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.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, February 13, 2009
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.
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.
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