How Not to Be a Human Being

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.

Subtle Butt

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.

From Three Year Olds to Three Am

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.

Unemployment and Me: Perfect Together

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.

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

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.

A Good Day (to stay the hell inside)

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).

So Fresh and So Clean

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.  

That's What Unemployment's For

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:

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. Do all the wedding-stuff I didn't have time to do before.
5. 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.