Red Tape

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

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

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:

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.