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

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.

No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn

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.