UnPlain Jane

Jersey Jane

2009-12-09T13:35:00.001-05:00

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that I wrote my AP English Essay on the Metamorphosis. I can’t deny that something inside of me has always related to the book’s main character, Gregor Samsa, who wakes up from a night of crazy dreams to find that he has morphed into a giant insect. Only instead of one night of nightmares, I’m coming off of three weeks of jokes. Jokes about Aquanet, Lee press-ons and Juicy Couture. And while I didn’t wake up today to find myself wearing sweats at the mall while purchasing a new Coach Hobo, the transformation IS happening and it’s occurring more swiftly than I imagined. By the way, I kind of like it.

Before I even get into all the spectacular ways I’m slowly but surely returning to the state from whence I came – they name is New Jersey - I’m all too proud to share that my legacy has lived on in the land where both gas and fists are pumped. As we made like vagabonds, temporarily homeless between vacating our rented NYC apartment and closing on our purchased Montclair Condominium, my husband T and I set up shop in my parents’ home. There’s a lot of food, a lot of wine, a lot of laughs and the average volume of any conversation is just below shouting. Nightly, I am transported back to 1998 as I tippy-toe up the staircase, trying desperately to be quiet only to find out the next day that I failed when Poppa UnPlain asks me why I stomped all over the house last night. Despite the non-stop barrage of “Eat This! It came out good!” from Grandma and the unusual quantity of red-meat and tomatoes I was consuming, it wasn’t until my first day of commuting to work that I realized, I had truly returned home.

For our first commute, T and I made our way from my parents house at the end of the cul-de-sac I grew up on to the New Jersey Transit bus stop at the top of the block. He wore a back pack and sneakers while I struggled up the hill in heels carrying my tote, walking as if I was expecting the paparazzi to jump out to snap a pic of UnPlain rockin' the ‘burbs. As he dragged me along, desperate for me to move faster we suddenly heard the automatic start of a car and the muffled sound of dance musci on the radio. Simultaneously, we looked to our right and there she was, standing before us - UnPlain Jane 2.0. We stared. Silent. It was as if I’d been reincarnated in my neighbors daughter. T’s jaw dropped and then he mumbled something about this girl being me circa 1998. It was true.

Her shirt was a little too low cut, her jeans a little too small and her highlights a little too fake. She ran out of the garage wearing a tank top, in November, and then ran back inside to ge the lipgloss/cellphone/schoobook that she forgot. We stared in awe as she ripped out of her driveway and off too school in her too-fast-for-a-17-year-old Convertible Mustang. The very same car that was my first, in a long line of driven-into-the-ground vehicles. The only things missing were a Parliament Light hanging from her lips and an Italian Horn hanging from her rear view mirror. Immediately overwhelmed with nostalgia, I looked at T and said, “I love her.”

From that moment on I have been (secretly) pumped to be back in NJ, the very place that bred “Jersey Jane”, long before there was an UnPlain. Stay tuned…

New Jersey and Me, Imperfect Together

2009-11-04T16:26:00.001-05:00

February 18, 2009 is a day that I will never forget. I was unemployed, carefree and had the luxury of sleeping-in as late as I pleased. But that day, I woke up extra early for 5am workout and an hour of primping then spent 45 minutes picking out the perfect casual-chic winter outfit. Eventually, I strutted out the door headed to a place that nobody wants to go. The DMV. But on February 18, I could hardly wait to be yelled at to “get in line!” or “fill out this form!” by an underpaid government worker.

The line of Guatemalans wrapping halfway around Herald Square could hardly dampen the excitement I felt. I had my iPod-induced swagger on as I took my place in line and whipped out a book prominently displaying a NY Public Library sticker, because yes, I am a New Yorker this was the day I’d be trading in my New Jersey Drivers License to make it official.

Perhaps I should’ve been more excited about the fact that it was the day I would officially become “Mrs. T” by changing my last name. But no. Instead I was thrilled because my ugly, maroon, laminated New Jersey license was being “traded up” for a shiny NY State Drivers license bearing the Manhattan address I’ve occupied for the last 5 years.

Only now, on a day not-too-far away, some unlucky DMV employee will have the displeasure of wrestling me, as I scream “but these are Prada shoes!” to the ground. Then she will have to pry from my cold, clenched fists the New York Drivers License that I so proudly whip out whenever I’m asked for ID, all because my husband T and I are purchasing our piece of the American Dream: A Condo in Montclair.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled and excited and all that and I’ve already begun ordering too much of the Crate and Barrel Winter catalog, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am still the snot-nosed, over-dressed, but under-clothed, guess-where-I-got-in, city-dwelling beeyotch I’ve always wanted to be. I take extraordinary pleasure in answering the question, “Where do you live?” when I’m out of town and in some sick way I actually enjoy the fact that I pay the same amount to rent 700 square feet that many people in the burbs pay to own 3000. Because (in my most superior voice) “you pay for the location, not the space.”

Now, as I prepare to head west across the river, I’m struggling with the fact that I will no longer be anyone’s “city friend” and that people will probably stop calling me for restaurant recommendations. I dread my first night out in Manhattan, probably in the Meatpacking District, when some bitch-faced Murray Hill skank gives me that you’re-so-bridge-and-tunnel look as I whip out my NJ Drivers License.

I invented that look!

So in a few weeks from now, if you see me driving home from COSTCO wearing a hot-pink Juicy sweat suit and sporting acrylic nails, give me a honk. I’m ready for the car, the home and even the commute, but you can bet your sweet ass that I will be delaying my trip to the DMV as long as possible. Not because it’s unpleasant, but because I’m just not ready to give up the persona that has taken me 5 years, numerous trips to Saks (fine – H&M) and an AmEx bill as thick as a phone book to craft.

The only saving grace is that, in New Jersey, they let you look at your ID photo and retake it until you’re happy. So to anyone behind me in line that day – I’m sorry, but I’m now a Jersey Girl and I’m going to re-apply lip gloss, brush on the bronzer and adjust my push-up bra until my Drivers License photo is Just Friggin Right. So back up!

Freezing My Effing Ass Off

2009-03-12T09:18:00.006-04:00

My husband and I disagree about a countless number of things. I love olives. He hates them. He thinks it's okay to bring his Blackberry to bed with us. I think that's absurd. And like most couples, he's always hot and I'm always cold. What I didn't realize is just how far he'd go to keep it that way.

Now, by no means am I claiming sainthood. I admittedly cheat at board games. I will shove Aces down my pants when playing cards to ensure a win. And I will argue anything to the death, no matter how ridiculous, just to prove I'm right, even if I'm wrong (like the time I pulled out a five minute, bullet-pointed argument claiming it was Bruce Hornsby who sampled from Tupac and not the other way around.) Quite the opposite is my Honest-Abe husband, T, who will insist on restarting a game when he finds out I'm cheating, even when he's on the same, (winning, wink wink), team. But recently, I found out that while T is the first one to stand up and admit to being wrong, he will employ the sneakiest of tactics to keep silent when he wants to keep things just the way they are.

For the last two months, as winter hit its coldest temperatures I've spent the majority of my time between the hours of 8pm and 11pm walking back and forth from the living room to the bedroom adding layer after unsexy layer of thermals, sweats, socks, hats, scarfs and burying myself under blankets. I'll look up at T with sad eyes and whimper, I'm freezing. He'll try to warm me up by giving me a big hug, but then generally jumps ten feet when my ice cold hands hit his skin screaming, "WTF!! Your hands are so cold!"

Thinking to myself, "Yes. My hands ARE so cold. That's why I'm dressed like this," I usually give him a quizzical look and ask how on earth is the apartment this cold when we live in 700 square feet on the 14th floor or a large building? Doesn't heat rise? This goes on every winter and every night we get into bed, T wearing shorts and a t-shirt, me dressed for a day on the slopes. He drifts off only to open his eyes to shoo my cold hand off of his arm and I try to burrow into the bed like a mole in the hopes of maybe staying warm enough to sleep through the night.

Cut to two nights ago. There we were doing the usual, I'm Freezing vs. Don't Touch with those Cold Hands dance when I finally sat up and said, "I really can't take this, can we call maintenance or something?" T looked at me somewhat quizzically and I thought I must've actually had icicles hanging off my nose, but with that quizzical look on his face he said, "Why don't I just turn on the heat."

I looked at him dumbfounded.

"What?" He responded nonchalantly.

Flabbergasted, I said, "We can TURN ON the heat?"

Silence.

I continued, "All this time, I've been under the impression the building controls the heat, but you're telling me, WE can turn on the heat."

Completely matter-of-factly he said, "Yeah, didn't you see me turn it off two months ago because it was so hot in here?"

I was stunned. Not one to shirk sarcasm I just stared at him for 30 seconds then replied, "Haven't you seen me parading around here dressed like an Eskimo, not allowed to even brush your sensitive skin with my practically frost-bitten hands for the past two months because it's so COLD!?"

I literally could not believe that for two months straight he'd watched me shake, shiver, pile on layers and lose the ability to cry because my tears were frozen and all he had to do was TURN ON THE FRIGGIN HEAT.

We went back and forth like this for a good twenty minutes, my voice rising, my analogies getting more and more absurd and with each ridiculous statement, T laughed harder and harder. The only reason I didn't pick up the radiator cover and throw it at him is because nothing on earth gives me more pleasure than making him laugh that hard. Even when it's at my own expense.

So as I sit here, freezing my ass off, I'm plotting revenge in my head. It will be good and it will be bad and it will be funny. But for now, as I think of the best ways to cause the most discomfort, I am desperately wishing he was home to show me how to turn on the heat.

Velvet Ropes

2009-03-05T13:33:00.001-05:00

By the time four o'clock rolled around yesterday I was deep into a productive day that included a job interview, a hard core workout and completing a laundry list of errands. And when I picked up my ringing phone to the sound of my friend Z's voice suggesting we go out to dinner, I didn't think for a second that dinner would lead to 4am Disco Fries at my neighborhoods stankiest diner. I don't think that's what Z was expecting either, but somehow that's how our night shaped up.

After a couple glasses of wine over a quiet dinner at one of my favorite local restaurants Z and I were digging through my closet getting dressed for a night on the town much to my husband, T's, dismay. The wheels were in motion and what I thought was going to be a quiet evening of scrapbooking with a glass of vino was transforming into an all night rager with velvet ropes and diamond-priced vodka. Ever since I was laid off from my job I swore I would take advantage of having my weekdays off and party with people who's beautiful faces and bodies allow them the luxury of never having to work a 9 to 5, only I've always felt too guilty to actually do it. Until last night that is when the lure of a night out with one of my besties and the thrill that comes with dressing up one of my friends in my clothes got the best of me and I was raring to go.

So at 9:30 last night Z and I headed out dressed in my Sunday best, her teetering in a pair of my size-bigger-than-hers platform stillettos and started our night at one of my favorite Lower East Side spots, Fat Baby. It's probably not a good thing when you walk into a place and the bouncer recognizes you as the girl who sat in his truck eating the Pringles you had bought for him last time you were there, but that's what happened and after two palpatation inducing RedBull Vodka's I was once again best friends with Mr. Bouncer Man.

Upon hearing that there was a little-person tossing event at Fat Baby that night and wanting to really take advantage of our freebie Wednesday night Z and I decided to head out to one of New York's toughest doors, 1 Oak. It's infamous doorman, Ben is armed nightly with the excuse, "Sorry, tonight's a private party" and an I-don't-give-a-shit-who-you-say-you-know attitude normally reserved for someone of much larger stature. So you could imagine my nerves that we'd be spending our big night out standing outside the door like losers begging to be let in, however, if I've learned anything during my years in NYC, it's that the key to getting in anywhere is to go early. Sure, you'll feel like a lame-ass for first hour when you're one of only a handful of people in the lounge, but before you know it you're another drink deep, the room is filled up and no one knows that the only reason you got past Ben in the first place is because you showed up at the embarassing hour of 11:30 when everyone knows the party doesn't start until 1. And so we rolled up behind a group of four other losers, dropped a generic name like Joe to Ben saying, "he knows you" and he must have been feeling generous because after walking away for 30 seconds he came back and ushered us in.

We were greeted with an room empty save for a duo of cougars excitedly sitting at a booth and just thirty minutes later we were running up the bar tab of the only two dudes in the place with $18 Vodka Sodas. Somewhere between Vodka number three and water number two the place filled up with some seriously beautiful people making me feel like a 5'5" midget. Forgetting where I was, I started telling some model about the "steal" I got on my BCBG dress when she complimented me on it and she gave me a look like I had just whipped out a coupon to buy myself a drink. The night wore on and my next trip to the bathroom with Z resulted in me earning my entrance into 1 Oak by cleaning up the projectile vomit she spewed all over the bathroom for five minutes before heading back upstairs where she snuck another drink on our "friend's" tab even though I begged her to pound a water. Not one to stop a party, I slammed a water, ordered another cocktail and hit the dance floor with Z alternately rocking my best moves and talking shit to people who are way cooler than I will ever be. I think I may have gone so far as to use the words "industry" and "fierce."

Then, just as we were desperately trying to order another round with two devestatingly pretty gay men whom we had just annointed our new best friends, something clicked and we were officially over it. Looking around and the over abudance of scarves, neon hoodies and purposely messy hair Z and I realized that at 29 years old, with wonderful men waiting for us at home we really didn't care all that much about seeing or being seen by people whos priorities are seven years and 10 pounds behind ours so we left. But we weren't headed home.

Anyone who knows Z knows full well that a night out with her doesn't end with leaving the bar, it begins there and what happens between 3 and 4am is more exhausting than the previous five hours of dancing. Over the next hour, to the best of my recollection, this is what happened. We got into a cab and when the driver pulled over to let us out I noticed the street sign and realized he dropped us off 8 avenues from where we needed to be. We got back in the cab, told him he was a jerk, to take us to where we needed to go and that we weren't paying for the rest of the ride. We stuck to our guns and our cab ride ended with him getting out of the cab yelling that he was going to call the cops on us to which one of responded, "For what? Being smokin hot?" I should've known that there was no way Z was just going to quietly go home from there and against everything I believe in (this week) she insisted that we hit up a diner. I begged, pleaded and finally relented as we walked through the doors of a diner I haven't visited since T and I masacared a pound of rare roast beef on another 3am morning about a year ago.

There I was, putting myself into cheese coma sharing French Onion Soup, Disco Fries and a Tuna Melt with Z, swearing to myself that I would spend two hours at the gym as soon as I woke up). I was hopeful that paying the check would signal the end of our night, but as we both teetered home, having switched shoes Z announced that she had to find a charger for her dying cell phone and asked whoever roamed the streets if they thought the Verizon store was open. I don't know what made her think that Verizon opens up at 4am, but she was on a mission and when Z is on a mission, there's no stoping her. After 15 years of friendship, I've learned that what Z wants, Z gets. So after "quietly" bursting into my apartment and trying not to wake T as we kicked off our shoes and "tip toed" into the bedroom to see if his charger would fit her phone, both he and I were watching her head out the front door.

So while Z was out scouring Manhattan for a cell phone charge at 4am, T and I sat there arguing over what to do about it. He insisted that I go after her, I insisted that he go back to bed. After all, this is the same Z who once ordered a pizza from her car in parking deck at 3am because we refused to go to a diner. After calling her dead phone forty times and after 30 minutes of arguing with each other, there was finally a knock on our door. T opened it up and in waltzed Z proudly holding her new cell phone charger which she procured by having a cabbie driver her halfway across town and refusing to pay him unless he waited for her while she found a charger that fit her phone at the only open Walgreens in NYC. And so T was finally able to get back to bed three hours before he had to get up for work and five minutes later found himself snuggled up with two girls sporting cheese fry breath. Now being in bed with two women would normally be every man's fantasy, only it's not so sexy when you find yourself clinging on to the only corner of bed and sliver of blanket your sleep-talking wife and her sleep-thrasing best friend haven't claimed as their own between snores and kicks.

By 12pm today Z and I were fully awake and hungry once again. After a trip to another diner for breakfast and Z hitting up three parking garages before figuring out where she'd parked her car it was time for me to clean up the Tornado named Unplain Jane that swept through our apartment last night just in time to meet my husband for an after-work (or in my case, after-nothing) cocktails event. Ouch.

If I learned anything last night it's that nothing good happens after 2:30am and maybe I'm getting a little too old to be sucking up to bouncers for access to places I am no longer cool enough for, but at least I can say I've been to 1 Oak and am over it. (That's not to say that if Lindsay Lohan had walked in I would've creamed myself and returned every Wednesday night for the rest of my life.) Not to be a sap but nights like these always serve as a great reminder that velvet ropes, over priced cocktails and fancy people desperately searching for the next-best-thing don't equal good times. Good times come packaged as hilarious best friends and amazing husbands. Next time we can skip the lines and the pretty people because it's a lot more fun to sit around getting fat and having laughs with your friends and family over an underpriced meal.

Running of the Brides

2009-02-28T08:31:00.009-05:00

At around 7am last Friday morning my husband's phone rang jolting both of us out of a deep sleep. He answered it and spoke in muffled, half-asleep tones as terrible thoughts began to swirl around in my head. Did something happen to our parents? Was Sephora going out of business? Thirty seconds later he passed the phone to me and said, "It's Y on the phone for you."

"Of course it is," I thought. Of all the people we know if there's anyone who will creatively find good reason to break the general time rules of how early/late it's acceptable to call someone, it's her. And today she had her reasons. I put the phone to my ear and in the complete opposite of her "morning voice" she blared, "I wanna go to the Running of the Briiiiiiiiides!" Of course she was referring to Filene's Basement annual "Running of the Brides," an event where teams of women line up, pull hair and strip naked in public in the name of deep discounts on designer bridal gowns.

Given that it was 7am and I was still reeling from the terror an unusually-timed phone call induces, I told her she was crazy. That it was too late to get on a line that, according to the Today Show already wrapped around the block, and to call me back at noon and maybe we'll go pick through the remains in what would essentially be a big, white, taffeta graveyard. And in a I'll-do-what-you-say-but-I'm-disappointed-like-a-five-year-old tone that only Y has perfected, she said, "Fine" and we hung up.

By the time I stumbled out of my bedroom and mainlined a cup of coffee, I woke up enough to realize that I was not being a good friend. Armed with the excuse that I was half asleep when she called, I picked up the phone, dialed Y and said, "OK, drive into the city and we'll go" and it's a good thing we did.

By the time we arrived the crowds had somewhat died down and their were thousands of gowns on the racks. One look around the store pierced the eyes with a sea of white speckled with the half naked bodies of soon-to-be-brides waiting to step into the next sample hopeful it would be "the one." Not ones to brandish whistles or matching T Shirts (on short notice anyway), Y and I started picking through the racks. Beaded? No. Lace? No. Pink? No. Finally armed with an armful of hits and misses (not missus) Y and I picked an unoccupied section of floor where she could take it off and I could help her put it on. It was dress # 2 that brought the tears to my over-emotional eyes and a certain spring Y's step that only comes with "the one." But how could the second dress be it? Y insisted on trying on a good 10 more dresses and I did my best to be a good friend and not scream, "This is the one. Buy it!" every time she put dress # 2 back on and smiled at herself dreamily in the mirror (especially since two of the ten looked like something sprung off of www.uglydress.com.) After all, only she could make this decision.

Knowing that dress # 2 was in fact "the one" we held on to the only two copies in the store as three to four other brides hovered like vultures waiting for us to let one of the coveted frocks out of our sight. No girl can buy a wedding gown without her mother there to give the final nod (and the final swipe of the credit card) and so Y called up her mother in South Jersey and told her to head into the city. And so, what started as "let's just go take a look then go to lunch" was shaping up to be 6 hours of watching creepy men check out half naked brides while pretending to be shopping for cuff links at Filene's Basement.

It was nearly 1pm and since Y and I possess two of the biggest appetites known to man, one of us needed to go pick up lunch. So she threw her tiny body on top of the two gowns and I promised I'd be back ASAP before heading out to Whole Foods. What would normally be a five minute visit to the grocery store in New York takes twenty because you have to battle the crowds of office lunchers picking up their whole-grain, gluten-free, tofu and bean sprout sandwiches before they smoke that lunchtime cig on the way back to the office. So as fast as I could, but not fast enough I made my way back up the three flights of escalators to the back of Filene's where Y was turning away the throngs of brides who asked to try on her gown. We plopped ourselves down in between two displays of men's undies and had a make shift picnic on the floor of Y's new favorite retailer and enjoyed ourselves. As we inhaled our food a Filene's employee and would be pageant stylist stopped by every few minutes to show us yet another monstrosity that Y "must" try on. After saying no six or seven times we finally felt bad and promised to try on the beaded taffeta tablecloth that he called elegant and stylish.

About two hours later, after running around the store looking at other dresses, taking turns guarding the two to-die-for gowns we were holding and scoping out the largest, deepest most horrendous camel toe in grey spandex you have ever seen in your entire life, Y's mom finally called and announced that she was at the front door of the store.

Needless to say, it wasn't long before we were clinking glasses in a celebratory cocktail, cheersing the bride-to-be and the gorgeous new dress she'd be sporting down the aisle. Even if she hadn't come home with a dress the sheer entertainment factor of the day and hearing a Filene's employee exclaim, "Dang, I got titties," would've made the whole trip worth it. But luckily she did get a gown and it's a stunner and hopefully her fiance won't have a heart attack when she struts down the aisle in that fierce number that was wholly worth 6 hours spent on the floor.

How Not to Be a Human Being

2009-02-17T15:40:00.005-05:00

There is nothing more fascinating to me than the way people conduct themselves in public and the factors that make us act, or not act, in a particular way. Sometimes we are kind, sometimes we are abrasive and sometimes we are just plain ridiculous. And this Sunday, as my husband T and I enjoyed one of those rare do-whatever-the-hell-we-feel-like days together, ridiculous seemed to be what was on tap.

After our coffee and morning news I convinced T to finally take me to see Revolutionary Road (Revolutionary Road (Movie Tie-in Edition) (Vintage Contemporaries)) by announcing, "You're taking me to see Revolutionary Road at 11:15." As expected he hated it (partially because he was determined to hate it and partially because he actually hated it), I loved it and we had our usual post-movie let's-pretend-we-know-something-about-the-"cinema" discussion.

We had worn our gym clothes to the movie and only had to make a quick pit stop to pick up bottles of water on our way to work out. It was during this pit stop that ridiculous set in. After searching around Duane Reade for five minutes before finding where they had hidden the bottles of water, we worked our way up front and got on line. There was one person checking out and we were next. As people who generally observe the unspoken rules of social-distance we stood two, maybe three feet behind the person checking out as not to press up against her and give her flashbacks of getting grinded by over-age guys who snuck into teen night at a nightclub in the New Jersey town she grew up in (Hunka Bunka anyone?)

As the cashier scanned her items, we stood there, clearly next on line, having abandoned our "intelligent" movie conversation for more important matters like gas. Just as the transaction ahead of us was wrapping up an old woman swooped in, half looked at us and stepped in front of us on line. The girl left and the woman placed her items on the counter and instructed the cashier to check her out.

Utterly confused as to if this was really happening, I looked at T with the same confused face that I looked at my Maid of Honor with when someone farted during our wedding ceremony. My eyes darted between T and the cashier and I lost it (again, in the same way I lost it when the gas was passed under our chuppah). My face turned reddish-purple, my body shook and I couldn't stifle the laughter. Nothing I did could stop the hysterical laughing and I was literally cracking up with tears coming out of my eyes and gasping for breath between "ha-ha's." Between laughs, I gasped to T, "Is this really happening?" and the cashier did all he could to to keep it together and not start cracking up too as he tried to convince grandma that he wasn't over charging her for the cat food. I kept laughing, the cashier counted the pennies that she was paying with and T just stood there dumbfounded.

She was lucky I was having a good day, because normally I am the first person to call someone out when they behave in a manner that defies common courtesy. Just last week, some woman first, told off the person behind the deli-counter, then yelled at me to get out of her way in the grocery store so I turned around and told her, "You need to be nicer to people lady!" To my surprise, she actually responded by yelling back at me, "Yeah, you're right!" Which was basically contradictory since she yelled it at me in a the nastiest tone possible.

But on Sunday, the old broad in Duane Reade lucked out. She finished counting pennies, took her receipt and after cutting us in line with not so much as a glance back, she headed out of the store, but not before knocking down the display of tissues on the counter on her way out. It's a good thing that I can count on my husband to toss in the appropriate snide remark when I'm too busy laughing, because he yelled after her, "Don't worry lady! I got it!" (in reference to the tissues) as she made her way out the door.

I always joke that when I hit my late eighties I'm going to do the following:

1. Eat whatever the hell I want and get really fat.
2. Start smoking a pack of Virginia Slims a day.
3. Set new standards of daily wine consumption.
4. Say and do whatever the hell I want.

Maybe I'll even take up stealing, fart out loud in public and be as cranky as I want to be to "youngsters". I've always planned to do so under the guise of, "I'm old. What do you expect?" I always say this jokingly and truly hope to be healthy, vibrant and attractive (not smelly, wheezing and nasty) until they hammer the nails into my coffin. But after witnessing this woman get away with utterly ridiculous behavior and go about her day like she's entitled to do whatever the hell she wants just for hitting 70, maybe I'll meet myself somewhere in the middle...

P.S. In completely unrelated news, don't forget to get your St. Patty's Day Shirts here.

The Real Housewives, A Hair in My Body Butter and The BlAmEx

2009-02-13T11:56:00.011-05:00

On a Friday and as I was getting ready to snuggle up with Oprah I thought I'd get some more random things off my mind. So here they are.

The Real Housewives of Orange County

As we approach the end of yet another season of watching these aging women with fake breasts flaunt the only thing they have going for themselves, money, I am approaching my boiling point. That is to say that with just one episode to go, I find myself disgusted with the things that come out of their mouths. This week in particular, in between fighting over who said their favorite drink was a Dirty Martini first and accusing each other of being bad people the housewives managed to come out with these gems:

Vickie (with tears in her eyes): "If I can say I got one more dancer off the poles than this cruise was worth it. "

I'm sorry, now I'm sure your three day cruise to teach people about the insurance business inspired some recent LA transplant that she too can one day shop at the Forever21 in Beverly Hills and buy the same clothes as her teenager. However, how do you think homegirl paid for the eight hours she got to spend in a stinky cruise ship meeting room listening to you talk about how you work 22 hours a day to avoid your sexless, loveless marriage and afford to buy yourself gifts because your husband won't? She worked the pole. That's how. And she's going to continue to work the pole until her boobs and her face start to droop as far as yours already have. Then, she'll go into insurance. So thanks for the insurance lecture Vicki, but don't credit yourself with ripping girls down off the pole.

Geana (pouting): "Why don't we have any 'bummers' in Orange County?

Yes, by 'bummers' she means homeless people. Does anyone else find it sickening that this woman feels jipped because unlike her daughter's college town of Berkley, CA there aren't any homeless people wandering the streets of her gated Orange County community? I'm sorry, but since when are the homeless a novelty? Have you not truly made it until there's a homeless person within a five block radius of your home? Perhaps we can plop a shelter right down next to her house so that she can play dress up with all the cute little bummers? What a d-bag.

A Hair in My Body Butter

So after dragging my sick self to the gym yesterday morning and getting in a half-ass work out, I actually had to shower before 3pm so as not to offend my lunch date by stinking. After stepping out of the shower and getting the floor soaked as ususal, I began my lengthy post-shower routine. Lotion here, brush there, eye cream, lip cream and SPF oh my! When I was sufficiently oozing youth-preserving moisture, I moved on to my favorite step: Body Butter. There's nothing I enjoy more than heaping on that gooey delicious moisturizer and basking in its delicious smell for the twenty or so minute it takes to soak in.

I was going about my business as usual, sad that I was reaching the bottom of another tub of my favorite lotion and there it was. It was dark, about 1/2 an inch long and I swear it had a face. Ok, it didn't have a face, but regardless it was menacing. With only half an arm left to butter and one scoop of cream left I wrestled with myself over what to do. Do I go fishing, pick the little fucker out of the cream, save it in a plastic bag for evidence and stick it in the freezer? Do I turn my head, scoop haphazardly and just hope the hair falls on the floor sometime between scooping and rubbing?

I daintily dipped a finger in the tub, swirled a little while contemplating my next move in Unplain vs. Mystery Hair and as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. I was so caught up in what to do with it that I never even stopped to think about where the hair came from. As one half of a Jewish-Italian couple, I am no stranger to an abudance of hair (or sweat for that matter). The many options of the renegade hair's origins ran through my head. Was it the obvious? Was it a chest hair? Or was it the losing half of one of my ever growing split ends?

I guess we will never know where the mystery hair came from or where it's headed for that matter. I'm just happy to say it didn't wind up getting rubbed into my elbow...or did it?

The BlAmEx

The mythical Centurion Card. We've all heard of it and know about it's astronomical yearly spending requirements and fees. We've watched the VH1 specials about the supremely-absurdly-donkey-crazy rich and how the ultimate status symbol is the Black AmEx Card. But until now, I could never actually say I've seen one in use. Needless to say, that all changed.

As I waited at the front bar in the W for my lunch date yesterday, ferociously typing away on my BlackBerry addressing the important subject of Harry Conick Jr.'s hotness with my best friend, I sat next to an unassuming, 30-something gentleman who was typing ferociously on TWO BlackBerry's about what I'm guessing were more pressing matters. He drank a soda and a capuccino and I tried not to bump into him as I laughed (more like snorted) outloud at the witty banter going back and forth via email on my handheld.

Just as I was typing a long, drawn out description of Harry Conick Jr.'s chiseled chest, I saw it. Angels appeared, a choir sung in the background and I swear you could hear a gong ring out as he placed it on the bar. The Black American Express. I did a double take just to make sure I was actually watching this happen. Without flinching the waitress picked it up and took it away to swipe it (while secretly creaming herself I'm sure.) I turned to face the man so that he wouldn't see the text I was now typing on my BlackBerry, addressing both my husband and my best friend. (Some things trump a rousing discussion of New Orleans hottest export).

"I just saw some guy use a BlAmEx!!!!" I "shouted" via BBM.

The responses I got from my husband and my best friend were not very different.

T: "Talk to him!!!"

A: "And you didn't immediatley blow him?!"

(I feel the need to interrupt my story here as I just realized the two people closest to me in the world are known as T&A. Coincidence? I think not. Although that fact is chalk full of irony since I have neither T nor A despite my desperate attempts to miraculously grow both.)

Two seconds later, my lunch date arrived and I watched mystery BlAmEx man exit Blue Fin with my not having spoken to (nor felated) him.

And that ladies and gentlman, is Friday.

A Few Bad Ideas

2009-02-12T13:23:00.004-05:00

In my ongoing quest to find interesting things to do and that I can write about here, I am constantly tossing around ideas to my friends, my husband, the clerk at Duane Reade and to myself (yes, out loud). Below are a few of these ideas that at first seemed genius to me, but clearly are just bad.

A Day at the OTB

I can't tell you how many times I've walked past the Off Track Betting facility in my neighborhood, with it's fancy name (something like "The Green Medal Club) and opaque windows and thought to myself, "Wow, I wonder if it's some snooty Republican men's club." Then, because I'm staring at the windows I'll usually bump into whatever homeless man is stumbling out cursing and throwing down his tickets and realize that it's the OTB, not a branch of the Yale Club. So one day, over afternoon cocktails a friend and I decided that my next UnPlain experience should be a day spent at the OTB. Newly unemployed and with no extra dollars to spare I could dress down, stick a cigarette behind my ear and hang out in a 4' by 4' room all day with a bunch of down and out degenerate gamblers. Even as I write this, part of me still thinks it's genius. Fortunately for my health and well-being, my husband T, for the first time in the five years we've been together actually told me that I was not allowed to do it. Of course this only made me want to do it more. Eff him, right? Nobody tells me what I can and can not do!

Except that he's right. The OTB is probably a dangerous place for an attractive young lady to spend a day, but every now and then I push the thought of potentially getting stabbed out of my head and revisit the idea of going for a few seconds before I come to my husband-imposed senses once again.

I'd love to hear from anyone who's actually been!

Little People

Yes, I feel guilty even writing a small blurb about the vertically challenged (and I mean legitimately little, not just short), but people of the smaller persuasion are of particular fascination to me. It's a love-hate thing. Take the Roloff Family from the TV Show Little People, Big World. They haven't done anything to me, I've barely even watched the show, but for some reason I loathe, yes loathe, them. I despise them so much that every time a commercial for the show comes on I have to yell out loud, "It should be called Little People, Big ASSHOLES!" at the TV, even if I'm all by myself. On the other hand find me an Oompa Loompa or one of those little Maury Povich kids and my heart fills up with so much love that I want to strap on a Baby Bjorn and carry a little person around with me all day.

So today as I rode the M15 back downtown from Bed, Bath and Beyond, I saw my favorite kind of little person walking down the street. She was a little person that required a double-take just to make sure she was actually a little person. She didn't have "little person face" and was just a a smidge taller than your average below-average height person. Then, when I looked down towards her feet as she walked along I saw what were unmistakeably a pair of little girls Mary Jane's. I swear, her shoes could've been purchased at The Children's Place. Don't get me wrong, I have a few tiny-footed friends who can wear a chidren's size sneaker, but none have tiny feet so darling as this woman. I was immediately enamored. My mind went to that place where I contemplated either jumping off the bus to "interview" her for my blog (which I'm sure would go over really well) or whipping out my BlackBerry to snap a picture to later post and comment on.

Ultimately, I figured it was a bad idea to do either and it would just make me look bad, but I have a feeling just writing about it accomplished that anyway.

The Crack of Dawn

The other two ideas I had involved waking up at the crack of dawn which obviously isn't going to happen. So my apologies, but no, UnPlain Jane will not be appearing on the Mike & Juliet show this Monday nor will I ever find out what the semi-hot guy who sits at the same table at Morton's every Wednesday morning at 8am does for a living.

Any ideas that don't involve too much effort on my part are greatly appreciated!

Subtle Butt

2009-02-11T15:24:00.008-05:00

It's amazing what a long day of running errands, doing lunch and trying to find a Starbucks with an empty seat can make you forget. So it wasn't until late this afternoon, when I engaged in a battle of wits over BlackBerry Messenger (BBM) with one of my favorite people that I remembered one of the more interesting things I saw today while watching my one of my favorite morning shows, The Doctor's, on the elliptical machine at the gym (can I be anymore suburban housewife?)

The BBM conversation with this:

K: UnPlain I need the Rosetta Stone to decipher the language you and my fiancee use when you talk to each other.

UnPlain: Get with it K. You're Double Oh C (OOC = Out of Control)

K: Whatevs UnPlain - did I get that right? Your husband, T and I are going to come up with our own code involving burps, grunts, nosepicks and farts.

And as so many of my thoughts, conversations and diatribes begin, I responded, "Speaking of farts..."

And so, speaking of farts, while watching The Doctors, which is incidentally one of the worst, most repetitive insults of intelligence to even the most simple of simpletons TV, the subject of flatulence was raised. Immediately my ears perked up at one of my favorite topics and I slowed my roll on the elliptical and paid attention. What followed next was a tight shot of Dr. Jim holding up a pair of fire engine red man panties and applying a 3" by 3" black square to the "business area" of the "manties" (man panties). As such, Subtle Butt, when applied correctly will prevent the odor end of your best post fiber-heavy meal work from escaping past the confines of your pants.

The Doctor's then went on to explain the chemical reactions that occur and the science behind how Subtle Butt works, but I was too transfixed with the thought that I may never have to see that I-can't-believe-I-share-a-bed-with-you look from my husband or be forced to sheepishly leave the grocery store before checking out again. Just as I was wishing I had invented this genius product, it hit me that I, like most of the women I know, prefer to wear butt-floss under my skin-tight jeans and tiny patches of fabric that I pass off for dresses. And unless you're a hippopotamus or home-bound due to a genetic weight problem, odds are your thong doesn't measure 3 inches across. And if either of these are the case a little flatulence is probably the least of your issues.

But if you favor grannies or you're a man then odds are you can sleep tight with the knowledge that thanks to Subtle Butt your SBDs can now remain between you and your pants.

A Swift Kick In The Ass

2009-02-11T10:27:00.005-05:00

When I woke up this morning I knew I had to move a little more quickly than usual thanks to the knowledge that I had to be somewhere at the crack of dawn, noon. A little daunted by the prospect of getting in a workout, getting dressed and actually blowdrying my hair and applying make up in time to get out the door for my lunch date, I moved more quickly than I have been in recent days. After forcing myself to finish my workout, I made the mistake of getting on the scale at the gym. What followed was a BBM to my husband that read, "I am fat, unemployed and lazy, do you want an annulment?" Taking his non-response as an indicator that he was considering my offer, I sulked home and began wallowing in the fact that after three weeks of real unemployment (I don't count the period between losing my job and the wedding) I had become everything I swore I wouldn't when I wrote a bit of sunshine in October called, "That's What Unemployement's For.

Realizing I'd let my writing slack off and that I'd become complacent in calling a day where I hit the gym, cooked dinner and sent out some resumes a success I decided it was time for a swift kick in the ass. I'm not one to respond well to prodding (the truth is I'm so stubborn that even if I want or planned to do a chore/task/whatever, the minute someone tells me I HAVE to do it, consider it NEVER HAPPENING). Combine that with the fact that, as my husband announced across the dinner table during one of my first meetings with his entire family, "she's a total narcissist," I knew that I needed to find some other way to motivate myself. As such, I decided that you, my readers, are the biggest motivation I have. The more hits I see on that statcounter, the more I'm convinced like Sally Field that, "you like me! you really really like me!", and the more I want to keep going.

And so as my motivation to not let the two Essay Collections I'm working on fall by the wayside like so many projects before, I've decided that once weekly I must finish an essay and publish an excerpt on UnPlain Jane. And so today I give you an excerpt from the first essay in the collection Wedding.Honeymoon.Disaster. : A Collection of Essays from a Calamity Bride.

So without further ado, here is a little taste from Chapter 1:

The Dress: My Sordid Tale of Buying off The Rack

....my fabulous fucking dress from Saks.

The dress was perhaps the single most important element of “MY wedding” (aside from the groom). There is something about a dress, any dress, even a work-dress, that lights a little fire in the pit of my belly. The glorious dress. The most revered element of my wardrobe. With just this single, solitary garment, the dress, any woman can turn herself into a myriad of things. With the right bounce and a pretty frill, a dress can turn you back into an innocent again and with the right hemline and cleavage, a dress can turn you into the raging slut you always wanted to be (or were in college). With the right dress, and only the right dress, you can marry the man of your dreams and for just one day be the princess/diva/Mormon you always envisioned yourself as.

I learned the importance of the dress at the ripe old age of six when my mother purchased and subsequently hung in my closet, what I referred to as my “speech dress” (mainly because it was the dress I would put on when I would stand on top of my bed, giving speeches on topics of great important, like Strawberry Shortcake, to the audience of stuffed animals I had carefully arranged on the floor below me.) My speech dress had that perfect amount of swing that a six year old needs to do that endearing chin-down, hold on to the bottom of the hem with both hands and sway back and forth move indicating we either have to pee or want a new toy. Incidentally, I still use this move whenever I try to get my new Husband to perform some sort of emasculating act of for me, because if he really loved me, yes, he would allow me to put mascara on his incredibly long eyelashes.

The very first time I wore my speech dress was when I played the illustrious role of the “The Capital Letter I” in Ms. Zangy’s First Grade Class production of “The Alphabet”. Through the magic of poster board and the fact that, still in her early thirties, my mother was inclined to be crafty, I waltzed onto stage wearing my speech dress and a Letter I slung over both shoulders, looking like the guy on 7^th Avenue wearing a cardboard sign advertising nails, waxing and/or threading. The same guy that I tell to “Fuck Off” every day when he shoves a flyer in my face. But on that day, even though I was wearing what could’ve just as easily been an advertisement for Mexican food and even if I was the overweight Capital Letter I with a bowl cut, standing next to Jennie DelMont who starred as the adorably dimpled and pig-tailed Lower Case Letter i, I was unstoppable. I was unstoppable because I was wearing my speech dress and that made me the star of the show.

I wore that dress as often as humanly possible until my mother finally threw it out when, in the fourth grade, I tried to shove my “80 pound whale” self (as my gentle older sister dubbed me at gym class weigh-ins) into my “speech dress” and nearly took our dog Curly’s eye out when the zipper popped off and went flying. My dress obsession was born and since that formative time as a burgeoning, first-grade fashionista, I have dubbed myself an expert in dresses, especially white ones, which is why I placed the absolute utmost importance on finding the wedding dress of my dreams. Thus, on a chilly fall night, with print-outs in hand and my best friend, A, in tow, I daintily pressed the number “3” on the elevator at Saks Fifth Avenue and sashayed past Contemporary Sportswear into their Bridal Salon for my 6pm appointment with a bridal consultant...

I hope you enjoyed your first taste of "Wedding. Honeymoon. Disasater." Look for a short excerpt each week from this project or my other baby, "Birthdays, Anniversaries, and Other Great Disappointments.

From Three Year Olds to Three Am

2009-02-10T08:42:00.010-05:00

Bright and early on Saturday morning my husband T and I hopped a train to New Jersey to celebrate our nephew's third birthday. Luckily, I had the wherewithal to turn down one of my "crazier" friend's offers to hit a guaranteed rager the night before. Even I know it's inappropriate to show up at a family affair soaked in the stench of sweat, booze and hairspray and I didn't want to be introduced to the twenty or so children as Bozo the Hungover Clown. With the panic-attack inducing gifts I had purchased at the children's department in hand, T and I arrived at his brother's home to be greeted by the sound of banging, laughter, tears and "mooooooooommy."

As tiny, adorable little mini people whizzed back and forth past us, up the stairs, down the stairs with parent's chasing them tensely shouting through smiled teeth, "get that out of your mouth!", T and I looked at each other and I said, "Oh shit. Remind me to take my birth control as soon as we get home."

While kiddie parties are often scary (to us non-parents anyway) they do have one amazing upside. Sugar. And lot's of it. Not being one to understand the concept of moderation, I devised a plan. As I stated to T on the train, as thoughts of cookies and cake and chocolate whirled through my head, my plan was to skip all real food and save the calories for dessert. (I decided to do this as a precursor to the experiment I'm planning which is to ditch my normally healthy meals for one day and instead eat the same amount of calories in some sort of completely bad for me food - i.e. an entire box of Enteman's chocolate chips spread out over one day OR three five hundred calorie Oreo McFlurries - breakfast, lunch, dinner).

So while I watched T march back and forth from the lunch table deservedly enjoying an i-don't-have-to-be-on-a-wedding-diet-bliss pizza, sandwiches and whatever else he could get his hands on, I carefully plucked a few snap peas off the veggie tray knowing my moment was coming. Pretty soon, they lined the kiddies up and we sang a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday and my mouth watered as I watched the cake being cut into tiny child-size pieces. As I stood there feeling my bloodsugar dropping, silently thinking to myself, "you better start cutting grown-up sized when it's my turn" I noticed the fruit bowl. In a moment of sanity I decided that I would skip the cake and instead have a feast of fruit and M&M's. Which I did.

Sometime between Happy Birthday and opening presents I ingested so many M&Ms that I felt my body go into some sort of sugar shock. I was literally grinding my teeth and shaking and must've looked like something that came out of the toilet in TrainSpotting. At this rate, I would've been better off showing up as Bozo the Hungover Clown and at least have had a good reason for looking and feeling like Andy Dick's twin sister. Needless to say, I saw my only line of defense to be salt. I mean, they're opposite in taste so they must have the opposite effect right? So after everyone had left and it was just the four of us sitting across a kitchen island seperated by a small sea of Doritos, Tositos, pretzles and dip I did what was necessary and began inhaling piece by piece the salty snacks that in my mind were going to counteract the evil effects of all the delicious sugar I had ingested. Bad idea.

As we rode the train back to the city I downed bottle after bottle of water trying to flush my system out in enough time to be able to suck in my stomach, pull on my favorite jeans and head downtown to Cheap Shots with one of my friends. As I said, I do not understand the concept of moderation so after a nap and quick fix of my make-up, I was sipping a pre-game glass of wine waiting for the call that it was time to go. On my junk food kick and having skipped dinner for two reasons 1) it took about five hours for the feeling of sugar-induced naseau to subside and 2) knowing I'd be drinking enough to warrant a very late night snack, I entered the bar, ordered a Vodka Club and a round of Jolly Rancher shots (did I mention we were pretending we were 20 years old that night) and cheersed my buddies to a long night.

Somewhere between three and four bars later I looked at my Blackberry and saw that my 3 am, self-imposed curfew had arrived. Had I not had a wonderful husband sleeping at home I probably would've said "F-ck it" and used my new Google App to find out which NYC bar stays open the absolute latest, then hauled my group of friends there to keep the party going with the inevidable group of Irish lasses and lads we would find at such a place. Luckily for me, with marriage comes a newly found ability to be rational when you're out without your better half (if T is out with me it usually ends with me holding the camera snapping shots of people's reactions to whatever hilarious, obnoxious and so-unlike-him-snarky remark he just said to a complete stranger). But alas, it was girls' night so at three am, like cinderella, my towncar was about to turn into a subway ride and I grabbed a cab back uptown.

I spent the ten minute ride home deep in thought contemplating what delicous snack I was going to "treat myself" with (as if I hadn't already treated myself like a friggin Oompa Loompa in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory all day). Pizza - No. McDonalds - No. For some reason, again, my 3am rationale kicked in and I decided I was going to have a treat, but not something so bad I couldn't recover from it. I instructed the driver to drop me off in front of the 24 hour Duane Reade and wondered the aisles slowly, contemplating the many options laid out before me. Chocolate and cookies and cake, oh my! Then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, resting gently on a wire rack, was the snack of my dreams. First, I checked the nutritional content (yes, I actually did this). Second, I rationalized that at 140 calories per serving and only 2.5 servings per bag, that 330 calories was reasonable. Third, I took them to the register grabbing a mini Ghiradelli dark chocolate on the way to get some sweet on with my salty.

I walked the block home and on the way ate half of my piece of chocolate and threw the rest out. This is a horrible calorie-saving habit I have and I am fully aware that by even metioning it, half of my readership will step-back and think to themself that I am derranged. The other half will think, "good idea" and enter it into practice immediately, so it's a draw. After over-excitedly greeting our overnight doorman who "it's been way too long!" since I'd seen, I made it upstairs to my apartment, tiptoed into the bedroom, gave T a kiss on the forehead and thought, "see you after the feast."

On the couch I turned on a DVR'd episode of My Name is Earl (which I had to subsequently rewatch the next day for clarity) and downed the bag of SunChips, carefully savoring each bite. I truly believed that the bag would be enough to satisfy my late night craving but when I walked into the kitchen and opened up the fridge to get a glass of water, I saw my favorite of all the food groups staring at me: Butter. Now, if the rest of civilization wouldn't think I was disgusting, I would gladly eat butter and all butter related products with a spoon. No vehicle necessary. However, I'm aware this is socially unacceptable so even at three am, by myself, I took out a piece of bread and piled on enough butter to make it unrecognizable and then went to town. Rinse. Repeat. Only this time with a half of slice of bread (so as not to be "totally disgusting")

I woke up the next morning feeling still full and none to proud of myself. It only got worse when yesterday, as I cleaned out the fridge, I noticed that I had at some point ripped into a leftover piece of chicken as well. I dumped the chicken and headed to the gym where I put in another hour and a half of cardio to try and counteract the effects of my three am feast. Clearly the effects had already taken hold because when I stepped on the scale, the needle was a few notches higher than I generally like it to be.

Perhaps my experiment in junkfood will have to wait or perhaps I already conducted it without even realizing it. Either way, three year olds and three am nights do not a healthy, fit lady make.

The Name Change Express

2009-02-05T14:57:00.004-05:00

Yesterday turned out to be a complete bust. I could barely walk thanks to a military-style Jackie Warner workout and after spending two hours perfecting and applying the address labels for our wedding thank-yous, I realized I had royally screwed them up and needed to purchase an entirely new set of envelopes. Then, finally, during a trip to the kid's department of one of my favorite stores I launched into a mini-panic attack thanks to the sight of those teeny-tiny clothes. After standing there, frozen for five minutes due to the fear that now that I'm married I HAVE to have a child asap, I dropped the pair of superhero undies I was holding and sprinted home to the safety of my couch. With thoughts like, "will I ever be fit to procreate?" spinning through my head, I spent the rest of the afternoon curled up, wearing a house dress and a scrunchie, feeling unemployed and sorry for myself in the company of a bad movie and a dwindling block of cheese.

Thanks to my husband's understanding, the realization that I'm allowed to have 1 unemployed breakdown in three months and the Tasti-d-Lite delivery man's quick service, by the time I went to bed I knew I would awaken to the prospect of a better day.

Not one to take even the smallest revelation or motivation lightly, I decided that today was the beginning of the rest of my life and with my new life, comes my new name. After much discussion and almost convincing my husband T that we should both change our last names to Awesome (pronounced Ow - ah - soh - me), hence making us "The Awesomes", he finally put his size 14 foot down and gently urged me to take his name. Since I'd been spending every day since meeting him five years ago scribbling my first and middle names next to his last name, dotting the "I"s with hearts, I agreed and today I was going to begin the process of making it legal.

This morning, just as I did and chronicled three months ago here, I got myself dressed and headed over to the Social Security office. Knowing that I wasn't in store for the sort of bureaucratic nightmare one encounters during a trip to the Time Warner Cable store (it's easier to obtain a passport than a new DVR cable box) I carried only a book and my Blackberry, not a suitcase full of entertainment like I brought with me last time. When I got upstairs, I pulled my number and sat down amongst the 15 or so other people waiting their turn. Pretending to read, I checked out my compadres and saw the usual suspects. A few business people with lovely London accents, a handful of Russian Mail-Order-Wifies and about four other newly-married, uppity bitches like myself. I honed in on these four making eye contact with each and silently exchanged that only-in-New-York Congratulations/Let-me-see-your-ring-to-see-if-mine-is-bigger/I'm-the-most-special-bride-bitch smile.

One after the other the woman behind the glass called our numbers and we marched up, holding our marriage certificates and newly-stamped-from-the-honeymoon passports. When it was my turn I tried to make a few jokes and exchange pleasantries with the woman processing the papers that will give me my new and just-as-unpronounceable-as-the-old-one last name. Unfortunately, it seems that all government workers are trained not to smile under any circumstances, so I switched off the charm and demanded to know why I never received the Social Security card I applied for three months ago. She responded by rolling her eyes, fiercely tapping away at her keyboard then said, "Girl, you better check with your mailman because it was mailed."

"Thanks" I blandly responded, "I guess I better check my credit report."

She stared at me blankly, handed me my passport and a receipt, then sent me on my merry with a shaky confidence that my new Social Security card, reflecting that I am now "Mrs. T" would arrive in my mailbox in 7 to 14 business days. Now all I can do is wait, check the mailbox every day and hope that none of my unfriendly postal worker's illegitimate children are running around with my soon-to-be-former identity.

Next stop on the Name Change Express: The DMV. This should be interesting

Happy Hump Day

2009-02-04T15:58:00.007-05:00

I can't think of a better way to spend a Hump Day afternoon than enjoying a glass of red wine and an hour with my favorite frenemy, Oprah. So at four o'clock yesterday I opened the screw cap (classy) on a new bottle of Malbec and filled up a white wine glass (trick: use a white wine glass to drink red because two glasses of white equals one glass of red) and I flipped on Channel 707 to watch Ophs. In order not to feel too guilty about enjoying the afternoon, I parked my laptop on my, well, lap and jotted down some thoughts about a few things that cross my mind but don't necessarily warrant their own posting.

Lounge Clothes

Ever since my college days "lounge clothes" have been a staple in my wardrobe. Long before Victoria's Secret and Old Navy had a "Loungewear" section on their websites, I would strap on my roller blades, grab my roomie and head of to KMart where we'd buy identical pairs of boyshorts with the matching tank. We'd then unabashedly wear our new lounge "outfits" (aka: undies) around the dorm for all to see thinking we were cute. The only problem was my roomie was 5 foot 2 and 95 pounds while I, on the other hand, was pushing a deuce at the time. Luckily since then, I've lost the weight and the habit of wearing glorified undies in public. My old roomate, on the other hand, still finds a way to call boyshorts and a see-through tank an outfit and wear it down to a hotel buffet breakfast (in Vegas of course).

But just because I no longer wear these "outfits" in public by no means is to say that my love for and obsession with lounge clothes has faded. In fact, over time, with less pounds and more money than my college freshman self, it's grown exponentially. Some may say it's a problem, but I just love me some loungewear. Just before sitting down to watch Oprah I showered, lotioned, brushed my hair and took a good fifteen minutes to pick out the perfect lounge outfit to sit on the couch sipping wine and typing. It's sort of an out-of-body experience how I picture myself and what I'll be doing then choose the appropriate lounge outfit for whatever relaxing activity I'm in for. Sure, I could've thrown on mismatched sweats and a big T shirt and since I was by myself, literally no one would've noticed, but to me, lounging is an art. And so I chose a black one piece shorts romper to wear with a lightweight cotton cardigan (also black but white would've been cute too) and new leather flip flops that I purchased in Argentina. Hey, if Oprah had Skyped me into the show, I would've been ready!

The Wine Diet

I'm always reading some women's magazine article that consists of an editor's repackaging the same old "healthy living" tips (we don't dare say diet anymore) from "Expert Trainers!" or "Fifty Doctors" that "Weighed In." It never fails that over and over again we are spoon fed the same common-sense health tips in a way that tries to convince us that they've stumbled upon some earth-shattering fitness secret like, "Get at least a half hour of excercise in five times a week." Thanks Doc. And so recently I've decided to pick two of my favorites and put them into serious practice with my own spin on them.

Tip 1: Drink more fluids.
Tip 2: Have a conversation during your meal. You'll eat slower and get full faster.

In deciding to implement these two "health quickies" I figured the best way to do so was to
a) institute Happy Hour and
b) start eating meals at the kitchen table rather than in front of the TV as we normally do.

Instituting Happy Hour was easy thanks to the bargain bin at our favorite wine store and before I knew it, I was drinking more fluids. Check!

Eating meals at the kitchen table proved a little more difficult being that in order to eat the meals at the table, I have to cook the meals in the kitchen. Luckily my status as one of the millions of unemployed Americans has alloted me the free time to learn to stand the heat and keep my ass in the kitchen. Now almost every night as I ingest my doctor-recommended fluids I set the table, cook up something delicious and have a nice piping hot meal ready for when my husband, T, get's home.

The whole point of eating at the kitchen table is to have a conversation and thus eat more slowly. I thought this was going to prove extremely difficult for me since my usual M.O. whenever a plate of food is in front of me is to put my head down and go at it hoover-style grunting at anyone who speaks to me letting them no that there's no time for talking and then when I've licked my plate clean, I move on to my husband's.

However, thanks to all the extra fluids I've been drinking, I can't shut up! Just the other night, for the very first time in the five years that we've been together, when I finally stopped rambling on about whatever really interesting thing I'd been thinking about while cooking dinner and drinking "fluids", I looked down at my plate and saw it was still half full while, amazingly, my husband had finished his. The diet only backfired a little bit at that point when I had no choice to shut up and inhale the rest of my food before he had a chance to get at it. I guess my survival instinct kicked in.

But needless to say, I think I've stumbled upon something genious here.

Drink a lot of wine while you cook dinner so you won't be able to shut up when you sit down to eat it and low and behold, the pounds will melt off. Oh, and I highly recommend wearing some cute loungewear while you do it.

Unemployment and Me: Perfect Together

2009-02-04T08:03:00.004-05:00

Three months ago, when I was handed my pinkslip and sent on my merry way out into the world, I was all sunshine and roses about the prospect of having a few months off to clean the apartment, cook new and interesting things and spend my days tooling around NYC exploring all this city has to offer.

People warned me, "UnPlain, you're going to get bored very quickly." I had offers from everywhere to do lunch as a means of "getting me out of the apartment." People threw their Rolodexes at me in an effort to keep me busy. So afraid was I that I was going to end up eating ice cream all day every day counting the seconds until T walked in the door from work, that I started making endless lists of all the things I could do with my time. I re-upped my subscription to Time Out New York to ward off the evil monster called boredom and would even mark my Blackberry calendar with all the inane items I was going to do that day in effort to maintain a schedule.

6:30am Spin Class
8:00am Shower
9:15am Library
10:00am Saks
12:00pm Movie

You get the point.

Even better I thought, "I can write about all of the intersting things I'm going to do on UnPlain Jane!!" And I did: I walked the Brooklyn Bridge, I had Adventures in Vintage Shopping and so on. Then one morning, about a week into my unemployment, I woke up at 6am, started to get dressed for Spin Class and thought, "What in the hell am I doing?" I can either get up, go to spin early just so I have to time to force myself to do things I really don't feel like doing OR I can sleep in, eventually get up and spend two hours writing and checking email and THEN go to the gym.

That was the first day I hit snooze. And I've been hittin' that bad boy ever since. I've forgone the Blackberry calendar and now my days look something like this:

7:00am: Open Eyes
7:15am: Roll out of Bed
7:30am: Cook breakfast for husband and run down the list of things I'm going to do today for outloud for him (I do this out of self-imposed guilt that my weekly unemployment check really doesn't cut it)
8:00am: Eat breakfast and begin writing
11:00am: Gym followed by errands (duane reade, food shopping, whatevs)
2:00pm: Lunch! This is also the time I use to catch up on The Real Housewives, The City or whatever show I have to DVR because T won't watch it with me
3:00pm: Some more writing
4:00pm Oprah
5:00pm Cocktail Hour!

By the time cocktail hour is over, I've cooked dinner, set the table and T is home!

No, I didn't go to a museum or some gallery opening or meet anyone remotely interesting. Unless you count the non English-speaking greeter at CVS as interesting, which I sort of do being that it boggles my mind how this gentleman who does nothing but stand at the door all day greeting each customer with a nod, a strange, shy half-smile and mumbles a slurred together mix of Hello and Hola (hellola?) has a job and I don't.

What it comes down to is that no, I'm not bored and now that my days are peppered with recruiter-meetings, interviews, and mass emailing resumes, I'm frankly feeling at a little loss for time. I can't always go to the gym when I feel like it, I actually have to shower before I'm really ready some days and I find putting on clothes that have zippers and buttons and are not soft and snugly on the inside rather annoying. As I rode the bus home up First Ave after a job interview yesterday, I was preparing to email my husband, complaining that it was cold, the bus was taking forever and earn myself a little extra sympathy by mentioning how utterly exhausted I was from making the trip downtown.

That's when it hit me. When you have a job, you get on a bus, subway or take a long walk EVERY DAY. I quickly deleted the email realizing there'd be no sympathy for me and decided since it wouldn't come from anyone else, it was best to feel sorry for myself. Like the snow storm that slushed up the sidewalk, the prospect of employment slushed up my brain. With a job, I wouldn't be able to just go to the gym when I felt like it, I'd be tired EVERY day from just going to and from work (let alone the actual work I would do there) and I'd have to DVR Oprah knowing I'd never get the chance to watch it because it would lead to T throwing something at the TV forcing us to buy another.

Now, while most of my brain is rational and craves a job, and thus a paycheck, a small part of my brain craves a bigger chunk of the unemployment stash so I could stretch this run a little longer.
If not getting bored makes me boring, so be it, but I've found that just opening my mouth and saying whatever ridiculous thought I'm thinking to whoever is in closest proximity sparks enough entertainment to last me for a few days. Given the choice, I'd stick with that.

My Newest Facebook Friend

2009-02-02T18:45:00.005-05:00

The other night, when T and I were out to dinner with a couple of friends, my BlackBerry Messenger (BBM) pinged with an urgent message from my best friend that read: "Your mom just requested me on Facebook!!!" Faster than I could order another glass of wine, I switched from BBM to my mobile Facebook and there it was, glaring at me, "Mama UnPlain would like to be your friend."

Cracking up, I hit "confirm" and turned to my friends saying, "Oh my gawd...Mama UnPlain is my new Facebook bestie." Immediately, I navigated the Facebook App on my Blackberry to the "Write on Someone's Wall" option and posted the phrase, "Hey Hook!" on Mama U's wall. Hey Hook is a phrase my mother has been shouting to my best friend and I every time we walk in the front door of my parent's house since the time we were about fifteen. Hook is short for Hooker and it sounds hilarious in my mother's Strong Island, NY accent. (For the record, my grandmother prefers to call us Ho's instilling in us an even greater sense of self-esteem.)

The morning after, when the vino wore off and I checked my Facebook to see if Mama UnPlain had updated her status to reflect that she was having a hot flash, I started to think about if I really wanted my mother having the same deep insight into my life that I give to my close, personal Facebook network. You know, like people I haven't seen or spoken to since the fifth grade. I delved deep into thought and contemplated if I wanted to take the time or the effort to create a "limited access" friend list leaving my mother with the same online persona I would provide to my employer or clergyman (if I had either of those.)

But when I really think about it, my Mama UnPlain (well both Mama and Papa UnPlain) are cool and have been especially since I entered my twenties (which I'm scarily inching closer to exiting.) They've reacted calmly to all my little fender benders over the years, calmly made sure I paid my fine after the police issued me a citation of public nudity after one night at the beach, and more often then not will indulge in a few cocktails with their adult daughter not complaining when my friends think they're being quiet at three in the morning. So what's the big deal about my mom perusing a few pictures of me wearing a handkerchief and calling it a dress or reading friends comments about my threatening to drop kick a cab driver/bartender/priest for not giving me my money's worth?

But then I thought a little further about the real negative affects Mama UnPlain being on Facebook could have on my life. First of all, our already three times daily phone call habit would increase with every status update (which is constant thanks to Facebook for Blackberry - I'm just short of updating, "UnPlain Jane is taking a piss). Furthermore, Mama UnPlain would no doubt be contacting me, my husband and my best friend every single time she logged on, not to comment on whatever was on our page, but to ask yet another question about how "this interweb site works." You may think I'm lying, but this is the same woman to who I am STILL trying to explain that that tying "JCPENNY" into a search engine is NOT the same thing as going to the JCPENNY website. So when I say, Mom, go to Google. What she does is type the word google into her MSN search that automatically opens when she logs on and then insists that she went to Google, but it doesn't work.

As I thought about the zillion other reasons this was a bad idea, my phone rang. I saw it my was my mother, so I picked it up and said, "Mama UnPlain!! What is up with you and Facebook?!"

"Oh UnPlain," she replied. "Your aunt and I don't even know how the hell we got to that Facebook thing last night. I just wanted to see the picture you told me about." At that point I realized I didn't have to change a thing life would remain the same. It would take her another year to figure out how to get back and by that time she'll have forgotten her password.

Dating

2009-02-01T18:39:00.022-05:00

When we woke up this morning, my husband T rolled over, exhaled an ungodly combination of raspberry, mango and tequila into my face and then scratched himself. He got up, sauntered into the bathroom to do what we all do after a long night out on the town. Through the bathroom door, I heard him fart and before the look of disgust could spread across my face, he chuckled at the sound of his own flatulence and somehow I was charmed. I stretched out, smiled and thought, "I love him so much." I burped loudly, rolled over and waited for him to come back to bed so we could tell each other how cute (read: disgusting) we are.

This situation is nothing out of the ordinary. We've been together for five years and there are few boundaries left between us. For better or for worse, we pick our noses in front of each other, we force each other into Dutch Ovens and we've most recently forayed into the mysterious arena of belly-button lint (a fascinating phenomenon.)

However, this morning was different. It was different because instead of waking up, warm and snuggley, in our own bed, in our little apartment where no one can see us, we woke up on an air mattress in the living room of the apartment that our friends D & K share as a couple. They were just a few feet away sleeping with the bedroom door open, in full ear shot of anything and everything we said or did and knowing full well that they would not be spared a smell or sound that emanated from us, we continued on with the same comfort level that we would've if we'd been hungover and disgusting in the privacy of our own home.

We finished the morning with a cup of coffee, a four-person-revolving-door visit to the john, and the unabashed devouring of the first bagel I've had in over a year. As D & K kindly drove us to the nearest New Jersey Transit stop, my husband shamelessly insisted that if we didn't make it the train, they'd be driving us all the way back to Manhattan in much the same way he would half-jokingly coax a ride out of one of our family members. It was at this moment, I pulled out my travel-pack of Pepto Bismol chewables and asked if anyone else in the car was churning the kind of butter in their stomach that I was. Just then, I started thinking about just how long we'd been "dating" this couple and how the relationship had evolved.

We met D & K sometime around 2 and a half years ago through mutual friends and bonded instantly over the fact that we were both "JewTalian". A few weeks later we saw each other again and bonded over the fact that we all like champagne. Lots of it. It wasn't long after that that we ran into each yet again and had the first of what would be many dance-offs at our mutual friend's wedding. Things just clicked and somewhere along the line, one of us suggested that we get together, outside of the mutual friend's celebrations to, ya know, have dinner or something. After four two many cocktails, the next thing we knew we were having our first sleepover when D & K came into the city for our first official "date" as a couple.

The morning after was slightly awkward as is any "morning after" the first time a Saturday night date turns into a Sunday morning, "can I get you breakfast?" Fortunately, when you're a couple dating other couples, the day after the "third date" doesn't require an STD test or Plan B. What it does involve is staying in bed just a little longer than you normally would, not sure when you should go out into the living room where your new friends are sleeping on your air mattress and when you finally do, odds are they've already silently snuck out leaving you an adorable note and letting you know they had a great time. That's how our first morning after with D & K went and shortly thereafter we were making plans to visit them in New Jersey.

Slowly, but surely, you start to bond. Just as two single people bond over their likes, dislikes, random coincidences and shared bad habits; when you're dating another couple you start to bond over the same things. Take D & K for example, as we got to know them we realized we shared some:

Shared Likes: Wine, Drunken Hugs, Guitar Hero
Shared Dislikes: Running out of Wine, Passing out Too Early; Mean People
Random Coincidences: Being "Jewtalian"; Shared Zodiac Signs
Shared Bad Habits: Sneaking Shots, Starting Ridiculous (but-totally-justified-at-the-moment) Arguments with Each Other, Giving Customer Service Representatives an Attitude.

Unlike a date between two single people, a couple date lacks the prospect of sex (unless you're dating at the Burning Man). In fact, a couple date generally lowers the chances of anyone having sex since it usually involves an ungodly and unsexy amount of food. It also usually ends in some rendition of "Oh my gawd! He does too!" and "She gives you shit for that too!" So by the end of the date you feel fat, drunk and too annoyed at your significant other to even think about quietly banging one out while your newly acquired couple-friends sleep no more than 30 feet away.

Dating other couples generally leaves you hungover and having spent too much money without the promise of sex, diamonds or someone to split the rent with. It almost wouldn't seem worth it, but when you wake up one morning with dragon breath, diarrhea, and only a vague recollection of why you told off that cab driver/coat check girl/bartender as a team, it's nice to know you can walk twenty feet, fart in unison and turn to your friends to ask, "what the hell happened last night?!"

Our First Fight: The Good News is I'm Not Crazy

2009-01-30T14:13:00.005-05:00

Last night, my husband of almost one month and I, met some friends out for drinks and in the middle of a Manhattan bar, danced to the Dirty Dancing classic, Time of Our Lives, not caring that at 28 years old we looked like the "old people in the bar." You know who I mean, the couple at the bar that after 4 drinks you have to go talk to because they're cool. Like your parents. But we didn't care.

When we got home, we stayed up way too late watching TV and talking excitedly about different things the way people do when they're getting to know each other. And when we finally went to bed, we said "I love you" with shit-eating grins on our faces and after the lights were turned off I asked him, "Are you still smiling?"

"Yes." He responded.

"Me too." I said and then drifted off to dreamland expecting to wake up the next morning in an episode of Leave it to Beaver.

However, when we did wake up this morning, T and UnPlain had replaced The Cleavers and Mr. Cleaver was cranky from staying up so late. Trying to be understanding given the fact that I'd be pissed off too if I had to get up and go to work while T got to sleep in after a late night, I rolled my sore-ffrom-dancing-ass out of bed and described in detail all of the things I was going to do around the house today, in an effort to let T know that I too was "working." Eventually he headed off to work and I started to get a move on my day. Things were fine until a few hours later when we spoke on the phone.

BAM. Our first married fight. Well, our first REAL married fight. I don't really count every time he gets pissed off and starts an argument after I start eating his food because I've finished my own. No, this was a real fight and it was over what most couples find themselves arguing about often, money. Not real money mind you, it was over a minor expense which one of us considers a necessity and the other considers a luxury (I'll let you figure out who's who).

But of course it spiraled into a bigger argument on our disparate views and the next thing I knew I was lying in bed crying while spewing out emails with lines like, "What's it like to know that your wife is crying because of you? I hope it was worth the X dollars," as fast as the predictive text on my blackberry would let me. Then shortly after I updated my Facebook to reflect that my morning was "ruined" driving the guilt stake just a little further in, I realized it was now 11:30am and I hadn't done a single thing on my to-do list (even though one of those items is now off my to do list thanks to the fight). So, I got up, got dressed and went to the gym.

Now normally, I would've stayed in bed escalating the argument to the point where T would consider leaving work to come home, take me out and save the relationship. In the process I would've gotten in some over-top and deep-cutting one liners that would further prove my sainthood. But instead, I went on with my day.

Maybe it's because I was three quarters in the right during this argument or maybe because just as I was typing the best low-blow I could come up with and BBM it to my husband I realized that, shit, he's just that. My husband.

He's not the jerk who hasnt' proposed yet. He's not the jerk who doesn't understand why the wedding is stressing me out so much. He's not the jerk that got mad at me for staying out until 5am with my girlfriends letting dudes buy me drinks (ok, he gets that one). He's not any of these jerks. He's the jerk I married. He's the jerk I will buy a home with one day. He's the jerk I will raise my jerk children with some day. And he's the jerk I will retire to Boca Raton, take up Mah Jong and drive a massive Cadillac that we "bump into things" with.

Feeling good about revelation, half way through my workout, I decided it was time to email T and clue him in that I'd decided the argument was over. As we apologized and "talked it out" over instant messenger, developing a plan of action to reconcile our disagreement, I thwarted off the anxiety attack that usually comes with anytime I realized I've matured even the slightest little bit. Then I stretched, cleaned myself up and headed over to Sephora to buy some outrageously over priced beauty product, spending more than I would've in the first place. Sucka.

The best part of all of this is I realized that, wait, I'm sane. I'm sorta mature. I'm acting like an adult and not the bat-shit, this-relationship-will-never-work/why-don't-you-plan-the-damn-wedding-yourself/don't-even-think-about-having-more-fun-than-me bride I was for the past year and a half. Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with the fact that I have issues, that I take arguing to a whole new level and that I have more than once ripped off my engagement ring and slammed it on the coffee table for poignancy. This is part of my charm. It keeps things interesting and gives me something to crack up about with my equally-issuefied friends over brunch while T roles his eyes. But I do realize that it wasn't entirely me. It was the beast known as a wedding.

Now, there's nobody asking, "when are you getting engaged?" There's nobody saying, "You know, you guys should really be doing for your wedding." And there's no more, "How are we ever going to make it through this wedding."

All that's left is me, my husband and two rings on my left ring finger that I didn't feel like ripping off for effect this time.

Life After Wedding

2009-01-29T11:03:00.022-05:00

Married life is one thing, as I described recently in this post, with its ups, downs and perks. Life After Wedding is something entirely different with it's own unique set of tasks, trials and tribulations.

The first few days after returning from our honeymoon, my husband, T, and I were on a total high. We could eat whatever we wanted, we could lay around all day not worrying about place cards or candy buffets or just how many pairs of underwear we would need to bring on the honeymoon. We would sit on the couch those first few days and every once a while glance over at each other to see our new husband/wife with one finger up his/her nose, one hand scratching some body part and his/her mouth chewing whatever "forbidden food" s/he wanted. These moments were truly magical and every now and then they'd be topped off with some sort of emission of gas. That's when we would look at each other, our eyes brimming over with love and say, "Married life is amazing. I love you so much."

One week later, Life After Wedding set in and brought with it the following:

Bed, Bath and Beyond

I have made more trips to Bed, Bath & Beyond in the past three weeks than I care to make in any given year. Contrary to my husband who practically creams himself at the thought of going into any store that sells kitchen/bathroom/organizing equipment, I hate it (which really doesn't make sense being that I'm the only one who actually uses any of the stuff). Life After Wedding forced us to take a full inventory of all of the gifts we had received and make one too many trips to BB&B for returns.

Excited at the prospect of BB&B's Cash Back Policy, I grabbed as much as I could carry and waited in the freezing cold, one shopping cart short of looking homeless and finally caught the M15 headed uptown to my favorite BB&B. Now, generally, I RAVE about their customer service. They're so nice, friendly, helpful and quick. Not so much this time. After using my chin to open the door since my arms were loaded down and the store's doorman thought it would be more fun to watch, rather than help me I was pumped to see that there was only one other person at the Customer Service desk. Little did I know that the only other person formed one half of the lethal Tiny Asian Woman/Slowest Employee On Earth combination that would result in me standing there sighing loudly whenever another employee strolled over, looked at me and then strolled away to text his baby mama, deciding I would be too much work to help.

When it finally was my turn, I was "greeted" by the most unfortunate mug any Customer Service desk has ever seen. Little did this lady know that I not only will I tell off a store clerk, I ENJOY it and so I made it my business to wait until she walked all the way to the end of the counter only to yell out "just one more question" so she had to walk her slow, rude ass all the way back over to me. I was only slightly frightened by the person behind me in line, who after closer inspection, turned out to be a woman and not a small man. It was hard to tell initially given the butch hair cut and sleeveless flannel shirt. I thought quick and bonded with the possibly-just-released-from-the-State Pen woman waiting for me to finish over cell phones and hating the Customer Service lady. Finally, I was walking out of BB&B with 300 bones, the warm and fuzzy feeling that comes with pissing someone off and the comfort that if I ever ended up in the clink, I knew whose bitch I would be.

Thank You Cards

When I walked into our building yesterday afternoon, in a rush to make it upstairs since I didn't have the DVR set up to record Oprah, my doorman called after me, "Uh Jane, I have a package for you." I always get excited at the sight of a pair of tight brown UPS man shorts and I get a little rush whenever a package arrives even if I know it's just a box of contact lenses I ordered. I bolted from the elevator over to the closet where the doormen keep our packages and all but closed my eyes and held out my hands as my parents instructed me to do the Christmas morning they had bought us "black market" Cabbage Patch Dolls.

When I looked down at the box that the doorman placed in my hand after awkwardly waiting for the elevator with me, I saw the return address was from my favorite online stationery store. Realizing instantly that I was holding in my hand the cards that I had ordered to use as thank you cards for the wedding, I immediately instant messaged T saying, "pick up some wine on your way home, the Thank You Cards arrived." Now, thank you cards aren't just a post-wedding task. There are Engagement thank you cards, Shower thank you cards, Rehearsal dinner thank you cards, Thank you for slapping me across the face when I was freaking out over seating arrangement thank you cards; The difference is that those thank you cards are exciting, they are fun, they are all part of the "wedding planning process."

Once the wedding is over there is nothing a newlywed bride and groom want less than anything to do with the "wedding planning process" and while, we truly couldn't be more grateful for the gifts we've received and the people that celebrated with us, that stack of blank cards acts as a time machine set to transport you right back to the Xanax-popping days that made up the two or so weeks just before the wedding.

Not one to slack off, I ripped open the box ,right away and started writing and wrote until bed-time. This morning, after cooking T his usual breakfast of an omelet, English Muffin, oatmeal and tea, I got back to work and as I sat at the kitchen table, writing away, commented to him, "Ya know, I'm really trying to be original and personal with all of the thank you notes, it's really hard to not write the same thing over and over." From the living room, over the sound of SportsCenter (which he watches at unnecessarily loud volume every morning) he replied, "Yeah, I totally know."

I stopped dead in my tracks and thought for a moment making a mental catalog of all of the Thank You and, not to mention Holiday cards we have sent out since the very beginning of our relationship. Double checking in my head, I confirmed silently to myself that T had not so much as signed his name, let alone had he written a thoughtful note on a single solitary greeting over the past five years. I must have been silent a little too long, because he felt the need to walk into the kitchen and remind me, "Ya know. I did have a BAR MITZVAH. And I wrote thank you cards. And I wrote the same thing over and over. So I get it."

Was I supposed to respond positively to this? I honestly don't know. Is he justified in comparing the 60 or so Bar Mitzvah Thank You Cards he "wrote" (aka: transposed whatever note his mother kindly composed for him" to the 300 or so Thank You cards I'd written on behalf of the two of us over the past year? Did I not have a Sweet Sixteen in which I wrote my own thank you cards? Does one instance of writing Thank Yous 15 years ago excuse him for life just because he bought a ring?

Again, I must have been silent, deep in thought, for too long after his comment, because he continued on citing, "I've offered to help." Unprepared to deal with this conversation at 8am, I just changed the subject until it was time to kiss him goodbye and send him off to work. Men, sometimes it's better to stay silent.

KIDS

Many married couples will tell you that the minute you get back from your honeymoon, people start asking, "So, are you thinking about kids?" "Can we expect a honeymoon baby?" Luckily for T and I, we've been spared this Life After Wedding phenomenon and people aren't really bugging us about this. Perhaps it's because I'm unemployed; Perhaps it's because we are two of the laziest human beings on the planet; or Perhaps its because everyone is aware that the plant we bought three years ago lasted only about three months because we didn't always "feel like" watering it. Whatever the reason, people have (thankfully) left us alone on this topic. Even my mother who swears I'm a "natural" whenever she sees me awkwardly holding a baby leaves us alone when it comes to this topic, which incidentally will be the basis for an upcoming blog. Something along the lines of "What on Earth will T and I Spawn Should We Decide to Procreate?

In a nutshell, this is Life After Wedding. Forgive me for leaving out things like Gown Preserving, Arguments like "We Can't Put That Picture in the Album because I Have Fat Arm", and Let's-Throw-A-Honeymoon-Themed-Party-So-We-Can-Use-All-Our-New-Stuff Syndrome, but I wanted to keep this post under 2000 words.

Let's Talk About Sex Baby

2009-01-28T16:18:00.012-05:00

While I normally like to entertain you with recounting the inevitable mishaps that occur as I try to go about leading my normal life, I was inspired yesterday to write a little commentary based on the topic of one of my favorite daytime activities.

When four o'clock rolled around, after running across the street for a fresh bottle of Malbec, I turned on Oprah and was greeted by an overly expressive, batshit-behind-the-eyes, loud-talker in a wig. No, I'm not talking about Oprah herself, but rather her guest of the day, former Evangelical Church Leader, Ted Haggard. In case you're not familiar with Ted Haggard he's the mega-church, right-wing, anti-abortion, gays-will-burn-in-hell preaching pastor who "fell from grace" in 2006 when it came out that he was buying both sex and drugs from another man.

As I watched Oprah trying desperately yet failing to be hard-hitting and non-judgemental, while of course learning something from the Pastor and his wife between lengthy commercial breaks, I started thinking about sex, sexuality and what's normal. His apologies, revelations, self-evolution and Invislign braces just confused me as he preached, and this is not a direct quote, "Deep down inside I DO want to bang dudes, but through therapy and my wife refusing to divorce me, I've made the choice not to." WTF?

Now according to Haggard, his homo-sexual acts were the product of mental illness requiring the help of a therapist. With that, I started to wonder if every barely legal skank posting photos of herself making out with her best friend on MySpace is mentally ill or as Haggard referred to himself, 'a heterosexual with issues.'

It wasn't until Oprah methodically brought the conversation back around to focus on herself that I became completely confused. As Haggard openly admitted to having 'homosexual inclinations' inside of him, Oprah responded by announcing she wonders what that must be like for him because, "as a heterosexual woman," she "does not know what it's like to have homosexual thoughts." Now, I know the majority of my straight male readers out there are not going to openly admit to even ever having the slightest curiousity about being intimate with another guy, so I'm not going to push that issue, but come on Ophs!! You're going to tell me you've never been curious to see what it might be like to play Tune in Tokyo with Gayle? I have to disagree.

I don't know a girl who hasn't made out with her best friend in the second grade, picked lesbian porn over the regular kind or enjoyed a trip to the strip club? Now, either it's just me and all the girls I hang out with are a bunch of Big-Ass-Lesbos or, contrary to Oprah's personal experience. getting the tinglies from a same-sex thought is pretty normal. Whether we chose to admit it or not we are all curious creatures especially when it comes to doing the nasty. There's a good reason it is the one topic we loath discussing openly with our parents no matter how old we get.

The only thing that irks me more than intolerance is ignorance. I'm equally annoyed by people who preach tolerance while they make certain to announce that they could never be affiliated with whatever taboo they are begging you to accept. So after one hour of watching Oprah (which consisted of maybe 20 minutes of actual show and 40 minutes of commercials) I'm left left being told that because my girlfriend "N" and I dry humped (before I even knew what dry humping was) and played kissy-face in the fourth grade I'm going to either a) burn in hell or b) I'll never be as good as Oprah, but luckily she sympathizes.

Discuss.

UnPlain Jane will return with frivolous tales of life as an Unemployed Apartment Wife shortly.

A Good Day (to stay the hell inside)

2009-01-28T10:37:00.013-05:00

My morning started out extraordinarily positive. I was overjoyed when T hit the snooze button on the alarm in order to snuggle up with me all warm and cozy with me for 9 glorious minutes until it went off again and he bounced up out of bed and into the arms of his true love, his Blackberry. I looked out the window and saw the snow swirling around, rooftops powdered white and thought to myself, "Awesome, the gym is going to be empty this morning since only us really dedicated (read: neurotic) members troop it out in the bad weather." When warm and cozy time was over, I popped out of bed made breakfast for T and myself and we discussed, with excitement, all that I was going to accomplish today.

Now, just three hours later at 11am, I'm contemplating slamming my laptop closed and heading to Hoboken for an impromptu pub crawl with my bestie, but no amount of booze and gossip is worth trekking anywhere beyond a one block radius from my apartment today and here's why.

Before I even started my first set of Abs the smile had been wiped off of my face and my positive attitude had started to go south. Stepping out of my building, I was hit with the realization that what looked like a winter wonderland from the 14th floor actually looked more like raw sewage from ground-level. I slipped and slid my way the four blocks to the gym, trying to desperately not to fall down, eat yellow snow, or get hit by a car while staring down out my Blackberry in the rain. True to New York, as I walked along, a complete stranger yelled at me. His concern was not that I was going to get hit by a car, but that I was going to ruin my Blackberry if I kept using it out in the open while the sleet was falling from the sky. Rather than thank him for his input, I snottily responded, "Yeah, that's why I have insurance DAD." (As I've mentioned before, telling off complete strangers is one of my favorite things about living in New York.)

Crossing the street and thinking I had made it all the way to the gym without incident, I tried to be cute and workouty, by daintily jumping over the final puddle that stood between me and my sweat-fest. Almost. Instead, probably because I was chatting on the phone with my mother, I misjudged my take-off point and river-danced my ass straight into a giant, brown, slushy puddle. Praying it wouldn't be too bad, I jumped out and went sliding three feet down the sidewalk miraculously staying on my feet. Cutting off our conversation by blurting, "MA, I gotta go!!," as she told me about her days plans in excessive detail, I walked into the gym, my feet growing colder and wetter by the second and asked the girl at the front desk if they sold socks.

Eleven dollars later I had on a fresh pair of socks and was blowdrying my sneakers in the locker room, an area I usually try not to spend any extended period of time in thanks to the New York phenomenon of old-ladies loving to prance around nude at gyms. When I finally started my workout, I had regained a little bit of motivation in the only way I know how. It's embarrassing, but whenever I work out and I need a boost, I pretend I'm a personal trainer and that I'm training myself and I will silently say things like, "This is where the change happens UnPlain, just one more rep!" or "I know you had wine last night UnPlain, let's DO THIS!". Otherwise I just pretend I am a celebrity/athlete/model getting ready for my next appearance/game/gig and avoid making eye contact with anyone so they won't ask for my autograph. Ridiculous? Yes. Does it work? Sort of.

So today, as Trainer UnPlain did her best to "take it to the next level" on the Ab Incline Bench, I felt, for a splitting second, an excruciating pain in my lower back. Immediately, I hopped off the bench, did some stretches and decided I would finish my workout no matter what, because my fragile psyche can not handle the thought of missing another day at the gym. I finally finished and left the gym with pockets full of socks and 180 degree change in attitude from when I woke up.

I shuffled my way through the sleet for the four blocks home and one extra block to the drugstore. Remembering only three of the six items on my mental list, I opened the door and figured that the rest would come to me as I wondered the aisles contemplating the purchase of things I neither need, nor enjoy, like Kettle Corn. First on my list was lotion and I was expecting that like most NYC drug stores, this particular one would carry the type of product I like. I like my lotion thick and prefer Body Butter to anything that comes out of a pump. I like to feel sufficiently saturated and creamy and when I stuff myself into my tightest pair of jeans, I like to feel like I've lotioned to the point that my jeans every so slightly stick to my skin and won't move. Unfortunately for me, I had no such luck finding the product I so desired at this particularly shitty drugstore chain outpost.

In the "ethnic" section, I spied a lotion that boasted it was an Oatmeal and Sheabutter blend. Afraid that I would make the same mistake I made in college when I was sure my unruly hair was ethnic enough to warrant the use of a chemical relaxer meant for African American children, I decided it was best to test this lotion out regardless of the store's no testing policy. After about fifty twists of the pump top while glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching, I finally squeezed out a nickle-sized dollop of the above-mentioned lotion. At first, it felt great. Thick, creamy, and even though the smell was a little too coconutty for my personal taste, it seemed to be seeping into my skin just the way I like it. That was until this nickle sized dollop seemed impossible to fully absorb. I rubbed it all in my hands, went as far up my arms as I could and there was still more.

I had no choice but to plop myself down in the middle of the Ethnic Aisle, pull up my pant legs and start rubbing the-lotion-that-just-wouldn't-die into my legs. As I did this, I looked up only to be met by the disapproving gaze of the drugstore's star employee. Of all employees it had to be this particular woman with whom I have a torrid, love-hate relationship. We consistently alternate between exchanging pleasantries to making snide remarks to each other depending on the day. It's a miracle she didn't drag me out of the store, but she's far too lazy to exert any sort of physical force, let alone pick up her step when she strolls back to her register when a customer needs to check out.

I quickly picked myself up off the floor, grabbed the few items that I could remember I needed and slid myself down the block and into my building. I did my best to smile at my friendly doorman and at the same moment the elevator dinged, announcing my arrival on our floor, I remembered everything I forgot. Letting the door slam behind me with the knowledge that it was the IMPORTANT items I had forgotten, I stripped down out of my wet clothes, and marched my cranky ass into the kitchen.

Now, as I sit here in my undies, typing away, I've made the conscious decision not to venture out into the wet streets again today. (Until it's time to get dressed and go get a bottle of wine anyway).

Old, Fat and Drunk

2009-01-25T19:18:00.016-05:00

Old: It was around the time that my now husband, T, proposed to me that I started to feel like an actual grown up. Since then, I've been waiting for the day that I wake up somewhere in my late forties, the proud parent of a teenager who hates me and the worst part of it all: I look the part. Even at twenty-eight years old, I wake up every morning and look in the mirror expecting this to be the day that I am officially old.

Fat: I've been fat before so I know it well. And while I don't actually enjoy being fat, I certainly enjoy getting fat. I could go 7 rounds with the best of them and find the strength to gnaw on that last helping of Prime Rib even when I am physically uncomfortable from whatever ungodly amount of food I've already eaten. I am missing that mouth-stomach connection that lets a person know what they put in their mouth affects how their stomach will feel. I love getting fat. I hate being fat.

Drunk: Since the very first time, when at 16, my friend and I raided my parent's basement bar and put together a lethal combination of a little pour from every bottle they had so no one single bottle would look any emptier, I've enjoyed a good night of boozing. Sometimes I get too drunk and start a fight with my husband/best friend/a bouncer. Sometimes I don't get drunk enough and decide I'd rather be somewhere else. And sometimes, I get just drunk enough, dance all night and happily skip home sweaty and ready for a 3am feast.

There you have it. Old, Fat and Drunk: Three things I don't aspire to me, but three things I found myself feeling after the 48 hours that made up this weekend. Is this married life?

When I woke up Sunday morning, with bleary eyes and a headache, I had to log on to UnPlain Jane and read what I had written the night before. I remembered the basic premise and bits and pieces of what I wrote, but to be honest, it was somewhat of a blur. It's not that I went out boozing all night, came home tanked and decided to write my blog. I didn't go out at all. Instead I sat on my couch, in front of my laptop and downed a bottle of wine.

As I did this, T sat as his desk doing work and downed his own bottle of wine. Next thing we knew, it was after midnight and we were hammered and looking for more wine. Left with only the option of popping a bottle of expensive champagne that someone had bought us for our wedding, we began racking our brains. For some reason drinking that special bottle of celebration bubbly didn't seem right given that we were a) already hammered and b) had basically only communicated with each other via Instant Messenger all night from our respective computers . Always the optimist, I insisted to T that one of the two wine shops on our block HAD to be open. This is New York and more importantly the guy in the store told me just the other day that he works until 3am every night. (It seemed to make sense at the time.)

T, insisting that I was wrong popped his head out the bedroom and saw that the shop across the street was closed. "Mall za deedle-dum!" I slurred. What I was attempting to say was, "Call the other one!", and either because he was equally inebriated or because I said it at the same volume my grandmother uses when she's talking on 'one of those cell phones', he understood me and started dialing. When nobody answered, we looked at each other silently contemplating getting ourselves dressed and going to see for ourselves, until T came to the rescue remembering we had enough Vodka in the freezer to feed my Russian-waxer's family for a year.

With nothing to mix it with, we clinked our Vodka on the Rocks' together and what happened next was a blur. At some point I went to bed and at some point T fell asleep on the couch watching an infomercial for gardening equipment. He made it into the bedroom sometime around 6am and when we both woke up around three hours later, I had the kind of headache I usually reserve for nights that involve out of town visitors and my need to "show 'em how it's done." As we snuggled up, smelly and hungover to watch a back episode of Scrubs in bed, I realized that some might say we were losers, but given that we had both gotten a bunch of work done the night before, I would just say we are OLD and, of course, DRUNK.

This brings me to FAT. For the six months leading up to our wedding T essentially became Manorexic and I shunned bread like it was a pair of Payless shoes and on January 3, 2009, in the best shape of our lives we tied the knot. As the band packed up, I began shoving chocolate covered pretzels into my mouth with full anticipation that this was the beginning of what would be a two-week binge. All throughout our engagement as we turned down seconds, skipped dessert and ordered our Chinese food steamed, T and I found ourselves talking dreamily about the "Fat Phase" we were going to enter once the glass was broken and the hora was danced. A slight snag on the honeymoon caused us to lose 5 pounds each and we spent the last three days of this vacation gorging ourselves. I wouldn't even allow myself to sleep during the entire 10 and a half hour flight home, but rather I made sure to wake up every hour or so to inhale a cookie or six, because I knew the minute we touched down in NYC, I'd be back on a diet.

And I was. Our flight landed at 6am and I was at the gym by 11. For the next three days I re-shunned bread, ordered my usual steamed vegetable dumplings and turned down dessert. I was down three pounds by Thursday and after watching T make up for those three days of not eating on the honeymoon, I was starting to feel a little deprived. Why should he get to suck down an entire bag of Weight Watchers chocolates without guilt and truly believing that because the bag said Weight Watchers it's OK to eat the whole thing? Why should I, hammered and hungry on Saturday night settle for a 100 calorie bag of popcorn? I shouldn't. And so, Sunday morning when I woke up feeling old and having been drunk, I was well on my way to achieving the Married Trifecta of Old, Fat and Drunk.

We started off our Sunday with brunch with some family members. With a hangover stomach ache as an excuse, I allowed myself to pound through the better part of not one, but two baskets of muffins. And thank god our nephew hasn't yet developed an adult sized appetite because I was more than happy to inhale a good part of the French Toast and Sausage he wasn't going to eat. It was tough because the three year old didn't feel like sharing, but T and I were sneaky enough to steal it off of his plate every time he got preoccupied shouting "Taxi!" out the window. Luckily for us a Taxi drives by every 3 seconds in NYC. Combine that with the fact that I all but licked my own plate clean, we left brunch full enough to warrant a gym visit later in the day.

So after an hour of cardio, during which I could feel the muffins swirling back and forth in my stomach, I felt I had sufficiently thwarted the extra pounds I was eating my way into. Or so I thought. Cut to a few hours later. Enough time had passed since both my workout and my last meal to dissolve my resolve and once again, I was on my way to FAT. It was Sunday night, our first week home had come to and the only way I saw fit to finish out the day was with a fried appetizer, a tortellini dinner and a hearty helping of ice cream for dessert. I'm sometimes amazed that T manages to remain attracted to me after watching me eat. As if fighting with him over the last tortellini wasn't enough, perhaps hopping into bed with a piece of buttered bread would send him over the edge? Not so.

Now here it is, Monday afternoon and I'm sitting on the couch feeling married, which is to say, feeling OLD FAT and DRUNK, well not drunk, but ready for a glass of wine. Luckily we have plans next weekend and that's usually enough motivation to keep me on the straight and narrow in order to look my best by the weekend. What's better is that we're going out and raging Saturday night, so I can wake up Sunday feeling Old and Drunk once again and have the entire day to complete the circle once more. Life is good.

The Return of UnPlain Jane

2009-01-24T22:23:00.010-05:00

After a much-too-long hiatus, mostly due to wedding planning and partially due to a hearty combination of wine and Oprah, UnPlain Jane is returning to the blogosphere with tales of life as an unemployed New Yorker attempting to feed her spending habits and achieve her life goals with nothing but a pair of Prada pumps and a new laptop.

The wedding was beautiful, the honeymoon was fabulous and each had its fair share of emergencies, disasters and typical-of-UnPlain Jane-rediculousness. I would go into the specifics, but they are the basis of my latest project, Wedding. Honeymoon. Disaster: A Collection of Essays from a Calamity Bride. So rather than crack you up with tales of a broken dress, a stomach virus and a renegade mouse (the breathing kind), I'll do my best to earn your guffaws through the continuing saga of my life, as it is, with a new last name and a new lease on life.

Upon returning to NYC as a married woman I somehow expected my priorties to shift. The minute the plane touched down, the Xanax wore off and I no longer had a good excuse like, "It's our Honeymoon", to devour six scoops of ice cream in one sitting, I assumed that my brain would shift into adult mode. I assumed that some switch in my now-married mind would click and I would become consumed with thoughts of a mortgage, babies and fine china. I was wrong. Yes, I am nesting and have the smallest urge to throw a dinner party as an excuse to use my new servingwear, but at the same time I have an even bigger urge to use a chunk of that wedding stash to buy myself something in Chincilla that I can show off at the opening of a new lounge, which, at 28, I am probably too old to even know the name of, but narcissistic enough to diet myself right past the velvet ropes.

Now, as I procrastinate on writing 200 Thank You Cards and tell myself over and over that I SHOULD be spending two hours a day lounging, reading and napping, I have noticed a few ways in which life as a married person feels a little different.

Reason # 1: Sex

Being that half of my readership is in someway related to either my husband, "T", or myself, I'm aware that this is not a topic anyone wants me to delve deeply into so I will tread lightly. However, this is probably the first area, since arriving home, I've noticed any sort of "married feeling" with. Honeymoon Sex is the equivalent of Vacation Sex and feels no different as a married couple as it does as girlfriend-boyfriend, fiance-fiancee or bridesmaid-groomsman-who-just-met-at-the-wedding. It involves a hotel room, a bikini wax and a king size bed roomy enough to allow for no physical contact while sleeping after the deed is done. Sex changes when you get back from the honeymoon.

A) You're a little bit fatter. After two weeks of four square meals a deal, each complete with dessert, there is bound to be more Cushion for the Pushion.

B) You're a little bit more tired. There's a great likelihood that upon returning from your honeymoon, one of you is or both of you are, returning to work. Without twenty-four hours to devote to relaxing, eating and having sex everyday, your stamina level is bound to go down.

C) You're legal. Unless you're a Mormon, Staunchly Catholic or a Chasidic Jew, as a married American there is no stigma to consumating the realtionship even if you are double-fisting birth control. Sex is something I never felt guilty about, even long before the ring hit the finger, but somehow as a married person, I feel entitled. No, we're not doing it to have kids, but we are married and we're doing it and that's good enough. More than ever, I feel that it's OK to say the words, "Mom, the other night when T and I were doing it...." even though I have no desire to open that can of worms, it feels good, as a married woman, to be able to open any can I want.

Reasone #2: Security

The ring. As a married woman you start to feel that the anywhere between 10 and 50 diamonds adorning your left hand ring finger marks you as someone's property not to be bought drinks for. There also is the comfort that your husband is now a marked man as well. And while his new bling is not flashy and goes so far as to make him MORE attractive to single hotties, it also serves as a reminder to him, the man you married, that even though this hot single broad wants to challenge herself by breaking through the "married barrier", he is wearing a constant reminder that not only did he commit himself to you for life, but moreover, he spent the majority of his savings trying to get you to agree to do the same. And he's not going to throw that out the window to see the same pair of boobs he can see by turning on an episode of "The Girls Next Door."

Reason # 3: You're calm.

After a few pre-wedding months of Xanax, Drunken Fights and Questioning "Is this relationship a Mistake?," you start to truly believe "normal relationships" invole panic attacks and fist marks on the wall. Cut to returning home from your honeymoon. You're married, you have nothing to plan, no twice-removed family members to call and convince you are dying to see or new seating arrangments to arrange. The multiple outside stressers that once ruled your life in the form of wedding-related tasks have disappated and you're left with "win the lottery" and "Bed, Bath and Beyond" as #1 and #2 on your To Do List. Without 4697 small things to stress you out, everything and anything that in the past, would've pissed you off, now seems like no big deal. So Today, when my husband, entirely joking and without thinking.called me "an idiot" in front of the twenty year old BestBuy clerk that sold us my new laptop, I stayed calm. Instead of flipping, storming out of the store and crying as his finace would've, I calmly stayed in the store, waited for my moment and eventually mentioned, "Do you know you called me an idiot in front of that child?"

As his finace, I would've flipped out, stormed out of the store and fought myself into an expensive NYC dinner. As a wife, I walked out of BestBuy with a brand new laptop, two bottles of wine, and sincere apology and a promise to "never do that again" in the future.

Married life is good. So good that UnPlain Jane rec omends it.

After only one week of arriving home from the honeymoon, I've realized that two rings and a bunch of diamonds don't turn me into a boring a schoolmarm. Instead, they turn me into the doubly-happy, hotter-since-working-off-the-honeymoon-weight, confident twenty-eight year old at the bar who will get you to buy me that bottle of Vueve NYC chick. I will ruin your night by going home to my husband and not with you, AND I will always be fierce.

The ring makes me stronger and that is something I wouldn't understand until two weeks after the wedding, when I strutted out onto the streets of yuppie-infested midtown as another one of those married Mid-town Jews that half the people in my neighborhood long to be.

Dance Fever

2008-12-10T09:07:00.004-05:00

There are a number of things that come up during the course of planning a wedding that lead you to do and say things you might never do or say under normal circumstances. For instance, I never thought I'd hear my fiance, T, say the words, "Absolutely not. I hate that FONT." Nor did I ever think I would be letting a strange woman stuff my bra (while telling me just how small my chest is) in front of my mother and my niece. And not since the day that, as a chubby six year old, I ripped off my sequin-embellished top hat, threw that hot pink feather boa on the floor and stomped off the stage before the curtain even opened, did I think I would be taking dance lessons ever again. However, this is the nature of the year that leads up to the biggest day of your life.

Some time ago T and I took on the arduous task of picking out what would be our first dance song. As two music lovers, this was no easy undertaking, but after hours of arguing in front of iTunes, we settled upon the perfect song. A song that has meaning to both of us, that speaks to our relationship and will probably be forgotten by everyone who attends our wedding while we're still on our honeymoon. After listening to it a few times, we gave each other a look that said, "Sure we can dance to this, let's give it a try." Shoving the coffee table out of the way and turning up the speakers we took our first spin around the apartment.

For the first few measures we kind of stood there, stared at each other and we each did a little Oompa Loompa knee bend. Watching T carefully, since he is the better dancer, I tried unsuccessfully to emulate the up and down bop to the beat. Without saying a word we knew it was time to try and come together and dance like a real couple. Over the next minute I basically let T swing me around the 4' x 4' space we had cleared in the apartment, trying desperately to move my feet in any sort of way that made sense. When the song really picked up he spun me around and I did my best not to fall. Then, subconsciously we both retreated to our old standby dance moves. Mine consists of me throwing my hands straight up in the air and swinging my head back and forth to give whoever's watching a glimpse of how shiny and long it is. T usually begins his snapping his fingers and doing his sexy-back hip swing which looks so good that it draws the attention away from my signature head flail and manages to make me look half decent since I'm dancing with him. By this point I was really excited, so I backed up for a running start, went full steam ahead and yelled, "Dirty Dancing Lift!". T did his best to stop me from taking both of us down as I jumped into his arms, then he settled me back onto solid ground, rubbed his back and said, "Dance Lessons."

So when we hit the milestone mark of one month until the big day, we decided it was time to call up Manhattan's premier wedding dance studio and clean up the Oompa-Loompa-Hair-Flail-Hip-Swing-Try-Not-To-Get-Break-A-Leg-Lift combination we had pieced together. By the time the clock struck six we were safely inside the dance studio with our instructor, A. A is about my size, maybe a year or two older than us and lightyears more poised than either of us will ever hope to be. She put on our song, grabbed one of my hands, placed her other hand firmly around my waist, and threw me around the floor while I laughed, stumbled and said, "Oh no. I can not do this." Next up was T who caught right on and twirled A around like they'd been dancing together for years. Immediately, my competitive side kicked in and steam was all but pouring out of my ears the minute T chimed in to try and help me find the rhythm of the song.

I thought about the time T's dad mopped the dance floor with me at his cousin's wedding and about all of the times I've had to grab onto a wall for balance and just shake my butt while out dancing late night. As these moments flashed through my head, my resolve set in and I put on my serious face. I watched A's feet, hung onto her every word and repeated over and over in my head, "One Two Quick-Quick, One Two Quick-Quick. Before I knew it I had the basics down and had almost managed to move my hips. Almost.

Over the next five days, whenever T walked in the house, I had him practicing with me before he could even take off his coat. Thanks to my stay-at-home status I was also able to practice in front of our bedroom mirror every day, making sure to shut the blinds because I would do so in my pre-wedding, stay-at-home uniform which consists of my new satin Prada d'orsay pumps and my new honeymoon bikini. I like to wear these around the house a) to serve as a reminder to stay away from chocolate/wine/ice cream and b) because I love wearing those effing fabulous shoes and need to break them in for the big day.

After trudging out of the house, sick with a sinus infection and cranky, we arrived at the dance studio last night for lesson # 2 and showed A our stuff. "You HAVE been practicing!" she exclaimed and that was all the validation I needed. Now I have just one week to go to manage that new spin move she taught us without tripping over my own feet or getting flung into our wedding cake. I've let my competitiveness subside and actually listen to T when he offers up his expert advice and I can't tell you how good it felt when he said, "Baby, I actually saw you moving your hips!".

I now have a new appreciation for dancing with the stars and dreams of one day appearing in a Britney video. I'm already signing us up for a post-honeymoon dance class and have the unexplainable urge to tell everyone I come across, "I found rhythm." The truth is, when it's all over and we're back from our honeymoon, fat, happy and having spent two weeks on our asses, I'll probably fall right back into the hair-swing-head-flail and just sit back and let T make me look good. I'll be happy enough just having the memory and the video tape of the day UnPlain Jane danced like 200 people were watching.

Tits, Ass or Tears

2008-12-05T11:24:00.005-05:00

Just a few short months ago, after carelessly leaving my wallet in a cab, I received a call from Commerce Bank letting me know that they had the gentleman who had found my wallet on the other line. They connected me to the good samaritan and the following Monday morning I met him in front of his office, handed him a bank gift card to thank him and headed on my merry way with my wallet safely back in my hands. Walking down the street, I carefully cataloged my belongings and to my surprise, they were all in there. My ID, seven dollars, credit cards, a check for $554 that I had already endorsed and my beloved Sephora Beauty Insider card were each safely in their place. For the next few weeks I ran around town praising the good nature of my fellow New Yorkers and humanity as a whole.

Cut to Wednesday. It's exactly one month before our wedding and I'm meeting "T" at Ripley Studios for our first wedding dance lesson. Having just guzzled a double cappuccino at a meeting half an hour earlier, I immediately headed for the bathroom. As usual, I was carrying more than I could handle. My purse, containing our just-picked-up-and-not-yet-insured wedding bands; a tote, containing "the perfect" dance lesson outfit I spent an hour picking out; my giant puffy coat and my most prized possession, my blackberry (aka: my entire life). After changing and a quick pee, I dragged all of my things over to the sink to wash my hands. I rested my blackberry on the counter and made sure to keep a careful eye on the purse that was squeezed between my knees because I was filled with fear that if I took my eyes off of it for half a second, it would be gone and, with it, our wedding bands. Turning my head to grab some paper towels, my eyes left my blackberry for what couldn't have been more than 5 seconds and when I turned back, it was gone. F-ck Humanity.

In disbelief, I began searching through my bags. There I was, on all fours on the bathroom floor on the verge of hysterics, shouting into the stalls asking if anyone had seen a blackberry. After fashioning gloves out of paper towels, I took the cover off of the garbage can and started digging through it, fighting the urge to gag and convinced that I must have dropped it in there or something because people just don't take things like that, do they? When one of the girls in the bathroom offered to call my phone for me, it went straight to voicemail. Sh-t, F-ck, Sh-t. Who would do this? I went so far as to patiently wait outside one of the stalls while some poor girl tried to stifle a violent "number two" with coughs and courtesy flushes. I apologized when she was done, but for the love of god, I had to check in there for my Blackberry. I had no choice.

Still unconvinced that someone would actually steal my blackberry right out from under me, I headed over to the front desk where I was informed that no one had turned anything in. In tears, I looked up and saw that "T" had arrived. The first thing out of his mouth was, "I've been trying to call you." "Someone stole my Blaaaaaackbeeeeeeerrrry!" I whined and before he could offer me any consolation I continued with, "What am I gonna do! My WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE is in there! Who would do something like this?!" Luckily for "T" our dance lesson was beginning so I had to suck it up and stumble my way through our wedding song, already in a bad mood and now seething because my competitive side can't handle that he's a better dancer than I am. I continued acting "mature" the whole ride home including tossing out a "You don't understand!" in the cab; stomping away and once again breaking into tears when we arrived at the already-closed T-mobile store; and actually kicking my building before rounding the corner so the doorman wouldn't witness my tantrum. I ended the rage with a good old fashion wall-punch-throw-my-purse-as-hard-as-I-can-on-the-floor combination the minute we walked in the door.

As is my usual MO, the next morning I was done with my rant and ready to spring into action. I gave "T" my standard, post-tantrum apology and thanks, then decided I was going to get a new Blackberry at a discount if it killed me. Having visiting plenty of T-Mobile stores thanks to a long history of breaking Blackberries, I was familiar with the stereotypical wireless sales worker, so I thought my best bet was to a) shake what my momma gave me and b) bring cash. Getting ready to go get mine I put on an outfit that was not classy, nor stylish, but perfect for the occasion: The tightest jeans I own and a loooow cut shirt that barely hid the cleavage I had fashioned out of my favorite push up bra and a pair of "chicken cutlet" inserts that I keep in my underwear drawer in a plastic bag labeled "Jane's Boobs". I topped it off with high boots, the shiniest lip gloss I own and with "T" in agreement, left my engagement ring at home. On my way to the store, I stopped at the ATM and took out $200 because, just in case my feminine wiles didn't work, I would offer to "pay cash" and "throw in a little extra".

The times they are a changing, because when I walked into my local T-Mobile I was greeted with a plain looking young lady and her manager, a gay man. I didn't even bother taking off my coat because clearly giving either of them a gander at "the girls" wasn't going to get me anywhere. Time for Plan B. She asked me the usual questions and I informed her that no, I do not have insurance and yes, I just extended my contract two weeks ago so I could get the discount price when my Blackberry broke in Vegas. She politely informed me that, unfortunately, I was going to have to pay the full $350 price tag for a replacement device. With her manager hovering over, I knew I wasn't going to have the opportunity to invoke Plan B and try to grease her, so I did what came naturally and broke into tears. Again. Within five minutes she had me on the phone with T Mobile corporate, where between sniffles I told my sob story to Bob, my friendly customer service representative. Ten minutes after that I was armed with a new SIM card, a loaner phone and the knowledge that my replacement Blackberry was in the mail for the bargain discount price of $150.

I thanked Shonda and Miguel profusely, apologized for crying in their store and asked where I could call to sing their praises to the higher ups at T-Mobile. After walking out the door, I immediately dialed "T" and informed him of the situation. As usual, after I break down, throw a fit and then spring into action, I try to take whatever just happened and learn something from it. This time around I learned a few things. First, there are lots of bad people in this world that will take advantage of your mistakes; Second, even though there are lots of bad people out there, there are definitely more good people than bad; and finally, perhaps the most important lesson of them all, where tits and ass don't work, tears do. That's one you can take to the bank.

My Afternoon at Unemployment Land: The Most Miserable Place on Earth

2008-12-02T17:32:00.006-05:00

It came in the mail a week ago. It was bright orange, as foreboding as a piece of paper can be and instructed me to report to the unemployment office for career counseling on Tuesday, December 2 at 2:30pm. I believe my exact reaction was "F-ck", but I'm not 100% sure because I was immediately distracted by the questionnaire I had to fill out.

Do you have a resume? Yes.

Do you need help obtaining a GED? No.

Is English your second language? No.

If these questions were any sort of precursor to the afternoon I was in for, surely this would not be time well spent.

Mustering up the most positive attitude I possibly could, I headed downtown thinking that I would at least have the exciting opportunity to watch our city's government at work. When I entered the building and checked in at the visitor's desk, I started to feel a little down on myself. Maybe it was because as soon as I said I was going to the 7th Floor, the man behind the desk yelled, "Oh, You're Going to Your Unemployment Today!!". Yes. Thank you sir and thank you for announcing it to all the well-dressed, good looking people who are getting off the elevator on 4, not 7. Even the landscaper-esque man standing next to me, who I was sure was riding to the same floor as me, got off on 4. So there I stood, the last man standing on an elevator headed to the saddest floor of any building I've ever been in.

When I got off the elevator, I was anything but alone and the jovial, Will-Smith-Circa-The-Fresh-Prince-of-Bel-Air-Wanna-Be security guard let me know it. He cracked jokes, was louder than my mom and her sisters after a few glasses of wine, and commented to one of his colleagues about us, the unemployed, saying "if I don't keep them in line, they start fightin'!" I'm sorry, I didn't know that I, the girl who oh so politely asked him if he could point me in the direction of the ladies room just a minute before that, posed the threat of violence as I took my place in line. At the first checkpoint, my ID was checked and I was herded onto another line a little further into the room. This was my opportunity to finally get a look at the cast of characters who were now my peers. I expected the crowd to resemble the crowd at my local OTB, but was greeted with a mixed bag of people that was mostly comprised of professionals. In fact, it was fairly easy to discern who was unemployed vs. who worked at the unemployment office, because we, the unemployed, were dressed better and more full of life.

When I reached the second checkpoint, I was greeted by a man so old that not only shouldn't he be working, but he shouldn't have been alive. He was less a man and more the tiny, pale skeleton of a man who has had the life sucked out of him by 100 years of working check-in on the unemployment line. He used all the strength he had to staple my paperwork together and tell me to take a seat amongst the blank faces waiting behind him. I took note of his outfit and would later find out that all of the employees in the office shared his fashion sense and wore what I've decided to call the "Unemployment Workers Uniform." It consists of a hideous tweed jacket, a mock turtle neck that's seen the washing machine one too many times, a pair of pants that are too big and a large, ugly accessory (his was a pinky ring, others donned brooches, hats, and velvet flowers). I'm just amazed that so many people could wake up in the morning, peek in their closet and think, "This is the Perfect Ensemble!".

After sitting for about five minutes, a Rosie Perez like voice shouted, "Will the two-thirty appointment please follow me!" En mass, about 50 of us stood up, collected our things and were instructed to please move all the way down and fill in every seat. When she shouted to the table next to me, "Will you gentlemens and the lady please move down one," I couldn't help but say to myself, "How is someone who yells across the room and uses the word 'gentlemens' going to help me get a job?"

As I sat there, watching her instruct everyone to fill out the form that should have already been filled out before we got there, I took a look around the room. One depressed face after the next greeted me, it was like the DMV on crack, no one wanted to be there and on top of that, everyone in this room had lost their job. Although if I had to guess I would say that, like me, the other people in the room, young and old, were less distraught about losing their jobs and more annoyed that they had to be there. What struck me most though was just how normal everyone was, and when a tall blonde walked in and plopped her Louis bag on the table next me I thought, "My sister."

After twenty minutes of collecting every one's paperwork, the lecture began. A woman about the same age as my grandmother asked if anyone had ever heard of LinkedIn? I almost responded by asking her if she had ever heard of the Internet, but thought it was best to just stay quiet. Shortly after that, she suggested we use "Faceplace" to network for our job search. No one attempted to correct her, but instead we all just rolled our eyes at each other. I sarcastically thought to myself "Yes, Facebook, with my pictures of Vegas, status updates like 'Jane is 4 champagnes deep on a Sunday afternoon' and snarky comments from friends like, 'I can see your camel toe' is really going to help me make my next career move. Perhaps I could become a hooker using my social network? I would be hiding the truth if I didn't tell you that there was about five seconds, that I was half inspired to go out there and change my life, but as soon as the Powerpoint started it ended.

Luckily the presentation lasted about five minute and afterwards we were instructed to stay put. Some of us would be called in for a one on one meeting while others would be dismissed and that it was completely random. We all shifted our eyes nervously as the first few people were called into their one on one's. Then, an ancient relic of a woman entered the room with the stack of dismissals and took a good twenty minutes for her to get through calling the names. I began to get desolate. She had finally gone through every name in the pile and mine was not one of them. There I sat, one of three people left out of the fifty or so that were in that room, knowing that not only did I get selected for a one on one, but worse, I had to wait for it.

When the young, plump and possibly recently immigrated case worker called my name and led me to her desk, I did my absolute best to be as cheerful as possible. "How's your job search going?" she asked. I told her things were going great, that I was using my contacts to network, had a few interviews scheduled including a second round coming up and left out the part that I'd rather be a stay-at-home-anything than go back to work soon. She looked surprised and said, "Well than I guess you don't need help with your resume since you're getting interviews." Correct. Then she continued, "Then let me show you the Internet." No, I am not kidding. I am 100 percent serious that this is what she said to me just before she asked if I've ever heard of a Podcast. I did my best to act appreciative and after each item she showed me on this mysterious interweb, I interjected and let her know that not only was I aware of it, but that she should let me show her another, better site/widget/whatever.

Not a minute too soon, just before I broke down into a pile of hysterical laughter and/or tears she wished me luck and sent me on my way letting me know that should I ever end up back here, which in her opinion I likely would, there are many resources to help me. Thanks.

Luckily they only make you attend once and I'd be lying if I said I didn't learn anything. I learned one lesson: City Government is like Ellis Island. It's where the tired, poor, huddled masses go to work and where the energetic, well dressed, but unemployed masses go to have the life sucked out of them for 2 hours on a Tuesday afternoon. I do not plan on going back in either capacity.

My Annual, Un-Original, I Hate Tourists, Rant

2008-12-01T07:49:00.005-05:00

Warning: What you are about to read is not new. You've heard it all before from many different people, with many different points of view, in various states of annoyance. But as I sit here, fighting the urge to bash my head against the wall and thanking my lucky stars it's Cyber Monday so I don't have to venture out and deal with the "Old Gals Club" who took the train in from Lon-guy-land for the day to do some shopping and see a show, I can not resist the urge to purge myself of my annual Holiday Season Rage.

Living in Manhattan allows me the daily joy of taking my stress out on the other 8 million people making their way through the concrete jungle. I take pleasure in bumping into someone on the sidewalk just a little too hard because both of us were determined to claim our space and too stubborn to move 1/2 a foot to the right. When the UN is in session, I relish the opportunity to yell at a delegate and let him know that "here in New York", we let women through the door first. And, by far, my favorite is giving cab drivers the combination "Middle-Finger-F-ck You A$$hole-yell" for almost running me over as I cross the street after the Don't Walk light is already lit. This is a pedestrian city and pedestrians have the right of way (unless it's the rare instance where I am the one driving, in which case you better move your a$$ off the crosswalk because the light is green and I will run you over - don't test me). While this may seem overly aggressive and unacceptable, to most people here it's unspoken, understood and perfectly normal. I don't really have a problem with that b1tch who slammed into my shoulder and who's hair I subsequently yelled looked like a bird's nest. She needed it. I needed it. We got it out of our systems and we could probably become best friend's over cocktails. It's just how we roll.

Enter Late-November. The temperature drops, the SALE signs go up, the mood starts getting festive and tourists invade. Fifth Avenue becomes inundated with funny accents, odd clothes, and the unmistakeable calling card of the Mid-West, blue eyeliner and bad hair. So last Wednesday at 9am, I made my way across 34th Street to beat the crowds at Macy's. Always tempted by the call of cheap jeans and long T Shirts that I pass off as dresses, I pushed my way through a group of tourists doing the dreaded five-across-block-the-whole-sidewalk move and ducked into Forever 21. What awaited inside filled me with an incomprehensible mix of fright, naseau and hysterics. Like Alice in Wonderland I gasped at the cast of characters that surrounded me in what is usually my turf.

Forever21 had been invaded by the throngs of bubbly Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Participants dragging their Mom's excitedly through a store they can find at any mall in their Ohio suburb, beyond thrilled to fight crowds and pay sales tax on items they could get cheaper at home, just because the store is bigger. I winced each time my delicate ears were met with southern twangs practicing cheers and the attack continued on my nose with the unmistakeable scent of Jean Nate wafting off every 45 year old, bleach blonde mom who's fake smiles seethed jealously and vicarious living as they chased their teenage daughters around the store stopping only to contemplate if there's any chance they could get into a mini skirt like that just one more time. Determined to grab a pair of jeans and give these girls the kind of New York experience they could go home and tell their friends about, I bumped, pushed and told-off my way through the store to the enormous line at the cash register. Immediately I picked up the phone and called someone to b1tch loudly and make funny comments about the Middle American Travesties I was surrounded with.

After 15 minutes, I was off the phone, still standing on line and in pain. If I heard one more squeel, screetch, or Oh-My-Word-Look-At-These-Earrings!, I was going to lose it. It was at that point that I looked at the door longingly, dropped the jeans and ran for my life. They had beaten me. Here I stood a few year veteran of New York City taken down by a gaggle of high-schoolers with high pony tails and ribbons in their hair. Dejected, defeated and determined to get the hell out of Herald Square, I trudged across 34th Street trying to make my way past Fabio, Donatella and their four beautiful Italian children, all of whom strolled slowly, seductively smoking cigarettes blocking any chance I had of getting to the east side as quickly as I hoped. Once again, I was reminded of the simple fact that I Hate Tourists.

I Hate Them! I Hate Them! I Hate Them! Now, please excuse me while I stomp my feet, clench my fists and am left no choice but to do my shopping online. Wah.

Lunch With An Ex

2008-11-25T14:36:00.004-05:00

How long are you supposed to wait before seeing an "ex" after a painful break-up? A month? Two? I'm not sure what protocol is, but when I got a text message from an ex late last week asking me to lunch, I was somewhat tentative, but also intrigued so I said yes. Besides, I never turn down a free meal.

Before you start calling "T" and telling him I'm running around town having liquid lunches with a man who may or may not have seen my breasts before, let me tell you that I'm talking about about an ex-coworker, not an ex-boyfriend (and no, he hasn't seen my breasts - unless he was at Key West Fantasy Fest in 1998-2000). Our breakup was somewhat painful, I didn't want to leave, he didn't want me to go, but due to circumstances beyond our control (the massive layoff my previous employer went through), things just weren't going to work out. So about a month ago, we hugged goodbye, went our separate ways and promised we'd stay friends. It's not you, it's me.

As I bussed-it across town wearing a cute-but-casual outfit, the kind you always wanted your co-workers to see you in, but just couldn't get away with at the office, I wondered to myself what we would talk about. Would we keep our distance and keep it all business? Would the conversation revolve around the co-workers we used to share but he now has custody of? Or we would "go there" and talk about the stuff we could never talk about when we were "together", entwined as professionals.

I got my answer about 10 minutes after we hugged hello. As soon as "The Ex" said, "UnPlain Jane, let's have wine," I knew where it was going and within five minutes the conversation turned from "How's Business?" to "Tell me every last dirty detail of your trip to Vegas and I'll tell you how I was no different from you 8 years ago." I guess some things never change. All it takes is an expensive meal and a $16 glass of wine (which is better than the $1 pitcher of beer and plate of hot wings it took in college) to seal the deal. By the end of the meal we were both fully aware of a) how funny we each think we are and b) how awesome his wife and my future husband are for putting up with each of us.

As sad as it is saying goodbye to the people you spent at least 40 hours of every week with, there's something especially fun about getting together, after you've split, and getting to hang out without the looming threat of "Monday Morning" and revealing just a little more than you ever would've in the office over a muted conference call.

I would love to have the opportunity to get to know all of my "EXes" is this way, but I think it's best kept to those I've always had the sneaking suspicion are "just like me." I have a reputation to maintain and I wouldn't want to ruin the image of the sweet-nice-class act-UnPlain Jane. After all, if I wanted them to know who I really was, I would've owned up to spreading the funniest-but-most-vulgar-joke XYZ Company has ever heard. Instead, I gave credit to a man, because that kind of joke couldn't have come from the mouth of a woman and certainly not UnPlain Jane. Not the one my ex-co-workers know anyway.

Happy Hour

2008-11-24T14:13:00.003-05:00

When it comes to being on vacation there's really no inappropriate time to have a cocktail. Bailey's and Coffee over breakfast? Sure. Bloody Mary at brunch? Absolutely. But what about when you're home on a random cold Tuesday afternoon? When is it really appropriate to pop the cork on that bottle of wine that's been calling your name since you walked by your overly-full wine rack in the kitchen to cook breakfast?

As my best friend likes to say when we're down at her shore house and the clock strikes noon, "It's five o'clock somewhere!" And it is. Especially now that I'm enjoying a life free of a job, a boss, and tomorrow's early meeting/conference call/Gossip Girl discussion at the water cooler, it seems like every hour should be happy hour.

Upon first receiving my pink slip I firmly decided that I would not lose my motivation or become lazy in any way. I told myself that I would continue to get up early to workout and keep myself on a strict schedule designed to pack as much possible into each day; furthermore,I would achieve world peace and end world hunger. This lasted for about a week. Since then, I've decided to become, as I like to look at it, more European. I am doing so by sleeping in, getting workouts walking about town rather than in the gym, and eating late lunches that are full cheese and wine.

So when I decided to become a connoisseur of my local wine store's bargain bin, I began my samplings at around 7 or 8pm over dinner. Soon I started having a glass at 5 or 6pm as I cook because a little vino just makes everything taste better (and look a little sloppier). In fact, think vino is responsible for me inventing the suprisingy delicous, zuchinni-cinnamon-jalepeno burger. A few days later, when 4pm rolled around and I took my "Oprah break", I thought, "What the hell? That malbec is calling my name."

Now as I sit here, fresh off a late lunch thinking about how nothing gets my creative juices going like a yummy cabernet, I'm wondering, how early is too early? Would one consider me to have a problem if I were to sip a cocktail in front of my computer at 2:30 in the afternoon on a Monday? If I changed my name to something French, would that make it OK? If I started wearing lots of black eyeliner and smoking, would that make it OK? If I started hanging out with Lindsay Lohan, would that make it OK? Throw me a bone please!

Until I can justify it in my own head, I'll have to stick to a 3pm coffee fix instead of a mainline of that sweet-grape-nectar-of-the-gods. I don't think it'll take too long to figure something out.

For now, having no better excuse, I'm just going to call myself Jean-Francois-Michele-Baguette, so I can sip my wine and eat my cheese guilt-free no matter what time it is. To my close friends, I look forward to the intervention. To my party-buddies, I look forward to the relapse.

So Fresh and So Clean

2008-11-21T13:56:00.002-05:00

After being away from home for a while, even in the most spectacular of accommodations, I always find myself longing for two things: My bed and my shower. So you could imagine what it felt like, after I dragged myself through my building's lobby, barely functioning and bleary eyed last Sunday, only to be greeted with a sign near the elevator letting me and my fellow tenants know that we would be without hot water.

There I stood, stinking of three days of indecency, desperate for a good scrub and steam to sweat out whatever toxins remained in my body, with no hope for either in site. Although at this point the gym was a distant memory and I was more concerned with getting myself clean than even attempting to work out, it dawned on me that if I could get myself there, I could shower there. From the minute my head hit the pillow it was filled with dreams of a shower. A shower in my glorious, overpriced-to-everyone-who-signed-up-after-me gym locker room. I thought of the minty fresh steam room, the spicy cedar sauna and the giant towels piled so high you want to take a running leap and jump into them the way you did a pile of leaves when you were ten.

Still hungover and looking just slightly better than the guy who lives outside the McDonald's across the street from me (who incidentally is crazy and shouldn't be spoken to - lesson learned the hard way), I threw on some workout clothes and trudged down to my beautiful, glorious health club. Out of breath from being a non-smoker who smoked enough cigarettes in one weekend (smoking is a law in Vegas and Europe) to suffocate a small village, I spent a good 15 minutes on the Elliptical until I could actually smell myself and knew it was time to step off the machine and into the shower. (For those of you who don't know, listen up: it is a rule that if you can smell yourself at the gym then everyone around you can smell you too and it's probably ten times worse than you think).

I headed for the shower so fast I think I may have torn off my pants before I even got into the locker room, but I can't be sure or accountable at this point. I grabbed whatever I remembered to bring from home, which wasn't much (a loofah, face wash and conditioner I think) and sprinted buck naked toward the showers. Now in any other scenario I would be self-conscious and too embarrassed to run full speed, unstable in flip flops, wearing not so much as pasties, but Manhattan locker rooms are a world unto their own. I cite the first time I set foot into a women's locker room in NYC and went into sensory overdrive after being greeted by breasts of all ages, bent over 60 year olds and the most precisely styled, yet incredibly full bush resembling an aerial view of Richard Simmons that I had ever seen. According to "T", the men's locker room isn't much different as he learned when a fully nude man pranced up, got right in his personal space and asked him for the time.

As soon as I hung my towel on the hooks and turned on that perfect stream of just-the-right temperature water and made it rain on myself, I started to think about how awesome showering at the gym is and why I love it so much.

There are lots of reasons the gym shower is so great. It's big, someone else cleans it and there are lots of fun products that come out of cool pumps attached to the wall. These are all great, but the real reason I love showering at the gym has nothing to do with any of these things. The real reason I love showering at the gym is the fantasy.

The minute I close the frosted glass door and lather up I am transported to every unrealistic movie locker room scene that ever was. Suddenly, I am starring in Porky's or Revenge of the nerds. My mind wanders to a place where I am one of 30 hot women prancing around a locker room, taking an extra extra long shower than stepping out of the stall, forgoing a towel for the more preferred method of air-drying. As I wash my hair and imagine that the 60 year old in the next stall is actually a dead ringer for Angelina Jolie and that the girls in the other showers are creating beautiful shadow silhouettes on the stall doors. I'm tempted to break into song like it's some locker room musical. Like by magic, we all at once start singing into hair driers and dancing on the benches.

Just before I start belting out "We are hot women!" (the imaginary first line to the opening number in the locker room musical going on in my head), I shut the water, towel off, cover up and step out to the realization that I forgot to bring deodorant, moisturizer and undies. As I ask Sally Loose Skin who's standing next to me to please pass me a Q-tip, I start lusting after my tiny, doorless, cold-water shower in my little apartment just four blocks away. I put on my clothes, sashay out the door for good measure and head home to sing into the blow dryer alone. Somethings are better kept private.

Two Kids, A Dog and a Large Glass of Expensive Wine

2008-11-20T11:53:00.004-05:00

Not by choice, but by nature, I am uncomfortable around other people's children. They are strange, small creatures who look at you with innocent eyes and expectancy, waiting to be entertained. It's so unnerving to me that every time I find myself around someone else's children I wind up acting like I would around a dog.

Step 1) Pat child on head.

Step 2) Smile and speak loud, high-pitched statements at said child like, "You're a good girl!".

It's awkward for everyone involved and reinforces my nagging insecurity that I am going to raise a child that either thinks it's a dog or behaves like a 40-year-old when it's 10. I was going to go back and correct myself in the previous sentence, but I think the fact that I used "it's" as a pronoun when referring to my future child, just further illustrates the deep disconnect between me and my maternal instinct.

You can imagine my fright when one of my favorite cousins asked me to babysit for her at the last minute yesterday. I was visiting for the day when she had to run out for a couple hours. Now, having spent a few hours prior with the whole family, I was slightly more comfortable around these teeter-tottering little people than I normally would be, but that's not saying much. Perhaps sensing my fear or perhaps because I blurted out the word "wine" like someone with turrets syndrome, my cousin's husband whipped out a bottle of the good stuff and poured me what was the equivalent of a bowl of my new favorite Cabernet.

Halfway through the bowl of wine, I was feeling much more comfortable, enjoying The Hound and the Fox Sequel # 576 and making up scary stories at the four-year-old's request. Then, just before the 1 and a half year old's bedtime ( I know - in baby speak I'm supposed to say how many months she is), the half bowl of wine hit me and I had to pee. I told the kids I'd be right back and headed toward the bathroom just a few steps away, petrified that as I emptied my bladder, they would somehow learn how to skateboard, build a ramp in the house and crack their heads open trying to do Ollies. What I didn't expect was the 1 and 1/2 year old to teeter as fast as she could behind me, appearing as if out of nowhere, just as I was about to unbutton.

Now, I am sure, for parents this is common and not even thought about. However, as someone who's babysitting experience does not extend beyond the number of fingers she has, and as Aunt UnPlain Jane, it's a little awkward.

Pop Quiz Hotshot

You're babysitting and have to pee. The child follows you into the bathroom. You really have to pee. Do you:

a) close the door on a crying child's face so you can take down your pants and go in peace, or

b) drop trou in front of the about-to-scream-if-you-shut-that-door child's face?

I went with A and here's why:

I could deal with five minutes of crying and my own intense fear that these two were going to break their arms/heads/legs/insert body part of choice. I could not deal with the thought of little Suzie watching me pee then announcing to mommy and daddy later, "I saw Aunt UnPlainJane's Hoo-Hoo on the Potty Today!"

It made sense at the moment.

Magically, thanks to either the wine or my cousin raising insanely good children, putting them to bed was a snap. Before I knew it I was on the couch, back in my comfort-zone, surrounded by adults and downing bowl of wine number two while thinking to myself what a great mother I'm going to be one day. So long as there's wine. Lots of wine.

The Wedding's Back On

2008-11-17T17:55:00.010-05:00

They say it takes one and a half times the length of a relationship to get over it after a breakup. I say the same holds true for recovering from a trip to Vegas. It's almost unnecessary for me to recap the details of this latest trip to Sin City, also known as my bachelorette party, since it was basically a carbon copy of the trip I took two years ago including:

One smashed blackberry;
One called-off relationship;
One trip to the Las Vegas mall for a new phone;
and one changed flight.

I got all of this for the bargain price of 3 gained pounds, 1300 spent-who-knows-where dollars, and 2 and 1/2 days post-trip spent in bed reevaluating my life, myself as a person, and sobbing through the decision of whether I can ever face my fiance's family and friends again.

So, yes, to answer your question, I had a GREAT F-CKING TIME.

Somehow, between repeatedly exposing my bra, holding on to walls for support as I attempted to dance and paying a $10 ATM Fee at a strip club, I not only had the time of my life, but I learned some important life lessons too.

It is stupid to get mad at your fiance because he is having just as much fun as you are so he didn't pick up his phone.
It is even stupider to be as mean as you possibly can to him and call of the wedding once you finally get a hold of him.
It is most stupid to continue the argument the next morning because, even though you know you're wrong, you can't admit it.

Perhaps what's really stupid is popping a Zanny on the plane, double-fisting for the entire five hour flight, drinking anything you can get your hands on for the next 12 hours, followed by no sleep and a 6:30am breakfast of Vodka-Cranberry and Petron XO? Did I mention I had the time of my life?

Now that I'm done sounding like a first-timer sharing at an AA meeting, let me go over the real highlights. In one single day I got to attend Stripper 101 and Stripper 201. Stripper 101 takes place at the V Theater in Planet Hollywood. The pack a rowdy group of birthday girls and bachelorettes into a room filled with poles, chairs and boas. Throw in some drinks and a ex-"exotic dancer" to teach some moves and you have yourself a good time. The clothes came off faster than you can say lap-dance and I am left with some awesome pictures and a giant bruise on my leg from swinging around the pole over and over and over again.

Disappointed that I would have to put clothes on for dinner, I put on the skimpiest thing I own (to quote one of my best friends, "a napkin and heels") and headed to dinner. We mowed through our meal at Nobu, ancie to get to Stripper 202. Yes, 8 women, jumped in stretch limo number 156412 of the weekend and instructed the driver to get us over to the Spearmint Rhino, STAT.

After convincing the doormen that we were lesbians and pinky swearing we would not talk to any men and take away any attention from the actual strippers, we were escorted to a booth in the corner and got our lap dance on. I find it necessary to explain that my last lap dance experience took place on Staten Island and ended with me clutching a piece of the stripper's weave that had fallen out. With that said, I am considering this my first "real" stripper experience and here's what I learned:

Strippers are smooth. Ridiculously smooth. Where do I find that lotion?
Strippers DO let you touch. A lot.
Motor boats (especially those involving surgically enhances breasts) are not so much sexy, but a hell of a lot of fun.

Upon waking up on Sunday morning, painfully longing for home and starting to feel REALLY bad about the fight (more accurately described as unwarranted attack) with "T", I managed to get me and my cohorts off of the Red-Eye and onto a 2:35pm flight back to the East Coast. Now, many days later I have finally managed to get out of bed, face the world, and recap the highlights of my "last weekend of freedom."

Nudity, Booze and Fighting aside what I took away most from this weekend is that my future sister-in-law is AWESOME. So awesome that the quality time I got to spend getting to know her and letting her get to know me was worth both:

the post-fight, heart-breakingly painful because-I-was-mean-to-"T" guilt and
the intense fear that my future brother-in-law will either a) hate me forever or b) mention in his best-man speech that, given enough booze, I am a complete psycho.

I've also realized that I have two choices going forward:

I can remind myself to pace myself BEFORE I start drinking (not after 12 drinks when pacing myself means going from Vodka Straight to Vodka Soda) or;
I can lose 10 more pounds and get some fake boobs and a tan so I can maintain equilibrium on the Hot-Crazy Scale (the hotter a girl is, the crazier she can be).

All in all the weekend was great. My friends are amazing, my future husband is beyond amazing (despite all the things I said about him at 4:30am Saturday morning) and I am a very lucky girl. I'm sure I could have learned all of these lessons without the high-price of Vegas by watching an episode of Oprah and reading Eat, Love, Pray, but this was a lot more fun.

I'd like to say that this was probably my last trip to Vegas, but I'm probably wrong. I have some goals for the next trip and those include seeing the light of day and seeing the Las Vegas Sign. Moreover, on the first trip, I broke up with "T"; on the second the second trip, I called off my wedding to "T"; I'm guessing a third trip is necessary so I can threaten divorce. Sounds reasonable, right?

Viva Las Vegas

2008-11-13T17:59:00.001-05:00

Since I am heading off to Sin City this weekend for my bachelor(ette) party, I thought I would leave you with a recount of the last time me and a few friend's hit the strip/stripped in Vegas. It's plenty long, so take your time and enjoy. Hopefully, when I land back in NYC on Monday, I'll have the strength to get back up and blogging, but you may have to wait until Tuesday if this trip is anything like the last one.

September 2006

Viva Las Vegas - The Intro

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

Viva Las Vegas - Part 1: The Prep

About 4 days prior to blast off I started having visions of toned, tanned and big-breasted gorgeous beauties lurking in every nook and cranny in Las Vegas. Although I had been

working out twice a day for the last 2 months and was probably in the best shape of my life, my nagging insecurities started popping up and I was determined not to feel inadequate. So it was decided (in my mind) that I absolutely needed a) Hair Extensions - from here-on-in termed "The Weave" and b) a tan. I immediately called up NYC's resident White-Girl-Weave expert and screamed "I Need Hair"! Less than 24 hours later I was walking out of Harlem's Pizazz hair salon feeling like Jessica Simpson / Lindsay Lohan / an Olson twin.

I find it necessary to mention that in order to get to this point of celeb-ness I had to first go to the shadiest "office" in Manhattan and buy myself some weft human hair that was probably shaved off the head of some orphan in an underprivileged country. Secondly, I got to take my first trip to a Harlem salon. This experience definitely lived up to everything I expected and more thanks in part to the crack head who walked in and tried to sell me an industrial strength flash light, because hey, you never know when you might need it and how when she left, the hairdresser told me that the above-mentioned crack head used to be a model. Yeah right.

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

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

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

Lesson # 1 - Check.

Viva Las Vegas - Part 2: The Plane

Call me a day dreamer, but I had it my head that my flight to Las Vegas was going to be like a ride on a party bus. I just assumed that a 6:00pm flight on a Friday night out to Vegas would be solely occupied by crazed party animals all under the age of 30. Loud Music. Lights. People slamming shots out of tiny bottles of booze and high-fiving each other all over the place. Your average trip on Hooters Airlines. All I can say is Continental doesn't roll like that. However Hustle & Flow, myself, and the dude sitting next to us do.

We lucked out and were seated right behind the poverty-curtain that leads to First Class in the first row of bulkhead seats in coach. We sat down next to Manny and found out he was 26,

from NJ and on his way to bachelor party. Check, check and check! Even better than that,

we found out that homeboy was rollin' in dough and married which basically equaled free drinks for us without even having to try and front like we were the least bit interested.

Good conversation ensued and about 15 minutes after take-off the three of us found ourselves double-fisted and raring to go. We were throwing 'em back 2 at a time and in the time it took me to get up and pee 5 times (yes 5), take about 20 pictures of flight attendants throwing up gang signs, and get everyone's email address we were making our final approach.

I guess one would say we were rowdy, but I at least thought we were being funny. (And so

did one of the flight attendants because he was sneaking us free drinks up until the captain

boomed "Flight attendants, please be seated for take off.") Unfortunately, there was another flight attendant who didn't think we were so hilarious. This was the same flight attendant who had so nicely grabbed my bag for me when I wasn't allowed to stand up before take-off, but now she had definitely had enough of the antics of Hustle & Flow and The Juice and was pursing her lips, shakin' her head, and muttering "Oh no child" as we were screaming "Viva Yo' Mama!".

Then came the last straw. Just as we were walking off the plane and she told us to be quiet and

then turned around, Hustle & Flow thought it'd be funny to give her a smack on that extra large caboose. My reaction was a twisted mess of "Oh Shit" and "That's the Funniest Effing

Thing I've Ever Seen." The flight attendants reaction didn't resemble either of those. I now know what Eddie Murphy was talking about in his stand up when he talked about the fear he felt when he saw look his big black mama would give them right before she smacked him upside the head for doing something wrong.

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

We ran down the gangway laughing our asses off and high-fiving each other that we'd almost been arrested within 5 seconds of landing in Vegas. The only thing I learned from this part of the trip were 1) It's not a good idea to spank flight attendants. 2) I can drink more when I am in the presence of Hustle & Flow that I ever thought was humanly possible. She has the same effect on me as the oxygen they pump into the casinos. I guess I knew both of these things already though.

Viva Las Vegas - Part 3: The Party

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

When we arrived at the Venetian, drunk and screaming, following the signs to Tao, we were immediately greeted by the first of many packed lobbies, long lines and big dudes with clipboards. I do not know what came over me, but the Juice was in full effect and I had us swept in the VIP, with free drinks courtesy of some 40 year old Czech dude in under 10 minutes. It was on.

There's something about Vegas that makes men want to spend their money on women who make it completely obvious from the first second that as soon as the drink is in her hand the conversation is over. It's almost too easy. I prefer a little bit of a challenge.

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

My first mistake was dropping T's digital camera and watching the button that actually snaps the pictures fly off into the sunset. I would like to send special thanks to the dude who crawled around on the floor with me looking for it to no avail. T's first prediction came true and the camera was broke. Damn.

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

Thankfully, around that time my three accomplices showed up and were ready to take me home. V ordered me to have a seat on the fountain and by no means was I to go anywhere. The minute she turned her back I was in a cab on my way to our hotel. Upon arriving at what I thought was my hotel I was quickly challenged with the feat of finding my way to my room 1504. Here's the problem: The hotel I arrived at only had 3 floors. But that couldn't be. I specifically remembered telling the cab driver the Marriott Suites. (Needless to say there's about 15 Marriott's in Vegas). After noting that the elevator only went up to Floor 3, I immediately realized, that DUH, I must be in the wrong elevator (not the wrong hotel) and I'd just have to take the stairs to the 15th floor.

What follows next is my best recollection of sights and sounds before reaching my hotel. There was a stairwell, some heavy doors, a dumpster, a parking garage, a road and some bushes. Then, Viola! I was back in the lobby of the Marriott suites. I'm still laughing when I think back to what happened next. The Marriott had a gift shop which basically consisted of a metal stand in front of the front desk containing cookies and chips. If any of you have ever been beyond inebriated, you know how good that looks at 5am, but in the spirit of having strangers buy all my drinks I had no interest in actually paying for it. I grabbed 3 bags of cookies and 2 bags of chips and began my sprint towards the elevators when I heard "Wait!" I swear to you the girl working the front desk must have leapt straight over it because next thing I knew I was face to face with her trying to use my best basketball moves from high school to fake her out and get around her. She was squatted down low, arms out as if she was coming off a defensive suicide drill when she said, "You have to pay for those!" "Oh, of course, I'm sorry" I replied and it was over. A few hours later I woke up next to Hustle & Flow who was wearing nothing but her undies and a face towel as we lay in a bed of cookie crumbs surrounded by half eaten plates of bacon and eggs. (It was just like college.)

It only gets worse from here….

Viva Las Vegas - Part 4: The Phone

Upon awaking my immediate first thought was to call T and let him know that after almost 24 hours in Vegas with the Destruction Crew I was still in one piece. I flung my arm over to the nightstand and picked up my phone which felt oddly light. Wouldn't you know it, the fcking thing wouldn't turn on. I shook it and pressed the buttons as hard as I could, but it was dead. I pulled out the charger and when I plugged it in nothing happened.

Finally, I turned the damn thing over and could see through the translucent backing that the

battery wasn't in there. SHIT! Frantically I searched my bag over and over again, but nothing. It became sadly apparent that when I was scooting around the floor in the lobby of Tao doggy-style, picking up the pieces, I had missed a very important one. The Battery.

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

At this point we had already had two mimosas and were dressed for the pool, so when I actually headed out to the mall I was wearing nothing but a bikini, an uber-short cover-up, and heels. But I figured, hey, it's Vegas, no big deal. Well, when I got to the mall I realized that no matter where you are, going to the mall half-naked is a big deal. I actually heard one snotty-little teenager say to his friend, "She came to the mall to buy some clothes."

With each step I felt more and more like a prostitute and 4 stores later I headed back to the cab stand, with a broken camera and still no battery for my phone. I guess that's what I get for using a phone from 1993 that's made for Asian Teenagers.

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

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

Lesson # 2 – Check!

Viva Las Vegas - Part 5: Pure

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

It was a lame mix of bachelor and bachelorette parties all taking too much care not to even look at someone of the opposite sex as if they were the slightest bit attractive for fear that their future Mr. or Mrs. might find out they (gasp) spoke to someone that weekend. I'm sorry, but Hustle & Flow and I did not do rock our best Austin Powers girls outfits for this.

Thankfully, we met a loner named Ari and within 5 minutes I was at the bar doing my free shots and drinking my $7 bottle of water thanks to his wallet. Just as I was making my exit the text message from Devon came through saying he and friends had a booth at Pure. SCORE! We thought we had no chance of getting in so we weren't even gonna try, but after a few texts we got the "list name", Kevin Lane, and were headed over. I have never in my life seen a line so ginormous to get into a club. There had to be literally 1500 people in lines twisting every which way in the lobby. Putting on my best runway walk, we strutted over and within 10 minutes the bouncer Tyler was opening up the velvet rope and me and my girls were in cover free. All I can say about Pure is this, I had the time of my f-cking life. Standing on top of those gorgeous white couches, a bottle of goose in my hand, dancing my a$$ off with Enrique Iglesias about 5 feet away, I definitely brought sexy back. Two hours later, sexy was gone and sweaty had replaced it.

Around 3:30 am, I was a sweaty, drunken mess as I stumbled out and made my way into a cab and somehow managed to direct the driver to the correct hotel. During this time period,

not realizing it was 6:30am on the East coast, I decided to call T because I was all by myself and just really wanted to talk to him. I called about 4 times and couldn't get a hold of him. The first few messages I left were sweet as pie. The next 75 were a montage of me declaring "This relationship is now over!" since he couldn't "care" enough to pick up the phone when I'm calling. (Please note the sarcasm here).

Well, I will only say I'm one resourceful beeyotch because I somehow managed after a bunch of calls to 411 and waking up Gregg ( the bachelor who's bachelor party T was attending in Montreal) I was connected to his hotel room in Canada, in half a rage at this point.

Turns out, my phone had accidentally dialed him all through the night so he eventually had to turn it on silent b/c the vibration was waking everybody up. I continued to explain that I just "needed him to be there" when I was all alone and that's why I was so mad. A few hours later, after the maid walking in on me half naked and snoring several times, I realized I'm an idiot.

The solution: Head over to the Hard Rock.

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

Viva Las Vegas - Part 6: The Pool

It was now 11am and we were 11 short hours away from our flight back to reality. Not having been completely sober since Friday afternoon we figured the best bet would be to hit up

Rehab (the Sunday party at the Hard Rock pool) and keep it going until it was time to head home.

Once again, we were escorted right past the massive line of dudes waiting to get in and upon entering it felt like we were in Disney Land. After 3 massive vodka tonics, a few hours of

dancing like it was MTV Spring Break, and a dip in the pool (which was basically a sea of STDs), Hustle & Flow and I looked at each other and realized we were in the land of trashiness andwanted nothing more than to get home. We cabbed it back to the hotel, scooped up V and Mandy, packed our bags and were headed over to the Bellagio to spend our last few hours with Veronica's new man, The Commish.

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

Viva Las Vegas - Part 7: The Plane Ride Home, The End

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

We boarded the plane and slept the whole ride home, but when I woke up something wasn't right. I had the fiercest burning in my stomach that was so bad I could barely stand up

right. During the 2 hours it took us to get our bags and get the train back to Penn Station it didn't subside and at 7:45am I arrived in my office dirty and sick.

What proceeded was the worst day of my life to date. The only reprieve came around noon when I trucked it over to a salon near my office and had the dreaded weave cut out of my

hair once and for all. As George removed the last track and shook the crumbs out of my hair I nearly jumped out of the chair and hugged him in a joy. The shampoo and blow out that followed was sheer bliss. By the time I got back to the office and grabbed a muffin, I was beyond ready to leave and only thanks to T's phone calls and IMs I actually made it to 5 'o clock (okay, 4:45) and found myself in a cab headed home. What followed was the best shower of my life and the moment I had been waiting for most, a hug from T.

Lesson learned: I'd rather be home.

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

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

Lazy Bones

2008-11-12T07:26:00.004-05:00

Most people wouldn't consider four loads of laundry, an hour of ironing, a workout and an at-home mani-pedi followed by a home cooked meal an unproductive day, but given my non-stop hustle and bustle of late, I consider yesterday a bust. My deeply rooted Italian guilt combined with a healthy topping of my neveau-Jewish guilt, left me feeling like a failure, making excuses for all that I hadn't done by the time T got home from work yesterday.

I couldn't help but focus on what I didn't do, instead of what I did do. I didn't meet anyone new. I didn't go anywhere cool. I didn't discover some new corner of NYC. In fact, I barely left my neighborhood save for a trip to the 27th street Food Emporium in the search for some Kosher Chicken Cutlets (also known as the bane of my existence). At least I took a shower, but that wasn't until 3pm and was followed by me soaking in a few episodes of Dr. 90210 that subsequently resulted in me deciding I need breast implants and a Brazilian butt lift before I can ever go out in public again.

Before I knew it, 5 o'clock was rolling around, I had poured myself glass of wine number two while starting the second hour of a phone call and watching the episode of Oprah that I had DVRd. As I uttered the words, "Oh my Gawd, what a freakin' more-on," I heard my long-since squashed Long Island accent come out in full force. It was when I stretched out on the couch, grabbed my wine glass off the table and continued my conversation that the outer-body experience occurred. I watched the floor turn to linoleum, the couch morph into black leather and my hair grow to a height only a body wave could achieve. That's when it hit me - I am my mother circa 1987. All I was missing was the Spiegle catalog, a cigarette and two kids to tell to be quiet because I am "on the phone with your Aunt!"

Half frightened, half loving the "good life" I chugged the rest of my wine and watched the room morph back to the present day. At that point I vowed that tomorrow, with it's upcoming job interview, doctors appointment and plans to work on my book would be at least more productive than today had been. As T and I settled into bed he thanked me profusely for all the laundry and ironing I had done for him and told me how much he loved the dinner I had made. I think he even called me "the little woman", unable to wipe the smile off of his face thanks to my day of housewifery. It was then, feeling like just the right moment, that I filled him in on my new-found need for boobs, a butt and a couple of kids to yell at. Two seconds later, just before drifting off to sleep he whispered, "please get a job."

I don't think so.

On Borrowed Time (and Books)

2008-11-11T07:51:00.004-05:00

Still in awe of all the free time I now find myself with, I figured I should take advantage of it and catch up on my reading. In my previous life as a productive, employed member of society, I usually found myself able to read about 1 page of a book every night before I would be fighting to keep my eyes open, my body begging for sleep to get me through the coming work day. Now, having been given this gift that keeps on giving - unemployment - I could actually pick up a book on a Tuesday afternoon and head off to the park to relax and read. How novel! (no pun intended).

My usual MO when it comes to scouting new reading material is to head down to Borders, pick up three or four books that look intellectually stimulating along with one that I actually want to read, not just say I read (usually something along the lines of "Shoes, Sex and Why Women Like Them") then shell out the $60 - $100 to the cashier without thinking twice. However, my new socioeconomic status doesn't allow for such careless spending so off I was to that foreboding monster of a building on Fifth Avenue called the New York Public Library to get myself a Library Card.

Climbing the many steps to the beautiful building I had passed so many times before, I started to feel like Rocky running up the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, my mind wandered and I started thinking about why New York is so much better than Philadelphia. Typical. Thinking I would prance right through the giant doors and and immediately be surrounded by shelves and shelves of books, enough to scare the pants of the Dewey Decimal System, I pushed the revolving door as fast as I could until I was inside and abruptly stopped by the giant line of people going through security. Did I forget I was in New York for a second? I happily opened up my bag to let the security guard dig his way through my notebook, a couple of Pepto Bismol Pills, a tampon and my gigantic makeup bag until I was finally inside and free to roam the New York Public Library.

I bounced up to the information desk, all cheer and sunshine and said, "Excuse me, but you can tell me where I go to get my Library Card?!" Anything but charmed by my positive attitude, the woman behind the desk replied, "You're in the wrong building. You need to go across the street."

"Damn," I thought. The building across the street is plain, there are no statues, no exhibits, just a big dusty, quasi-book store. How can I experience this momentous occasion without the grandeur of statues and stairs and artwork surrounding me? Where will the gospel choir that is going to sing as my library card is handed over to me going to stand? Resigned to the fact that my Library Card experience would be more like a trip to the DMV than a day at the Met, I decided to pop into an Art Deco exhibit being held inside this pretty building that I so desperately wanted to borrow anything from before heading across the street to get my card.

Once inside the glass doors to the exhibit, I took a look at the five or so other people in there and decided to pretend I was just as genuinely interested in the art of this period as they pretended to be. And so I read each and every informational piece on the wall when I came to the a descriptive on how the Art Deco period came to be. It began, "On Thursday, October 24, 1924 as the Stock Market crashed sending the United States into the Great Depression..." That's when I stopped. I did not need a reminder that I am unemployed and not a lady of leisure, so I decided to head across the street to get that Library Card.

Resisting the pull of BCBG to my right and Lord & Taylor to my left, I trucked it into the building where the nice lady at the information desk directed me to the long line at the Library Card Registration Desk. Wanting to whip out my AmEx and bolt back across the street for some shopping, I trudged over and took my place in line. When it was finally my turn, I handed over my Driver's License, which still has my New Jersey address on it, when Stanley, the man running the desk said, "I need something with your New York address." I desperately dug through my purse, determined not to have wasted an afternoon looking at art I don't get and waiting on line. Viola! I pulled out a bottle of Antibiotics my doctor had prescribed for the Sinus Infection I had a few weeks ago. Embarrassing? Absolutely. But it had my New York address on it so I handed it over. Stanley, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, reached out and grabbed the bottle, gave me a look that said, "Sure this is antibiotics, it's probably Herpes medication" and copied my address from the bottle, into his computer.

Within two minutes my antiobiotics were back in my purse and my New York Public Library card was in my hand. "So I can take out books RIGHT NOW?" I confirmed. "Yes," replied Stanley desperate to have me and my pills away from his desk. "Sweet!"

I was off. First to crime and mystery to pick up a book for T, then off to the "Oprah" section to pick up one for me. I looked around in wonderment at just how many people were here borrowing and returning books, in awe of the fact that here, at this place in New York where nothing is free, they will just give you a book or a DVD and trust that you will return it. I'm just glad they didn't do a background check and find out that I am permanently banned from Blockbuster for failure to return movies.

When I checked out and passed through security to leave the building, this time I barely noticed all the retail therapy that surrounded me upon exiting. Slightly skeeved by the fact that thousands of other hands have probably touched the books I was holding, I whipped out my bottle of Purell for a quick fix, then bounced the rest of the way home like a little kid on the first day of school. The minute T walked in the door from work, I proudly displayed my Library Card and handed over the book I selected just for him. That night, we settled into bed and read ourselves to sleep. For free. Nice.

Nesting

2008-11-10T07:27:00.003-05:00

The Cold.

The Rain.

Sobriety.

Sports.

New Jersey.

None of these things top my list of ingredients for a kick-ass weekend and yet somehow I managed to have one of my best ever. I am a sad excuse for a Rutgers Season Ticket Holder, having been to only two games so far this year (for reasons beyond my control of course.) A girl can't help when she's going to get sick, throw out her back, or desperately need a manicure more than she needs to stand up and yell "R U!" with 10,000 other people. This Saturday, as another home game was set to begin promptly at12 noon, I was well-rested, healthy, and had no choice but to throw on a red Rutgers T-Shirt and a pair of sneakers and head out with T for the long train ride to New Brunswick, New Jersey.

We had cautiously packed up our "rain gear" which consisted of a couple of red ponchos and a full on, puddy-colored Men's Extra Large Rain suit. Annoyed already because I was already wearing a baseball hat due to the light mist that was coming down, I dreaded the thought of having to don either a poncho or that rain suit. I had carefully chosen my black skinny jeans, pumas, and just the right layers for underneath my Rutgers T Shirt to scoff in the face of American Sports Fannery and show that I can still be cute while being a fan and not in that pink-crystal-embellished-team-tank-top-Staten-Islandy way.

When we got off the train, I had moved way past function and onto form since I had to now sport my Rutgers Sweatshirt, the hat and a hood since the rain was now coming down faster than my mood. Four seconds away from turning around to get on the next train back to New York, I looked up and saw T's excited face and decided to suck it up, because that's what you do when you love someone. Dammit. An hour and a half later, I was completely soaked, sitting on a wet bleacher, wearing a rain suit and could literally feel my hair growing into something resembling Richard Simmons' famous 'fro. With every good play, someone near me would stand up and cheer sending a tidal wave of water (and a scowl) onto my face. Yet, even though I would've preferred to have been dry and pretty much anywhere else in the world, in that hour and a half of sopping wet misery, I also managed to soak up (pun intended) an hour and a half of fun with my fiance, my future bro and sis in-law, and some friends.

At half-time, when I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I called up NJ Transit, found out when the next train was and told T that I love him and that because I love him, I am leaving before I break down into a cold, wet tantrum. I gave him a kiss, said my goodbyes and told him, genuinely, to enjoy the rest of the game. As he was walking me out, he stopped abruptly and said "Wait here. I'm going to get my stuff because I'm coming with you." Begging him not to leave on my account, I asked him 10 times if he was sure before finally agreeing to let him go get his things. 40 minutes later, when we were thawing and drying out on the train, I looked over and he looked happier than he had sitting on that bench, screaming his head off at every first-down (the only football term I know), because, hey, that's what you do when you love someone.

On Sunday morning, happy to see the sun shining and be back on my turf, T and I got ready for a day of shopping and errands. He diligently printed out and packed up all of our coupons as I diligently applied the perfect shopping make-up and 3 hours after we woke up, we were headed out the door. Stop 1: Bed Bath and Beyond. Just as a Sunday at Barney's is a religion for New York's single and fabulous, BB&B is the holy grail for NYCs coupled-up. T and I live in Murray Hill, the most pseudo-suburban neighborhood of Manhattan, surrounded by young Jewish couples walking beagles, pushing strollers and driving Range Rovers, so naturally, Bed Bath & Beyond is the new Bergdorf.

Just as we had finished buying that new shower curtain and 40 other items we didn't even know we needed until we set foot in the store, T's phone rang with a call from friends who had just joined the club called Parenthood. They happened to be just across the river, visiting family, and next thing I knew we were back on the train heading across the Hudson. Just 45 minutes after T's phone rang, I found my self surrounded by puppies, babies and the smell of a delicious meal being prepared in a kitchen the size of my living room. Thankfully, our host promptly provided a large glass of wine to save me from the New-Jersey-Family-Living-Anxiety-Attack I was about to have.

Two glasses of wine and a great meal later, I was shining my engagement ring, petting the Pomeranian, holding a baby in my arms and mugging for the camera. I thought to myself, "Is this how it happens, is this how New Jersey steals your cooler-than-thou Manhattan soul?" Even worse, I was thinking to myself that it's really not so bad, even good. What tops an afternoon of good friends, good food and adorable mini-people? I started weighing the pros and cons in my mind. Was it better to pay for an overpriced brunch at Fred's, wearing overpriced clothes, carrying an over priced bag and gossip about your friend-who-moved-to-Jersey's under-priced earrings from Kohls? Or, honestly, was it better to be wearing your most casual, drinking your favorite wine, eating an appropriately-priced, home cooked meal surrounded by people who's company you genuinely enjoy without the necessity of a chic backdrop?

After a car ride in which I ignored all conversation to coo at the adorable baby, wrapped up warm and cozy in her car seat next to me, T and I were back in Manhattan, walking cross town toward our apartment. Clutching the brochure for the New Jersey condo-complex we had just visited in my hands, I found myself blurting out statements faster than they could enter my mind to T. "Ya know, it's really close to the city! Just a Ferry wide away! What a big kitchen we could have!". I bounced along excitedly, dreaming of our new life in New Jersey and stopped revelation-style, looked up at T and said, "I want a dog, a baby and I want to be a stay-at-home mom." His reaction was a mix of half joy (because I was finally letting go of my city-fabulous attitude) and half fear (because it was clear I don't want to go back to work).

I yapped and yapped about being a housewife all the way to Tasti-D-Lite. After a five minute conversation with the faux-ice-cream-store's owner, whom we've gotten to know well over the past three years, we were headed home to watch the Giants play.

We were finally back in our hood and we were approaching the entrance to our building when the world turned normal again and once more I stopped dead in my tracks. I looked up at T, a new revelation on my mind, and said defiantly, "F-ck that. I'm never leaving this city."

All we can do now is wait and see.

Mrs.Movie Phone

2008-11-07T12:58:00.009-05:00

One of the best things about living in NYC is the complete and utter acceptability of doing things by yourself. It's one of the few places where, even on a Saturday night, you can go to a restaurant and see a random (insert man-woman-old lady) having dinner alone at a table for two and think nothing of it. No reading materials required, pull up a chair, enjoy your meal and people watch to your heart's content.

With all of my newly acquired free time, I decided I would take advantage of one of New York's other favorite solo activities. The movies. It doesn't hurt that on every Friday, Saturday and Sunday any movie at my local theater is only $6 if you go before noon (that's only $1 more than renting one On-Demand and about $6 less if that On-Demand selection is a porno.) Can't beat that.

As I logged onto Fandango last night to check out my options, I thought to myself, "Finally! Now is my chance to see all the 27 Dresses-Sex and the City-Made of Honor-Other Boelyn Girl crap that I always want to see and that T refuses to!" I pulled up my theater's show times, excitedly scrolled down the page to check out my choices and then my face dropped. With my choices being Madagascar, Role Models, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, or Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, I watched my girly day go out the window and unpacked the mini-Kleenex from my purse. Clearly I wouldn't be needing them.

After a quick trip to RottenTomatoes, I decided that I would go to the 10:50am showing of Role Models, then swiftly switched on my inner neurotic and moved my browser to DietFacts to figure out exactly how I can work a tub of Popcorn into my day. It took me a good year and a half to stop equating the movies with an all out Salty-Sweet-Crunchy-Chewy binge fest, but I just couldn't imagine this momentous AM-Solo Flight without those delicious, salt soaked kernels to pop in my mouth one by one in my best effort to make the bag last the entire movie. Thus, after doing my research, I decided the only way to go was to wake up late, go to the gym, and swap my normally nutrition packed breakfast and lunch for a small movie theater popcorn brunch and a hot chocolate. Best move I've made all year.

I dressed carefully doing my best NYU Freshman impression by throwing on my skinniest jeans, a pair of Convos and a bright thermal shirt, messed up my hair just right and headed out the door. I don't know what gets into me, but with each new activity, I get so excited and this time I practically skipped up to the box office to buy my ticket. I ordered my popcorn, let the girl behind the counter convince me to get a medium before making her dump it out and change it back to a small and within seconds was climbing the stairs to my favorite seat. 2nd to last row, right smack in the middle. I scanned the theater and saw 9 other people. The crowd consisted of about 7 dudes scattered around and one couple fiercely tounging each other down in the front row. Hot.

Trying to hold out until after the previews, but failing miserably, I began the one-by-one pick a piece of popcorn and put it in your mouth dance which lasted until about 15 minutes into the movie at which point I was grabbing handfuls that were clearly too big to shove into my mouth, but doing my best to get them in there anyway. The best part was that I had no need to be embarrassed. I wasn't squeezed into a packed row, so surrounded by people, that I had to watch the angle of my knees as not to disturb the person next to me. There was no one within 50 seats of me. I was free to pick up my practically finished bag of popcorn, tilt up my chin and dump every last crumb into my mouth. Honestly, I could've put my hand down my pants if I wanted to and no one would've been the wiser, but I resisted.

The movie itself was hysterical. It was Juvenile, Chauvinist, and every time I laughed at a boob joke, the fact that I was laughing along with the 19 year old two rows in front of me who was still wearing his oversize headphones, made me laugh even louder. The only bad part was when, inevitably, about 45 minutes into the movie, I had to pee. Now generally, when I'm there on a Friday night with T, I ask him to watch my bag as I sheepishly apologize to all the people who need to move so I can get to the aisle and run to the bathroom. But here I was, by myself, a big bottle of water, my jacket and my purse marking my territory. Should I pick it all up, lug it to the ladies room, have the 9 other people there look at me strangely like I was leaving the theater and then lug it all back? I started panicking, toying with the option of leaving the bag, jacket and water and just taking my wallet and blackberry with me? What the hell was I going to do?

What I did was hold it. Painfully. For the next 50 minutes. I just didn't see any other options. There was no one to watch my stuff and no one to fill me in on what I missed. I had no choice.

2 hours, one bag of popcorn and the longest pee of my life later, I'm back home having enjoyed yet another "social experiment" and chronicling it here. What's next on my list? Stay tuned to find out and your suggestions are always welcome. You say, I'll do it (maybe).

Stripper Fabulous

2008-11-06T11:53:00.005-05:00

Thanks to the crappy weather and the growing pimple on my chin, I've decided to stay inside today and do some work on my latest novel idea, "How to lose 80 pounds, Quit Smoking, Become Jewish and Write this Book." As I opened up my outline and started to dig in to Chapter 1, I quickly became distracted by the not-quite-cocoa-butter smell wafting off my shoulders into my nose and it got me thinking about strippers (a demographic I've long been fascinated with) for a few reasons:

1. Strippers smell and feel like lotion. Layer upon layer of multiple scents greased on to make them soft and shiny.

2. A few years ago I read an article about these creatures of the night (and the lunchtime buffet) and their beauty routines.

The statement this article was out to make was that rich women spend thousands and thousands of dollars to try to look naturally beautiful while strippers spend as little as possible to make themselves look as done up as possible. Reflecting on this, and given my current state of employment, I guess this is my chance to spend as little as possible and get my stripper on. It doesn't hurt that I'm headed to Vegas next week and have an appointment with a pole to get me in the mood to get myself into tip top lap dancing shape for under $25.

Step One - Exfoliate. With the declining economy and the $30 price tag on my favorite body scrub, I decided now would be the time to dig into my storage closet and whip out that Bath & Body works set I'd been planning on regifting when the right opportunity came along. One long shower later and I'm softer than a baby's ass.

Step Two - How do I put this delicately? - Hair Removal. Step foot into your location version of the Bada Bing and the first thing you'll notice about the lovely ladies on the main stage is that there is not an unwanted hair on them. No more expensive waxes (followed by a pushy Russian laying on the pressure to buy expensive products) for me. Thank god for the invention of the razor. Just like your friendly neighborhood lap dancer will tell you, there's no time to "grow it out" between waxes when a smooth surface is your main source of income. So off I went to Duane Reade, where I spent $4.79 on Aveeno's Positively Smooth Shaving Gel.

Step Three - Get your Tan on. As I squatted down to get to the bottom shelf at Duane Reade I took one look at my legs and noticed that I am so pale that I am basically translucent. Instead of heading off to the tanning booth, I picked up Nivea's Self-Tanning Firming Lotion (two birds with one stone) for the bargain basement price of $8.47 - beats the 25 bones I'd spend courting melanoma in a tanning bed.

Step Four - Nails. No stripper is complete without a good set of acrylics to scratch down her customer's back. Now, I have worked too long and too hard to get myself off of a weekly set of tips in Staten Island, to go back to a "full set." With that said, my nails are looking a little scraggly and I can't rightfully walk around all tan and smooth with nails that scream construction worker. Thanks to a one dollar bottle of Wet-N-Wild polish, I've got the brightly colored, slick nails of Scores finest.

Step 5 - Dress the part. Luckily for me, I don't have to venture back into another vintage store for something cheap and skanky. I only have to venture into my closet. Two years ago, just after my first trip to Vegas, I purchased for twelve measly dollars, the smallest item of clothing I own and have been dying to wear it ever since. In the words of T, my fiance, "the only place you can wear that dress is in Vegas or to a Halloween Party." Well, Halloween has passed, so it's a good think my flight to Sin City takes off next weekend. Once I slap this short, tight, cut-down-to-there number on, you're going to have to rip it off me.

All said and done, for the bargain price of $13.39, I am officially Stripper Fabulous. I'm going to take the remaining $11.61, slap it down on Red and hope for the best. Wish me luck!

No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn

2008-11-06T07:15:00.009-05:00

Just as a walk around Union Square was getting me down and I started feeling sorry for myself, mourning the haphazard shopping I can no longer do, I felt my pocket buzz. It was my calendar popping up reminding me that I had to hop on the 4 Train to meet my bestie for a Wednesday afternoon lunch. Two minutes into my subway ride the self-pities disappeared because it struck me that I was going to Brooklyn for an afternoon lunch with my friend during an hour of the day that was usually spent eating soup from a can while surfing TheKnot at my desk and answering politely, "No, It's Progresso, I didn't make it," to everyone who walked by and commented on how good my sad little bowl of soup smelled.

By the time I surfaced at Brooklyn's Borough Hall stop, I was feeling electric. Here I was, one day post the most important election of my lifetime, not in an office, but waiting in the courtyard of Brooklyn Law School listening to everyone buzz about the history had just been made. Yes, they were buzzing in legal terms I don't understand and taking themselves way too seriously as evident by the intentionally worn-in corduroy blazer with elbow patches being sported by some kid who looked 19, but it still felt electric.

I sat and contemplated this for a moment, when my friend, B, walked out the door and we headed to lunch. I marveled at the wonders of Brooklyn and it's mom-and-pop stores clutching my wallet tight making sure I didn't spend unnecessarily (which is a term I'm still trying to grasp given that, up until now, I've deemed $40 lip gloss a necessary investment). Lunch was delicious, gossip-filled and fairly uneventful and was followed by 2 and a half hours at Starbucks where I had my Holy Effing Sh1t moment.

As B and I perused Face Book, cracked the jokes we usually crack and brainstormed ways to make this blog bigger and better, I had to take five and fearfully slip into the Starbucks bathroom that I knew would not be pleasant since I spent a year in college employed by the coffee monster and once a week had to clean the glorified porter potty. As I grabbed handfuls of paper towels to ensure I didn't touch any exposed surfaces, I thought that maybe I should start carrying around Rubber Gloves with me. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, seeing the skeeved out look on my face and realizing that the Rubber Glove idea might make me look crazy, I stopped and remembered, Holy Effing Sh1t, it is 3pm on Wednesday and I am at Starbucks, cracking up with my best friend instead of counting down the two and a half hours until I got to leave the office. That's when I decided that, despite the rain, I was going to walk home over the Brooklyn Bridge.

B and I packed up our stuff and she pointed me in the direction of one of the world's seven wonders so I could start my journey. It was windy, it was raining and I started to panic a little bit when I didn't see anybody else taking on this monster, but with my headphones firmly in place, Semi Precious Weapons blasting in my ears, I forged on to cross this bridge crossed by so many others before me.

About half way through, I could barely contain myself and had to force myself not to dance in public and risk getting hauled off the bridge in a straight jacket. I practically ran up to a family of five to let me take a picture of all of them together. I had long since given up on trying to hold my umbrella when a young Asian Tourist approached and asked if I would take his picture for him. Elated, I made him stand there while I took, not one, but four pictures of him. He's just lucky I didn't lick my finger and start fixing his hair. I had finally hit my stride and thought that this was my perfect opportunity to start talking to strangers and find out what really makes the people who don't spend their days in offices tic. I started to ask the young tourist where he was from and he replied, "Picture?". I said, "Are you on vacation?" He replied, "Thank you." As I started to yell out my last question, I started hysterical laughing because I realized I was yelling at someone who didn't speak the language in the hopes that somehow the volume of my voice would make him miraculously understand me.

Having thoroughly confused this tourist, I just smiled, nodded and went on my way. I was almost fully across the bridge by this time when I turned around to snap a few shots. When I started thinking to myself about camera angles and how to get the perfect shot - something I know absolutely NOTHING about, I realized it was time to go and that maybe I was just a little too high on life. I'm just glad I was alone and no one was there to make fun of me. I congratulated myself on at least trying to strike up a conversation and patted myself on the back for resisting striking one up with some of the crazies I encountered on the bridge, because sometimes what seems interesting is actually dangerous.

I pulled out my new best friend, the Metrocard, and headed down into the subway for the final ride home. Just as I did this, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall and had one final revelation. Not only had the office been sucking the life out of me, it had been sucking the life out of my hair! In that moment it dawned on me that I don't need 50 bones and a trip to Blow salon to get my Giselle on, all I need is a little humidity, a windy day and the Brooklyn Bridge to put some body in my hair and a bounce in my step. Life is good.

I Am Job

2008-11-05T08:51:00.005-05:00

Monday afternoon, as I all but bounced up Second Avenue, high off of my newly found life of leisure my phone rang. I grabbed it out of my pocket ready to brag to yet another friend about how great unemployment is, but was instead greeted with the familiar "unknown" popping up on my caller ID. Knowing immediately that it was a recruiter-friend of mine, I picked it up, praying that she didn't have anything for me. Within four seconds, B (the recruiter) said, "Jane, I have an interview for you and they're OK with you taking off time for your wedding." Surprised and slightly disappointed that I might have to go back to work sooner than planned, I let her fill me in on the details.

The Job - Personal Assistant. The Man- Real Estate Tycoon. My reaction - No way. I am neither a personal assistant, nor have any experience in Real Estate, nor do I want to deal with some entitled overage brat, his bratty wife and his four bratty children. B begged, pleaded and told me that I absolutely HAD to take this meeting, that I could do any job and that I am going to love this man. It took her a day and half, but I finally agreed figuring it's better to keep myself in the game, in any way, shape or form, before Mid-January when everyone so eager to help me forgets that I exist.

So yesterday afternoon, scrapping my plans of hitting up Bed, Bath & Beyond, Paper Presentation and some more vintage stores, I reluctantly put on a suit, printed out my resume and headed back into the dregs of mid-town. After getting rear-ended by another cab on my way to the interview, I exited the car, well-heeled and indistinguishable from the rest of the suits grabbing five cherished moments away from the neon lights of their offices for an afternoon Starbucks run. Using my eyes, I pleaded with them to realize that I was NOT one of them. To understand that I get to wear jeans all day and hang out downtown. To know that I was dressed up to do a favor for someone. They didn't seem to notice.

Up on the 20th Floor, I was instructed to take a seat at 2:50pm. I was 10 minutes early as always, because if you're not early, you're late, and settled into the black velvet sofa that resembled something my grandmother would cover with plastic. Three PM, the time of my meeting came and went and at about 3:05 I heard the door to the waiting area creaking open and put my game face on. Out walked a short man, with hair grown long in an attempt to cover it's receding line, wearing the khaki pants and blue blazer of someone desperate to prove they own a home in Connecticut. I stood up and he said, "Your Jane". I responded, "Yes," held out my hand to shake his and started to say, "Nice to meet you D...", but he interrupted me, waved my hand away and informed me that he was going to need fifteen more minutes then rushed out the door to use the bathroom."

I did what any self-respecting woman would do and pulled out my blackberry to start messaging my fiance and bestie cracking on this D-bag and the rudeness that I just encountered. My right mind told me to tell the receptionist I had to go vote or something and rush home to get back to my casual uniform, but I was doing a favor of sorts so I settled back in and got comfortable on Black Velvet. At around 3:20pm, the door creaked open again, and out walked a gentleman who, by all estimation, was pushing the ripe old age of 103. He shuffled across the floor, looked at me and grunt-snort-slurred at me, "Who are you waiting for!" I held back my inherent urge to either crack up or give this old man a hug and responded D... D........ "

Who?!" he yelled.

So I yelled even louder, "D...! D.....!!"

"Mrs. D....!!?" he asked in as loud a voice a man his age could muster.

Now, using my biggest voice without giving him my move-out-of-my-way-tourist yell, I said it one more time, "D....! D.....!!!".

To that, he responded, "Oh, OK" and shuffled out the door.

Not believing this was happening and feeling like I had entered the Twilight Zone, I was at the very least thankful for this comic relief as I continued to wait until about 3:40pm, when finally out walked Mr. Wonderful. He gave me a limp handshake and led me into an office so large and furnished with so much black leather that it screamed Overcompensation.

I sat down at his desk which was actually a large round glass table and tried to make small talk as he repeatedly glanced at my engagement ring while I handed over a copy of my resume. He looked it over and asked me a few irrelevant questions, before saying, "So, you're not really a personal assistant." "No." I answered. Now had he been some fabulously-fabulous, event-attending, Black Label-drinking, NY Social Scenester, I would've pitched the hell out of myself and how I can do anything. But I wasn't sitting across from Jay-Z, I was sitting across from Mini-Me who got lucky enough to run his daddy's company. I resisted rolling my eyes when he dropped in a line about his "multiple residences" and let him talk for a minute, until he finally said, "Well, I should've looked at your resume more carefully, because I'm looking for someone to fill out my kids' camp forms and stuff."

Even though at this point all I wanted to do was rip this guy a new one, I picked up my things, wished him luck on his search and let him walk me to the door. So after 45 minutes of waiting and two minutes of "interviewing" I was back in a cab, mourning my lost afternoon and heading home to a waiting bottle of wine. Lessons learned: trust your gut and don't always feel obligated to do favors.

At least I have 2 more months to make up for those precious few hours I lost at the hands of Big Top Pee Wee yesterday and I plan to take full advantage of it.

P.S. Obama!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Red Tape

2008-11-04T12:37:00.005-05:00

While I wish all of my time off could be spent at parties, museums, shopping and cool happenings around town, my rational and responsible side refuses to let me waste away the days. No matter how hard I try to beat down that errand-doing half of my personality, it just won't let me crack that bottle of wine at 3 in the afternoon, even though the UnPlain side of Jane knows full well that it's five o'clock somewhere.

Since I can't get rid of this responsible former corporate citizen-self, I might as well embrace her, which is exactly what I did yesterday morning. God only knows how many wallets ago I lost that important little document called a Social Security card. It's probably in the hands of some bartender in Florida, a left over remnant from my college days. Or maybe that woman who found my wallet and charged $1000 of clothes on my credit card at Sears in the Boca Raton mall is hanging onto it in case one day she gets the urge to steal my identity too. (I know what you are thinking, but I don't even have the time or the energy to comment on the fact that she had her hands on a platnium AmEx and chose to go clothes shopping at Sears.)

The point is, wherever my social security card may be, it's not in my hands, thus I decided to use this free time of mine to go get a new one, so I can finally change my license to New York, just before I have to do it all over again when I change my last name after the wedding. Having made one too many trips to the DMV for a replacement Driver's License after one of these wallet-losing incidents, I fully prepared myself to spend hours in line, amongst most of New York's non-English speaking population, with forms in hand only to be told after two hours of waiting that I filled out the wrong form.

With this knowledge in hand, I packed up a book, my to do list, my Crackberry and a big bottle of water and headed off to the Social Security office, which happens to be just two blocks up the road. The dingy elevator to the third floor office filled my head with dread at what odors and sights I was about to be exposed to for the next few hours. Only to my surprise, I entered a room with about only 25 people in it, a pleasant security guard and an automated teller machine that after a few touch screen button pushes spit out my number in line, A199. "Oh jeez," I thought, "I don't even want to know what number they are on." As I took of my coat, pulled out my book and got ready to get comfortable, the half-friendly woman behind the window called out, "Number 196." I thought I had misheard her, but she said it again. I pulled out my ticket to double check that I wasn't holding 299, instead of 199. But no, there it was, in plain sight, here I was at the Social Security office, an hour and a half after they opened, holding #199 and they were on #196. The times they are a changing.

My spirits were soaring and I was looking around desperately for someone to share my excitement with when in walked who I would later learn is Steve. He sat down next to me, pulled out his paperwork and asked me what number I was. I nearly jumped out of my chair when I told him that I was 199, by now they were on 197. "Wow, you must've been here a while," he said. Nope! Not me. Got here 5 minutes ago! Can you believe it!

Steve and I carried on, he asked me for help with his forms, begged me to come clean his room later and started pulling out his best banter. Just before they called my number, the conversation rolled around to the fact that I am getting married in two months and Steve quickly turned quiet. It didn't matter, I had already gotten my ego boost for the day and only had to spend 10 minutes in a half-comfortable chair before I was able to set off for yesterday's shopping experiment.

Now on election day, thanks to the lack of red tape at the Social Security office, I have some restored faith in our government and am crossing my fingers for even more change to come. I wouldn't be doing my socially-responsible self justice if I didn't urge you to get out there and vote (for change). I also wouldn't be doing UnPlain Jane justice if I didn't tell you to get out there after you vote, grab a drink (or 10) and politic with the rest of us who hopefully made a difference today. T and I will be doing it up at SideBar - where if you wear Red or, even better, Blue, they'll hook you up with a free beer between 7pm and 8pm. Hope to see you there (after you hit the polls of course).

Dressing for the Job - Adventures in Vintage

2008-11-03T15:18:00.004-05:00

They say you should dress for the job you want, not the job you have. In my case, I need to start dressing for both the job I have and the job I want. And that job is no job or, even better, self employment. Now, after five years of long work weeks and hard-partying weekends, my wardrobe consists of boring work clothes (black dresses, button downs, Express Editor pants) and skanky dresses that will soon be inappropriate for me to wear ever (or possibly already are).

I've always struggled with my casual look and have never focused on it too much. I had no reason to. Most of my weekend hours were spent in one of my skanky dresses and the rest of them I was probably either at the gym or too hungover to care what I wore to brunch. Now that my days are going to be ruled by street clothes and I'm determined to keep it this way, so I figure I'd better go out and put together a wardrobe that screams "I am not the 9 to 5!" Something appropriate for strolling around town hoping for a glance of Lindsay Lohan hopping into her black Range Rover so I can later tell people we hang out in the same neighborhoods.

After scanning my closet I quickly realized that my black turtle neck just wasn't going to cut it all winter. So, armed with a sense of wonder, 50 bones and a Googled list of NYC Thrift stores, I headed out this afternoon to piece together my new 'drobe. After picking up my new iPod Nano that I scored for $65 on Craigslist, I headed over to Cheap Jacks, the first stop on my Thrifty Tour. In my head I composed a short list of must haves to craft my casual-persona. A signature piece of Jewelry (something large and probably gold for around my neck), a bad-ass hat and a warm, slightly worn, jacket for the upcoming winter.

Once inside Cheap Jacks, I was a little intimated by rack after rack of clothing - the place is huge - and headed over to the T Shirts. Already detouring from my list, in a moment of temporary insanity, I picked up an Oregon Trail T-shirt and thought, "Eureka, this is the staple of my new look." I quickly came to my senses and realized that I didn't want my new look to resemble that of a 30-rock writers room schlub. Even as I eyed the racks of coats to my right, I couldn't resist the pull of the mounds of dresses to my left and veered even further off course. I browsed through the 1950s, the '60,s and the '80s until to my surprise, it was the 70s rack that I pulled my first two items off of. A plum-velvet fitted number with a scalloped neck and an easy-moving summery black number. Striking at the right moment a friendly staffer offered to start a fitting room for me, and even though the one thing I do not need is dresses, I happily obliged. I tried to to focus and spend some time looking at the type of items I actually need, but the pull of that little purple hotness was too much for me, so without picking up another item I all but sprinted to the fitting room. Both dresses were glorious, but luckily or unluckily for me were too rich for my blood (the purple one was $65 and the black was $155). That was when I learned that, even at Cheap Jacks, my tastes supersede my budget. Empty handed, I thanked the helpful clerk who offered to pull some more dresses I don't need, and headed out the door.

My next stop was Housing Works on 23rd street. The floor was bustling and I was convinced I'd score something in here and do a good deed at the same time since all of their proceeds go to charity. Within two seconds of entering I scooped up a vintagey navy-blue Chuck Taylor jacket that was a measly $15 and thought, "Viola." In true vintage-shopper style I ripped off my coat and dropped it, along with my bag, on the floor in the middle of the store and found the nearest mirror. Much to my chagrin, the jacket was just too big and I haven't been unemployed long enough to learn how to sew, so I hung it back on the rack. The rest of the selection at Housing Works was limited and reminded me of the bags of clothes I donate every couple of months, so I decided to move on.

Continuing down 23rd street, I set my sites on my next target, 2nd Time Around - a Salvation Army outpost. I thought to myself that I better at least find a good belt here. I stepped in the door, saw the garbage bags of clothing lining the floors and promptly stepped back, turned around and left. I can handle used clothing when it's on a rack, seeing it in bags that match the ones that I dump my snotty tissues into was too much for me to handle.

Just down the street on Third Avenue was my final stop of the day, Vintage - The Thrift Store. Vintage is small, musty and slightly intimidating to me. I had completely lost my sense of purpose, any grasp of my list and my mojo so when I saw the bus careening up the street, I dropped the driving gloves that I-don't-need-but-was-looking-at-anyway and sprinted to catch the M101.

Safely on my way back to my generic Murray Hill neighborhood, I breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, my shopping day was a bust, but I had a new iPod Nano in my bag and burning desire to get home, make myself some hot chocolate and upload the crap out of it. I still have a few more vintage stores on my list and plan on pounding the pavement again this week in the hopes that I will find success. Until then, I'll have to rock the same three outfits over and over again and just call them my "signature look" until I find the perfect $50 wardrobe.

Suggestions are welcome.

Weekend Update

2008-11-02T19:20:00.003-05:00

I mostly plan to keep my weekends personal and not bore you with the details of tuxedo shopping, excessive wine drinking and Sunday sauce. However, it's inevitable that some of the cool/interesting/uncheap things I will do will occur during those formerly beloved 48 hours since those are the only two days of the week that most of my partners-in-crime are available to get in trouble.

This past weekend's plan included the much-hyped Haloween party of the year, Abracadabra Ep 5 by the Pants Party. Now given my current state of employment, or non-employment, I should've probably thrown on something skanky, hopped on the subway and headed downtown to watch the annual NYC Haloween parade...for free. But I'm still in the adjustment period and that's just not my style so, instead, I grabbed T (my fiance) shopped for some Awesome 80's Jazzercise outfits and bought tickets to an $85/head party being held at a loft in Tribeca. That's why they invented AmEx isn't it?

After taking a $20 cab ride to Brooklyn for a few glasses of wine with friends, we headed back into the city, dressed to the nines (or the 1 and 2 and 3 and 4s) to 265 Greenwich street. The fact that we had to ring a bell made me think that our 170 bones were well-spent. I was greeted with an empty room, a looooong bathroom line and a very large man (who turned out to be one of the highlights of my night) checking to make sure I had pre-paid. My spirits weren't broken by this first impression because I heard the loud music and crowd in the next room and knew that this is where I would spot that cool-downtown-julia stiles/jake gylenhall-ish-nyc-celeb that I was under the assumption roamed this circle. Instead, when I walked through the door, I was greeted with a folding table and paper tablecloth masquerading as a bar and the biggest bunch of D-bags I've seen all year. Even Ben, the evil doorman at One Oak, is cooler than these fools.

I'd like to recount all the dancing I did and some of the intersting people met, but I honestly spent most of my night standing in line for either the bar or the bathroom, neither of which panned out too well for me. The line for the bar ended with a too strong drink made with cheap vodka and the line for the bathroom ended with me telling off some D-bag who tried to cut in front of me. The saving grace of the night was the people I attended the party with. It's a good thing that my friends, and my friends' friends, are fun as hell, because if they weren't I'd have nothing to show for my 85 bucks. But luckily I ended up with some great pictures and a few moments I will treasure forever (or until the next time I get drunk) and those include:

Jumping on the extra large doorman's back for a picture, only to have to stay up there with my legs wrapped under his sweaty pits, for five minutes while my friend deleted some photos from her memory card to make room for this must-have snapshot.
Repeatedly calling some dude a douche because he cut me in line for the bathroom with no reprecussion except him cutting the person behind me instead.
Watching T steal a giant box of Haloween candy and then give it out to the tired revelers sitting in traffic at the Holland Tunnel just like a modern day Robin Hood (in booty shorts and a cut-off sweatshirt.)

Even though the party was a bust and a waste of dough I did learn one important lesson. As long as I surround myself with fun people and lots of booze, any party can be a good time. I guess I'm on my way to saving lots of money.

That's What Unemployment's For

2008-10-31T13:27:00.004-04:00

It's officially official, I am one of the 10.5 million Americans currently unemployed and it's kind of awesome. Of course I would prefer to know where my income will be coming from going forward, but to be honest, it's not so bad. It's kind of good.

There were hugs and tears and goodbyes and now I'm wondering if I'm going to grow up to be a serial killer because I was strangley unemotional and sort of up-beat. I mean afterall, I get the next two months off to finish planning my wedding, get married and go on my honeymoon. I don't want to be overly excited, but like I said, it is kind of freaking awesome.

I think that fact that we had some forewarning actually allowed me to go through 5 stages of grief at home (well 4 out of the 5 - I skipped Bargaining. Bargaining is played) and I ended up coming out OK in the end. On Monday, I went through Denial. Not me. I'm awesome. I'll be Fine. I thought. Tuesday was Anger in the form of comments like, "These mother f-ckers need to stop stringing us along." Wednesday brought upon Depression. I got home, pounded a glass of red wine, told myself I was going to be fat and unemployed and cried myself to sleep. Then came yesterday, glorious yesterday, and with it Acceptance. The hard part was waiting for the call, getting it was a sigh of relief.

So now that I'm offically home, waiting for the final check to clear, I'm setting lofty goals for what the next two months will hold. I know I'm going to spend a lot of time in front of this computer, with Itunes blasting, singing loudly until my neighbors hate me. But during this time I hope to accomplish the following:

Become Suzie-effing-home maker. I'm talking ironed sheets, home cooked meals, red lips and perfect hair when my fiance (T) gets home. I plan on overdoing it so much so that when we're back from the honeymoon, he decides to get three more jobs so I never have to go back to work.
Write, write, write, write. It's time to get this blog going, get my Twitter on, and pack as many sarcasm-filled comments as possible into every day.
Save money/Make Money/Shake my Money Maker. Over the next few months I'm going to seek out the coolest free and cheap stuff to do in this city. Maybe I'll just go down to Madison Square park and hang out and try to become besties with Uma Thurman at the playground. Anyone have a kid I can borrow? Of course these exploits are going to be the basis of what I'm going to write about, gain a following and generate some ad-revenue. Suggestions are welcome and tell your friends.
Do all the wedding-stuff I didn't have time to do before.
Get ripped. I figure either the next two months is going to get me really fat or really ripped. Even though I'll probably the same because I'll be able to counteract my Bon-Bon eating, Oprah-watching afternoons with extra long workouts at 7am when the gym is least crowded. (Did I mention I don't have to quit my beloved gym?!)

Mainly, I'm going to try not to let these two months fly by and have nothing to show for it. Time to get my domestic-career-party-girl Diva on.

Knock Knock Knockin' on Unemployment's Door

2008-10-29T18:18:00.003-04:00

For the past year and a half, I've been a fairly quiet presence at my office. Diligent and nice, but nobody's best friend. None of my co-workers have been invited to my upcoming wedding and I secretly pray that they won't throw me one of those awkward work bridal showers where I have to hug people, most of whom I've only physically touched once before, when we shook hands at our first meeting.

For all of these reasons I never considered these people to have any great impact on or significance in my life (despite spending 40+ hours a week with them). That was up until now. This evening as a few people gathered around my cubicle and we contemplated together 11am tomorrow morning, the hour when the pink slips are rumored to be handed out, I felt oddly attached to these "strangers." When someone tossed out the idea of a group lunch tomorrow, something I normally dig into my lengthy excuse bank to avoid, I practically leaped out of my chair with excitement. I think I may have shouted, "Great idea! I'm in!"

Call it nostalgia. Call it melancholy. Call it what you like, but I am going to miss this job and miss these people. Of course I will get angry and call them up to trash talk the company. They'll listen and grunt in quasi-agreement. They'll still be employed there. Employed at a place that's not so bad at all. A place I am going to miss. A job I am going to miss.

What I mean to say is I am going to miss having a job. After I cheerily agreed to lunch plans (under the auspices that whoever is still employed buys) I began my walk home and started to really miss the idea of having a job. A glance to my left brought Saks 5th Avenue into my field of vision and a glance to my right showed me J. Crew. I trudged slowly along trying to avert my eyes from Ann Taylor, The Gap and Aerosoles...all stores I generally didn't like to shop at anyway, because I prefer "quality pieces." Only today I stared longingly at the white button down and khakis on the mannequin in the gap window because I can't buy that tacky outfit even if I wanted to.

Still on my positive I'm-going-to-seize-this-opportunity-for-a-new-start kick, I began brainstorming all the fabulously creative ways I'm going to save money and how I'm going to do it while maintaining the same level of faux-chicness I've spent so long cultivating.

There are some things I am going to miss desperately, like my gym membership at my glorious gym. I talk about my gym the way people talk about their dogs and their children. "You should see how gorgeous my gym is. My gym is so much nicer and cleaner than the other gyms in the neighborhood. Would you like to see my gym?" I love my gym so much I prefer it's large, warm inviting shower to my own. Club H, I will miss you.

But even though I will miss certain things so much that you will be able to smell the desperation to have them back wafting off of me, I'm beginning to figure out how I will survive. I will replace swank nights out and fancy bottles, with dive bars and cheap wine. I will become that struggling actor I always secretly admired from afar. I will suck it up and eat carbs, because it's cheaper cooking with carbs. I will give up the gentle hands of my treasured nail tech, Aida, and do my own at-home pedicures.

Of course I feel guilty even thinking that I am going to be living a hard life because I have to paint my own toes, but we all get used to a certain lifestyle. All I can hope is that some hard work and positivity can give me a new one. One that makes my old lifestyle look like crap. One where I shop on the 3rd floor at Saks, not the 5th. Maybe this is the kick in the ass I've always needed, but I can't be sure.

Talk to me in a month when I'm bloated from eating bread and squeezing into my old clothes, because I can't afford to by new ones. Then I'll tell you how this "opportunity" turned out.

We'll see.

Recessionista

2008-10-29T07:54:00.001-04:00

In the past, when I've taken the liberty of using one of my paid vacation/sick/mental health/personal days to go shopping, clean my apartment, run errands and get in an extra-long workout, I've marveled with insane jealousy at how many people in this city spend their everydays in the same way I spend my stolen 8 hours.

These are not the suited people who grouchily shuffle along side of me as I walk to work. They are not the building security guards who I beam, "Thank God It's Friday" to once a week at 8:27am. These are not even tourists (at least not in my east-side neighborhood anyway.) These are people who have the glorious luxury of not working, or working from home, or who work weird hours that allow them late nights and even later morning.

There is nothing greater than a weekday in Manhattan spent out of the office. This is something I've always aspired to. This is the reason that I will one day finish the novel that will get published, send me on a book tour and leave me working from home, whatever hours I want, on my next great literary achievement about (purses, shoes, insert accesory of choice here). All I've ever wanted was to have the hours of 9-5 on Monday-Friday to myself (so I can stay in on Saturday nights scoffing at the poor saps who only have 48 hours to live it up every week). Only I've dreamed about it on my terms. Either via the above-mentioned New York Times best-seller or by my fiance getting rich enough through his website to turn me into a lady-who-lunches (at Per Se).

It looks like my dream might come halfway true (in that I'm an HR meeting away from having my weekdays all to myself), but not on the terms I envisioned (in that I am going to have to spend my days between temp assignments and looking for a cheaper apartment). My consulting firm announced Monday that layoffs are coming and we're expecting the proverbial hammer to come down on Thursday. And while my co-workers and I whisper to each other, wondering like Heidi Klum, who is IN or OUT, I can fairly confidently say that I'm in danger of getting the axe since my group's billings have been down for sometime now.

While I generally prefer the high-drama approach of making a mountain out of a mole hill, I'm left with no choice, but to take lemons and make them into lemonade. I have my mind on my money and my money on my mind and if I lose what was never really my dream job, I better figure out a way to keep up my stiletto-wearing, martini drinking ways even as the economy flounders.

I don't know stocks and I don't know bonds, but I do know how to put a great belt on an old dress and turn it into something fabulous. So as I approach unemployment this is my attempt to make some money off what I do best (writing a brutally honest, somewhat inflated, account of my existence) and how to keep up with the Jones' (or at least that 23 year Dartmouth grad who's Daddy covers 96.5% of her rent) without spending a dime.

Stay tuned...