with a wine and cheese class at Murray's Cheese in the West Village. As much as I love the endorphins from a good run, I'll take a stinky Époisses any day.

In short, life is good. And on that note, I leave you with a quote from Chuck Palahniuk. Check in this week and see what disasters await!

{image: I Can Read}

Chop. Chop

2011-08-05T18:22:00.002-04:00

Next Friday is the big day for me. I know Tony and Kristy will do their thing; I just hope I'm ready to go where I haven't gone in a while. Here's a preview of the cut (the color I already have but it needs refreshing):

Marathon Training

2011-08-02T18:02:00.003-04:00

I will tell you more later but the quick and dirty is I am up to 12 miles this week. And, it hurts. On Sunday night, I crawled into bed with two ice packs stuffed down my pajama pants to help my aching leg muscles. There's a mental picture for you.

The physical barriers I have to break down are daunting but, even scarier are the psychological obstacles facing me every time I lace up my sneakers. While researching some relaxation tips for runners, I came across this story about a Cherokee Chief and his grandson and it is the story I will tell myself over and over tonight (no iPods are allowed) as I do six miles of sprints through Central Park.

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about
life. "A fight is going on inside of me," he said to the boy.

"It is a terrible fight between two wolves.
One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed arrogance, self-pity,
guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and
ego." He continued, "The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope,
serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth,
compassion and faith. The same fight is going on inside of you - and
inside every other person too."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and
then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you
feed."

Tonight, I feed the good wolf.

Bucket List: Surfing

2011-07-30T21:19:00.000-04:00

Yes, that is me in the picture above getting my nasal cavity cleaned courtesy of the salty Atlantic Ocean. While in Montauk, I decided to check off an item on my Bucket List: learn to surf.

Early on a Wednesday morning, I mustered enough courage to march into a local surf shop and inquire about lessons. To my delight, I learned there was an afternoon class with only two other people slated to attend. I showed up ten minutes early and sat on the bench out front of the shop, friend in tow for moral support.

A few minutes later my fellow classmates arrived in the form of two 12-year old boys: Peter and Dylan. I turned a Pantone chart of reds and turned to the instructor in absolute horror. I had tee shirts older than these two kids!

But a Bucket List is not something to ignore, so I soldiered on. Along with our instructor, Jenny, we surfed until our hearts were content or in my case, until my back gave out.

The three of us survived the waves and returned to the Surf Shack exhausted. Peter's mom picked him up, leaving Dylan to wait for his father and me for my friend. After two hours together we'd bonded, mainly because I forced my towel on 75-pound Dylan when noticing his lips and fingertips were a fantastic shade of blue.

As we shared the bench making awkward small talk, he turned to me (a boy of few words) and decided it was now or never. He slid closer closing the gap between us, looked me square in the eye, cocked a smile and said the words that were music to my aged ears: "So, are you in college?"

College? I didn't have the heart (or the balls) to let Dylan in on the secret I was in college when he was born. And, why spoil his image of me? Why not let him return to Greenwich, Connecticut after his summer vacation and brag to his friends he'd picked up a "college girl?" Not one to outwardly lie to a child, I simply smiled and half-nodded. It was a lie of omission, I know, but it was for a larger cause.

After Dylan's Dad picked him up, I floated off to meet my friend at The Sloppy Tuna and toast to anti-aging cream, the '70s and crossing another thing off My Bucket List.

Petite Places

2011-07-30T19:26:00.003-04:00

Can you believe this house? The second picture conveys just how small the space. Talk about editing, there's no room for waste in this home.

image: ffffound.com

On the Streets: West Village, New York

2011-07-27T21:53:00.011-04:00

There are times just strolling down the street brings me the biggest delight. A few Saturdays back, I ended up taking about 300 pictures around the West Village. Below are some of my favorites. I hope you enjoy!

Keeping It Positive

2011-07-25T08:12:00.001-04:00

The Carpenter of East Amherst Strikes. Again.

2011-07-24T22:50:00.004-04:00

The last time we left off, Gerald had contributed to overall squalor of my apartment by installing coat hooks into my drywall with screws meant for concrete which subsequently inspired the Russian Room & Board delivery man to mock me mercilessly upon seeing the acute angle from which the hook was precariously dangling from said wall (run-on sentence noted by author).

Back in East Amherst a carpenter and designer are currently being paid a handsome amount of currency to gut a kitchen, bathroom and other assorted small-projects to ensure The Carpenter of East Amherst, otherwise known as my father (Gerald), will never lift a hammer, charge a cordless screwdriver, measure, sand or hang anything. In short, it is for every one's safety and more importantly, sanity, Gerald never be forced to undertake any home-improvement tasks.

Now let's return to my West Village studio; the small one with two closets and a bathroom so tiny it requires months on end of carbohydrate-fasting to ensure I can still fit between the bathtub and the sink. In this studio, last Saturday evening, my air conditioner decided to throw in the proverbial towel and return to the Home Depot In The Sky. Unfortunately, it was soupy hot because, as one would imagine, air conditioners do not break in the winter. No....you don't decide to test your AC on January 14th to see if the ol' girl's still got one summer left in her. Instead, you crank that thing up on one of the hottest days of the year, cross your sweaty, clammy fingers and pray cool air greets you.

Never mind my AC has had the mechanical equivalent of emphasema for about a year now; wheezing its way through the Dog Days of Summer with me not preparing for the worst and putting way too much effort into hoping for the best.

So, what happens when you play Russian Roulette with your AC? You lose big. Your AC lets out a high-pitched gasp, followed by some guttural clinks and clanks and much like I imagine a human heart in the clutches of death, the motor grinds to a terrifying halt.

Then, your hair frizzes. And you begin to schvitz. Not a dewy, light mist but a full-on, water-spewing-from-your-pores-as-your-body-desperately-tries-to-cool-itself kind of sweat. You run to Home Depot the next morning at 10am on the dot and you play up your inner Godfather Italian by strolling into the AC department and coolly (no pun intended) and decisively saying, "My Paesano brother, I mean no disrespect but who do I gotta talk to to get an air conditioner delivered and installed in my apartment by 5pm today, kapiche?"

Jose, Home Depot's Employee of the Month six months running, set me up real nice and made me an offer I couldn't refuse: installation that afternoon by the main man Jose himself for $70. Being dangerously close to overheating and high on making things happen by throwing money at the problem, I quickly agreed before I could think better of the situation.

We exchanged numbers but I was left with a sinking feeling when Jose refused to give me his last name, a last name I planned on Googling the shit out of the minute I returned home. Having to abandon Plan A of running a quick-yet-effective Spinderella background check on Jose, I quickly moved to Plan B: bribe a friend with a free dinner in exchange for them acting as a bodyguard during the AC installation.

It worked. Jose came with his toolkit and promptly got to work. Unfortunately, work to Jose included talking my and my friend's ear off until I gently reminded him he needed to get the AC in the window ASAP or I was going to pass out and no money would be exchanged.

What happened next I should have seen coming from a mile away. Unfortunately I was in no state to be strategic or proactive with my thought process as my heat delusions made me whole-heartedly believe Ryan Seacrest was on my bed humping my favorite childhood stuffed animal. You get the picture.

Jose approached the window to remove the carcass of the old AC unit and stopped short, "Who the hell put this thing in? Look at these cheap screws! And, the air leaks? Most of your cold air is escaping because whoever did this butchered it."

Of course we all know who was responsible for the installation of the first AC unit: my father. My friend who knows my father's reputation as the anti-Bob Villa turned to me and dissolved into giggles. I was already hyperventilating from my guffaws. Jose, being the freaky yet well-meaning gentleman he is, apologized profusely for insulting my father. I think he was still intimidated by my tough Italian girl talk from earlier in the day and feared he might sleep with the fishies sometime in the very near future.

Little did he know my dad's lack of handy skills is somewhat famous in the Aaaaaaaaaawsnap circles in which I run. It's inspired multiple blog posts. It's put many carpenter's children though college. It's single-handedly financed the renovation of the Grand Island True Value Hardware Store, as my dad spent countless dollars trying to fix one, ONE! toilet from incessantly running in the downstairs bathroom for much of the 80's.

But all kidding aside, let me be clear. My father is many wonderful things. As I've said before, if you need a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen as you vent, a person to hug as you sob, a cheerleader to say you are "damn-well going to finish what you've started come hell or high water", then he is your man.

And, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Red/White/Black

2011-07-23T00:29:00.000-04:00

Red/White/Black by iamspinderella featuring a trilby hat

Markus Lupfer short sleeve cotton shirt
$170 - net-a-porter.com

Short pleated skirt
$780 - alexandermcqueen.com

Mulberry handbag
£895 - matchesfashion.com

Julien David scarve
€200 - colette.fr

Trilby hat
$70 - reissonline.com

Comme des Garçons Play Converse Chuck Taylor Low Top Sneaker
$100 - barneys.com

Comme Des Garcons Play Eau De Toilette - 100ml
$95 - openingceremony.us

Butter London 3 Free Lacquer Nail Polish
$14 - zappos.com

I'll Take It!

2011-07-16T16:41:00.003-04:00

To Whom It May Concern at Valentino, S.p.A:

Please overnight this dress to me, as I will be attending work on Monday morning (after a 10-day hiatus) and would like to show the world I mean "business."

Regards,

Spinderella (I mean, my name is even Italian!)

My Neurosis has a Life Partner....

2011-07-10T17:14:00.003-04:00

It occurred to me today, while watching Woody Allen's Manhattan Murder Mystery, that Larry Lipton (the character played by Woody Allen) and I are simpatico. A few quotes from the movie that back me up on this:

#1: Larry Lipton: Claustrophia and a dead body - this is a neurotic's jackpot!

#2: Larry Lipton: I can't listen to that much Wagner, ya know? I start to get the urge to conquer Poland.

#3: Carol Lipton: I don't understand why you're not more fascinated with this! I mean, we could be living next door to a murderer, Larry.
Larry Lipton: New York is a melting pot! I'm used to it!

#4: Larry Lipton: My life is passing before my eyes. The worst part about it is that I'm driving a used car.

#5: Larry Lipton: Jesus, save a little craziness for menopause!

Aaaaaahhhh. There is nothing like curling up in a ball with string cheese, a Diet Rootbeer and a Woody Allen film. I'm a very simple person....

Wanderlust: Montauk

2011-07-10T12:02:00.004-04:00

Let's face it; most of you who read here know me. And you also know, when I am done, I am done. And, Manhattan: I am done. At least for the next 5 days. Heading out to Montauk tomorrow morning to accomplish something I've always wanted to do: surf! I also am in need of a little TLC, so I am shacking up at The Surf Lodge and channeling my inner Kelly Slater (note delusions of grandeur).

Will take lots of pictures (more photos to come once Blogger quits misbehavin') and hope to return refreshed and reinvigorated! Have a wonderful week, my friends.

Bon Iver/Bonnie Raitt

2011-07-09T09:50:00.002-04:00

The singer from Bon Iver performing a cover/mix of two of Bonnie Raitt's best songs. Judge me all you want, Bonnie is one of my all time favorites and this cover does her songs justice.

Balls...

2011-07-09T08:32:00.006-04:00

Gotta give Lauren Conrad credit. After polling readers on her new blog, TheBeautyDepartment.com on whether or not she should rainbow ombre her hair and receiving an overwhelming "yes," she went through with it! I am not sure I'd have the balls but I absolutely LOVE IT!!! I also love her blog and think you should check it out!

Here she is:

Here is the image that inspired her:

WOULD YOU DO IT?

Occhiali da Sole

2011-07-05T20:47:00.003-04:00

courtesy of Prada and would be soooo mine if I had the face shape and the fashion gravitas to pull them off....

Woe Is Me: The Tale of the Silk Jersey Dress

2011-06-29T22:52:00.004-04:00

Saturday I needed a little pick-me-up. There wasn't any particular reason to be down; but, sometimes I just need a shot in the arm (ok, in the flabby bicep) of fashion to put a smile on my face. I decided to make my inaugural visit to Aritzia in SoHo and made a little deal with myself: one item. It's a deal I make with myself a little too often; just take a look at my closet or bank statement.

I perused the two floors stocked with Canadian fashion goodness (I know, seems like an oxymoron but it surely is not) and picked out eight items to which I could potentially give the final rose.

There were fancy shorts, blouses, maxi skirts and the dress pictured above.

I carefully assessed all my options and decided the winner of the big dance was, in fact, the dress pictured. I examined myself in the mirror, did a little half-twirl and began dreaming of all the fantastic places I could wear this frock (to Gristedes, to my OB/GYN appointment the following week, to Duane Reade, to the Post Office, to a picnic in the park, et al.).

Mid-hallucination, I was interrupted by a sales associate who said something one in my income bracket NEVER wants to hear. Are you ready for it? Ok, here goes. She said, "Oh, I see you've chosen the Rick Owens! Isn't it to-die-for?!"

I grew faint as my fashion dream died right on the fitting room's brand new hardwood floor. "How much?" I squeaked, hoping it might be a Rick Owens for Target-type dress.

"Get the dress off me, NOW," I hollered after hearing the price, fearing an errant booger from my nose might land on the delicate material thus putting into effect the You Break It, You Buy It rule.

I settled for an amazing pair of silk shorts; but my unrequited love for this simple dress still burns strong. Tonight, I passed Irma and the dress was in the window next to a 50% off sign. I almost peed myself right there on the Bleecker Street sidewalk. All of a sudden, I imagined picking out Lean Cuisine's from the grocer's freezer wearing this silk jersey wonder. Wouldn't that just be grand?

In reality, I'd be that lady inappropriately dressed up for her errands, wearing a dress that could, instead, fund four months of frozen pizzas, or cover the co-pay of my OB/GYN appointments for the next 30 annual visits. I could mail nearly 1334 letters instead!

But, really, I'd still rather have the dress....

Soldes!

2011-06-26T21:34:00.003-04:00

If you've got some cash to spare and want to add some Parisian-chic to the tiny closet in your studio apartment, vous devriez aller rapidement à Isabel Marant sur Broome Street. I passed by yesterday only to find a sale sign in the window. I stopped, turned on my heel to go inside and then tore myself away. Mon dieu! Anyway, in an attempt to live vicariously through you, I am hoping you get there and stock up. Above are my favorite looks from the Isabel Marant Etoile collection.

If You See Something...

2011-06-26T13:10:00.006-04:00

Let's face it, when your role model in life is Larry David (and others of the general demeanor), it is safe to say you're neurotic. Who else could empathize and relate to such a soul?

Examples: I make "pillow people" in my bed when I travel to ensure if someone is to try and break in via the fire escape, they will think there are people sleeping inside. I keep a spare pair of shoes under my desk which I change into solely for bathroom breaks - if someone should see my feet under the stall door, they will never be able to match me back to my regular "day" shoes. I never stand anywhere near the yellow strip on the edge of the subway platform - you never know when a crazy person will push you over. And, when we have a fire drill at work, I ask questions. Lots and lots of questions ("What if I don't have my ID on me? Will I still be able to get back into a 'Re-entry floor'?").

So, naturally, I have read all of the MTA warnings posted on the subway: no running on the platform, no walking in between cars, no leaning on the doors and the number one commandment of the MTA: If you see something, say something.

I take this rule pretty seriously and do not limit seeing and saying things to just the subway. Oh, no. I've seen and said something to the soft pretzel vendor trying to rip me off, the driver who almost ran me over, the pervy up-skirt camera guy, the doorman at Goldbar who made me come back after the private party was finished. If you've seen it, I've said something.

Which is funny because last week while riding the NJ Transit, I saw something and said nothing. It was a strange train ride that began with me, a leaking bottle of coconut water and a fastidious gay man who became increasingly alarmed by my clumsy antics. I had no choice but to sit next to him, as the train was standing room only. No sooner had my cheeks hit the seat did Mr. Fabulous let out a long, dramatic sigh conveying that even if I were Liza Minelli herself, I wasn't welcome in his row.

I cracked my Zico and tried to ignore him sticking pins into a voodoo doll bearing an uncanny resemblance to me. How'd he do that?

But, I had bigger problems to deal with. First of which was my leaking bottle of coconut water. In a matter of a mere 30 seconds, I looked like I had a serious bladder malfunction. I did the only thing I could do, blotted with napkins and chugged the remaining liquid. Mr. Fabulous didn't like that. Not one bit. He beat his heart, Celine Dion-style (2:22 into video, if you're watching), and gasped.

That didn't really bother me either because a larger problem entered the car at that very moment. A man, tugging two garbage bags behind him and mumbling inaudible bible verses, was attempting to sit a row in front of me. Now, listen, I can deal with a little crazy because, let's face it, I'm not all right. So, in my head of warnings, this was merely DEFCON 5.

I let him sit and try to flip the seats so he was facing backward as the train moved forward (eew- motion sickness). I let him talk to himself. I even let him blast his portable radio which is clearly against the rules. But hey, it was a sunny Saturday! A little Public Enemy can only help, right?

Right.

I kept reading my marathon training book and listening to my iPod. And, all was good until the Rahway stop. That's when the man decided he'd had enough of us and was going to camp out in the bathroom. That was cool with me because I didn't have an extra set of shoes on me anyway so I wasn't planning on using the facilities.

However; after 15 minutes and approximately 5 different people knocking on the door with no answer, I began to panic and assume the worst. What if he was inspired by the Underwear Bomber and was in the bathroom at that very moment setting his Fruit of the Loom's ablaze?

Stop after stop passed and yet there was no sign, no indication this man was ever leaving the WC. My superior olfactive skills began to kick into overdrive waiting for the first whiff of sulfur, smoke, burning plastic, really anything indicating a petite problem aboard the New Jersey Coast line train. More alarming was the fact that no one else noticed or if they did, cared.

I decided right then and there this might be a good time to become an un-lapsed Catholic? Possibly donate all my worldly possessions and money to charity? Apologize to all I've hurt and/or wronged in my 32 years? It was a mighty difficult task but I needed to clear my conscience before a) This dude made a bonfire in his panties or b) I reached the Middletown stop.

As I began to triage my apologies, confessions and farewells, a loud flushing noise came from behind the metal door and the Underwear Man emerged and let out a cathartic sigh: "Whooooooooooooo." We were both relieved, but in very different ways.

Apparently there had been something explosive going on in there, but it wasn't what I thought. I put down my phone, picked up my book and returned to my reading. What a beautiful day to be alive.

The Anti-Prep

2011-06-17T22:46:00.005-04:00

You can keep your chiseled jaw, polo shirts, wrinkled, pastel chinos, Rolex and loafers worn sans sock. What I prefer is the man below. He looks like the Grey Dog coffee dudes and you know I have a soft spot for the hippies who pour my morning joe. And, this hippie has a heart of gold.

My Mom and Facebook

2011-06-15T16:34:00.005-04:00

Facebook is a funny, little web invention. At first it appears to be a great platform for connecting to old friends and distant relatives, enabling us to keep up with their lives while keeping them at arm's length. That is something I can get behind.

Then my mother got wind of it.

"Cathy, next time I see you, can you set me up on Facebook? I promise I'll behave myself," she pleaded one day on the phone.

I vehemently declined. I had taught my mother to use Google a few years back and our relationship had never been the same. Suddenly she was fact-checking everything she heard and turning into a regular Cliff Clavin.

But she begged, gave me her puppy dog eyes, threw in some reference to labor and a c-section and 30 minutes later she was set up on Mark Zuckerberg's nerd orgasm.

This is where the story gets dicey.

I began getting hourly updates on her friend count: "Seven new friends! That has to be a record!" There were also the inevitable requests for validation: "Oh, Jane Stuart-Bowman-Gladiola-Mervin accepted my friend request. She looks like an old lady. Tell me I don't look this old."

Of course, there was the ongoing debate of the Facebook wall versus the Facebook feed. There were many voicemails that went something like: "You wrote the most inappropriate thing to your brother on my wall yesterday! You should be ashamed! How do I get it off of there before the neighbors see it?" I assured her what she saw was via her feed; but, we still struggle with the differentiation.

Yes, there are the endless comments on photos that really needed no comment: "Looks like someone had a little too much fun, remember, act like a lady!" on a picture where I am holding an empty vodka bottle and rolling on a wet patch of grass with a bra wrapped around my skull. Or better yet, "He's cute - is that the one you had a date with?" on a picture of my gay friend who was completely bewildered when he saw the notification and subsequent comment.

But I put up with all of the nonsense because she's my mother and I love her.

That was until Tuesday morning.

I woke up to see I had eight Facebook notifications and they were all from her. Christ-on-a-cracker, what could she possibly be up to?

She, like a little puppy who decided to go trash can diving, had decided to enable the application that allows you to answer questions about your friends. This is why if you happened to see my page early that morning you would have seen rubbish splashed across my wall like, "Bernice thinks you are prettier than a Queen Anne Rose," "Bernice thinks you are a good driver," and "Bernice thinks you should wear blush and smile more."

I had a mild 8am heart attack in the middle of my living room. That's it, I thought, she's done. D-O-N-E. Facebook is a privilege not a right and it's time she give some thought to the way she desecrates other people's pages with her careless use.

After I had calmed down a bit, I gave her a call.

"Mom, you've gotta stop with the damn questions on Facebook. They're all over my wall and people are going to think we are both weird!"

"Cathy, are you sure that's not your feed you're seeing?"

Red. I actually saw red when she asserted I didn't know the difference between my wall and my feed. We continued the debate for five more minutes until she finally admitted she needed to curtail her use of Facebook and take her online profile down a notch or two.

We hung up with one another but somehow, I didn't feel reassured this wouldn't happen again. I began thinking an un-friending may be in order. Perhaps parents and children need not be Facebook friends? Maybe it complicates an already intricate and messy relationship?

I don't have the answers or the solution. For now, she's on a tight leash also known as a "limited profile view." We'll see if she can re-gain my trust. She always said parents should be parents to their children, not their friends, so maybe this Facebook thing just isn't in the cards for us?

Only time will tell...

APB

2011-06-12T21:36:00.005-04:00

I strongly believe I may have identified the Long Island Serial Killer. He was spotted Saturday night at the Southampton Social Club. He lurked in the dark, recessed corners of the bar; plotting, planning, hedging his next move. He chewed on the swizzle stick of his drink like the blood-thirsty animal he clearly is. His eyes were ice. His stance said, "I will kill you with my bare hands and no one will come looking." His moutache was a CSI DNA twist waiting to happen.

Being much smarter than your average serial killer, I decided to gather some photographic evidence just in case the police would call upon my Matlock-on-steroids, crime-solving skills (Hello! I sent the man who stole my blackberry back to jail...another story for another day...and I've put an subway up-skirt, picture-taking pervert in the clink).

Now, this little blog doesn't get much attention so I don't think defamation will be an issue here but I still need to cover my bases. Let's get this clear: I have no evidence this is the actual killer. There's no DNA, no LUDs (shout out to Lenny Briscoe), no smoking gun that this man is dumping bodies on an out-of-the-way south chores beach. However, if there has ever been a template for what a serial killer looks and acts like, then I've got the right guy.

Please take a moment to study the picture. Perhaps you should print it out, stick it in your purses (ladies) and wallets (gentleman) so you, too, can be on the lookout. It takes a village, my friends, and you'll thank me later.

UPDATE: He looks kind of methy, no?

When It's 96 Degrees...

2011-06-09T20:53:00.002-04:00

...you go watersliding! Head to Sicily and stay at the Citta del Mare hotel or, as I would do, get a day pass for the waterslides. Makes me think of the days we'd set up the Slip-n-Slide in the yard, get a running start and pray there were no hidden rocks.

{found via Cup of Joe}

New York

2011-06-07T07:56:00.004-04:00

I have a love/hate relationship with this city during the summer. So during weeks it looks like the mercury may hit triple digits, I try and remember what it is that makes this place so damn alluring. Exhibit A: the gardens at the MOMA. I will envy this stone lady's dip in the reflecting pool on Thursday. Get ready to blast the AC...summer is here.

{photo: my own, enhanced with the help of Tilt+Shift}

Monday Night Blues

2011-06-06T23:05:00.008-04:00

Tonight, after a rather brutal day at work and a 6-mile date with Central Park, I headed straight to Grom for some gelato-love. I made the choice to mix Fragola Sorbet (yeah, it is Strawberry, I'm high class) with Bacio gelato (dark chocolate with hazelnut chips). It was the perfect replica of a chocolate-covered strawberry and I was pretty proud of my creation.

Until, I tasted what what my Central Park workout buddy ordered. Bear with me, because it will appear to be the grossest combination ever; however, I assure you, it is pure heaven. Melone Sorbet with Stracciatella gelato (sweet cream gelato with Columbian "Teyuna" chocolate chips).

Yes, I thought it to be an odd combination until I dug my spoon into it and nearly cried with envy. In fact, I almost turned on my heel and went back for another $6.25 microscopic cup to right my gelato strategy failure.

Then I figured that's what Tuesday is for, my friends.

In other news, a new gelato place, Victory Garden, opened a few doors down from my hobbit hole and was featured on Daily Candy today. It's fresh goat's milk soft serve in some crazy flavors. Can you say Dark Chocolate Rosemary or Turkish Delight?

I am already unpacking my fat clothes in anticipation of a successful gelato season.

Ok, Maybe I Will Tell...

2011-06-05T22:17:00.006-04:00

If my 32 year-old self could go back in time and meet my 28 year-old self, I'd tell me to not sweat stupid stuff. Yes, not eloquent and certainly not terribly profound but that's the point. Life [and it's lessons] are pretty simple.

Saturday afternoon I found myself at Sunset Beach. It was my second weekend in a row there and the prior weekend I, while sitting on a couch with a glass of wine, had a fleeting thought, "The Man Named After a Fruit" would love it here.

Fast forward 7 days and I was back at Sunset Beach gorging on Dark-n-Stormies and mussels (and, yes, I've already moaned to anyone who will listen, including the local Carmine Street homeless lady, that I am never eating again). I left my seat for a bathroom break and upon my return passed a man at the bar.

The record player that is constantly playing in my own brain came to a screeching halt.

Low and effing behold, there before my eyes stood The Man Named After a Fruit, in his full white linen pant, slicked hair, Roberto Cavalli (gag.), I'm-a-Swede-so blow-me glory.

I would like to say I froze but instead, I ran. A minute later, needing to confirm it was indeed him, I returned to the bar to research. It took less than a half second to see Mango was a shell of his former self. First of all, Grapefruit was stumble-drunk and had cuts on his face hinting that a stumble on the gravel had been in his recent past. Second, and I say this with all due respect and as a former chub-a-lub myself, he was fat. Like Elvis-on-barbiturates fat. And the color of his teeth were not so much mother-of-pearl but rather goldenrod. And his shirt was unbuttoned so low he was showing more cleavage than I (I was in a bikini). In short, he looked like he was rode hard and put away wet.

He was a drunk, slurring mess who, in an attempt to buy rose wine for the entire bar, couldn't remember if he's signed his tab or not. Belligerent and contentious, the bar staff was about to throw Cherry out when he turned in my direction. There was a brief moment I thought he might remember me. Turns out, I didn't make all that much of an impression because all he could muster was a drunken, "You. I know you," and a pointer finger dangerously close to my sun-burned schnoz.

Outside the bar, his fiance was crying on the phone to AMEX demanding they send a "chopper" immediately to pick her up. She flashed her 5 carat CZ ring (ok...it was most likely a flawless diamond but who needs flawless diamonds when it seems a pint of Ben & Jerry's and a good Netflix queue may be more satisfying than the relationship you're in), and threatened to call off the wedding because her fiance was spending money that could be better used financing her next Birkin bag than on buying the entire bar a drink.

Truth be told, she had a fair point.

I returned to the boat a bit astonished by the sh!t show that had just gone down. I texted some people who witnessed first-hand my Fruit Period and subsequent meltdown to let them know of the day's events. Every one of them thought I'd be upset. And, I was but not for the traditional reasons. I was upset I'd wasted more than ten seconds mourning the exit of this person from my life. I was gutted that I'd picked apart my own character, personality, body and looks for months trying to pinpoint the exact flaw in me that had caused Per to reject me.

I wasted so much time when I should have been out enjoying life. I squandered an entire summer staring at the four walls of my apartment being a whiny, wimpy, buzz-kill of a person only to find out, Per wasn't that cool anyway. Subsequently, last night I made a little promise to myself to never again let someone get inside my head the way Juicy Fruit had.

The torture I'd inflicted on myself was something I'd never allow again. Not for rose wine. Not for a 5 carat ring. Not for fast cars, fancy clothes or big houses.

I believe this is what they call a "break-through...."

In Remembrance

2011-05-14T23:05:00.005-04:00

I don't like emotional ambulance chasers who whore out their grief for all to see, so I will keep it short and hope I don't come off in that light.

My grandmother passed away tonight. The photo of my brother and I modeling her knitwear will always serve as a warm reminder of her. I choose to remember her as the lady with the silver curls ("Don't mess my 'do," she'd warn if you got to close to the dome of hair held in place by a generous mist of Aqua Net), the curator of a killer polyester shirt collection, the Empress of Knitting (hats, scarves, afghans...the list goes on) and the Hertel Avenue Senior Citizen Bingo Champion for much of the aughts.

I am not good with death, or life for that matter. My beliefs are not strong and my cynicism sometime reigns supreme but for a brief moment, I'd like to believe she's found peace wherever she may be.

This is How You Get Hitched...

2011-05-14T09:23:00.004-04:00

In pure Kermit the Frog style. These pictures, found via Cup of Joe via Wit + Delight but originally from 100 Layer Cake made me squeal with happiness. This is my kind of bride (the reception dress, because one dress is NEVER enough, is by Jenny Packham).

Take a closer look...

Volunteer Failure

2011-04-23T21:58:00.004-04:00

Late last year I had this great idea to volunteer and because of too much coffee and insomnia, I applied to a local animal shelter late one evening. It seemed like a perfect deal: I'd get to play with puppies and the shelter would get some free labor.

I completed two training sessions and showed up for my 10 am shift one Saturday, fighting a violent bout of the flu. I was determined to show the staff I was "serious" about volunteering, perhaps because I have failed in this arena many times. I've "tutored" students and I've "mentored" children, both gigs I carelessly ditched when the going got tough. So, you can imagine I had something to prove. If there is a national database of sh!tty volunteers, surely I'm on it.

I walked in that morning as eager as is possible with the amount of mucous burrowing in my nasal cavity. First I was instructed to clean Sammy's crate which was caked with stuff no human should ever have to see, let alone smell. I was suddenly thankful for an olfactive malfunction that morning. I scrubbed dried you-know-what and guess what I learned? You-know-what, when dry, is like cement. Nothing gets it clean. Chuck Norris couldn't have gotten that crate clean. Neither could Mr. Clean. In fact, my mother, neat-freak-of-the-east, couldn't have gotten that crate clean no matter how loudly she bitched at it.

Failing miserably at cleaning, I was instructed to take Sammy for a walk. I leashed him up and low-and-behold, Sammy didn't want to walk. He dug his paws and rear into the floor and just stared at me. Not one to let a 6 week old puppy tell me what to do, I dragged that ball of dad weight down the hallway and a flight of stairs to the street. Once outside, he refused to walk and I refused to be caught publicly swearing at a puppy. Instead, we sat. I apologized for the dragging and Sammy gave me this look that made me think we'd never be friends.

As we returned to the shelter, I was accosted by a staff member I'd never seen who reprimanded me for walking Sammy. Allegedly he had not had his shots and, if you believe the hysterical woman, I had just signed the death warrant of a puppy.

Feeling terrible, I put Sammy back into his house and tried to blend in with the other volunteers. I must have failed because I was instantly handed Mr. WonTon (he was found abandoned outside a Chinese restaurant) and ordered to walk him.

And, walk him, I did. Mr. WonTon and I returned to the shelter and I was, once again, accosted by the same buzz-kill staff member.

"YOU CAN'T WALK MR. WONTON!," she screamed. I literally peed my pants (a dribble due to severe dehydration from the aforementioned flu). I immediately began to think I was being framed by the staff member upstairs who kept handing me un-walkable puppies to walk.

Needless to say, I was banned from interacting with all the puppies and banished to the basement with the older dogs. Which was totally cool with me because I had my eye on a cocker spaniel named Gerry. I found her house and a volunteer handed her to me for a walk.

Figuring Gerry to be an active hunting dog, like most spaniels are, I decided I would run her around the neighborhood a bit. She was used to hunting and activity so this would be a piece of cake for her. And for the first half block, it was.

Then, it happened.

We took a corner a bit quickly and Gerry ran into a wall. I froze in horror. Gerry, of course, went right on going, not missing even a quarter beat. The whole thing seemed a bit odd but I figured if Gerry could brush it off, so could I. She's the one who hit the wall, not I, so if she was up for more than so was I.

A block later Gerry ran straight into a street sign. At this point, I feared I might have a massive heart attack right on the corner of Howard and Broome streets. I was failing miserably as a care taker and I didn't understand what I was doing wrong. I sat Gerry on a restaurant door stoop and had a heart-to-heart with her, as if she could actually answer me. I implored her to tell me what was wrong and expressed my extreme worry for her well-being. I even asked her if she had considered talking to the veterinarian about what appeared to be a slight visual impairment.

We walked slowly back to the shelter where I, again, expressed my concern to a fellow volunteer. Gerry seemed to be running into stationary objects, I informed her, had anyone else noticed?

That's when I was conveniently informed Gerry was, in fact, BLIND IN HER LEFT EYE! I mean, no need to tell me that prior to me running her through the mean streets of Soho?!

I began to cry, feeling so guilty about what I had done to this poor, blind dog. I walked over to Gerry, flipped up her bangs and, sure enough, her left eye was completely milky. I recoiled in horror and raced out of the room. I was a horrible, no-good, irresponsible, inadequate, unsafe volunteer. I felt like the Miss Hannigan of this puppy orphanage.

I walked home that day realizing I would probably be the first volunteer to be fired. I expected the Doggy Police to show up at my apartment, ready to throw me in the clink for crimes against canines.

I waited it out and wasn't asked to quit. Two months later, I have avoiding the staff members down to a science and now volunteer at a time of the day where I can go unnoticed. I rarely walk dogs and am on permanent poop clean-up and belly-rubbing patrol. It isn't a glamourous job but I enjoy not being in the position of being yelled at by someone who doesn't pay me.

Just today, I heard that same staff member yelling at a volunteer for taking a dog for too long a walk. I hung back and smirked then let him on on a little secret: that the staffer was a complete and utter b!tch. He laughed and I handed him a paper towel, some bleach and told him there was a cleanup needed in Matilda's house.

Team Poop Patrol has a new member.

Abracadabra!

2011-04-23T12:49:00.003-04:00

I'd like to get out my magic wand, touch it to my current purse, and turn it to this one. I may not believe in a higher power but I believe in fashion magic. Someone get me my top hat, cape and assistant, please? I've got some things to get done....

Dior Granville Medium Bag in black. Sigh....

Ohhhhhh, Ohhhh, Ohhhhh Snap

2011-04-17T20:53:00.005-04:00

It just so happens I was caught in last Tuesday evening's torrential downpour. Of course, I carried three bags of groceries 14 blocks in sweaty gym clothes. I finally entered the lobby of my building and almost broke into spontaneous tears of gratitude for shelter and the thought of warm, dry clothes in my very near future.

I walked towards the elevator and waited. No sooner had I pressed the UP button did moans commence from apartment 1C. In fact, moans do not begin to describe the very traumatizing sounds eminating from behind the door. It was a guttural roar of one, single vowel: O. At first, the innocent in me thought someone in the apartment might be dying (if so, the good news is dying is not that bad).

*elevator, the one without me on it, reached the fifth floor*

As the moans crescendoed to frequencies that could shatter the wine glasses that surely were the genesis of these very noises, I began to realize what was going...down.

*lightbulb on*

My mind was also quite perplexed as I recalled the inhabitant of Apartment 1C as a woman resembling the Cannibal Witch in The Brother's Grimm's Hansel and Gretel. Shouldn't she be pre-heating her oven and luring children into her gingerbread house rather than copulating?

*elevator stopped on fourth floor while the inhabitants of Noah's Arc boarded*

I decided taking the stairs was the most viable option as I quickly began looking like one sick and perverted voyeur. Unfortunately, my rain-soaked sneakers squeaked as I crossed the lobby. Walking slower did not help. Walking faster made it worse. Tiptoeing was the only way to get from point A to Point B in silence. I also looked like a cat burglar who had forgotten to pick up her darks from the laundromat.

The moment I hit the first stair, I dropped my umbrella with a clang. The noises abruptly stopped. There were muffled voices which confirmed it wasn't a solo show. In complete terror I'd be caught and put on some Dateline database, I booked up the stairs two at a time until I was safely inside my apartment. I slid down the back of the front door, took two deep breaths and let out an "ooooooommmmm" of my own.

Of course, Murphy's Law means I've run into this woman three times since that fateful event and each time I look at her with a mixture of shame, repulsion and mystification.

She's been a lot friendlier and we both know why.

Jamaica

2011-04-16T22:57:00.007-04:00

Just a sweet (miniature) photographic reminder of my time at The Rockhouse. If you're in the New York and want a taste of this place, visit Miss Lily's on Houston Street. The Dark and Stormies await....

*all photos are modified with the help of tilt-shift.

Pour Some Out...

2011-04-14T23:30:00.004-04:00

All My Children was cancelled by ABC Television today. I would be lying if I didn't admit I was a little misty-eyed when I heard the news. Even though I haven't watched an episode since the early '90s (perhaps the problem), AMC was a staple of my childhood.

At the tender age of 5, I accused my mother of "marrying Dad only for his money," in a dramatic dinner scene designed to expose my mother for the gold-digging, conniving, grifter I believed she was.

It's wasn't the first thing I was wrong about and certainly wasn't the last but without the antics of Erika Kane, Phoebe Wallingford and Myrtle and Opal, I do not know how I would have found my voice that night at the dinner table.

Thanks a bunch ladies.

Going to the Chapel...

2011-04-10T21:14:00.007-04:00

WARNING: Unless you are a girl, abort reading. This is strictly XX chromosome territory

My friend, the bride, was kind enough to choose a fabric (crinkle chiffon) and a color (navy) and let us pick our own silhouettes. Naturally, I narrowed it to nine styles, printed them out and polled anyone I came in contact with during a time period of a week. Really, emails were sent and I even interrupted a lunch meeting to get everyone's perspective. There will be photographs and in those cases, I don't mess around.

Later in the month, I went to the showroom and tried on a bunch of the styles I had picked(and then some) and made my decision. Guess what? I chose one that wasn't one of the original nine. Yeah, I wasn't surprised by that either. Fast-forward 5 months and my dress has arrived! Of course, because I was fitted for the dress in the midst of a holiday feeding frenzy, it is a little roomy but after seeing the menu for the wedding, I am pretty pumped I've got some room to grow.I love when things work out that way.

Now, in all seriousness, I need advice. If one is to eat half their bodyweight in food at a wedding, which preparation strategy works best: fasting and then breaking the fast at the wedding or eating like a fiend the week prior to "stretch" my stomach? The latter is rumored to be the strategy of the Nathan's Hot Dog-eating champion, so I am leaning towards this; but, any feedback is welcomed.

I've already done some hair trials (thanks to a friend who convinced me to YouTube hair curling videos and replicate them rather than pay $100 for hair) and am still a bit nervous. My hair has a mind of its own, especially when I am counting on it to tow my line. I'm between bouncy curls, side-pin or just actually having it blown-out straight....

I'm starting to get excited! I know. Me and weddings don't really go together well. I can't explain the butterflies but I'm going with it. Here's the dress (but picture it in navy):

When Did I Become the Enemy?

2011-04-09T01:36:00.002-04:00

You know I really like to keep this place light but I've been thinking about something that happened to me for the past week and I just can't figure out what the hell is wrong with women?

Here's a ditty, about Jack and Diane. Jack was a fat obnoxious attorney/finance guy from New York who checked into our resort two days before we checked out. Jack's one of those guys who thinks he is the life of the party - all loud and sarcastic and "let's smoke some weed and make that drink a double" kind of guy. He's the type of guy no girl even looked at twice until he could finally stand on his wallet.

And that would be cool by me if Jack just kept his distance. But, no, Jack's had to be Mr. Big-Man-on-Campus and talk to everyone and "get the low down." I sat at the beach bar eating my jerk pork sausage (yes, that's right, jerk pork sausage. You should stop drooling right now), minding my Ps and Qs when Jack(ass) began peppering me with questions about where to eat, where to hang out, et al.

Being three drunken coconuts to the wind (yes, that's a coconut filled with coconut water and coconut rum) I allowed Jack to yap on and on while I ate my lunch. I wasn't mean but I certainly wasn't flirting. I was as neutral as my wall paint.

Suddenly, his girlfriend Diane wedged herself between the two of us. That would have been A-ok with me; however, in an act of sheer C U Next Tuesday-ism, she lit her cigarette, blew smoke into my face and ashed right next to my plate of food.

That marked the exact moment when Diane should have thanked her lucky stars I have mellowed with age, because the "younger me" would have thrown her straight off a cliff. Then I would have David Hasselhoff-ed her, revived her, and muff-punt her off an even higher cliff simply to prove my point.

I would like to say this was the only run-in I had that week but it seemed every time we turned around, there was a woman giving my friend and I the evil eye. Now, I have no illusions of grandeur. I don't look like this or this. In fact, I'm closer to this.

And, really, I don't want your fat, balding boyfriend. In fact, I don't really want any boyfriend unless he looks like this or this. Unfortunately, he will most likely look closer to this.

So, ladies, why all the hate? I've got enough to worry about (like my eye lash extensions and making new Miis and walking my puppies and being the best stepper in Step Class). What a buzz kill - and in Jamaica of all places to kill a buzz.

Back in the Real World

2011-04-08T06:38:00.006-04:00

I am home. I am still trying to acclimate to the cold and the rain. I almost broke down the other night and was *this* close to punching the subway door but instead returned home, shoved my face with pizza and went to bed. More to come. In the meantime, some of my favorite shots from the week away.

Heroine: Floral Shorts

2011-03-27T19:10:00.000-04:00

Perfect Spring Shorts by iamspinderella featuring aquamarine rings

H M white tank top
hm.com

Vince draped leather jacket
$1,095 - net-a-porter.com

TopShop black blazer
$130 - topshop.com

TopShop floral short
$75 - topshop.com

Fendi high heel shoes
$935 - barneys.com

Sergio Rossi wedge ankle booty
$870 -

Hipsters-In -Training (Part Deux)

2011-03-27T11:01:00.004-04:00

After posting the first edition of Hipsters-In-Training, I've been on the lookout for more. This image is via H&M (I believe it is from their Holiday '10 campaign). For the first edition, a slightly better interpretation via All Saints, click here.

Now, if you want the Tuxedo Shirt pictured above, in your size, I give you the Kiki de Montparnasse version, courtesy of Net-a-Porter:

Things That Make You Go Hmm...

2011-03-27T10:42:00.004-04:00

I find it strange the course of the Paris Marathon (en Francais, le Marathon de Paris) never crosses onto le Rive Gauche. Is this just chance or is there a reason for it? I am dying to someday run this race and the thought of not running through Arrondisement 7 (Palais-Bourbon) saddens me. Some of the most beautiful walks of my life were through this neighborhood. Looks like if I plan to run through them, it will be in a race of my own creation.

Weekend In Review

2011-03-27T10:01:00.004-04:00

I began my Saturday morning walking the puppies at the shelter. Prince Charles, Tony, Tilt and Rigatoni got their walks as soon as I signed in. PC was a bit hyper but we had a chat on a bench halfway down Centre Street which seemed to work. Tilt (aptly named because his head is crookedly attached to his body and for those of you who know about my past experiences, I DIDN'T DO IT!) is a rat-terrier whose shadow makes him shake. So you can imagine what happened when Tilt encountered a growling Cain. There was peeing and shaking and whimpering and a mad-dash to jump into my arms, a misguided escape strategy.

Tilt and I also had to have a talk which I believe must not have been very effective as evidenced by the fact I had to carry him for the rest of his walk, as his legs were paralyzed with fear.

Tony? Tony the 6 y/o Papillon-mix was an angel. He walked with confidence, did his business, sniffed out the 'hood and made nice with adoring children.

Then it happened. As I was walking Rigatoni who should I encounter? The skinny-saggy Asian woman from my Tuesday night Step class whose collagen-deficient skin haunts my dreams. It doesn't help she shows up to class in a sports bra and half leotard! There are folds and sags in places I never imagined! What a way to ruin a sunny, Saturday morning.

I ran some errands, hit the gym and settled in for a night of packing. Let it be noted I am 90% done with packing a full two days before it is wheels-up! This may be a record.

In other news, I've added a Yelp! widget to the right side of the blog. It isn't an ad, it is a link to my Yelp! reviews. I know, most normal people are scratching their heads; but, remember, I'm not normal. I am (healthily, I believe) obsessed with Yelp! and becoming and Elite member so I can get invited to all of the parties with free food and drinkity-drinks (much like my fellow Yelper, Daphne). I also like to right wrongs. If a place I've patronized messes with me, I get my anger out in a healthy way via a poor Yelp! review (I'm talking to you, Completely Bare!)

In closing, I've got a new way to procrastinate cleaning and organizing my apartment. If you're on Yelp!, won't you be my friend?

That's all I've got for now. I hope to crank out an update on my volunteer gig prior to leaving for Jamaica (many of you may know about it already) but I am having a tough time pulling myself together for a coherent post.

Until then, I leave you this:

Too Soon Gilbert Gottfried - watch more funny videos

Leaving this Island for Another.

2011-03-25T00:47:00.003-04:00

In 4 short days (that's 92 hours if you're counting, but who's counting?) I will be perched on my own private patio, with my very own ladder stretching down the cliff to the sea below. Most people who've had the pleasure of interacting with me this week are very relieved for me to disappear, power down and recharge my battery (what movie is this from? Anyone? Anyone?) So am I, friends, so am I.

So Psyched...

2011-03-24T23:06:00.005-04:00

...to be safe and sound after mayhem on the 1 Train (more on that later). The reward myself for surviving, I got a nail color change at Ada Nails in Tribeca before meeting a friend for din-din. Here is Sew Psyched (to be alive, that is). I even turned off theUV lamp on the dryer, not wanting to take too many chances in one day.

{image: MBeauty Lounge}

Woofitty-Woofitty Woof!

2011-03-24T20:46:00.004-04:00

Ummm...are there even words? (All doggies available at Animal Haven)

There's Bing:

And Prince Charles (With a lazy eye. I mean, if that isn't charm, I don't know what is):

And Rigatoni:

And Morgan:

Spring Sprang

2011-03-20T23:43:00.003-04:00

And, it also influenced my choice of nail color for the week.

You know who else always inspires me? Lisa Eldridge. I talk about her as if I know her. She is a British makeup artist and I am strangely obsessed with her, her blog, her YouTube channel and the techniques and products she uses. I spent most of my day at the mall Friday beginning my sentences with phrases like, "I tweeted my makeup artist friend about (insert product)," or, "My friend, you know, the makeup artist, recommends...."

Kind of creepy; but, I cannot say it enough: I am a huge fan and she reminds me why I work in the Beauty industry. Check out her stuff here and let me know what you think.

Oh, yes, and I am calling the Selfridges counter directly to order Suqqu brushes you can only get there and in Asia.... Addicted.