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
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Happy Hump Day
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.
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
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.
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.
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