A Swift Kick In The Ass

When I woke up this morning I knew I had to move a little more quickly than usual thanks to the knowledge that I had to be somewhere at the crack of dawn, noon. A little daunted by the prospect of getting in a workout, getting dressed and actually blowdrying my hair and applying make up in time to get out the door for my lunch date, I moved more quickly than I have been in recent days. After forcing myself to finish my workout, I made the mistake of getting on the scale at the gym. What followed was a BBM to my husband that read, "I am fat, unemployed and lazy, do you want an annulment?" Taking his non-response as an indicator that he was considering my offer, I sulked home and began wallowing in the fact that after three weeks of real unemployment (I don't count the period between losing my job and the wedding) I had become everything I swore I wouldn't when I wrote a bit of sunshine in October called, "That's What Unemployement's For.

Realizing I'd let my writing slack off and that I'd become complacent in calling a day where I hit the gym, cooked dinner and sent out some resumes a success I decided it was time for a swift kick in the ass. I'm not one to respond well to prodding (the truth is I'm so stubborn that even if I want or planned to do a chore/task/whatever, the minute someone tells me I HAVE to do it, consider it NEVER HAPPENING). Combine that with the fact that, as my husband announced across the dinner table during one of my first meetings with his entire family, "she's a total narcissist," I knew that I needed to find some other way to motivate myself. As such, I decided that you, my readers, are the biggest motivation I have. The more hits I see on that statcounter, the more I'm convinced like Sally Field that, "you like me! you really really like me!", and the more I want to keep going.

And so as my motivation to not let the two Essay Collections I'm working on fall by the wayside like so many projects before, I've decided that once weekly I must finish an essay and publish an excerpt on UnPlain Jane. And so today I give you an excerpt from the first essay in the collection Wedding.Honeymoon.Disaster. : A Collection of Essays from a Calamity Bride.

So without further ado, here is a little taste from Chapter 1:

The Dress: My Sordid Tale of Buying off The Rack

....my fabulous fucking dress from Saks.

The dress was perhaps the single most important element of “MY wedding” (aside from the groom). There is something about a dress, any dress, even a work-dress, that lights a little fire in the pit of my belly. The glorious dress. The most revered element of my wardrobe. With just this single, solitary garment, the dress, any woman can turn herself into a myriad of things. With the right bounce and a pretty frill, a dress can turn you back into an innocent again and with the right hemline and cleavage, a dress can turn you into the raging slut you always wanted to be (or were in college). With the right dress, and only the right dress, you can marry the man of your dreams and for just one day be the princess/diva/Mormon you always envisioned yourself as.

I learned the importance of the dress at the ripe old age of six when my mother purchased and subsequently hung in my closet, what I referred to as my “speech dress” (mainly because it was the dress I would put on when I would stand on top of my bed, giving speeches on topics of great important, like Strawberry Shortcake, to the audience of stuffed animals I had carefully arranged on the floor below me.) My speech dress had that perfect amount of swing that a six year old needs to do that endearing chin-down, hold on to the bottom of the hem with both hands and sway back and forth move indicating we either have to pee or want a new toy. Incidentally, I still use this move whenever I try to get my new Husband to perform some sort of emasculating act of for me, because if he really loved me, yes, he would allow me to put mascara on his incredibly long eyelashes.

The very first time I wore my speech dress was when I played the illustrious role of the “The Capital Letter I” in Ms. Zangy’s First Grade Class production of “The Alphabet”. Through the magic of poster board and the fact that, still in her early thirties, my mother was inclined to be crafty, I waltzed onto stage wearing my speech dress and a Letter I slung over both shoulders, looking like the guy on 7^th Avenue wearing a cardboard sign advertising nails, waxing and/or threading. The same guy that I tell to “Fuck Off” every day when he shoves a flyer in my face. But on that day, even though I was wearing what could’ve just as easily been an advertisement for Mexican food and even if I was the overweight Capital Letter I with a bowl cut, standing next to Jennie DelMont who starred as the adorably dimpled and pig-tailed Lower Case Letter i, I was unstoppable. I was unstoppable because I was wearing my speech dress and that made me the star of the show.

I wore that dress as often as humanly possible until my mother finally threw it out when, in the fourth grade, I tried to shove my “80 pound whale” self (as my gentle older sister dubbed me at gym class weigh-ins) into my “speech dress” and nearly took our dog Curly’s eye out when the zipper popped off and went flying. My dress obsession was born and since that formative time as a burgeoning, first-grade fashionista, I have dubbed myself an expert in dresses, especially white ones, which is why I placed the absolute utmost importance on finding the wedding dress of my dreams. Thus, on a chilly fall night, with print-outs in hand and my best friend, A, in tow, I daintily pressed the number “3” on the elevator at Saks Fifth Avenue and sashayed past Contemporary Sportswear into their Bridal Salon for my 6pm appointment with a bridal consultant...

I hope you enjoyed your first taste of "Wedding. Honeymoon. Disasater." Look for a short excerpt each week from this project or my other baby, "Birthdays, Anniversaries, and Other Great Disappointments.

On Borrowed Time (and Books)

Still in awe of all the free time I now find myself with, I figured I should take advantage of it and catch up on my reading.  In my previous life as a productive, employed member of society, I usually found myself able to read about 1 page of a book every night before I would be fighting to keep my eyes open, my body begging for sleep to get me through the coming work day.  Now, having been given this gift that keeps on giving - unemployment - I could actually pick up a book on a Tuesday afternoon and head off to the park to relax and read.  How novel! (no pun intended).

My usual MO when it comes to scouting new reading material is to head down to Borders, pick up three or four books that look intellectually stimulating along with one that I actually want to read, not just say I read (usually something along the lines of "Shoes, Sex and Why Women Like Them") then shell out the $60 - $100 to the cashier without thinking twice.  However, my new socioeconomic status doesn't allow for such careless spending so off I was to that foreboding monster of a building on Fifth Avenue called the New York Public Library to get myself a Library Card.

Climbing the many steps to the beautiful building I had passed so many times before, I started to feel like Rocky running up the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, my mind wandered and I started thinking about why New York is so much better than Philadelphia.  Typical. Thinking I would prance right through the giant doors and and immediately be surrounded by shelves and shelves of books, enough to scare the pants of the Dewey Decimal System, I pushed the revolving door as fast as I could until I was inside and abruptly stopped by the giant line of people going through security.  Did I forget I was in New York for a second?  I happily opened up my bag to let the security guard dig his way through my notebook, a couple of Pepto Bismol Pills, a tampon and my gigantic makeup bag until I was finally inside and free to roam the New York Public Library.

I bounced up to the information desk, all cheer and sunshine and said, "Excuse me, but you can tell me where I go to get my Library Card?!" Anything but charmed by my positive attitude, the woman behind the desk replied, "You're in the wrong building.  You need to go across the street." 

"Damn," I thought.  The building across the street is plain, there are no statues, no exhibits, just a big dusty, quasi-book store.  How can I experience this momentous occasion without the grandeur of statues and stairs and artwork surrounding me?  Where will the gospel choir that is going to sing as my library card is handed over to me going to stand?  Resigned to the fact that my Library Card experience would be more like a trip to the DMV than a day at the Met, I decided to pop into an Art Deco exhibit being held inside this pretty building that I so desperately wanted to borrow anything from before heading across the street to get my card.

Once inside the glass doors to the exhibit, I took a look at the five or so other people in there and decided to pretend I was just as genuinely interested in the art of this period as they pretended to be.  And so I read each and every informational piece on the wall when I came to the a descriptive on how the Art Deco period came to be.  It began, "On Thursday, October 24, 1924 as the Stock Market crashed sending the United States into the Great Depression..." That's when I stopped.  I did not need a reminder that I am unemployed and not a lady of leisure, so I decided to head across the street to get that Library Card.

Resisting the pull of BCBG to my right and Lord & Taylor to my left, I trucked it into the building where the nice lady at the information desk directed me to the long line at the Library Card Registration Desk.  Wanting to whip out my AmEx and bolt back across the street for some shopping, I trudged over and took my place in line.  When it was finally my turn, I handed over my Driver's License, which still has my New Jersey address on it, when Stanley, the man running the desk said, "I need something with your New York address."  I desperately dug through my purse, determined not to have wasted an afternoon looking at art I don't get and waiting on line.  Viola!  I pulled out a bottle of Antibiotics my doctor had prescribed for the Sinus Infection I had a few weeks ago. Embarrassing?  Absolutely.  But it had my New York address on it so I handed it over.  Stanley, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, reached out and grabbed the bottle, gave me a look that said, "Sure this is antibiotics, it's probably Herpes medication" and copied my address from the bottle, into his computer.  

Within two minutes my antiobiotics were back in my purse and my New York Public Library card was in my hand.  "So I can take out books RIGHT NOW?" I confirmed.  "Yes," replied Stanley desperate to have me and my pills away from his desk.  "Sweet!" 

 

I was off.  First to crime and mystery to pick up a book for T, then off to the "Oprah" section to pick up one for me. I looked around in wonderment at just how many people were here borrowing and returning books, in awe of the fact that here, at this place in New York where nothing is free, they will just give you a book or a DVD and trust that you will return it.  I'm just glad they didn't do a background check and find out that I am permanently banned from Blockbuster for failure to return movies.  

When I checked out and passed through security to leave the building, this time I barely noticed all the retail therapy that surrounded me upon exiting.  Slightly skeeved by the fact that thousands of other hands have probably touched the books I was holding, I whipped out my bottle of Purell for a quick fix, then bounced the rest of the way home like a little kid on the first day of school.  The minute T walked in the door from work, I proudly displayed my Library Card and handed over the book I selected just for him.  That night, we settled into bed and read ourselves to sleep.  For free.  Nice.