Avenue Elle

Living Vicariously

2007-05-11T09:40:00.000-04:00

We’ve all wished we could just drop everything we’re doing and just leave. Forget about work. Forget about drama with friends or boyfriends. Forget about the life we’ve created for ourselves and for a small moment pretend we are someone else.

These notions probably run through my head, on a serious level, about twice a year. Of course, I can’t afford to just drop everything and leave. Actually, I probably could leave if I wanted, but then I’d be casting aside everything my type-A personality has worked for over the last few years. Simply casting aside is something a person like myself needs to warm to.

Since I need time to mentally prep myself for such a glorious adventure, I’ve been camping out with my antidote – the travel journal section at Barnes & Noble.

I discovered this book section a few years back and I’d probably say about half of the books I read come from these hallowed shelves. Most of these books follow the theme of “working girl gets sick of daily grind and goes on worldwide adventure.” Not to mention that it seems odd that a majority of these authors find exotic lovers along the way that “change their world.” Damn it. I want someone to change my world!

Anyway, I’m working my way through yet another fantastic pick, this one courtesy of the one and only Downtown: Without Reservations by Alice Steinbach is about a notoriously independent reporter who took a leave of absence from work to travel to Paris, London, Italy and a few places in between. It’s fabulous.

A few more of my favorites:

Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
Give Me the World by Leila Hadley

Read and be figuratively taken away…

People...Antlers are NOT a New Trend

2007-04-27T10:24:00.000-04:00

Every now and then I have to snicker at New York’s attempt to make the mundane trendy. Mundane for me translates into the daily goings-on of your average West-central Wisconsin native. It’s what I grew up with and knew all my life until I hauled tail to the big bad city. So when I see things like camo turn up on the runways of Fashion Week I just have to sound off…and yesterday’s NYT Style section is just more fuel for the fire.

Apparently antlers are now considered "in."

Yes. Antlers.

To me the word “antlers” reminds me of my driveway after the big Thanksgiving day hunt. It makes me think of my family’s basement, which doubles as a “showroom” for my dad’s taxidermy masterpieces. Antlers, as crazy as it sounds, makes me think of home - home being small town Wisco.

Well, apparently notions of home are turning up in the West Village as a trendy gastropub adorned with antler chandeliers or in a Soho boutique with walls adorned with large shoulder mounts.

I mean, come on! With one click of the mouse, my association with antlers has now been turned upside down no thanks to a select number of “trendy city folk.”

Making a “trend” out of a décor tactic that has been employed since the beginning of time is a New York cliché that only non-natives would understand.

After a break up, hairapy!

2007-04-23T09:27:00.000-04:00

I had to do it. It was a hard decision and I feel horribly guilty, but it was a necessary change that was needed in my life…I broke up with my hairstylist and went back to my ex.

D was fabulous for a short time. She had the skills of cut and color. She told great stories about her rock star husband and their strangely-suburban lifestyle in “The Jerz.” She was the purveyor of my dark locks and assisted in the pursuit of the ideal shade of brown.

Despite the long term relationship, I just had to go back. Not only did I go back to the ex-stylist - I went back to blonde.

After about four months of trying brunette on for size, I decided it wasn’t for me. It was a true experiment; however I somehow feel that I lost a piece of myself in the process. The ex (who was always a skilled master in the art of highlighting) helped me find myself again through a lengthy brush and foil hairapy session

I know this is the second beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Elle's First Day

2007-04-06T14:39:00.000-04:00

The other day I was reminiscing my first day in New York City with an old friend of mine. It’s been awhile since I had thought about that day and realized that it was a completely ridiculous experience - and likely on par with everyone else’s cliché “moving to New York” experiences…

Prior to moving, about six years back, I was all proud of myself because I had already found a job and an apartment. I thought, “gee, all I have to do is get there.” Little did I know that it would be such a “shit show.” (Thank you Snob for such a fabulous phrase)

I had packed 2-3 large suitcases and 2 carry ons with everything I could pack in. I got off the plane at LaGuardia with written instructions on “how not to be screwed by the cab driver who will clearly guess my naiveté via copious amounts of baggage.”

As we drove through the Midtown tunnel, I was still smug about how smoothly things were going until the cab dropped me off on the corner of Mott and where-the-hell-am-I, smack in the middle of Chinatown. My said friend was in town visiting her boyfriend and she was to meet me on the specified corner, as I was going to stay with the happy couple until my sublet opened up on June 1st.

After 20 minutes on the corner my friend finally showed up. I was sweating like a pig in the sweltering heat, had been cat-called at by about four pseudo-homeless men, and had been freaking out at the thought of my bags being stolen by a mad mob of angry New Yorkers. At her arrival, I could finally relax…or so I thought.

My friend and I dragged my bags over to her boyfriend’s apartment, getting a kick ass work out in the process. It's about here where my cozy idea of a “hip, downtown, New York apartment” was blown out of the water. We climbed up to the third floor where her boyfriend lived with (wait for it) seven or eight other random people. I was curious as to how this could possibly work out. We stepped in and finally realized the apartment was one where each person got a small, dorm-sized room (with accompanying padlock). The bathroom, living area and kitchen were all shared spaces.

It was then that the boyfriend explained that the apartment used to be none other than a fully operational brothel just two short years back. Hence the individual rooms and small living space.

Inner Monologue: “OH. MY. GAWD.”

Fast-forwarding to my so-called relaxation time, I was the lucky lucky gal that got to sleep on the carpeted brothel bedroom floor, right next to my friend and her man who were sharing a twin bed. Talk about close quarters.

In the morning, I immediately called my new roommate and volunteered to help her “clean the apartment” (i.e., move out of brothel and into my own space). Four subway rides to-and-from my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen and two ass-kicking luggage workouts later, I was finally all packed in. I immediately showered off all remnants that could have potentially amassed from the nasty-ass brothel carpeting I was forced to cozy up to. It was smooth sailing from there on out.

I’m sure there are far worse stories out there on nightmarish apartments and moving to the city, but considering I was a little, 22-year-old, fresh-faced midwesterner I was shocked right out of my britches.

Rest assured it was all worth it in the end. After all, I know now that New York wouldn’t be New York without a bit of strangeness here and there.

UPDATE! Elle @ The Final Four

2007-04-04T15:05:00.000-04:00

I won!

Ok...so there technically were split results. On the client/company pool showdown, I totally kicked everyone's asses since my brilliance correctly predicted Florida as the NCAA winners. I pulled ahead of the pack with the win and stole first place. I'm currently awaiting news of my prize.

In the internal company pool, I got second place by FOUR MEASLY POINTS! And I lost by four points to a guy who thought Gerogetown was going to win. Um, hello?!? Clearly, I'm still naive in the ways of scoring sports pools, however I don't get how I could have lost. I guess it's kinda like the 2000 election. A sham I say, a sham!

Regardless of the split results, shoes were purchased.

Two pairs!

Elle @ The Final Four

2007-03-27T10:11:00.000-04:00

I am completely rocking my company NCAA brackets right now. I may be a heal-wearing, wine-drinking gal from the city, but man-o-man are my Big Ten sports skills coming in handy now.

In my office, there are a few token males (i.e., not gay, but not datable). It’s about this time of year that they all start foaming at the mouth at the thought of “making their picks.” I usually ignore them and go on my merry way, however this year I was invited to participate in two pools: one for my company and one against my clients.

I’m kicking everyone’s asses.

You see, little old Elle was smart. Although I would have loved to see Wisconsin go all the way, I knew it was a shot in the dark. I put aside all loyalties and went with shear probability, putting Georgetown, UCLA, Florida and Texas in the Final Four. I say Florida wins. I’d say my odds are pretty damn good.

(NOTE: Feel free to insert comments here confirming my prediction)

I won’t deny that I do have a bit of a competitive streak in me, but usually not enough to drive me into a bar on the upper east side to watch a college basketball game. This year, I may have to rethink this notion, as there is something quite pleasing about knowing you have “out picked” all the boys in the room. I’ll have bragging rights for an entire year!

Now all I need to do is find out if there is a prize for winning. If there is, I hope its cash…perhaps then I can go buy that pair of sweet Italian leather peep toes I’ve been eyeing in my favorite downtown shop.

A Jazzy Monday

2007-03-20T10:32:00.000-04:00

As a child I can remember loving the Charlie Brown TV specials, perhaps not so much for the animation, but for the jazzy piano tunes played so eloquently on screen by the one and only Schroeder. As I grew up I never had the dexterity to be a talented musician (save a handful of years of violin playing in the middle school orchestra), but I surely can say that I grew a love for all kinds of music.

As a teenager, I must sadly admit to being fanatical about teeny bopper tunes of Tiffany, Debbie Gibson and NKOTB. In high school, although I never wore flannel, I grew to enjoy grunge music and even a smidge of rap & R&B – I still love old school Mary J. In college, I relived my parents’ experience and fell in love with classic rock. Perhaps it was seeing Jimmy Page play the guitar from the 11th row, but all I know is this genre still dominates my iPod.

Lately, my new obsession takes me straight back to my childhood love of Schroeder’s piano and the Vince Guaraldi Trio. I’m just loving Jazz right now. All kinds of jazz…modern, acid, Brazilian! In an effort to do something different and indulge in my musical cravings, I coaxed a friend to come with me to check out Jazz at Lincoln Center.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ve been trying to do different things with my time. Not that I don’t love tapas and wine with girlfriends, but sometimes that gets old and I thought a night of jazz would be the perfect prescription to shake things up a bit.

Not knowing what to expect, my friend and I arrived at Dizzy’s Club on the 5th floor of the Time Warner Center and were greeted by large windows overlooking Columbus Circle and the Southwest corner of Central Park. All we could see were the twinkling lights of the city serving as a perfect backdrop for a jazz quartet.

We got settled, ordered a bottle of red and a few snacks and spent the next 90 minutes listening to the spring-themed set of soft, toe-tapping Madeline D’Ambrosio and her musical trio. As we listened to the songs, one by one, I caught myself smiling several times. I mean, how can you not with such whimsical music in such a setting?!

My friend and I were definitely the youngest in the room – by about a decade, but we didn’t care. We joked about how we should be wearing all black, berets and smoking incessantly, but of course, we were in New York – no smoking inside.

As the set ended, we finished our bottle of Cab and decided that the night was a perfect New York Monday. Jazz, a bottle of red, a view of the city…can it get any better?

It’s Time

2007-03-16T11:52:00.000-04:00

This Memorial Day will be my sixth anniversary of moving to New York. It’s hard to believe I’ve actually been here that long. But, what is harder to believe is that for the entire time of earning Real New Yorker status, I am still technically a subletter.

Yes. A half a decade. No lease to speak of.

Why pray tell, have I been stuck in sad subletter status? Well, mainly because for the past four years I’ve been lucky enough to live in a rent controlled building. For those of you not savvy, I pay dirt cheap rent to live in a decent sized (read: shoe box sized) apartment that is actually on the island. If I were to have been added to the lease, our rent would have gone up substantially.

You’d think the fact that I scored such a situation would mean I’d be staying there as long as humanly possible, spending my future years in New York among my strange neighbors and quickly gentrifying neighborhood, but – alas - this will not be my fate. The main reason: one lone roommate. Lone = anal-retentive/passive-aggressive thirty-something roommate that hates life and all social interaction that it may require.

Due to the desire to flee my apartment’s negativity, I’ve recently decided that it is time for me to move out and get my own apartment. The scales have finally tipped. After five years of essentially being an urban nomad and putting up with the strange roommate behaviors and personalities, it’s time to plant my very own city roots. The beauty of this situation is that I am still subletting and can leave said roommate behind whenever I please.

I’ve begun my search by perusing all the online rental sites I can. I know my price. I know my choice neighborhoods. I’ve seen a couple of places and one thing is clear: I am so damn excited about the proposition that I will have a space of my very own. I can cook whatever I want. I can have anyone I please over to my apartment whenever I want (read: roommates that hate life are not exactly great to have around when you like to entertain people). I can lay around and not be criticized for lengthy couch time. Oh, the possibilities!

I’ve been told time and time again that people can learn so much about themselves by flying solo. Perhaps it’s something about solitude that makes someone ponder their place in life, how they spent their day or who they care to see when they venture out? Perhaps it’s something about owning your own things and hanging your own pictures on the wall? In any sense, a place of one’s own has something pleasingly intangible about it.

So, in an effort to become a more well-rounded person, the search is on.

As they say every gal is on a constant search for one of three things: a job, an apartment or a man. Given that the job is already taken care of, I will gladly take the man-hunt down a notch in honor of my impending move to true singledom.

ADDENDUM...

This past Saturday I saw the lowest of the low when it comes to NYC apartments. I figured I’d check a place out about six or seven blocks from my apartment. It was in an area slightly off the beaten track, but considering how quickly my neighborhood went from sketch to posh, I figured I’d give it a chance.

I should have walked away the second I saw the “POLICE ACTIVITY DO NOT CROSS” sticker on the door…

I walked in to what looked like a badly cleaned up murder scene. Ok. Not really, but the place had clearly been gutted and no clean up had been done following the gutting. As I looked outside through the openings around the window frame, the broker pipes up, “There is a lot of work that needs to be done.”

No shit Sherlock.

I quickly told this guy then and there, that I preferred only to see places that were ready to be rented. After all, I wanted to see the place I'd be living in, or at least something that closely resembles it. He retorted that the dump that I was standing in would rent before it was renovated. I balked and told him that wasn’t my style.

After viewing a few more properties in the area, I resigned myself to knowing what the worst looks like. I have no where to go but up!

A Tourist in Tow

2007-03-13T12:18:00.000-04:00

This past weekend happened to be one of 4-6 weekends in the spring time which qualify as “spring break” for the school-going crowd, so it was a nice surprise when I got an email a couple weeks ago from my mom saying that she and my sisters were coming for a visit on one of their weekends off.

They arrived this past Friday and it was four days of beautiful weather, walking and eating. My family is no stranger to the city, as they’ve been here several times, so I am usually pleased when they come and I can show them what “real” New Yorkers do – meaning eating at the most tasty, little known restaurants in the city, shopping in all the best little boutiques, and walking the most scenic streets the city has to offer. Despite the indulgences, there is one tourist activity that always remains on the list, and it has been one of my most loathed activities since setting foot on the island - a trip to Canal Street.

Canal Street is chalk full of fake designer handbags, watches, scarves and jewelry. The area is notoriously overcrowded and always involves high levels of harassment by locals all in the name of supporting black market items worth a fraction of what you actually pay. Never mind the fabulous dim sum in the area, follow a strange Chinese woman into a back alleyway, get locked into a basement bunker and get your fake Louis today!

When my sisters announced a long list of Canal Street needs for friends back in the Mid-West, instead of scowling, this time I decided to turn over a new leaf. This was my family after-all, and if they want a fake bag so be it! So I grinned and bared it.

About an hour into our little shopping trip, I decided I not only was I going to tolerate Chinatown, but I was also going to say “fuck it,” and act like a tourist all weekend (with noted exceptions of “real” New York activity). Why the hell not? Who was I trying to impress?

In my effort to blend in with the tourist crowd I:

Wore tennis shoes all weekend
Smiled and posed for pictures when prompted
Accompanied my black Chinatown-bag-carrying family to locations across the city and didn’t care to be seen with the bags
Went to Saks, Bloomingdales and Tiffany’s all on the same day
Saw Phantom of the Opera

Amongst other things…

The funny thing about this weekend was, I was on my own stomping ground here in NYC - a place with a conscious level of attitude, status, image and pretension – and I felt devoid of the normal pressures to live up to it all. Now, to be clear, I certainly don’t have the resources to claim a high level of anything I just mentioned (as a lowly PR girl and all), however all New Yorkers know that by living here we do exude a certain amount of the above simply because that is the social dust the city leaves on you.

The difference between this past weekend and the norm is that it was refreshing to allow my family to bring some down-to-earth mid-westerness my way. I was in my own city but completely unaware of the need to care about anything other than having a good time. In my case, a good time happened to be perusing Canal Street shops to see my sisters excited about their new Coach knock offs.

It was a great weekend of careless fun, and frankly I’m sad to go back to the normal grind. After a weekend in kickers, I finally realize heels really do kill your feet!

Somebody stop me before I buy loafers...

PR Prom

2007-03-09T10:43:00.000-05:00

Imagine being a grown adult and a guest at your very own senior prom...In a nutshell, that was me last night, as I was at the equivalent of the NYC PR Prom.

That’s right…last night was one of many PR industry award events of the season. This one, for some reason unbeknownst to me, was a “black tie affair” at the Tavern on the Green. Black tie for my office mates meant any form of wrap dress that you can find in your closet. Black tie for the out-of-towners meant sparkles and floor length gowns…aka: overkill.

The evening was one of those nights where a difficult combination of unintentional drunkenness and trying to be on your best “professional” behavior was at play for all. Your boss was there. Your boss’s boss was there. Your client was there. Your past bosses were there, and the waiters wouldn’t allow any wine glass to bow below the half way mark. I still couldn’t tell you how many glasses of wine I drank, but somehow I think the dinner rolls saved me.

Dinner was served. Awards were given out, and the after party began – which by the way was officially called an “After Glow Celebration.” It was in this “after glow party” where I witnessed the saddest of pick up attempts ever.

Just when a co-worker and I were jockeying for a position by a couple of cute guys by the bar, two decent-looking guys waltzed up and started laying on the compliments. My co-worker and I gave each other “the eye” and began to politely smile, nod and answer their networking questions (i.e., where do you work, what accounts to you manage, bla, bla, bla…).

It was about 5 minutes later when the hit men took out their cards and we finally figured it out. We weren't being hit on at all, we are being SOLD to by a couple of salesmen from a vendor company. Not only had the other cute guys moved off, but we weren’t even being genuinely hit on. How depressing.

After the guys had moved on to their next set of prey, my co-worker and I mozzied up to the two token males from our office and claimed “saved” status from getting another sales pitch thrown our way. Of course the evening started looking up with the help of our “wing men” and keen eye for avoiding vendors.

All in all, the "PR Prom” was a good time. After working the room, it was truly eye opening to realize how many good looking chaps actually do work in my industry…I just have to wonder why none of them are at my company.

I think I'll have to talk to HR about that...

Until next year...

Being Non-Serious

2007-03-05T11:35:00.000-05:00

As someone who is highly driven and ambitious, I certainly can attest to the notion that I sometimes take myself too seriously. And given that reality, sometimes it’s nice to plunge oneself into a situation that is anything but serious. My Saturday was just this…a reversion back to my collegiate days. And when I think of a typical unserious day from college, it usually started with an unnecessary trip to the mall, followed by hours and hours of day drinking. My unserious day wasn’t too far off…

I normally wouldn’t go to a mall, but this time my job required it. So I spent my morning – in Long Island - “monitoring” an event that was going on at the mall, combined with lots and lots of window shopping. Let me tell you, there is something about shopping without a list that is just glorious. I leisurely mozzied in and out of every store I had an inkling to hit. Proceeded to load my arms full of everything I wanted to try on, and then spent hours trying on, discarding, trying on, pondering…It was pointless and lovely.

When it was time to leave the mall, I felt a slight tinge of cliché when my Towncar pulled up outside of Dick’s Sporting Goods, however I was happy to have a company-sponsored ride.

When I arrived back in the City, a friend of mine called to tell me we were going to the infamous Hoboken St. Patty’s day celebration. Glad I still had car-service, I picked her up and promptly headed to New Jersey.

I like to call Hoboken “post-college America,” as it’s a location in the NYC area that most post-graduates can afford. To boot, residents all seem to continue their borderline-immature behavior despite being a working member of corporate America. So it was no surprise when we drove into town, all we could see was green, saddled with sightings of empty Silo cups blowing in the wind, staggering 22-year olds and long lines outside of every pub.

Again, all seriousness stopped in its tracks as I put on my college drinking cap. After all, one must be mentally prepared to partake in such activities in their late twenties.

We went to party after party. Drank light beer out of a kegerator. Earned our St. Patty’s Day beads. Flirted with 24-year olds wearing Abercombie. I knew the day was completely ridiculous when - at the last house party - I saw a pregnant woman playing beer-pong, followed by the party being “busted” for noise violations. We decided it was time to elevate ourselves to the post-21 crowd and go to a bar.

After more beer, a dinner of corned beef on rye with fries (!) and a few more beers, my gal-pal and I decided we had had enough. We said our farewells to the group and headed back to the city.

In retrospect, the day was super fun. Normally, my serious self would be doing “unserious adult” things like drinking coffee, seeing a film at the Angelika, getting a mani & pedi followed by a glass or two of wine. I’d most likely balk at the idea of drinking light beer in Hoboken, however it was great to be reminded that adult fun doesn’t need to fit into a little box of appropriateness. It was refreshing, different and grounding. And yes, it helped to have a Towncar to make the travels lighter!

On Money & Trees

2007-02-21T19:32:00.000-05:00

I’ve been doing quite a bit of pondering about my job as of late. Seems that this “pondering” is on an annual cycle, as it’s that time of year when us PR plebes spend most of our waking hours catching up on the slacking we did before the holidays. Hence, it’s always this time of year that I start to hate my job and start considering my options…

In all honesty here, I don’t hate my job. Not even close in fact. My problem really lies in that I’m burned out, unmotivated and bored out of my mind. I want something more exciting. I want something more relatable to me. I want to be challenged in new ways.

(How noble of me…)

After all this pondering about job offers, lists of pros and cons, consultations with friends - I must boil this down to the bottom line of bottom lines: Money. Isn’t this why we all go to work in corporate America anyway?

I don’t save lives. I create air. I push products. I schmooze. I make more money for large consumer products companies. I proverbially help plant money trees in the atriums of these companies and get praised for having a creative mind helping to increase their bottom line.

(How American…)

Here lies the selfish question: Why isn’t my bottom line increasing?

To be real here, I don’t want to make any job decisions based on money alone. After all there are thousands of more important things in life than money. Yet, in the world of PR agencies, true earning potential shifts into high gear after about 5 years in the business and I feel that by staying put too long, I'd be missing out.

(It’s about at this point in the post that my moral center chimes in)

One of my beloved mantras is that I want to work to live, not live to work. When indifference towards one’s job (and other opportunities) sets in, isn’t a bigger paycheck the one thing that will afford for more cherished life activities outside of work? And by life activities I mean visits to my family, worldly travels and an apartment of my own away from any anal-retentive/passive-aggressive thirty-something roommates that hate life...or so to speak.

As my mother said, it’s never a bad thing to have opportunity knocking, but when the opportunity knocking is a tree full of dollar bills, it’s time to evaluate how much more that tree can grow before finding a place to plant it.

A retrospective on the sociological reactions toward alteration of hair follicle hues

2007-02-07T19:42:00.000-05:00

E. Avenue, Journal of Avenue Elle, Vol. February, Issue 7, (2007).

Abstract: The following study is a retrospective on a 10-week controlled experiment, designed to understand the societal changes made toward a woman in her mid-twenties, after subject altered hair coloration from a honey-blond to a chestnut brown.

Hypothesis: Results expected can be divided into four areas:

Subject deems societal implications to be positive and embraces change
Subject deems societal implications to be positive yet chooses to return to original state of coloration
Subject receives negative societal reaction and returns to original state of coloration
Subject receives negative societal reaction yet embraces change

Of the four possible outcomes, the predicted outcome will be that of option number two.

Methodology: A direct measure of societal reactions were taken from the Subject on a journalistic basis. Subject made daily notes on male and female reactions toward the alteration of hair color. Results were tallied at the end of the 10-week study period, showcasing a result based on the prevalence of each hypothesis area.

Data Analysis: Subject saw a change in societal reactions within a number of categories:

Male reactions (by both known and unknown males)
Female reactions (by both known and unknown males)
Confirmed personal reactions based on tangible evidence
Personal reactions based on assumption

Discussion: Male reactions to the change in hair color were both positive and negative. Known males were disappointed to see the change in the subject’s hair color – this was deemed as a negative reaction by the subject. Unknown males responded by providing the subject with a higher level of respect than is usually afforded.

Female reactions to the change were generally positive. Known females expressed positive reactions directly to the subject. Unknown females, while they did not express like or dislike directly, generally seemed less threatened by subject's presence.

The subject’s own reactions were mixed. While the subject has enjoyed less “upkeep” on color processing and a fair amount of positive response, the Subject generally feels “more ordinary” in comparison to the norm of hair color in the New York area. Additionally, subject enjoys a lighter hair color’s ability to imply a lightness of character in comparison to generally sarcastic overtone within the personality.

Conclusions: Subject will definitively return to the original state of hair color – that of a honey blond – affirming this experiment’s expected hypothesis. Timing of said return is yet to be determined as Subject may enjoy alteration of hair color on a personal basis for another ten-week period. Due to climate changes at the end of the second ten-week period, Subject will be forced to return to original state of hair color for fear of being generally bored and seasonally-affected (see Vol. May – August for general attitudes toward increased sunlight).

References:
D. Chic, Downtown Chic, (2006-2007)

In the next life...

2007-02-07T09:01:00.000-05:00

I want to live my next life backwards...

You start out dead and get that out of the way.

Then you wake up in an old age home feeling better everyday.

You get kicked out for being too healthy; go collect your pension, then when you start work, you get a gold watch on your first day.

You work 40 years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement.

You drink alcohol, you party, you're generally promiscuous and you get ready for High School.

You go to primary school, you become a kid, you play, you have no responsibilities, you become a baby, and then...

You spend your last 9 months floating peacefully in luxury, in spa-like conditions; central heating, room service on tap, larger quarters everyday, and then...

You finish off as an orgasm.

Sounds pretty damn good, right?!

Tis the season…

2007-01-31T18:36:00.000-05:00

…to be buried by work. So buried that I almost failed to note a big blogger milestone that just recently passed…I’ve been trying to keep up with this thing for one whole year! Amazing how time flies.

In a year’s time, I’ve…

Completely gotten over douche bag of foreign-ex boyfriend and fittingly discarded of all attempts from him to contact me
Joined and online dating site and discovered pure loathing sensation towards overall concept
Became overly annoyed with being a work-a-holic and pondered “getting out” of current profession
(oddly enough, still in line with this track of thinking)
Essentially put life on hold for possibility of moving to London
Decided never to put life on hold again for a “maybe”
Turned down crap offer to move to London
Traveled to many fun places and got into plenty of trouble
Dated a handful of lackluster boys
Shared lots of random thoughts about random things
Joined the “dark side” in the form of new hair color
(thoughts on this social experiment are coming…just as soon as I can dig myself out of this pile of powerpoint decks)
Spent too much money on obviously fabulous shoe purchases
Drank too much wine

…amongst other things…

Looking back on this list, while thought provoking, it just doesn’t scream FUN to me. I’ve heard that the even years of one’s life often suck and the odd years are fantastic. Given that I just turned 27 - and I hear 27 is the best-year-ever - I’m fully intent on making damn sure that this year is FUN.

I can’t say for sure what form of fun I’ll be partaking in, but I know I need to throw a few rules to the wind. For example, I might take more cab rides to get home safely after the midnight hour – on "school nights." I might have to drink too much wine and not care. Maybe, just maybe, I might have to have a few careless encounters with overly attractive/underly “good-on-paper” men. I might even go back to being a blonde.

Who knows…but I’m hoping this year will kick some serious ass!

A Little Piece of London

2007-01-12T16:19:00.000-05:00

A piece of me still wishes things with London had worked out better. I still long for the city that leaves that damp, muskiness on your clothes after a day of walking by the Thames - as if the history of the city has been sprinkled over your head when you didn’t expect it. I would love to be there, so close to so much that I want to explore…but alas, this lovely daydream isn’t a reality for the near future.

Despite the pining, today I found myself walking the streets of New York and for a split second was transported back to the heart of Kensington…

After an afternoon meeting, I decided to slowly jaunt back to my office and stopped into Starbucks for an afternoon pick me up. Usually I’d order a grande black coffee, but today I opted for the Americano. Something about watered down espresso was more appealing than the usual drip…I added my skim milk and went on my merry way.

I almost stopped in my tracks when I took my first sip, as it tasted exactly like the Americano I had ordered from the Pret-a-Manger around the corner from where my gal-pal and I had stayed in London. With that first sip, I was walking down Maiden Lane towards Trafalgar Square all over again. I stepped up to the corner of Park Avenue and nearly expected to see the Big Ben instead of the Met Life Building…

I kept walking West savoring the remains of my Euro-moment, then looked across the street only to be delighted to see a Fauchon store…the only store in Manhattan to sell perfectly round, bright and tasty French macaroons. I fell in love with these little morsels of goodness at the Laduree cafe inside of Harrod's, so naturally in my moment of nostalgia, I couldn't resist the temptation to taste one again. I bolted into the store and bought two: one raspberry, one pistachio. Perfect.

I continued West down 57th Street - munching on my macaroons, drinking my Americano - pretending I was walking past Harvey Nichols instead of Bergdorfs, seeing the Wolseley Hotel instead of the Plaza. I sighed and transported myself back to New York where, despite my moment of transatlantic sadness, decided with pleasure that the macaroons in New York are just as good as they are in London.

DVR Anxiety Disorder

2007-01-10T18:56:00.000-05:00

I’m not exactly privy to the antics of new technology obsessions, however I wouldn’t call myself behind the times by any means. I am completely up on the trends – as my job requires, but perhaps I’m just still a little to practical for my own good. Call it leftover Midwestern behavior. For example...

I didn’t get my first iPod until just two years ago...
I only get a new cell phone unless it’s free with my plan...
I still have a VHS player in my apartment...
I still have dial up internet service...
And, no, I don’t have a DVR...

On a desirability list for the items on the above list that I don’t have, the one I’m becoming more and more desperate for is a DVR. I hear it completely revolutionizes post-work social lives – leaving the precious “prime time” hours for activites that should be considered “prime time” activities by nature.

I’ve been exploring the notion and have been almost dead set on having one until a conversation last night stopped me in my tracks. I became aware of a new and obscure condition called “DVR Anxiety Disorder” (DVRAD). Let me define for the masses…

DVRAD: An unpleasant and complex combination of emotions (including fear, apprehension and worry) caused by the disorienting situation of having to make rational time management decisions in regard to TV viewing.

NOTE: Symptoms of DVRAD may be accompanied by physical sensations such as palpitations, nausea, chest pain and/or shortness of breath.

I had absolutely no idea that having so many options on what to watch on a Saturday afternoon would be so troublesome. After all, by nature, a Saturday afternoon is supposed to be unstructured “down-time” to recover from the overly scheduled work week that is my life.

Don’t we look forward to weekends so we can get out of the house and do non-work things that we enjoy? If that is truly the point, then why on earth would I want to save up all my TV viewing to the weekend so I can become more stressed out by trying to figure out what order to watch my shows?

I am beginning to re-think this DVR thing...

I don’t want DVRAD or anything else anxiety-related. If any weekend anxiety is to ensue, it better damn well be over trying to figure out what cocktail lounge more cute boys frequent and which restaurant has the better wine list.

Down with DVRAD!

The White Dress Dream

2007-01-03T18:03:00.000-05:00

Most women at one time or another have pondered what their wedding will be like. The dress, the location, the rings...and, of course, the man. Over the last few weeks I’ve had many conversations about marriage with several friends and have to wonder if matrimony is still as important as society as always held, or if it just a “white dress dream” that we ladies need to wake up to...

Friend #1 just woke up from her dream...
Many dreamers have gone into marriage saying they will never get a divorce, however time and life changes may negate this intention - as is true for a girlfriend of mine. Divorce is never something anyone who gets married intends for, yet over 50% of couples end in this unfortunate predicament. According to my pal, going through this experience is a “wake up call” to the dream we all have as adolescents. The wedding is the fun part, but therein lies the marriage part which takes more work and effort than anyone can anticipate. She will undoubtedly find herself a new lobster, however she adamantly claims that no white dress will be worn.

Friend #2 is a woman with “a plan”...
Another good friend of mine is head over heels in love. Every woman, marriage or no, wants love. As with love comes the question of commitment, and to my friend, a ring on her finger is the answer she is looking for in her quest for a long term plan with her man. She would never uproot her life and independence unless this guy antes up and ties the knot. It’s practical to think this way...after all, why would anyone make any drastic changes to their life for a maybe?

Friend #3 is a modernist...
Back in the day, a good college friend and I always maintained that we were the two out of our crew that didn’t like kids all that much and wondered if we’d ever find the right man. She is still a true cynic even though she has an 18-month-old child and was recently married. Despite the contradictory path her life has taken, she still maintains a “modernist” view on getting hitched. To put it plainly, it’s a legal commitment. She and her husband got married for the sake of their child, but had she not had her son she may have never put on the big white dress. She was secure in her relationship and never thought a fancy ceremony, based on religious traditions that she wasn’t entirely a fan of, was necessary.

After listening to all of my friends, I have to stop and wonder what all the fuss is about. In truth, I tend to agree with my college friend in that a wedding is a ceremony that has been imparted on us by religious traditions from yesteryear. Is it still imperative to go through with an event that is based on notions that may be outdated or not within a current belief structure?

Then bears the question of if a fancy-schmancy event isn’t in the cards, then is the relationship sound enough to enter into a legal partnership? Because in reality, outside of the relationship itself, this is what a marriage is. To be in a committed relationship, why is it still so important to sign some papers if the whole point is to just be together?

And then a light goes on...getting married eliminates the “maybe” from the scenario - whether as part of the dream or in a practical sense. Does the white dress dream stand for eternal stability?

Women have been taught since the beginning of time to seek binding stability through a partnership with a man who can provide. With this thought in mind, it's my inclination to think that in a day and age when men are no longer the sole “providers,” perhaps it’s time for everyone to look at “stability” in another light. Of course, to each their own...

Returning to the Island

2007-01-02T14:51:00.000-05:00

I consider myself to be a proud New Yorker. I love living here, and should love it considering my life long dream to experience such an amazing city. Despite my devotion, I’m definitely not one of those “island people” who would only leave under the threat of death. New York is a place that gets under your skin and I truly believe getting away every now and then is good for the soul. But, have you ever thought that getting away too long would pose a Manhattanite karmic-retribution? Meaning, the island would punish you for leaving? I'm starting to be a believer and last night received a hefty dose of payback.

Yesterday was the last day of my two week long sabbatical to the Midwest. Lots of family, friends and driving. I’ve been battling a hefty dose of bronchitis for about a week, so needless to say I’m not feeling rested. So you can imagine my dismay at arriving at the Minneapolis airport only to see my flight to Newark was delayed by two and a half hours.

Enter eternally long lunch, prolonged magazine browsing and umpteen trips to Caribou Coffee, intermittent with bouts of lung-mangling coughing sessions. I won’t bore you with the details of the flight, but needless to say, it entailed LOTS of waiting around in the plane.

I finally got back to Newark and held my breath until I saw my luggage tumble off of the conveyer belt. I dragged my 72 pounds of luggage to the taxi line only to see that it extended down the sidewalk at a length that would rival the Great Wall of China.

More waiting. More hacking up a lung. Enter cab. At long last, the final leg of the trip. Or so I thought...

As we were driving toward the city, and in the final coups de grace of my punishment, the cab got a flat tire on the New Jersey Turnpike! Said cab managed to get through the first toll way and then proceeded to pull into a random parking lot off of the freeway. It was just after midnight.

I almost started crying. I saw my life flash before my eyes. I said to myself, I’m going to die at the hands of a smoking, pine-tree scented cabbie from Newark! I could see the headlines rise up…"Flat Tire Equals Final Fate for Midwestern Transplant."

OK, it wasn’t that dramatic, but you have to admit being stuck in a random cab off the turnpike is pretty freaky.

Finally, another cab came to pick me up and I was on my way home. Around 12:45, I finally walked into my apartment with a huge sigh of relief - and a pang of sadness. My vacation was over. No more being coddled by my parents, no more home cooked food, no more fun with my sisters, no more Midwestern mellowness. The next morning would signal a new year of craziness and there would be no end in sight.

New York might have been punishing me for leaving, but leaving New York for two weeks still does the same thing that it always does to me. It makes me miss what I don’t have here.

I think my bad karma is a result of the city being jealous of my wandering eye.

A New Series: The Truth Behind the Hairy Debate

2006-12-12T18:50:00.000-05:00

I had been thinking about it for awhile. Should I or shouldn’t I take the plunge? It’d mean a different set of rules altogether and would require me to essentially “find myself” all over again…oh the pressure…

After toiling and agonizing, the decision was finally made. I was going to go for it.

(Drumroll….)

I’m now a brunette! (GULP!)

I’m day one into a new hair color and I have to say I do completely love it, but I’m still not quite used to seeing myself with such a different look. Not only do I have a different perception of how I look, but I’m looking forward to a very interesting social experiment.

I've been used to having long golden locks and fair looks. Now that the hair on my head is chestnut in hue, there are features on my face that stand out more than they have my entire life. For example: I now have noticeable eyebrows. It’s a wonder how they just magically appeared. I’ve committed myself to reading every single beauty magazine I can get my hands on to figure out the beauty secrets of brunettes and how the hell to do it right. I figure it may take a few days since when I look in the mirror I still do a double-take.

As for the social experiment, I have to admit that I’m completely self-aware. Probably overly self-aware. On a regular playing field, being constantly aware of oneself could be considered narcissistic, but I have to say it’s near impossible not to pay attention to how people are treating and looking at you when you change a feature as notable as one’s hairstyle. I imagine the same to be true about many drastic beauty alterations like losing weight or plastic surgery.

I also have to consider what Downtown threw out there the other day about Blondes vs. Brunettes. When I read her post (and before I chatted with her about her perspective), I have to admit I was put off. Having been a blonde my entire life, I’ve never associated how people perceive me directly with my hair color. Perhaps for others this might be the opposite, however not until last night am I aware of this fact.

Therein lies the question: What does perception of hair color mean for a personality? Do blondes really have more fun? Do brunettes get treated with more respect? Who knows, but I will tell you one thing: I AM going to find out!

And by the way, my dear Miss Downtown, I'm throwing down the gauntlet! I believe I quote you correctly...

"Tonight I told Avenue Elle, if she decides to go dark, I'll be in the chair next to her going blonde. We'll perform the ultimate switch-er-roo experiment."

Let me know when your appointment with Donna is!

Most Random Saturday EVER

2006-12-10T15:13:00.000-05:00

I cherish my Saturday afternoons. It’s a time where I look forward to unwinding from the week prior and look forward to the evening ahead. A typical Saturday afternoon usually entails ample amounts of shopping – usually with a notorious Ms. Downtown and friends. Yesterday, however, was anything but typical. It was a trifecta of frustration layered with copious amounts of fun.

It all started as a usual day. I woke up on the early side, made coffee and breakfast, went to the gym…the usual. I was looking forward to a day of uber-girl activity – baking Christmas cookies. Of course what’s baking without a couple bottles of wine and a few gal-pals to keep the chef company?

Enter Downtown and our other good friend. I had just embarked on the first batch of cookies and we popped the first bottle open promptly at 4pm. Yes, 4pm my friends.

All was fine and dandy until my roommate arrived home. I can’t recall if I’ve told you all the tale of my highly anal-retentive AND passive aggressive roommate, but this Saturday was no different. I feel I’m a pretty darn good roommie. Clean, respectful, on time with paying the bills, share in certain responsibilities of apartment upkeep. Well, she arrived hope hoping for a nap and was extraordinarily pissed that there were “others” in her space. She proceeded to huff and pout, slam doors and generally do her best to make my friends feel unwelcome. Needless to say, I was happy when she left the building.

Strike one. Saturday night.

The baking continued and we opened our second bottle of wine. I decided to take a load off and watch some good old fashioned Sex and the City while the dishwasher ran. Not sure if it was karmic retribution for being such a "shoddy" roommate or if it was my bad habit of dumping coffee grounds down the sink, but we were up with a start when we realized the sink was backing up, nearly overflowing into my kitchen. Artfully, we proceeded to take buckets of water to the bathroom tub, while maintaining our pace on plunging the sink and sipping off the bottle of Malbec.

Strike two. Saturday night.

Eventually the plunging and scooping was too much for us to take, so after we got the sink under control we decided to meet up with the Producer for a party…in queens. Downtown and I rarely do non-island boroughs, but we can be convinced at the appropriate point in time and this was just the ticket to giving the evening a much needed boost. We got to the party (via bus!) and naturally were extraordinarily jealous at the size of the apartment. Over the course of the evening, we continued to gush about square footage while talking to every blazing gay man that ever existed. In a nutshell, we had a most fabulous time.

Upon arriving back on the island via subway, karmic retribution took it’s hold once more, where in my drunken state I got off at the wrong stop, leaving me stranded on the east side of the island at 1AM.

Strike three. Saturday night.

I was going to let it put me in a bad mood, but I decided to embrace the moment a la Breakfast at Tiffany’s style and take a short jaunt up Madison Avenue window shopping at all the designer boutiques. When I hit Ralph Lauren central on 71st and Madison (AKA uber-WASP-wear) I realized it was time to find an ATM STAT and hail a cab.

Heading home I felt that I had been burned a few times during the evening and would likely have to face the repercussions in the morning (more plunging and a bitchy roommate), but I had to remind myself that it’s these most random evenings out, where you’re literally dragged against your will (thanks Downtown!) that usually produce the best stories.

Jersey City."It" Neighborhood?

2006-12-04T19:14:00.000-05:00

Any New Yorker has their own story of “when I lived in X,” referring to the days when they lived off of pennies/parents, were forced to live in the shittiest bourough/neighborhood/suburb, ate red beans & rice at every meal and generally hated their New York existence. On the other hand, it’s precisely this sad existence that we eventually brag about in our stories on why we have become official New Yorkers.

I know, because I was one of them. And when I read this week’s New York Magazine story on “If You Lived Here, You’d Be Cool by Now” story I just had to spout off a bit.

The article centered on the next “it” neighborhood...Jersey City, New Jersey.
(I’ll patiently wait for you all to scrape your jaws off the ground)

Yes, Jersey City. The next “it” neighborhood? OK…I might be able to buy it. After all, I must admit that I once was a resident of Jersey City (GASP!), and like all of the rest of you out there…it was not by choice. As New York Magazine truthfully points out, anyone who has lived there usually has an excellent “How I wound up in Jersey City” story. Mine goes roughly like this…

I moved to NYC straight out of college for a lovely (and unpaid) internship at an international public relations firm. Because I knew nothing about the city, I sprung for a 4-month sublet on the corner of safe and boring: 57th and 8th. Clearly as a 22-year old, I was dirt poor and couldn’t afford to stay in my lovely pre-war, elevator, doorman, 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment with a view of the park. So I was invited to move in with the one person in the city I knew and her roommate who happened to be a bartender at Coyote Ugly.

So I moved to Jersey City. I have to admit I was a bit scared. I was glad that after getting off the PATH at Pavonia Newport, half of my walk home was through the mall which has 24-hour security. My apartment was on the second floor of a 4-floor brownstone. Every room in the place was about 300 square feet. No joke. I paid $500 a month and that was about all I could afford at the time.

Despite the economical living quarters, I was none too pleased with the hood, which consisted of scary dark corners, a giant ShopRite and one Newark Avenue – home of the dollar store.

I was one of those people who incessantly bitched and moaned about JC. Why? Well, I was living there by default with a bartender from Coyote Ugly (I won’t even get into this). My dream of moving to New York City actually included living IN New York City proper. Plus, I wasn’t too keen on negotiating cab fare home at 3am.

Regardless of my story about the now-cool-kids-hood, the key thing that New York Magazine doesn’t talk about is that fact that to live in an “it” neighborhood essentially means resigning yourself to living in a shit hole until gentrification hits, at which point all residents then have the right either move out to another shit hole OR to complain about said gentrification. It’s all part of the ebb and flow of “Neighborhood ADD” as they say.

Jersey City might have lots of cool shops, cafes and apartments to live in, but one thing is certain: it’s NOT NYC. Let’s be honest here. It’s not even part of New York State. As I mentioned, as a New Yorker, my poorish and frustrating time in Jersey City will be looked back on fondly as part of the city hazing process, however I’ll always be happy to be living on the island.

And by the way, I totally have dibs on declaring that Morningside Heights is next on the list…

MASH This…

2006-12-01T17:55:00.000-05:00

M-A-S-H. At the ripe age of 14, these four letters meant everything. With one simple stroke of the pen, hopes and dreams would be wiped out of existence. It was your future. It was destiny. It was MASH!

You all know what I’m talking about. M-A-S-H. Would you end up in a mansion, apartment, shack or house? Who would your prince charming be? What does your wedding ring look like? What job do you have? How much sex will you and your husband have?

It’s a game we all played in our spiral notebooks while sitting at the back of math class. Instead of staring off into space or busting our brains over how to decipher the Pythagorean Theorem, we played MASH. Even though we sometimes ended up crushed at the outcomes, it still was such great fun back then…

…and it’s still great fun now.

Last night, while cracking open our fourth bottle of red, Downtown, myself and two other gal pals dug out a spiral notebook and put the proverbial wheels into motion for our futures (aka: thirties) to be determined for us by virtue of slash marks.

I almost bust a gut over the outcomes.

I have to say, my destiny was probably the most harmless. I married the man of my (current) dreams in London, live in New York working as a writer (with no kids to speak of) and even have a giant canary diamond on my finger to boot. The downfall…I live in a shack. Ha! Not that this scenario is too far from the present truth of course.

The hostess ended up with a cliché (but lovely) east coast destiny: married a hot surgeon, lives in Connecticut working as a florist…yadda yadda yadda…

The best part was Downtown’s destiny. You know the rule that each category has to have one bad option? Well, poor Downtown’s pen stroke circled all the doozies…

She married the a-sexual guy which was fitting because he turned out to play for the other team. Somehow they ended up with one child – a fine boy named Hamish. It was a good thing she got to honeymoon in the Greek Isles and travel lots due to her job as a professional figure skater because the happy family was stuck living in a dung hut...it's a good thing we were limited to 7 categories.

Maybe the Barbera made it all funnier, but all I know is that I’m glad I’m grown up enough not to be crushed over my MASH destiny.

Even though it's all a childhood game, I have to wonder if my MASH destiny back from the math class days of yore was even close to my current scenario…after all, hindsight is known to be a bitch.

The Best and the Worst of the Holidays

2006-11-28T17:45:00.000-05:00

Ok...nothing too groundbreaking to share here, but why does the three weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas always have to suck so incredibly bad?!

Don't get me wrong. I LOVE the holidays. It's truly my favorite time of year for many reasons. It's my birthday. The cheery disposition everyone exudes. It's an excuse to wear fair isle sweaters. You can sip egg nog on an animal skin rug next to a fire with no judgement. Presents. Vacation. Home cooked food.

My problem is the time between the major holidays as it relates to work. Who out there can possibly have any motivation? I don't know about you all, but I just got back from five days away and have exactly three weeks left until I get the rest of the year off. I'm not exactly focused.

(Hence my blogging on company time.)

*SIGH*

Only 14 days, 1 hour, 9 mintues and 27 seconds to go until I fly back to the snowy playground I call home. I can't wait to loaf around for two full weeks with my professional brain in the permanent "off" position.

Un-neighborly

2006-11-22T18:40:00.000-05:00

I’ve mentioned that I have a love/hate relationship with my neighborhood. Aside from the obvious gentrification and the constant construction, I also have a plethora of corner hoodlums. One lovely thing I must endure just because I'm a girl are un-welcome comments from said corner hoodlums.

Come on ladies, we all know what I'm talking about.

At any time of day...in the morning when I’m makeup-less and bed-head ridden, after-work and in the wee hours of the morning when my face has clearly started to melt, the crazies on my block are relentless. Sometimes I stay calm and keep walking, pretending that I never heard anything, and sometimes I turn the volume up on my iPod.

Tonight wasn’t sometimes. Tonight I was bothered.

I ran out to grab a bottle of wine to "assist" in my holiday weekend packing process. As I was crossing back over the street on my way home, a corner crazy on a bike started to slow down behind me as I turned the corner.

I was walking fast, but he purposely slowed to make sure I could hear his comments. I planned to ignore as usual, but then he spoke:

“If you were four pounds lighter do you know what I’d do?”

I kept walking. Wondering why he chose four. Not three. Not five. Four.

“If you were four pounds lighter, I’d follow you around the world.”

"Oh goodie," I thought. "Now that'd be such a treat!"

He was still slowly following me so I stopped abruptly. “Keep going!” I yelled while giving him a good, long, fully annoyed stare.

“I was just stopping for some sushi anyway,” he said as he pulled his crap bike up next to a smallish, Japanese restaurant.

Although impressed at his correct observation, I kept walking away. As I walked off, he yelled out his final coup de grace. “Fine! I’d only follow you if you were FIVE pounds lighter!”

I gave a chuckle to myself at his completely crazy declaration, but I couldn’t help to be put off by this.

Its one thing for me to want to lose weight (which, let’s face it, all women want), but it’s quite another for some crazy dude to confirm that wish in a drunken tirade.

So now, as I pack for my nice long weekend, I’m contemplating one of the following:
1) Say fuck it, and drink the entire bottle of Syrah just to prove a point
2) Put the bottle down and refrain from consuming incremental calories to tomorrow’s food fest

I’m leaning toward option #1.

I’m not a spa person

2006-11-20T12:21:00.000-05:00

I love a good massage every now and then, especially if it comes in the form of a gift certificate, however my trip to Elizabeth Arden yesterday showed me that while I can enjoy a full-spa experience, I'm partial to a quality day of retail therapy...

I had to put a gift cert to use before it expired and yesterday was my day. I went home early the night before and planned my Sunday out carefully to ensure I could savor every waking moment of my relaxation experience.

Elizabeth Arden Red Doors Spa is a bit of a New York landmark. It’s located on Fifth Avenue and represents everything a spa should be. A zen-like interior with dark woods, pale flowers, cascading water and strange music emanating from a carefully hidden sound system.

I walked in and changed into my robe and slippers and was promptly whisked away to receive an hour long Swedish massage. My entire body got a full kneading, but for some reason I left feeling unsatiated. The only nice part was the use of hot stones...novel concept! Regardless, I'm convinced that the tiny woman who gave me my massage paled in comparison to all the more satisfying massages I’ve received from ex-boyfriends. Who knows, but my back still hurts.

Whatever. It was free.

After my massage, I had to go to a different floor to receive my facial. I had been looking forward to this because I’d never had a facial before. I figured...”I’m at Elizabeth Arden, might as well go for broke and try it.” As I was drinking my hot tea, a tiny (and entirely too pretty) Russian gal named Tanya walked up to me and took me into a treatment room.

Over the next hour my face was cleansed, moisturized, exfoliated, masked, extracted and massaged. It was nice, but similarly to my massage, I wasn’t impressed. After it was all over I felt no different than I do on a quality Sunday night of self-pampering - only I’d have a glass of wine in hand to boot.

As I was walking out to change, any relaxation I had achieved was killed when tiny Tanya tried to sell me product. Definitely time to go.

I left Elizabeth Arden and walked out into the hustle and bustle of holiday 5th Avenue foot traffic and was quickly reminded why I like to live above 96th Street.

All in all, it was nice, but perhaps the whole spa thing isn’t my thing? Frankly, it didn’t hold a torch to the eucalyptus-oil-infused, white-tiled steam room at my gym. It’s much less hoity and I can relax looking like I rolled out of bed (or off the treadmill). Definitely more my speed.

So, from now on my "spa-experience" will consist of my usual mani/pedi followed by sharing a bottle of vino with gal-pals over hot crostini and an assortment of cheese...

Simply Brilliant

2006-11-16T09:56:00.000-05:00

I saw this in the NYT today and couldn't resist a post...this just might have saved the plight of my closet...wait for it...

The Shoe Wheel!

Up to 30 pairs of shoes can be stored in is puppy, which tucks into a closet and then rolls out easily. Whoever came up with this deserves a medal.

Save your shoes today at rakkudesigns.com!

Thoughts on Waiting

2006-11-13T11:08:00.000-05:00

For the moment, let’s flash back in time about 18 months...

I was dating the German and things were heading south. He had just returned from a three-month trip in the South Pacific, and had just taken a job in Germany. So much for giving the U.S. and US a chance.

In that trying time, all I remember doing was waiting around. Waiting around for just one email, just one text message or just one phone call. It made me feel insecure, pathetic and embarrassed. I was a walking cliché of a girl trying to convince herself that her relationship was worth the wait.

Fast forward to present time...

Now, I don’t wait around for anyone. It’s one precious lesson I learned from dating the German. I’ve stopped trying to convince myself that being unreliable is a quality I can adapt to. Case in point, his recent overture for “coffee or so.”

After recieving the German’s invitation, I had to ponder whether or not I would accept. I decided that I would be up for it, but under the conditions that I could secretly keep the upper hand. So I responded...

Sxxx –

Yeah, sure. I guess I could meet up for a bit. Let me know when you’re thinking. I have some plans this weekend so I’ll see what works...

Elle

He responded by saying Saturday or Sunday afternoon would be best. I agreed and told him to let me know. I left the decision making up to him, while I went on my merry way.

As I mentioned, I’m so glad I wasn’t waiting around because we never met up. We never met up because he didn’t make the time. All I got was a cryptic text message on Saturday saying “still in meetings...”

Typical.

I was telling my girlfriends this weekend that I now know the purpose in having seen him in the marathon - it was to show myself that I’m over him completely. Had I gotten his email invitation as a surprise, I might have reacted differently to the situation. I might have weaned on my judgment and allowed him ‘in’ just enough to bring back those feelings of insecurity and embarrassment for allowing him to have control. I would have allowed him to disappointment me yet again. Well, I knew this time not to wait for him and I’m proud of myself for that.

Fast forward to my next relationship...

I still won’t be waiting, unless I find someone that wants to wait for me too.

Email Bombed...Again

2006-11-10T16:39:00.000-05:00

Eleven months as I said. Eleven months had passed since I last saw him. Then there was the marathon.

Now...t’s been two and a half days since I last heard from him. Yesserie Bob. After the email break up, the heartache, the healing and the post-card bomb, the ex-boyfriend has re-emerged onto the scene once again.

Apparently, he found out somehow that I saw him (likely through a friend of a friend of a friend), because on Wednesday night I got another email from the German. On the bright side, this time he wasn't breaking up with me - on the contrary...

Hi Elle –

I heard you saw me running in the marathon. I’m in town this weekend for work. Would you like to meet for a coffee or so?

Sxxx

A coffee “or so?!” Can someone out there tell me what “or so” means?

I’ve told a few friends about this invitation, and haven’t received any strong reactions either way on whether or not I should go.

On one hand, what’s the point? What will we talk about? After all, a year has passed and I’m a changed person. I wouldn’t ever date him again, as I’ve said, so how much could we possibly talk about?

On the other hand, I have to admit I am curious. The main reason why we broke up aside from sheer distance was that there was no quality communication. I had many issues with how our relationship was faring and I felt I was always honest about how I felt. Anytime I brought it up, he would shut down. To this day I still don’t know why he broke things off. So yes, I’m curious. What does he have to say NOW that is so important to extend an invitation?

To go or not to go? That is the question…

Noise Violations

2006-11-07T09:53:00.000-05:00

Living in a four-floor walk up on the upper west side in Manhattan comes with its pros and cons…

Pros:

Ridiculously cheap & rent-controlled
Proximity to not one, but two fabulous parks
20 minute subway ride to work

Cons:

Cost of having a social life is increased due to copious cab fares on weekends
Ridiculously cheap & rent-controlled apartment comes with “character” (i.e., ancient heating system, bedroom window that faces a brick wall)
The concept of a “doorman” is the homeless guy that hangs out on stoop collecting rogue socks from the sidewalk

Yes. It’s an adventure that I’ve come to love and hate. Last night, I think my delicate balance of pro v. con came to a tipping point, and as a result, I’m now the crabbiest woman alive…

The thing about rent-controlled apartment buildings in this city is that secretly the building owner cannot wait until the building inhabitants can be evicted. Up until the storied eviction date, the landlord will put minimal renovations into the place to keep costs down…just enough to keep the tenants in a state of contentment (because in New York strange insects can be tolerated for a rent below $1,000).

Once said tenants can be evicted, the building owner can gut the place, jack up the rent and lease the shiny-new space to a lovely family with two screaming children and three lhasa apsos that have the pleasure of yapping incessantly.

All of us New Yorkers know how irritating construction can be. One apartment in or near your building is quite enough. Well, try this on for size…the entire building next to mine (yes, the one in the same brick wall I get to stare at day in and day out) has been gutted. Large, friendly neighborhood Dominican family, gone. Enter team of men stocked with every power tool in the book.

Last night they proceeded to use those power tools well into the wee hours of my precious sleeping time. 2AM to be exact. The friendly folks over at 311 were beginning to call me with updates. For hours I tried to tune out the pounding of hammers, the buzzing of the power saws, the clang of metal chunks dropping from the apartment windows - shortly followed by a strange man yelling, “HEY! I live down here!”

For the love…

The only thing I could think to do was to try and plug my ears somehow. In my delirium I thought…does stuffing my sheets in my ears work? Nope, too thick. Cotton balls? Nope, not dense enough. Putting a pillow over my head? Nope, too suffocating.

Just when I thought I was ready to start counting sheep I figured it out. Surprisingly enough, I was so damn tired that I managed to fall asleep with my fingers jammed into my ears. Not exactly comfy, especially after a thirteen hour day, but nonetheless effective.

Today, I’m a walking scowl. Construction crews, clients and whiny co-workers beware. It’s no wonder New Yorkers are known for being irritable…

Run & Hide

2006-11-06T12:36:00.000-05:00

I woke up yesterday morning and flipped on the TV to see the starting gun of the New York Marathon go off promptly followed by Frank Sinatra’s "New York New York" playing over the loud speakers. For a split second I smiled and thought, “oh, wouldn’t it be great to run in a marathon.” After all, the New York Marathon is an annual event that entices the masses to take on one of the most difficult physical challenges a person can handle. This city loves the Marathon and even the most loafish person can be inspired.

I paused for a moment and then quickly returned to reality where I was still snuggled under the covers in my bed. – enjoying my immobility.

Despite my own sentiments toward running 26.2 miles, I managed to get out to the sidelines to cheer on a few friends. We found a great spot at mile 24 in central park, and had our signs all ready for when we spotted our pals in the mass of people. They ran by looking fabulously energetic, almost as if they had only ran a couple of miles rather than 24. After they passed, my friends and I continued to cheer others on, enjoying the greatest form of people watching I can think of.

As we clapped for those who were excited to be on the last leg of the race (or ready to collapse), I looked out over the curved road and mass of people wondering who else might be taking on the challenge. As I was scanning the faces, I saw something that I’m not sure any girl will ever be ready for.

Almost in slow motion, the wall of people oddly opened up and there he was, running right in front of me – my ex boyfriend.

It had been almost eleven months to the day of when I last saw him in person. Since he lives in Germany, he’s been easy to avoid. After all this time, I had a split second to decide on what to do. Do I be a good sport and cheer him on? Do I do nothing? Do I casually say hi?

Nope. I did none of the above. I did what any smart woman would do...I hid behind my gal-pal standing next to me praying that he would pass without seeing me. I HID! Talk about an instinctual reaction. I mean, this is a man who was in my life for a long time, reeking havoc on my emotions for the better part of two years. There he was...and I hid.

I consider myself a pretty confident person. Made more secure no thanks to that relationship. But hiding? In hindsight it seems like a silly reaction considering the circumstances. I know ten times over that I would never date him again, however I do know that he changed me and my outlook on many things. So what was I hiding from?

Regardless of my reaction to seeing him, I have to wonder what is the cosmic reason for my ex-sighting? Is it validation? Is it a test of will? I can't say I know why just yet, but I have always thought everything happens for a reason.

So, just like in When Harry Met Sally...it happened. In a world of 6 billion people, a city of 8 million, and a race of 37,000 - it is just my luck that I would see the one person who has successfully un-nerved me in the past two years.

The Halloween Scramble

2006-10-26T10:46:00.000-04:00

Every year it’s the same old frenzy: two days before the big night out, the entire city rushes to the nearest Ricky’s in order to find those last minute accoutrements for a thrown together costume. I can say that I’m usually never part of the last minute rush as I was properly trained in my college days to get the costume together with ample time to pre-party before heading out on the town.

My alma mater is known nationwide for it’s out of control Halloween festivities, so needless to say - my first encounter was quite a spectacle. I might have gone as a fairy (or something of similar boringness) and was clearly blown out of the water on creativity. I saw a guy dressed as Jesus carrying an 8-foot cross up the street. Shortly thereafter I saw a guy wearing a strange, round orange costume. I couldn’t figure that one out until he ran by being chased by five other guys dressed as sperm. Point taken! It was an evening frenzy of oompa loompas, Marge Simpsons and the usual slew of slutty attire (i.e., cops, french maids and devils). It was also the year of Dirk Diggler…I’m sure you can all imagine.

New York presents a similar spectacle with it’s infamous parade and the wild, out-of-character behavior that everyone engages in. All of it takes me back to my good old college days…SIGH!

The challenge in NYC, aside from attempting to hail a cab, is trying to find a costume that doesn’t break the bank. Last year I went uber-simple as a cop. Who know a hat, aviators and cuffs coupled with work slacks and a button down would be such a great costume? Even though minimal skin was exposed, my friends have still dubbed that costume “public access porn.” Fittingly so, as I looked like Britney Spears on crack.

This year, I decided to take the hussy-factor down a notch and be a flamenco dancer. As Downtown so eloquently put it…the goal is to be memorable, but not slutty. I figure a simple red dress, dance heals and a black pashmina accessorized with seamed fishnets, a big red flower and lashes will do the trick.

Tomorrow night Downtown and I are heading off to a party where everyone will be dressed to nines and ready to partake in devilish behavior. I’m looking forward to seeing some new faces (hopefully tall, good looking ones) and having a grand ol’ time. Of all nights to throw proper behavior to the wind - it’s Halloween.

Responsibility

2006-10-25T10:25:00.000-04:00

...It’s something we all seek and loathe at the same time. Lately, my life is filled with responsibility and I can feel the pressure like never before.

At work, I’ve always been one to hunt for more responsibility. I want it partly to keep my job interesting and to learn new things, but I also look for it so I can pass off the crap that I no longer like to do. I like to think of it as trading up.

Just recently, I was “formally” given more responsibility. Given that I’ve been a minion to the PR hierarchy since I left college, I’ve gotten promotions before...but this time it’s different. I’m now in a position to have the success or failure of an entire account fall onto my shoulders. Yes, I have senior management to fall back on if I say the word, but it’s sort of scary to think that if I fail to notice something of note, things could crumble and it would be my ass on the line.

With more job responsibility (luckily), comes more money in my pocket. More dinero comes as a slight relief, as we all know New York is not a cheap place to live. Yet, with more money comes yet more responsibility. My mind swirls with all the things I need to actively think about. Savings! Upping my contribution to my 401K! Pay off that student loan! And probably the most poignant (and pathetic)…no more gas money from the ‘rents when I head home to visit.

Professional and fiscal responsibilities have hit me over the head with one thought: I’m an adult and it’s now my responsibility to get my shit together.

I don’t know why it hasn’t hit me like this before...after all, I am in my upper 20’s and I’ve been on my own for years now. Perhaps it’s such a blatant change in my life that I can no longer escape under the veil of thought that someone has my back. In sum, no more denial. No more excuses. No more easy outs.

My future lies entirely in my hands and I can no longer assume that anyone will bail me out. It's a weight of responsibility that is bearing down in a very real way.

A New Age of Social Interaction

2006-10-17T17:22:00.000-04:00

MySpace, Facebook, YouTube…I can’t even keep all these web-networking sites straight. I have to admit, I did sign up on MySpace, but only because my job required me to do some “research” on whether there are any marketing opportunities available. Sick and wrong if you ask me. That aside, I have been pondering all the news out there these days on how these things can mess with a person’s life…

Back in the day, it used to be about bloggers getting fired for the content on their sites. More recently, its people’s profile on a dating site that can make or break them. Even more recently, it’s stories about people not getting hired for jobs because potential employers search sites for negative tid-bits on their lives.

The latest and greatest of interactive impositions is something that my sister and a few of my friends have enlightened me about. Who knew that the online profile/page of yourself and your friends can tell you things that no one in the traditional sense of knowing one another should ever know…especially when it comes to dating.

What am I talking about pray-tell? Well…for example, my sister recently broke things off with her boyfriend. She would peruse his facebook page only to see "the other woman" posting comments on his wall saying things like…"last night was great, baby." All these posts enlightened her to the fact that perhaps it was herself who was the other woman. Another example would be how a gal-pal of mine went on her man-of-six-month’s MySpace page only to see he was still listed as “single.” She even asked him about it, and it took him another two months to flip it to “in a relationship.”

Let’s ponder this online psychology for a second. These are all sentiments of dating that 10 years ago, none of us would have had any clue about. The only way to figure out if your significant other was cheating/aloof/etc. would be to talk about it, or find out inadvertently. Now, we can see it displayed to the world on the internet.

In our time of dating, we already live in a world of a million mixed messages. Just think about what this new age of technology is sending our way: a whole new bag of mixed messages that are based on assumptions and jealousy mongering. It’s depressing.

Call me old fashioned, but I’d rather omit participation in all said social networking sites and trade up for a decent phone conversation or time spent AWAY from the computer.

Legally a Spinster

2006-10-11T15:02:00.000-04:00

Spinster:

1. An unmarried woman, especially one past the normal marrying age
2. (obsolete): Someone whose occupation was spinning thread

As I was sitting on a global conference call this morning, a UK colleague who had just gotten hitched proclaimed proudly that she was no longer a spinster. We all laughed a little and sent her mocking congratulations over her new positively framed marital status.

We then got into a mini discussion over what a spinster actually is. We’ve all heard this term, usually used to poke fun at our sad single status. We picture little old ladies sitting on their front porch knitting away at a sweater for the proud offspring of her siblings. Yet another visual - the picture on the front of a box of "Old Maid" cards. The common thread of it all - being without a man.

As we progressed down this non-work tangent, my UK colleague announced that in the UK, “spinster” is actually a legal term. That’s right ladies. In the United Kingdom, until the introduction of the Civil Partnership Act, any woman who has never previously married is legally categorized as a "spinster,” regardless of her age at the time of obtaining a marriage licence. Men are dubbed "bachelors.” I mean, how unfair!

In a singles-friendly city like New York, I'm glad that the self-mocking of my own marital status can be kept at a minimum by shear safety in numbers!

A Day at the Angelika

2006-10-02T12:47:00.000-04:00

The Angelika Theater is a New York landmark. Ever since it's opeing in the late 80's, it’s been a place for film savvy city folk to gather, view and analyze the best-of-the-best in independent film. Not only is the Angelika a melting pot that emulates hipster-smarty-pants-chic, but it’s also a hot destination for New York establishment. Of all things to get these people to leave their above-59th street-brownstones and come downtown to play with the little people, the Angelika is it. My Sunday was spent observing this city phenom, and it began with brunch.

I headed down to Soho to meet my favorite movie-buddy at Jerry’s Diner (yes, it’s where Elizabeth Shue’s character in Cocktail waited tables). When we sat down, my friend began gushing about The Queen, the flick he had just seen at the Angelika that morning. Movie aside – which was apparently phenomenal – he told me he had seen Ed Koch in the bathroom line. Of course I wasn’t too astounded by this sighting since everyone sees Ed Koch in New York…he’s everywhere.

As we were sipping the last of our coffee, we both look up to see that we had been sharing the dining space with Hank Azaria. He was quite coifed in his hair gel and blazer. We watched as he totally “worked it” by the door, clearly waiting for his pretty young blond gal-pal.

My movie-pal and I decided we had to make the celeb sightings a nice round number so we began scoping for #3 on our way back to the theater. Sure enough, waving to her friend in line for the movie was Anna Deavere Smith – uber politico actress from shows such as The Practice and West Wing. We were very satiated by sighting #3, so we proceeded to the popcorn line only to realize that the one and only Elvis Costello was right in front of us.

After sighting #4, I seriously began to worry that I had been caught in a strange time warp back to 1989...

We sat down to watch A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints - which was also phenomenal – and wondered if we'd see any one else leaving the theater…I mean, this was the Angelika, center of the universe for self-important artsy types. Sadly, no more sightings were to be had, but it was a lovely Sunday afternoon. After all, what can beat brunch, a movie and snacking on the best movie popcorn in the city...circa 2006?!

Shocker: Britney Fires Publicist

2006-09-29T10:14:00.000-04:00

Knowing a thing or two about publicity, I wanted to share a barrel of laughs with you all this fine Friday morning…

Britney Spears has allegedly fired her publicist – Leslie Sloane Zelnik. Let’s all ponder this for a moment…Britney with no publicist…

The thought conjures up many fine images of Starbucks-stained, jersey-knit frocks, smeared lipstick, bulbous breasts pouring over Con-trampo-like mini shirts…and (GASP) town outings sans bra.

My professional opinion…Britney is one baby too crazy to be without a publicist.

Britney claims that she will be better capable to handle her own publicity efforts than her former staff member, but considering that the media coverage for her as of late has been solely focused on her personal life, how in god’s name does she anticipate handling personal questions about her mothering skills (for both babies and husband) with any objectivity? How will she handle her next interview with Matty Lauer? How will she handle trash talk about her hubby?

I think this has disaster written all over it. Britney is a complete train wreck these days. Secretly, I’m interested to see how she will fare…will she crash & burn or become a surprise PR savant? Only time will tell.

Now the bigger question…where the hell is the girl’s stylist?!

Hello, My Name is Elle and I'm a Wino

2006-09-27T10:46:00.000-04:00

I’m having a massive need to revisit my “rules for sanity” that I had instated back in March. I’ve been doing my best to keep them in mind this year, and for the most part it’s been working.

Despite my ability to remain cool, calm and collected by way of taking care of myself, one rule has gone by the way side in a big way in the past two months, and it's completely derailing every other rule on the list.

In a nutshell…I think I am physically turning into a wine bottle. Yes, I’ve been partaking in the enjoyment of grape-varietals quite a bit lately. I’d say nearly every social outing I’ve been on since summer’s end has involved wine.

Wine is a lovely thing, but not in mass quantities…all in one night. You see, my gal pals and I like to get together for gab-fests. On these nights everyone arrives at the hostess’s apartment with a bottle of wine and a hunk of cheese in tow. To give you an example, Monday night there were just three of us, however we managed to polish off four bottles of wine and a bottle of Prosecco to boot. Tuesday was torture.

Furthermore, there are some nights where work is miserable, so arriving home to a glass of wine while I cook myself dinner is a comfort. I probably do this a couple nights a week. Then I noticed something…I was having trouble sleeping at night. Was my weekly wino behavior leading to insomnia? After a little internet searching I have to come to the conclusion that alcohol consumption at night is likely the culprit.

The act of drinking wine is a comforting by nature. It connotates "the good life" and relaxation. It’s about par with curling up on the couch with a cup of tea with more of a social flair. I think my wine drinking has something to do with replacing certain social comforts that are missing from my life…and that is a bad sign.

It's time to clean up my act, therefore I’m going back to my three-drink limit, STAT. I’ve also made another rule for myself, wine is allowed on one weekend day and on one weekday.

I don’t think that these will be a hard rules to follow since the thought of having a glass these days is truly unappealing. I have to put it into perspective of the other rules too - less wine means less fat on my ass, less money spent, more sleep and better work ethic. Just thinking about it makes me feel better already.

The Girl That Cried GYMNASIUM

2006-09-19T18:44:00.000-04:00

I am a choosy gal when it comes to guys. I take impressions from the first few meetings to heart…After all, if a guy can’t be himself right off the bat, then what’s the point?

In my own defense to being choosy, I think I give guys a chance. I’ve gone out on dates and had boyfriends. I’ve been one to claim that “I’m not a serial dater,” rather “I only date guys long term if I’m really interested.”

Well, it’s been brought to my attention that “a chance” in relation to dating me is a blip on the radar. My friends have deemed me damn near unapproachable, and my own sister says I have a problem with deal-breakers. Is this a dating intervention?

OK. Ladies, I get it. I get it!

In an effort to reduce my seventh wheel status and be inducted into the newly formed couples club (or get some serious "tension release"), I must relent some of my pickiness and (GULP) give guys more of a chance.

My pal Downtown now has me on a step-program for meeting eligible bachelors.

Step One: The Girl That Cries Gymnasium!

And what pray-tell does gymnasium mean? Precisely that whenever I’m chatting with a boy (and he collectively rates amongst my friends as a 5 or above on a scale of 1 – 10...I argued for 7, but they wouldn't budge) and a friend cries “GYMNASIUM,” I must immediately reframe my cynical mind and give the guy a fleeting chance.

NOTE: The word gymnasium is arbitrary, of course.

I know my friends only have my best intentions at heart, and are sincere about helping me “overcome” my single gal downfall of being overly choosy. But, but…

OK…no if ands or buts…they’re completely right.

Now it’s just a matter of how many times the girls can cry GYMNASIUM...

One Smart Cabbie

2006-09-18T17:12:00.000-04:00

I had been impressed that The Frenchie had gone out of his way to track down my number and ask me out, therefore I was obliged to accept his offer to "take me out." I won't bore you with the details of the date because they were largely unspectacular. It's what happened at the end of the date that solidified his omission from my little black book.

He had picked the restaurant. He ordered the wine. He picked out the appetizers we shared. All were great, however the bill came and I ended up paying for the majority of the tab as indicated by him tossing two $20's across the table.

Strike one.

Since we lived in the same neighborhood, we shared a cab uptown. We chatted more about the same old stuff we just spent the better part of four hours taking about and I began to yawn. As we arrived at his stop, he pulled out a $20...and asked the cabbie for change.

Frenchie: “Do you have two tens?”
Cabbie: “No, I need the change.”
Frenchie: “How can you not have change? Do you have four fives, even ones?”
My Internal Monologue: “Are you fucking kidding me?!?”
Cabbie: “No, I’m sorry. I can’t break your $20”
Me (Irritated and Appalled): “It's ok. Just pay and I’ll get the rest.”

The Frenchie paid and then didn’t tip the cabbie.

Strike two.

As I rode the rest of the way uptown to my apartment I mulled over the behavior of my date. Here was a guy who seemed to be debonair and “with it” when it came to romancing the ladies. Clearly I had the wrong impression. It’s one thing to mutually go dutch, but it’s quite another to stick your date with the bill. It’s just rude.

As I arrived at my stoop, I paid the cabbie and gave him a double tip to accommodate for my cheap date. I stepped out of the cab and shut the door. As I walked away, the cabbie turned to me through his open window and said, “I would have given you the change. I just didn’t like your date.”

Strike three and he’s out.

When the cab driver tells you that he doesn’t like your date, you know it’s time to screen your phone calls!

Fashionably Cynical

2006-09-13T17:36:00.000-04:00

In the world of marketing it’s easy to have a love/hate relationship with one’s job. Hate derives from the grueling hours, constant ass kissing and pulling out the stops to move up the corporate ladder. Love blossoms from the party invites, free loot and tickets to highly sought after events. Today was a day full of love.

Promptly at 9am, I walked up to the crisp white tents at Bryant Park: the epicenter of New York’s Fashion Week. I certainly did not snag tickets by being a blogger. No, that seems to be the cliché of the week. Rather, I merely had to drop my client’s name and POOF!, I’m a potential sponsor (i.e. walking money bags).

As I walked through the tents with my clients, we received white-gloved treatment with full access to the VIP “holding area” and the “back of the house.” Although I appreciated the hospitality, I thought the scene itself was rather comical. It is a scene that would make any tourist drool…true New York celebrity, pretension and status.

To my trained and desensitized PR eyes, I didn’t think anything about the tents were glamorous or special. Yes, I saw celebrities. Yes, I got to go backstage. Yes, I walked through the line of paparazzi. No, they did not want to take my picture.

As a result of my morning escapades, I thought I'd enlighten the masses. If you ever go to an event at fashion week, be sure to keep the following in mind:

Everyone is a people pleaser until they find out you don’t have money. In other words the only people that matter are sponsors, potential sponsors, celebrities/socialites/etc. that wear the clothing, and fashion editors and writers who tell the world that celebrities/socialites/etc. wearing the clothing are cool.
Shocker! Some models are thin, but most models are downright emaciated. Eat something already! Even the garments that models “have to be small enough to fit in” are hanging off their bony shoulders. I happen to think Spain is onto something.
The over saturation of marketing is truly mind-boggling. Everything is branded. Some booths even had brands within a brand. Of course it’s ironic considering I was at fashion week to figure out how my clients could get in on the fun, but good god…there was so much branding that it was easy to turn off to all of it.
Unless you want to look like you’re working at the tents, dress like you work at Vogue. Everyone was decked out in designer duds. As a result, everyone was people watching wondering who was who...even if they happened to be a nobody. Even Nina Garcia looked distracted by the crowd.
Everyone wears sunglasses. Anywhere. Everywhere. Even with the lights off. Apparently it means you are “somebody.”

So I’m not gonna lie, despite my cynicism, it was still a good time. If you take away all the bullshit (see above), it’s hard not to notice what should be the sole focal point of such an extravaganza: the raw talent of the designers.

I was able to see both the Ports 1961 and Peter Som shows. Seeing the simplistic, yet constructed manner of which the beautiful fabrics were patterned together made it hard not to be excited to shop for my spring wardrobe.

If only my meager PR salary could afford such extravagance!

I Take It Back

2006-09-11T16:17:00.000-04:00

New conclusion: The slow plan sucks.

Disclaimer: Before you all ridicule me for being a massive hypocrite I will make an admission - I am a total girl and spent the last week rationalizing reasons why a guy doesn’t like me. It’s pathetic and this post intends to own up and take it like a real woman.

Over the last few weeks I took an informal poll amongst my girl friends. When a guy says he wants to “slow things down” what the hell does that mean?

A vast majority of my friends said it means the guy wants to spend more time getting to know someone, in other words - he wants a relationship. The minority said it is a bad sign and means he’s just not that into you.

Is the majority correct or is this just a girl-euphemism for he’s just not that into you?

As someone who enjoys the physical aspects of a relationship, to hear the words “slow down” when it doesn’t seem to go with the flow of things can be disappointing. Although I can see the benefits of actually knowing where a person likes you to put your hand instead of ruining the moment by having to ask. Clearly the latter was my stance on the subject last week. Now, I’m sure I was trying to convince myself that it was ok, when in reality - things just weren't working out.

As of late, I’ve been perplexed by Mr. ESPN, going back and forth wondering if I have completely read the signals wrong, or if I actually do have the right to seem baffled.

Admittedly, it could totally be my own pathetic single-girl-mindedness working against me. Meaning…I met someone who is good on paper, I was attracted to and really wanted to see where things could go. I was blindly optimistic and it backfired.

On the other hand, perhaps the reasoning is all in his court. Did his ex burn him? Is he seeing someone else? Maybe he's gay?! Knowing Downtown’s experience I can’t exactly cross this off the list anymore. Who knows? Anything is possible in New York.

Regardless of the mitigating circumstances, I know two things for sure:

If a guy is truly into me, I won’t have so many damn questions
AND
Any guy (who’s normal) will want to hook up with someone he’s interested in

Therefore, it’s time to stop wasting my own time and start looking for new options.

God, I hate being a cliché!

Trashing the Timeline

2006-09-06T13:39:00.000-04:00

We’ve all talked about it and assume we won’t fall victim to it…but every time we do. As typical urbanites, we fall victim to the dating timeline. It goes like this:

Date #1: Drinks
Date #2: Dinner & a movie
Date #3: Hook up

I could go on, but we all know what I’m talking about. We follow the flow and quickly fall into a physical relationship, even if we don’t necessarily know that person very well. But that’s how it’s supposed to go, right?

The truth is if we deviate from this path, we begin to wonder what is wrong with the relationship. But since when did taking a relationship slowly become a death warrant to any potential? After living in a city where quick hook ups are a normal weekend occurrence to anyone single and under the age of 35, seems that more emphasis has been put on the physical, leaving mutual respect in the dust.

There is nothing wrong with a quick hook up. I’ve done it. You’ve done it. We’ve ALL done it. But where we go wrong is assuming anything meaningful will come out of that without time spent getting to know one another. Physical attraction does not translate into a successful relationship overnight people.

I had this epiphany last week handed to me on a silver platter. Why was I expecting to rush into a physical relationship? All of my last boyfriends “blossomed” out of one-night stands and they turned out just fantastically (read: extreme sarcasm), so why was I clinging to my pattern so desperately? Is it expectations from my friends? Is it a societal assumption? Is it a personal hang up?

Why was I so disappointed and worried that slamming on the breaks was a bad thing?

I can’t answer that question, but I do know I think I was wrong to stick to this theory for so long. Being on the “fast” side hasn’t gotten me anywhere and I’m not getting any younger. So in the name of changing it up, I’m going to give slow a chance (and by slow I do not mean prude. I don't do prude).

Besides, with all this footsie and cuddling going on it’s obvious the dating days of junior high are making a comeback. Therefore I'll chalk it up to being trendy...

Decision

2006-09-05T12:02:00.000-04:00

It turned out to be a rather easy decision in the end, me staying in NYC. I didn’t feel like I was losing anything by not accepting the London office’s “offer.” In fact, I felt that I was averting a royal screw over. I still want to go to London…badly, but what the company offered me just wasn’t up to par with the very basics of my expectations.

I’ve done a lot of research about transferring, not to mention talking to friends that already live and work there. In short, after 9 months of digging I felt very educated. After mulling over the simple facts of what a move would (and should) entail, I came to a conclusion of what my bottom line was.

The offer I got wasn’t even near that bottom line.

What was my bottom line, you ask?

I refused to be poor in a big city - again.

To be blunt, if I’m going to haul ass across the big blue pond to live and work, then it better be for a better offer than the equivalent of moving to Jersey City and living in a flat share with potentially crazy people.

Been there, done that, and I really am not up for doing it again. Especially after working so hard to get where I am today.

For the foreseeable future, all bets are off with London. I hope someday I’ll have an opportunity to go over, but when I'm offered a position that is a strategic move for my career and a financial package that doesn’t require parental assistance.

I have no regrets about staying in New York. How could I? This city has been my dream since I was 10 years old. It would have been heartbreaking to leave...

KYAir

2006-08-31T10:17:00.000-04:00

Ah, air travel. It’s now the bain of our existence due to the heightened security measures that airports are taking. Most young women can identify with my angst over not being able to bring certain liquids and gel toiletries on board…lip glosses, perfumes, toothpaste…consider it all confiscated.

According to the TSA, they’ve loosened the rules just slightly to accommodate for “the health and welfare of certain air travelers.” Of course, this includes such boring items such as breast milk, liquid prescription drugs, “life support and life sustaining liquids such as bone marrow, blood products, and transplant organs”...and…KY Jelly.

Let me repeat that one...KY Jelly.

OK. Who at the TSA let this one slide by?

Let’s analyze this, shall we?

Point #1: The desire to have sex upon an aircraft likely doesn’t fit within the terrorist MO, unless before ending the lives of everyone on board said terrorist wants to “get closer to God” by giving himself one last romp in the airplane bathroom with the help of a trusty personal lubricant.
Point #2: KY Jelly, isn’t exactly something an air traveler would need for “health and welfare” unless it’s used to improve one’s overall demeanor by jacking off, jumping a flight attendant, or joining the mile high club. Yes, sex does puts one in a better mood, but it’s not like we can’t wait until the plane lands (in most scenarios at least).
Point #3: I’m not aware of KY Jelly being used for any mechanical necessities on board a plane, thus that crosses out any practical applications.

In a nutshell, someone over at the TSA doesn’t want us to look or smell good on a plane, but we sure as hell can have as much sex as we want, pending you don’t run out of your 4 ounce allowance.

So, I’d like to give a big shout out to the TSA: THANKS for keeping our libidos in mind while flying the friendly skies.

TSA Travel Assistant

I’ve Been Cheating

2006-08-30T12:32:00.000-04:00

I fell in love at a young age. As soon as I saw the power and excitement that he exuded I was hooked. From that moment I knew my life was destined to be closer to him. At the age of 22, my dream finally came true after years of longing. I moved across the country to have him in my life. I was completely and utterly in love…with New York.

It’s been the longest relationship of my life thus far, and we’ve had quite a time together, all five years of our courtship. To think about all the fun exploits we’ve had, the fabulous people he’s introduced me to, the job that I was hooked up with when I decided to move in, it’s hard to ignore that I’ve been living the fantasy that I had dreamt about as a little girl.

Sadly, as with any relationship, we’ve had quarrels, hurdles to overcome and lulls in passion for each other. My interest began to fade and I wondered if New York really was the right choice for me. Is this love really what I wanted for my life? As I faltered over my lack of decisiveness, I was introduced to someone new…London.

I didn’t fall into the tryst easily; in fact it began slowly, but then picked up in pace. Within months of considering a relationship with London, I realized…I was already cheating on my beloved New York with the worst of all possible options…a foreigner. For the last nine months, London had been on my mind and I can’t escape.

I’ve gotten myself into a predicament and am now stuck in the impossible place of deciding which choice is right for me. It’s clouded by being in love with both. I’m in front of a sliding door. Which to choose?!

I’ve got quite a history with New York, as we’ve been through a lot together. To be frank, I know he’d be royally pissed off if I ditched him for someone that doesn’t even live on the island. The hardest thing to do would be to break up with New York after all this time.

But, London. Oh, London! He offers me experiences I only dream of having. With London the world is my oyster and I know it’d be an exciting time. Our relationship has been short in comparison, but I’ve gotten used to him being on my mind, continually whispering tempting promises into my ear.

Unfortunately they found out about each other rather quickly, and neither is being patient with me about who I will ultimately choose. Both New York and London have told me they want me, but I'm scared that given my cheating past, I've jeapordized any chance I have with either.

At this point, all I can do is make the decision for myself. I've cheated, and as they say "I made my mess and now I have to lie in it." I’m torn between two loves who both offer me a great life, but I now have to own up, choose my mate and quit my cheating ways.

To Go Or Not To Go...That Is The Question

2006-08-28T15:54:00.000-04:00

It’s time to let you in on a little secret I’ve been keeping…I’ve been offered an opportunity to transfer to the London office of my company. I requested this last year, and last Friday I finally got a formal offer letter. After all this time of waiting and wondering and feeling like my life is in limbo, I finally have something to ponder – for real.

My current battle is whether or not to actually go, and my company has given me a deadline...I have until Friday to decide. After over nine months of waiting and wondering, you think they could give me more than a week, right?!?

Anyway…here is my predicament:

On one hand, I have a great job in NYC. I’ve worked really hard to get where I am and if I stay, my career will still be on the up-and-up. I’m finally living comfortably, have fabulous friends, live decently close to my family and am generally happy.

On the other hand, here is this amazing opportunity to go live and work in another country, something that I’ve wanted for some time. It’ll certainly be lucrative for my career in the long run, and I’m not scared one bit by picking up and trying something completely new.

My decision-making problem does not lie in the obvious pros of each path; in fact it lies within what I’ll be trading up if I choose one or the other.

It’s about regret.

I have one week to decide which path will leave me with the least amount of regret, and I don’t want to regret anything in life, least of all missing out on something that is important to me…

So is it about…losing a life that I know I will have here? Or is it about…losing a life I think I might have somewhere else?

I'm going to drive myself batty trying to figure this one out.

A Chemistry Test

2006-08-25T10:10:00.000-04:00

Last night was my first date with The Frenchie. We went to a tiny hole in the wall Spanish tapas place – Bar Jamón - that I will absolutely be returning to. We had wine, munched on some small plates and chatted while sitting on tall stools lined up behind long mahogany tables. It’s to no surprise that this little treasure of a restaurant is another Mario Batali brainchild, as it reminded me of a smaller, more intimate version of one of my New York favorites – Otto.

You’d think this atmosphere combined with the fact that I was sitting across from a very passionate Frenchman would lead to a hot and sexy first date. Quite the contrary. You see…I wasn’t really attracted to him. I don’t know if I am compensating for the fact that my ex is another passionate European man, or if we truly just didn’t have that je ne sais quoix with one another.

I have an admission to make. I’m sorta quick to judge when it comes to men and it’s not about their looks or how much money they make. In fact, the one thing that I subliminally seek is chemistry. It’s either there or it isn’t.

In the case with the Frenchie, he clearly was into me, proven by his constant eye contact, occasional and intentional touches to my arm, and solidified by him grasping my waist as we left the restaurant. Through all of this, all I could think was, “Hmm, I wonder what time it is.” Knowing myself, that is not a good sign.

I might give The Frenchie another chance, but I’m not one to string guys along just to have a date. I hate feeling guilty for leading people on, and a second date implies that he’ll be expecting more, which I know I’m not so into at the outset. SIGH.

On the upside…tonight is my third date with Mr. ESPN and I’m really excited. Following my date last night, he called just to say ‘hi’ and chat about our plans for tonight...

October is the new June

2006-08-23T10:51:00.000-04:00

Last week I said to a friend that only a handful of my girlfriends are married...and that was a statement that included high school, college, post-college AND family. Well, I spoke too soon because this past weekend included a flood of wedding news...

To recap the results of me not knocking on wood following my statement: I attended my cousin’s bridal shower, simultaneously received word that a friend had just gotten engaged, was told that another friend would be co-habitating with her boyfriend come this fall and then arrived home to a wedding invitation. To boot, I have already been invited to three weddings this year and all of them are this October.

Are fall weddings the new trend on the block, or is global warming just making June too damn hot?

Of course, I can’t contribute anything of true value to this topic because I’m so far off from an actual marriage that my mother has assumed my spinster-hood until otherwise informed.

This is just a simple observation...and a warning to all others who’s friends are “nesting.” In short, anticipate a severe influx of booked October weekends.

“Real” Shoes

2006-08-21T17:12:00.000-04:00

Every woman has a fashion fetish. It could be handbags, jewelry or belts. Mine happens to be shoes. When I say shoes, I by no means want to imply that my closet is filled with Jimmy Choo’s and Monolo’s - far from it in fact, as my budget does not allow for such extravagances. I do however have a fabulous array of more reasonably priced shoes that are carefully boxed up and stacked waist high in my tiny closet.

Despite my collection, it wasn’t until this weekend that I realized what a real shoe was.

As I was walking to meet my cousin, I walked past a little shoe shop in the West Village. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a pair of beautiful jade and brown patent leather, Mary Jane pumps with bronze grommets, buckles and a solid stacked heel. I stopped dead in my Nine West tracks to admire them. I promptly entered the store, requested my size and slid the handmade, Italian leather masterpieces onto my feet. I stood up on the four-inch heel, half expecting my calf muscles to give out, but alas, I felt as if I was walking on air.

I stepped carefully around the store, accepting the coos from the sales staff at how lovely the shoes looked (of course) and acknowledged that the color scheme of the shoes matched my choices for the current day’s attire.

I had just been introduced to my first real shoe! Perfectly pieced together. Smells of new leather. Shiny and without a single imperfection. Fits like a glove. With or without encouragement from the sales staff…I was in love. I then looked at the price tag. GASP!

My predicament at that point in time could have been equated to showing a cocaine addict and 8-ball and then telling them they couldn’t touch it. It was a pitiless and desperate moment I was stranded in, completely incapable of making a rational decision. I had to have those shoes. I couldn’t live without them!

I quickly calculated my ability to float my social life for the rest of the month if I decided to make the purchase. I figured I could swing it, but it would mean I’d be eating less over the course of the month. You know what they say…trading up food for fashion is never a bad decision.

I paid for my beauties and walked out of the store sans a shred of buyer’s remorse. I now owned a pair of real shoes! Talk about retail therapy! I truly felt great. After all, a shoe is the only thing that will never go up a size, regardless of how much cheese, chocolate and wine one consumes.

The Frenchie

2006-08-21T00:06:00.000-04:00

Things with Mr. ESPN have been progressing slowly. Almost too slowly for my liking, but that of course isn't going to stop me from keeping my life exciting. I managed to make it out on Friday to one of Downtown Chic’s fabulous rooftop parties. A summer staple of for our weekend antics...

I arrived at her stoop, ventured up the five floors to the roof and stepped out of the top floor door to a 360 view of a clear Manhattan. The Empire State and Chrysler buildings to the North. The trendy, mirrored and brand spanking new lower east side hotels just across the street. To the Southwest, a full view of the Financial District, shining with all it old world flair, pomp and circumstance. I spun around to a perfect New York night - with a view.

Vino was consumed and conversations were had. Eventually, I was introduced to a tall and friendly Frenchman named Pierre. Pierre just happens to be the son of a prominent French Chef, born and bred in Paris. To sum up the evening…Pierre had eyes only for Elle. We talked of food and wine, dining and enjoying life. I was quickly consumed by the eloquence of his demeanor, his polished (and very French) way of picking up women. Despite the obvious, I was hooked.

The night wore on and we talked and secluded ourselves to a corner of the roof top. I told him I loved to cook. He told me he could make homemade fois gras. I told him I loved food and wine pairings. He told me he loved American women with an appreciation for the culinary arts. Then it hit me. The more I talked to him the more he reminded me of The German. It was the same free-spirited, suave and calculated persona that – sadly – was the downfall of my last love interest. At the same time, I was hooked, yet cautiously unoptimistic.

As the night wore on, I realized he had dismissed his friends entirely and had remained on the rooftop to keep talking to me. Knowing my track record with foreign men, combined with the fact that Downtown had left her own party and I had no wing woman left to speak of, I knew I was obliged to leave.

With two cheek kisses for Pierre and a hail of a cab, I was gone and on my way home. As I drove the way up the West side highway, I thought of his accent, his smooth and nonchalant way of speaking so emotionally, yet remaining aloof. In a split second, I snapped out of it. “Elle!” I thought. “He’s a total Euro. You know what they can do to you!” I stepped out of the cab and into my apartment, and forgot all about him...

Until he called me this afternoon...

I saw the strange number pop into the window of my cell phone, I was curious and picked up.

“Bonjour Elle! Comment ca va?!” Oh, that accent!

I was entirely shocked by his call, as I had not given him my number, nor had I intended to. In fact, he had gone out of his way to contact a mutual friend to track down my number. We’re going out this week.

Mr. ESPN had better pick up with the pace or he'll be "une invention."

My David

2006-08-12T12:30:00.000-04:00

6am. Newark Airport. The morning after a terrorist threat.

I walked into the main terminal and joined the security line, which consisted entirely of screaming babies, airport security personnel with way too much attitude and wastebaskets plumb full of various toiletries and beverages. Not exactly a relaxing start to my weekend trip to the Midwest. All I could think about was slipping into my window seat and falling asleep until the airplane wheels hit the tarmac in Minneapolis.

I made it to my plane 15 minutes before it was to leave, slipped into my seat and pulled out my iPod. Just then, an older man and woman sit down next to me. As I start to put my earbuds in, the woman begins to strike up a conversation. “Are you from Minnesota?” “Why are you going home?”

After she tells me I am a “good daughter” for going to see my parents, she launches into yet more probing questions: “How long have you lived in New York?” “Do you like it?” “What neighborhood do you live in?”

I couldn't help but feel like I was on trial. She then asked, “Where did you go to college?”

“University of Wisconsin,” I said politely.

She nodded with approval and said, “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m in marketing.”

As she gave another nod, it was then that I realized who this woman was...

“My David is in marketing too. My David also went to Wisconsin, as you did, but probably is a few years older than you. I should have him call you.”

7:30am. Newark Airport. The morning that I was picked up by My David’s mother.

Is this actually happening? Am I being pimped out yet again, this time by a seemingly innocuous older woman who has just finished screening me for her beloved son?

Yes, Elle, cue your iPod...N-O-W.

Two hours later I woke up to a birds eye view of a city spotted with lakes and blanketed with deciduous trees. Just as my eyes adjusted, My David’s mother began asking me for suggestions on how to pass the time in Minneapolis. After a few choice recommendations, she pulls out her wallet and hands me her card while simultaneously requesting mine. I halfheartedly handed it to her.

The plane finally landed and I gave a small sigh of relief under my breath. As the woman got up and exited the plane, she called out behind her, “I’ll have My David call you!” As she walked off I could have sworn I saw her husband flash me an apologetic look that could only have meant, "she does this a lot."

The passengers behind me snickered and gave me "that look" as I sheepishly grabbed my bag. I then dragged my weary self off the plane and into the airport. I was home and could begin unwinding myself from a New York state of mind.

As I walked to meet my ride, I had a thought: For a single girl stuck on a morning flight, a terrorist threat is a lot less bothersome than a mother on a mission.

A Perfect First Date

2006-08-09T10:05:00.000-04:00

Since our first meeting at my gal-pal’s birthday soiree, Mr. ESPN and I have been chatting back and forth pretty much every day since. Nothing too labor intensive of course, just enough to know that there was to be a date in our future (although his use of exclamation points is truly quite thought provoking).

Last night was the date. In a nutshell, it was one of those dates that followed the flow chart of how a first date should go. Not that this is an ideal by any means, just that it was fun, simple and will (hopefully) be leading to a second date.

I met Mr. ESPN at the 79th Street Boat Basin, a place that is by nature, fun and casual - and has a great view of the Hudson River. The conversation began and pretty much never ended. We had a few beers, sat at a table and ordered sandwiches. We flirted and kinda, sorta played footsie under the table throughout dinner (I almost shudder to actually write that out).

After he paid for our meal (yes, I offered), we decided to walk up Riverside Park on the water since we both live further uptown. We strolled, chatted some more and took our time since the night was near perfect.

NOTE: I’m trying my best not to get too sappy here. It’s not my style at all, but like I said…it followed the flow chart.

The night ended by Mr. ESPN walking me home. We stopped at my stoop and said our good nights and thank you’s. We smooched in front of my crazy foreign neighbors for a bit until we could tell they we’re totally staring. He said he had a good time and I told him to give me a call later in the week. Off he went and I went into my apartment feeling like a giddy 17-year-old.

I don’t think I’ve been on a date that went that well in over a year. The German outright sucked at dating, and every other guy I’ve been out with in recent memory had odd quirks or just had ‘something’ about them that wasn’t quite right. Mr. ESPN knocked it out of the park and I hope there is a date #2...because I just can’t get those cute dimples out of my mind.

My Pimpette

2006-08-04T14:42:00.000-04:00

Lately, my social circle has expanded exponentially thanks to my dear friend Downtown Chic – a gal who’s social prowess has no limit. In fact I asked her the other day how she knows all of these new faces, and all that came over her was a blank stare as she replied, “I have no idea.” No worries though because we can all benefit from the new personalities, right?

In honor of a 30th birthday soiree we organized for a friend last night at Sapa, Downtown decided to put her new circle to good use by pimping me out to The Producer’s single friends. In a nutshell, she sent The Producer my photo to send around…Not exactly my idea of being subtle, but whatever…in a city where the dating scene is downright brutal, a gal should always appreciate her friends’ efforts to introduce her to new and eligible men.

So, the night began. We all looked fabulous in our summer dresses and heels, drinking cosmojitos like they were going outta style. People strolled in, mingled and said their hellos to the birthday girl. As we were ordering another round, up walks the Producer with a couple of his friends. Downtown’s pimping efforts were looking up, as the Producer’s friend was a tall, dashing guy who works for ESPN. I called dibs immediately.

To sum up the encounter, I totally got my flirt on and he flirted right back. I think I ignored everyone in the room for a good while. Around 10:30 it was finally time to head to another bar and unfortunately Mr. ESPN had go to another party, but he didn’t leave before getting my number and giving me a kiss goodnight. Shortly after he left, he texted me: “Very nice meeting u tonight. I’ll call u to get together soon.”

I think my pimpette has some pay dirt coming her way…

Post Card Bomb

2006-07-31T11:30:00.000-04:00

So you’ve all heard me mention my ex-boyfriend, The German, a few times. In case you need a refresher, he’s the guy who broke up with me via email. Yeah, well, he’s reared his foreign prose once again in the form of a 4x6 piece of cardboard shipped in from Alaska. That’s right, my friends, he post card bombed me from the Arctic.

I bet you’re wondering what he thought was so important to tell me after five months, right? Well, here you go...

Hi Elle,
Greetings from Alaska! It’s so beautiful out here and so far sunny all the time. We met some bears today and are camping now in Denali. Hope to talk to you soon… Sxxx

Wow… Bears… I mean, what do I even say to that?!? Could he have been any more lame?!

Clearly there will be no response to this bombing. I just love that he’s put all the power into my hands by simply showing that he’s still pining for me. Even months after the break up, it’s just as satisfying as giving him the good-bye “hair flip”…aka: validation that I’m still fabulous. Gotta love it.

I must say that getting The German's postcard was unnerving for a split second, so unnerving that I knew I had to dispose of said card as soon as humanly possible (i.e., as soon as I’d shown it to all my friends, analyzed it to death and reaffirmed my utter magnificence). So I did what any creative-minded gal would do…While sitting at a fantastic piano bar last Friday night, we realized we had no paper on which to make a song request…out came Alaska, a big black marker and a wad of singles. What song did we request?? Of course, New York State of Mind. Perfect.

I have no idea what prompted him to contact me again, and frankly I don’t care. But we can all learn a very valuable lesson from The German: NEVER, ever attempt to contact an ex long after a break up…it’ll just make you look like an ass.

Neighborhood Invasion

2006-07-27T11:50:00.000-04:00

Remember the scene in Sex and the City when Samantha goes ape-shit over Pottery Barn invading her chic downtown neighborhood? Yeah…well, I’m starting to understand how she really felt...

When I first moved into my upper-UWS neighborhood, it was one of those New York City areas that was considered “up and coming.” To paint a picture for you, three years ago, I wouldn’t have dared to walk alone above 96th street after midnight. All of the mom-n-pop bodegas, dry cleaning shops and framing stores would have been shuttered and dark, and the hordes of hoodlums would come out to play in their drug-induced hallucinations. In other words, not a place for a little Midwestern gal to be out and about.

These days, I have no problem walking from 96th street to my apartment a few blocks North. I’m glad that I can feel perfectly safe in my ‘hood, however despite the positive changes, I now include myself in a group of New Yorkers that turn up their noses to neighborhood gentrification…after all, we have to draw the line somewhere.

It all began a couple of years ago when I noticed that a high-rise, luxe building was going in on a nearby corner. Nice building, I thought…but then there was another, and another. Up they went, kicking out one of my favorite newsstands, a fantastic bagel shop and my preferred market to buy fresh veggies and fruit. All thanks to Columbia University hoarding more land for it’s plot to take over the Trump Organization. The high-rise construction sites solidly dotted upper Broadway, then came the Bank of America branches (SIGH) and a Garden of Eden (GASP!)…it’s only a matter of time before Jamba Juice invades.

On the bright side of all of this, many new restaurants came to the neighborhood. Thankfully they weren’t Olive Garden’s or another McDonald’s. In fact, one new restaurant recently replaced the nasty and decrepit Chicken Fest on the corner by my apt (my roommate and I had bets going on how long it would last). Now we’ve still got fried chicken joint, but it’s a reviewed and recommended eatery according the New York Magazine.

So, the last couple of years have been a mix of love and hate over the recent changes, but my mixed feelings over gentrification stopped dead in its tracks a couple of months ago when I returned from my trip to London. I walked across the street to see “Coming Soon…AMERICAN APPAREL.”

That was effing it. American Apparel?! I mean, not only is it the first chain clothing store to join in on the invasion, but really…American Apparel?! A store like that belongs downtown with the coked-out NYU kids, not with the sweat pant-wearing, tenured professors and their dogs on the UWS. What’s next? BeBe?! Don’t get me wrong…I happen to love shopping, but there is already a full stretch of shops on Broadway just a few blocks south of 96th, not to mention some fantastic boutiques over on Amsterdam and Broadway.

My point is, I like my neighborhood’s character and the fact it is the one area of the city where it feels like an escape from the hustle and bustle. It’s still original. There are wider sidewalks and I can wear my crappy sweats to the Dag’ around the corner and not be chased out with sticks.

New York is and will always be an ever-changing city, but perhaps developers can try a little harder at making sure New York keeps some of it’s character. The last thing I want is for the UWS to go from being the "launch pad to the suburbs" to actually being…the suburbs.

Bugging Out

2006-07-26T16:38:00.000-04:00

I love living in New York, but the one thing no one ever wants or really expects is to live in New York with bugs…

I’ve dealt with nasty home invaders before. In fact, all the shit holes I’ve lived in before my present apartment had mice problems. But I have to say, mice are easier to deal with than bugs. At least you can find the opening where they come in and plug it up…even if it requires removing your dishwasher from the wall to find the damn hole. Mice aside, bugs are currently plaguing me, and I’m now freaked out and unable to sleep for fear they’ll be crawling all over me.

Take last night for instance…I was sleeping serenely in my lovely air conditioning, when I woke up around 4:30am only to find a bug had bitten me squarely on my right ass cheek. WTF. It’s quite possibly the worst place for a bug bite. After all, PR chicks are not prone to scratching their asses in public. It’s a problem. Is a strange species of nocturnal bugs infesting my sleeping quarters?! I mean, they certainly aren’t around the other 17 hours of the day…

My other buggy encounter was with a giant, (ick) roach that decided to crawl up our shower drain and sit on my bathroom floor, looking like it was ready to pounce on my toe and take a chomp out of it for dinner. I likely would have missed it if it hadn’t been for my roommate’s shriek a few evenings ago at the sight of this giant thing. I ran in to see what it was and she was perched on the toilet seat doing a balancing act like I’ve never seen. Ever since, a long-handled wooden spoon has been a fixture on the bathroom counter…because my hand isn’t going near that thing if it happens to rear it’s ugly antennae again…and I’m praying there was only one.

On the bright side, I’m glad that my present insect situation isn’t one that is multiplying in my apartment walls, but I’m sorry…bugs belong outside, not in my bed or on my bathroom floor!

Until I can find the source of the dirty little culprits, I have a feeling that a prescription of Ambien is in my future…

Reviewing A Year-In-The-Life

2006-07-24T14:45:00.000-04:00

Details about my love life and career usually wouldn’t be uttered in the same sentence together. You know what they say…don’t bring your personal life to work. Well, over the past year I think I kinda did, and it turns out…I’m actually a better person for it. Who knew two entirely separate trains of thought could be so similar?!

It all started with my annual review form. Last week, as I was filling it out, I went back and checked out last year’s form. Something that my managers said I needed to work on a year ago was “confidence and leadership.” I was taken aback for a split second because one of the strongest areas on my current review form was just that…confident decision-making and team leadership. It’s clear that I’ve come a long way this year, but to fathom that I was ever that lacking in confidence is just hard to imagine now.

Then over this past weekend I was cooling down after a jog and was thinking about my most recent relationships. Before the German, there was the Republican. Now before you all get up in a tizzy over the fact that I dated across party lines, I’ll say this - he was just a good shag and that’s it. But the fact is I was a total pushover during that time in my life. I recall wanting to say many things to him (mainly about him being such a egotistical prick), but I never brought any of it up. I was completely chickenshit.

I found myself thinking about how things would be now if I ever ran into him again, especially after having gone through everything with the German. I had to laugh at my notion of what the meeting would be like. He would no longer have the definitive upper hand and his smooth, charming ways would be lost on me. In my daydream – he wouldn’t know left from right and my self-assurance would likely freak him out.

So here are two mini thoughts, seemingly secluded to two very different areas of my life. As I connected the dots from my job to men and back again, I had to ponder...Has my career growth, ability to lead and make decisions had an impact on how I engage in personal relationships? Or have my relationships taught me life lessons and self-assurance that I’ve brought into work each day?

It’s likely a criss-crossing of the two…regardless I believe I hit a turning point somewhere in the year and didn’t even know it. My annual review is coming up and I’m looking forward to seeing what I’ll have to "work on" over the next year…given my recent revelation, it just might have a lot to do with how my personal life will pan out.

I’ve never been one to bring my work home with me, but I might have to start…

Coffee-a-holic

2006-07-19T11:35:00.000-04:00

I’m not a morning person. I never have been. I think back to Sunday mornings as a teenager when my Dad would try and get me out of bed to go to Church. It would come down to about 15 minutes before we had to leave when he would threaten to take my car away. Only then would I reluctantly peel myself out of bed.

My mornings these days are slightly parallel…sans ominous parental figure. I set the alarm for 6am, thinking the night before that I’d be getting up to go for a run (yeah right). I’ll hit snooze until 7:30am, and then begin my morning ritual of stumbling to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

This morning I did something blasphemous…I “made” coffee but forgot to put the coffee grounds into the filter. Result: hot water. I don’t think I’ve ever done this and it’s made me wonder: am I going mad?

Coffee is my morning touchstone to reality. I used to drink a whole 12-cup pot before work…that is until I realized I might have a slight problem with caffeine. I’ve since downgraded to a 4-cupper and seem quite satiated. Coffee is what gets me going on the weekdays and makes my mornings complete on the weekends. It’s more than a morning jolt, rather it’s the emotive feeling I get from drinking it. It’s calming.

So this morning’s absent-minded blunder, as you can imagine, set my day off to a telling start. Instead of getting huffy about it and letting it throw my morning off (like I normally might), I decided to embrace it. So I made a proper pot of joe…and was late to work.

I figure I might be going crazy, however drinking my morning coffee is a surefire way to ensure that I’m less crazy than I would be without it.

A Coastie Encounter

2006-07-17T16:46:00.000-04:00

I spent the majority of my Sunday afternoon at a roof deck pool at a good friend of mine’s apartment building. A great perk to have on a ninety degree, sunny day! As we were lounging in our deck chairs, we had the privilege of sitting near a gaggle of girls that brought me back to the good ol’ college days when us Midwesterners would quietly sit back and enjoy the antics of a group we endearingly called “coasties.” These sun-goddess gals were of top coasty breeding…and you could cut the pretentiousness with a knife.

The term “coasty” has an actual definition. I’ve been familiar with it since the day I walked onto my Big Ten campus. Back then they traveled in packs wearing Herve bags, black puffy North Face jackets, Tiffany’s sterling silver chain-link bracelets, and New Balance hiking shoes…circa 1999.

The pool deck on Sunday was a modern day equivalent with Pucci bikinis, oversized Dior sunglasses, sparkly tunics, fake tits and blonde highlights. Whether it’s 1999 or 2006, they’re all the same: 18-24 years old with an alternate sense of reality from the one I’m familiar with.

While I paged through my Elle magazine and questioned the upcoming fall fashion trends of ankle boots, plaid tartans and the return of grunge, my gal pal and I shared few snickers on the sly at the conversational topics of choice from this group. I guess I just can't relate to their lifestyle and it's my way of dealing with the difference, but still...in my opinion there is more to life than bottle service and mooching off of one's parents.

For the benefit of fellow eastern seaboard residents, I hope these costies take the ‘tudes down a notch and just chill out...isn't all the showiness exhausting anyway?!

No More Wining

2006-07-11T14:46:00.000-04:00

If this isn’t motivation to get you to recycle more than I don’t know what is…

According to a study in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, areas suitable for growing premium wine grapes could be reduced by 50 percent -- and possibly as much as 81 percent -- by the end of this century.

Take a moment for that to sink in.

A world with less wine...

GASP! NOOOOO!

Start separating your alumninum from paper people. I’ll begin by color-coding my glass bottles…pinot bottles here, sauvignon blanc bottles there…

Climate Change Could Sour Wineries (CNN.com)

Online Poll: Who’s Obsessed with the Food Network?

2006-07-10T17:52:00.000-04:00

I’m fully willing to admit…I’m obessed.

Watching random shows on the Food Network has replaced my habit of watching old movies on TBS and TNT. Goodbye Molly Ringwald, hello Giada!

I’ve always been sort of a foodie. It all began as a child when my mom taught Food 101 at the local high school. She may have outgrown teaching that class, but the talent she learned and applied at home has helped me develop a pure appreciation for the gastronomic arts.

Yes, I love going out and experimenting with all the lovely NYC restaurant choices that New York has to offer. Italian, Vietnamese, French…oh my! Truly, the world is your oyster here. Especially with so many restaurants owned and operated by the world’s most talented chefs. The only problem is that it can hurt one’s pocketbook more than you’d expect.

So lately, I’ve been trying to cook more using professional inspiration. I’ve got a knack for cooking (thanks mom). So after catching episodes of Emeril Live, Barefoot Contessa and Everyday Italian, I try and think up something new to try…

Given all the talk of summer (and my disappointment at not being able to have a charcoal grill on my non-existent patio), I made a small purchase - likely the best of the summer - a brand new, non-stick grill pan. I think I’m in love.

…marinating, slicing, seasoning, grilling. To be honest, cooking is one small slice of pleasant solitude that I’ve come to enjoy. I’ve been a bit down in the dumps lately, but I’ve realized it’s time to pull myself out of it and enjoy the summer. BBQ’d chicken, grilled veggies, cocktail shrimp and a Corona Light with lime is all I need to send me back to a breezy, lakefront from my childhood. Who knew a grill pan could lead so such contented nostalgia?

Now if only I had a kitchen that wasn’t so damn small…

Battle of the Alleyway

2006-07-08T18:20:00.000-04:00

My neighborhood is an endearing mix of people. When I first moved in I was interested to see the multitude of flags on my street, proudly proclaiming who was Dominican, who was Mexican and who was Puerto Rican. I would laugh when I would go for a run and the men had pulled their lazy boys into the parking spaces along with a TV connected to a cable running over the garden level dumpsters…all in the name of soccer.

Over the years I’ve come to love my street, even with its eccentricities. However, one thing I will never embrace is the group of guys who hang out on the stoop next to mine and whisper lewd things to the women on my street as they walk by.

Well, today I won a small battle against these oafs.

It was around 5pm this evening while I was doing some much needed housekeeping when I noticed the faint scent of weed creep into my bedroom window. I climbed onto my bed so I could get a peak at who was smoking it up in the alley way between my building and the next. Sure enough it was the harassing hoodlums.

Now, I’m not one to yell profanity out the window, unless of course dire circumstances ensure and I have no choice. This time was not dire; however I did have a brilliant plan with a prediction.

I promptly dropped my Swiffer and plugged in my iPod. Click, click, click and presto chango I’ve got the Dixie Chicks’ latest (and highly brilliant) album blaring out of every window in my apartment.

I gave them 10 minutes (given their hazy and duped state) to vacate the alleyway.

It took 5. Muhahahahaha!

I then went on with my cleaning in peace and freshness…sans weed. Now…how to get them to shut the hell up?!

Life Unrest

2006-07-06T18:04:00.000-04:00

A blogger going absent for a few weeks doesn’t necessarily mean that they have no valid thoughts to share on life anymore, in my world it simply means I’ve had too many thoughts flying around in my little head to warrant sorting it all out in a coherent fashion.

My mind has literally been-a-mush since I returned from my prolonged Midwest trip. I know part of it can be attributed to me missing the parts of a life there that I could never have here…namely, a constant state of pure sanity. The rest of my strife, however, is a combination of things that I have no possible way to begin explaining…

…but I’ll give it a whirl anyway…

Am I dissatisfied with my profession? Maybe…after all, I create air. Yes, I create nothing of tangible quality. Air = Sway public opinion. Drive purchase intent. Increase brand awareness…in other words…nothing that will really matter in the end. I’m definitely not saving lives here. Maybe I just need a new project to get rejuved? Maybe I need a new environment? I have no idea what I need...

Am I done with being a workaholic? Absofuckinglutely! New York breeds workaholics and in my profession…it’s tantamount to life. Well, I’m sick of it. I’m of the cloth that believes one should work to live, not live to work. It’s really upsetting when the role models in my industry are not reaping the benefits of years of loyal service. Instead they never work out, rarely see their friends, are at work until midnight and never seem satisfied with the work they do. Not exactly something to look up to, especially when I create air for a living.

Am I over New York? Perhaps. I’m sick of the rat race. I’m sick of feeling like I will never catch up to the cost of living. I’m sick of feeling like the cheap skate. I’m sick of knowing I’ll never own anything of value if I stay here. I’m sick of the perverts that hang out on my stoop in the summer and harass me day in and day out. I’m sick of my roommate. I’m sick of pigeons fucking on top of my air conditioner every morning at 5am. I’m sick of rude people on the subway. I'm sick of being sick of things.

Am I annoyed with the scene? Sometimes. I know I’ll likely never meet a potential man if I stay here. I hate pretentious nightclubs and the cost (to my ego and pocketbook) of going there. I hate going through the motions when I know I hate feeling hungover and broke the next day. I’d rather sit at home or in a cozy lounge with a few friends and just chat with a nice glass of red, and then wake up to a cup of coffee and the morning paper. Is New York is getting too high strung for me or am I becoming contentedly anti-social?

I don’t even know how to piece this all together, but I do know that I have a lot of thinking to do over the summer. I do know one thing...I hope I'll have some answers soon because a state of unknown is a frustrating place for me to be. I hate the unknown.

Corporate Challenge: A Joyous Occasion to Skip

2006-06-23T14:40:00.000-04:00

Ever since I moved to New York and had a full-time job, I’ve partaken in a bit of company-driven group activity such as the Corporate Challenge. I’ve run in this race for the last 3 years and like every year, I wonder why I even bother, since the next day I always end up feeling like crap for a number of reasons...

Managerial Wrath
To get to Central Park in enough time to start the race at 7pm, I’m forced to tear myself away from whatever it is that I’m working on and haul ass all in the name of my physical and emotional well-being, not to mention my apparent “work/life” balance. Well, each year I arrive to the office the next day and end up feeling like a moron because I’ve missed the boat on something, which is entirely not within my working style, in fact far from it. Naturally, I’m in a foul mood.
Claustrophobic Frustration
Anyone who has run in this race knows it’s one of the biggest races in New York City next to the Marathon. So as you can imagine, thousands of runners all packed onto West Drive between a few measly uptown/downtown blocks does not lead to a pleasant situation for the post-work anxiety-fest that most City workers feel. Getting bumped around by sweaty, rude people is not exactly conducive of a pleasant jog around the park.
Heat Wave
June in New York. Need I say more?
Bobbing & Weaving
Once the wild-eyed mob actually starts to move forward it can take upwards of 10 minutes to even get across the start line. After that you spend the first mile running in a zig-zag motion to avoid the walkers and slower runners, leading to a slightly disappointing 10-minute mile at best. At mile 2 it sort of gets better, but then gets worse again at mile 3 when all the people who thought they were rock stars tunker out and start walking. Begin zig-zag pattern once more. In a nutshell, when running a race, the time naturally matters, and this race consistently disappoints in that my Corporate Challenge time is always my worst race time of the year. Thus defeating the purpose of racing in the first place.
Post-Race Binge
After running for the sake of my waist line, you'd think I'd refrain from partaking in the post-race festivites with my co-workers at a place like Brother Jimmy's. Oh no. After a few beers, ample portions of bbq wings, rib tips, chips and dip, jalepeno poppers and quesadillas, not to mention a short bout of "fishbowl racing" - it essentially leaves my stomach in shambles. Just in case you were wondering, I'm fasting today as a result and not by choice.

So as you can see, the experience has its many downfalls, and today I'm totally paying for it. I think next year, I’ll skip the agony, annoyance and frustration of doing the Corporate Challenge and instead spend the evening of the race in the comfort of my air-conditioned apartment with a quality glass of wine in hand after a fulfilling day at the office.

It Could Be Worse

2006-06-22T13:57:00.000-04:00

As you may have noticed I’m sort of a stickler for self-soul searching and trying to do things that make me happy. I think it’s important that everyone does this because what’s life if you’re not happy, right?

Well, while doing some reading online, I stumbled across a quiz entitled “Is Your Life Wearing You Down?” Always interested in self-reflection, I took the quiz thinking I’d do ok...

I scored a measly 64 out of 100…definitely room for improvement.

Apparently, I need to make some adjustments in my life to up my score - things like drink less coffee, balance my budget and…(drum roll please)…have more sex…(as if that doesn’t come as a shocking revelation)…I mean, of course having more sex would make us all happier. Shocker!

Intriguing how some of my gal-pals seem to be in similar predicaments...I mean, we're way too fabulous to be in this situation!

Take the quiz. Hopefully some of you are more “satisfied with your relationships” than I am.

Lifestyle Quiz

Culture Shock

2006-06-21T18:24:00.000-04:00

So…I’m back in the big bad city, trying desperately to retain my mellow state-of-mind that I was able to latch onto while at home. My week in the Midwest was fantastic. I got a tan, hung out with family and friends, got some good workouts in, and – surprisingly – got into a very solid sleep pattern. All in all…fantastic rejuvenation time.

I have to say though, upon my return to the city, I awoke and went to work on Tuesday and actually felt slightly culture shocked. I was sandwiched between a 16-year-old punk and a 65-year-old woman on the subway when it dawned on me that the whole scene was bothersome. I’ve of course acclimated myself back into reality, but it is funny to think that a short 10 days away from New York could pull me so far out of the mindset of living here.

Now that I’m back, my goal is to try and stay grounded for as long as humanly possible and not get all rattled again by the pace of life, frustrations on the job and woes of living in an apartment that is the size of my parents living room. In a nutshell…connect the better halves of myself and keep them connected.

Reporting from the field…literally…

2006-06-13T12:42:00.000-04:00

Every time I come home I’m quickly reminded how infinitely different my life is in New York. Instead of $10 martinis there are $2 draft Leinie’s. Instead of Pravda, there is The Buck. Instead of Central Park, there is infinite wide, green space and miles of running track better known as a state trail. Instead of a pricey (albeit delish) meal at Blue Smoke, there is a home cooked meal over the backyard Weber grill. Instead of a $4 Starbucks coffee, there is a local establishment that comes fully loaded with fireplace and board games.

In a nutshell, life in a small Midwest town is a direct juxtaposition of urban life. What I love about New York I could never have here, but what I love about home I could never have in New York, and I’m beginning to think my personality is connected in the same way.

I came home to partake in a series of family events: graduation, recitals, birthdays, grad parties...it’s truly a jam-packed 10 days. But I also was looking forward to coming home to decompress. My mom has always said it takes me three days of being here to “normalize” (i.e., lose the City ‘tude and start acting like a normal person). Sadly...she is a little bit right. I’ve now passed the 3-day threshold and I’ve started to see more clearly.

Whenever I am here, I feel there are certain parts of myself that I shouldn’t show because I’ll just come off as a brash, “big city girl.” So, my blunt nature morphs into a fog of politeness and smiles. No one here understands why I left the Midwest for such a place and I’m always caught explaining myself. "It’s so big and far away." "Isn’t it dangerous?" "Oh...so Elle, how do you like it 'out there?'" Fellow high-school graduates now have houses next to my parents place, and neighbors with three kids under the age of six are now closer to my age than my parent’s ages. It’s a different world out here.

On the contrary, I also tend to leave parts of my Midwest self here when I board the plane back to the City. New York takes the uber-niceness out of me and I turn back into this shrewd business-minded woman, hell bent on making a decent living. I get on the subway each day and keep my headphones on and head down until my stop. It’s almost robotic at times. Never would I go running in Central Park and wave at every single person who I passed. Here, it would be rude not to wave! Finally, a certain innocent, non-chalant and unharried air dissipates into always havng a destination and goal in mind...it's never about the journey getting there.

This past Memorial Day was the fifth anniversary of me hauling myself cross-country to move into New York. So, why is it, after all this time that I’m feeling there are bits and pieces of myself that never have existed at the same time together? Is it possible for the good parts of small town and urban life to coexist?

I’ve still got seven days left here, but I’m going to enjoy every minute of it and ponder ways that I can stay normalized when back in the big bad apple. Not thinking about how to make my client money, how I look, how I'm going to fit in all the crap that doesn't really matter...is really quite refreshing. I've regained a clear state of mind and I hope that I can return to my little shoebox on the west side with some semblance of that clarity.

An Inconvenient Truth

2006-06-05T17:54:00.000-04:00

I’ve always been relatively conscious about the environment. I recycle. I turn off lights when I leave the room. I opt for paper over plastic. I write my congressmen. You know, the usual. I think about how our world is deteriorating before our eyes, but to be quite frank, I haven’t really been motivated enough to go above and beyond to make things better…until Sunday. I saw Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth,” and after hearing his presentation on the state of our mother earth, I can now effectively say I might have to venture into “green” territory.

In a nutshell, the film is a documentary about a PowerPoint presentation that Mr. Gore has been tweaking and presenting over the years to audiences all over the world. Pieces of his presentation are overlaid with tones of political strife, real world accounts of environmental progress and failure, as well as autobiographical references to how Mr. Gore came to care so much. It’s hands down the most motivating documentary I’ve seen since Fahrenheit 9/11.

Of all the science out there on melting polar ice caps, rainforest destruction, glacial retreat, extinction of species, air pollution, oil consumption…the film pieces all of this together into a clear and concise picture of how everything is connected and NOW is the time to get truly concerned. Not just concerned for how our government is handling the situation, if at all, but also concerned about the modern world’s blatant apathy for a true need for urgent action.

Go see the movie. You’ll leave with a different perspective on the world we live in, and be truly motivated to do something beyond recycling and turning off lights.

To learn more about what you can do, visit www.climatecrisis.net

Artificial Drunkeness

2006-06-01T16:56:00.000-04:00

I’m not a big drinker of Red Bull, mainly because of the sheer amount of calories in that tiny little can. I will, however partake in a sugar-free Red Bull on occasion, mainly when I need an intense and drug-like boost in my level of drunkenness, and only in places like Las Vegas. I know what you’re thinking, you think I’m slightly prudish and uncool because I don’t guzzle down this trendy mixer whenever I possibly can. Whatever.

So, I’ll tell you why I refrain.... I was a sugar free Red Bull-a-holic one evening past. It was a night full of debauchery, uncanny levels of high-energy boozing combined with an over-exerting social scene. It really was a night for the commercials. I likely consumed 4-5 sugar free Red Bull & vodkas and proceeded to wake up in the morning with the worst possible hangover of my entire life. I’ve keep the habit on the backburner ever since. Damn Red Bull.

**Note: I know it was the Red Bull because 4 years of binge drinking at a Big Ten school will teach a gal what she can really handle. Vodka is not the problem here.

A friend sent me an article today that allowed for the proverbial light to turn on regarding why my sugar free Red Bull hangover was so ghastly. Apparently, artificial sweeteners speed alcohol into the bloodstream making the drinker, drunker. The study found that the peak blood alcohol concentration was significantly higher with the diet drink than with the regular drink. In other words, all of us calorie counters are screwed.

As a closing thought I’ll leave you all with this…do you think this dispels the “mystery” on why New York is filled with so many drunk, skinny girls?

Artificial sweeteners speed alcohol into blood Reuters

Part 2: Love Love Love...

2006-05-31T18:34:00.000-04:00

As if the first two days weren’t exciting enough, I still had two days of fun ahead of me. London certainly was measuring up, although not without its distinct differences to my New York. For starters it just has a different feeling in the air. New York gives off a sense of urgency and alertness. I got the feeling London is a bit more laid back, yet slightly standoffish. I enjoyed the fact that London is quieter. I was sleeping in the heart of the city, but had no need for earplugs. Cars don’t honk incessantly and people, in general, keep their voices down (unless present at late afternoon debauchery session). It has more green space, is cleaner and is deviod of dogs dressed up like primadonnas. In short...lots of subtle, yet noticeable differences.

Over the final two days of my stay, my gal pals and I proceeded to do it up:

Sunday:

Awoke early to a beautiful sunny morning, a perfect Americano and brioche.
Took a stroll over to Westminster and the Houses of Parliament…waiting for the “ah-ha” moment that never came. Big Ben is the Empire State Building of London. Special, yes. Groundbreaking, no.
Walked to the South Bank once again to stroll down the Thames. Meeting a crowd of tourists at the London Eye, we quickly breezed through the area…not a fan of crowds.
Had a desire to get down to the Tower of London, but my feet quit being ambitious around the Millennium Bridge and Top Shop was calling our names.
Headed to Oxford Street (the equivalent of New York’s 34th Street) for a 2-3 hour stint within a 3-block radius. Top Shop was glorious, the crowds were not.
Post retail therapy, we strolled off of the main drag into the heart of Soho. We were starving and had our hearts set on some fried food and beer, which we found without much trouble.
After some quality people watching (including a flasher and some very bad fashion choices) we dropped our shopping bags back at the flat and got ready for a BBQ over in Mayfair. Post veggie skewers and a Pimms taste-test we rallied for a night out in South Ken.
More fabulous drinks and a 2am closing time allowed for lots of boy gazing. Tip: the bartender at Eclipse is HOT and makes the best Pear Mojitos in the universe.
Grabbed a taxi home in the wee hours of the evening and crashed.

Monday:

Alas, the last day arrived…of course, with an Americano, croissant and ample amounts of sun.
We decided to stroll west and hit up more shopping potential in Knightsbridge. One Harvey Nichols visit and one Harrod’s Food Hall visit later we stumbled upon Laduree – a French patisserie that had just opened a branch at Harrod’s. O.M.G. those macaroons are to die for…especially the rose ones. We decided the scene was too fabulous and quaint not to enjoy it so we sat for a Kir Royale and nibbled on our macaroons. Following our mini-break we proceeded to purchase a few more macaroons for the road…few = many. They are unspeakably good.
We strolled out of Harrod’s and realized we had about 45 minutes before our reservations for afternoon tea at The Wolseley. We hopped a bus to Green Park and were there in a jiff.
At the Wolseley, we enjoyed a fabulous two-hour session of noshing and relaxing in the sunny room over scones, clotted cream, finger sandwiches and a fabulous array of tea. It was so lovely that we are planning to instate a tea party in our own circles here. We left stuffed to the gills.
For the remainder of the afternoon we decided to check out the northwest side of the park, heading over to Paddington and Notting Hill. More walking. More shopping.
We finally hit a wall and decided to catch a bus back…seeing the sights from the upper deck of course. I'm a big fan of the bus. Always have been in New York too, however the traffic flows better in London and allows for a pleasant, and relatively speedy ride.
We arrived back at the Covent Garden flat exhausted and elated from our jam-packed trip. We decided to order Indian for take away, and enjoy the evening in the comfort of a cushiony couch.

Tuesday morning we awoke early to catch a flight back to New York. Overall, I thought London was fabulous and I hope to return someday soon. It certainly has it’s own charm and old-world feel, something many parts of New York could never claim. The downfalls: the weather and the distance from home, but every adventurous gal can get past those things in the name of a fabulous town…and many cute boys in pinstripes doesn't hurt either ;-)

Part 1: Love Love Love...

2006-05-30T17:12:00.000-04:00

La-Love Love…London. If that doesn’t say it all…then I’ll spell it out. I had a brilliant time. It was strange actually. I was waiting and waiting for my “ah ha” moment - the point where it hits you that you’re in a massively different place – and oddly enough, it never came. Not when I realized the cars were driving on the wrong side of the street. Not when I heard the accents and shopped with funny money. Not even when I caught my first glimpse of Big Ben. I think it was the city-girl in me that made it all seem normal. From the moment I stepped out of the airport from the moment we stepped back in I felt like…I could ‘do’ London. It’s just like New York…only…London.

Here’s a brief synopsis of the first two days of adventure:

Friday:

Stopped into the London branch of my office for a visit and a peak
Hauled ass with my friend to our “apartment” for the weekend…a posh little set up smack in the heart of Covent Garden
Celebratory beers at Porterhouse, which, of course, led to many many many more beers in the neighborhood…all at bars that had names resembling one of the following: Pig & Hoof, Claw & Hawk, Punch & Judy…you get the picture
Late dinner at an Indian restaurant in the hood…for all you Brits, what ever happened to cushioning the hangover with a little sustenance?!?!
Post food, we picked back up on "happy hour," which led to chatting up every nationality of boy known to man...once I met the Germans I knew it was time to call it a night
Passed out from a combination of jet lag, beer buzz and food coma…

Saturday:

Coffee and croissants du chocolate from around the corner
Met up with Downtown and another gal pal at St. Paul’s for a day of modest sightseeing (given it was raining most of the day we decided to keep most of our “outdoor activity” for Sunday and Monday)
We proceeded to the Tate Modern for 2 hours of gazing at amazing works of art
Following, we took a short walk on the South Bank to the Borough Market where we purchased a variety of cheeses, breads, chutneys, olives and wine for an average “girls night in”
Returned to posh CG flat for smorgasbord dinner
Got cutsied up and headed over to Annex 3 (thanks for the tip Holly…the cocktails were fab!), where we realized men in suits are entirely to few and far between in the States…must promote pinstripe wearing more often on this side of the pond

So far, London was absolutely fabulous. As an experienced city girl, navigating was easy, walking a ton seemed normal and the accent was growing on me. My only beef…the positively shitty weather, but no matter, I was in London after all, and I have to say…very livable.

The next couple of days would be full of more fun including lots of shopping, afternoon tea, exploring and more frolicking with the British...so little time and so much to do!

More to come as I get back on New York time...

From New York to London

2006-05-23T12:21:00.000-04:00

As if I couldn’t get enough travel packed into my late spring/early summer, in a mere two days I’m heading off to the lovely city of London. Sadly, I’ve never been there before so this’ll be a new experience, however not one without a certain sense of parallelism. You see, I’ve always felt in a similar fashion about London as I’ve felt about New York. I’ll explain…

When I was about 12 years old I came to New York to visit my uncle who was living here at the time. I arrived bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, anxious to see what the “big city” would be like. I had seen it in my favorite movies, and dreamed about it when “uptown girl” played on the radio. In a nutshell, I fell in love with the energy and all that is New York in an instant (and despite the fact that it was New York before Giuliani had his way with it). I loved the sparkling, revolving doors on 5th Avenue and the view of lower Manhattan from the crown of the Statue of Liberty. I even found the watch vendors, selling from decrepit briefcases, engaging. There was just ‘something’ about New York, and I wanted to be part of it. The second time I came back was to interview for jobs during my senior year in college. Fast forward to now and I’m here living my childhood dream and have never looked back. It has been exactly what I wanted it to be.

Since that first trip, I had always been on a beeline to move to New York, yet I had never traveled back or desired to come here on vacation. My reason was that New York was livable and never a place to vacation…that is what the Caribbean is for.

Somewhere in my late teens, I had entertained the thought of living outside of the states, and for some reason, London always had a pull for me. Since I've been in New York, that pull has gotten stronger and not just because it's London, but more importantly because it's closer to the potential to have some amazing adventures in very new places. I’m excited for this weekend's trip because it will be eerily similar to the trip I took as a small child - full of wonder and excitement and the tip of a potential iceberg. The thing is, is that I’m only going to London now because it’s always had that “livable” aura for me, like New York did. I’d never desired to go to London on vacation because that is what Italy and Spain are for.

So…I’m heading across the pond for a first look. I don’t know what I’ll find or what I’ll think, however I do know I’m going to have a fabulous time.

Educational Gender Gap

2006-05-17T10:51:00.000-04:00

The age-old stereotype that girls aren’t as good at math and science as boys apparently is still plaguing this country, according to a report on CNN. Secretary of Education, Margaret Spellings is calling for a review on existing research to determine why girls are not as well represented in the sciences as boys.

This well-known typecast, created by the gender divide and proliferated in pop culture by Barbie herself, causes me to ask why isn’t anyone making a stink about the below-par performance of boys in more social science focused subjects. To boot, is it so horrible that men and women choose certain professional paths based on what they’re good at versus what they were educated best in?

In today’s day and age, you’d think this country’s leaders would take a more double-sided approach to fixing the problems in our education system. Instead, they choose to fan the fire beneath a “problem” that should be stomped out, not relit.

In my high school, the math and science programs were phenomenal, so phenomenal that I entered college not having to take ANY math and maybe one or two classes of science. Yes, I was good at those subjects, but my career choices leaned towards what I’m good at: talking, socializing and analyzing, hence my lovely career in marketing. I’m definitely not saving the universe, but is it so horrible that I didn’t choose to become a biochemist?

I look around and I’d be hard pressed to find even five men that work in my division (even harder to find ones that play for “my team”). From what I can tell, men don’t do the world of communications very well…but I don’t have to tell you this.

We all know there are profound differences in how the male and female brains work. It’s seen every day, displayed in full force in everyone’s social and work lives. So let’s face it, there will never be a time when boys and girls learn in the same way.

Despite girls apparently sucking in math and science, here are a few other things we know:

Women now out number men in college enrollees and graduate at higher rates
Girls capture more academic honors, outscore boys in reading and writing, and score about as well on math at the fourth, eighth and 12th grade levels
Girls out-graduate boys by rate of 72 percent versus 65 percent for boys

Instead of focusing – again - on female shortcomings, I’d suggest to Ms. Spellings that she focus her efforts on figuring out how not to leave every child behind, no matter what their gender.

Perhaps she can start with funding public school programs properly. Perhaps she could work to foster quality teaching and balanced curriculums instead of worrying about standardized testing. Perhaps she could work to correct the public’s myopic view on females in the workplace, where we still make a percentage of the dollar that men do in the same profession. I’d say there are more constructive ways that Ms. Spellings can spend her time...and my tax dollars.

Why do girls lose interest in math and science? (CNN)
UF study explores why boys are falling behind girls in school (UFL News)
Choices at school lead to gender bias in workplace (The Herald, UK)
Boys Are No Match for Girls In Completing High School (NYT)

A Hairy Encounter

2006-05-16T12:48:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, my girlfriends and I were causally jaunting down Bowrey, chatting and laughing about our destination du jour. We were about to cross the street, when we looked up only to see three men walking towards us with the biggest, baddest mustaches and beards that we had ever laid eyes on.

I kid you not, their facial hair was twisted, coiffed, braided and looked as if it needed ample amounts of styling product to hold it’s pippi-longstocking-esque form. Their handlebar mustaches were positively horizontal!

Well, I now know why these swashbuckling types have invaded New York: today is the NYC Beard & Mustache Championships.

Who knew?!

Rant: Public Displays of Breast

2006-05-15T11:23:00.000-04:00

Ah Mother’s Day. A day of celebration for those women who brought us all into this world. A day of families, children and…boobs. Yes, boobs…please be patient, I’ll explain.

After an utterly fantastic day of shopping and casually jaunting around below 14th street, two girlfriends and I decided to grab an early dinner at our favorite restaurant. I mean, what could be better than wine, cheese and Italian tapas?!

After hanging out bar-side with a bottle of Nero D’Avloa and 3 blocks of cheese, we sat down at our table and ordered up some pasta, more wine and the best olives found on this side of the Hudson. For some reason, we were all so jovial that our food was even better than usual…including the two rounds of olive oil ice cream.

After thoroughly enjoying the food placed in front of us, I looked up and directly in my line of sight was a giant, vein ridden, lactating breast. A boob, along with no-need-to-be-said-child suckling away while the mother picked at her food in front of her. GASP!

Clearly I have a problem with this. I know it was Mother’s Day and all, but that is NO excuse for her not to COVER IT UP! My friends were equally as appalled as I was, and my one friend even said they have a special mommy cover-up for occasions just like this one.

Perhaps my reaction to seeing tit over dinner is surprising considering I have virtually no problem with topless tanning, large doses of silicone and enhancing cleavage on most GNOs (read: girls nights out). Quite the contrary. I need to vent.

To the woman who felt it was ‘no big deal’ to feed her child over dinner, please note the following the next time you decide to whip out your bosoms in a public place:

Be considerate, people are eating and don’t want to see your nipples next to slices of pancetta…cover it up!
People may be uncomfortable and being in a small, enclosed space makes it difficult to avoid the scene if so desired…cover it up!
Breastfeeding is a rather intimate thing, and shouldn’t be shared with the entirety of the Village…cover it up!

Knowing that there will be a next time, may I suggest that you follow these simple steps to avoid upsetting your fellow dining room companions: 1) Pick up the baby blanket next to you 2) throw it over your shoulder. Mother’s Day is no excuse.

Drunk as a Monkey

2006-05-11T15:28:00.000-04:00

A recent study published in Methods, has found that monkeys emulate humans on being drunkity-drunk-drunk when under stress – namely, when they’re housed alone or after a long stressful day of animal testing.

As one researcher put it, "It was not unusual to see some of the monkeys stumble and fall, sway, and vomit," He added. "In a few of our heavy drinkers, they would drink until they fell asleep" (feel free to giggle uncontrollably at this notion).

What is particularly interesting about this study is the differences in male and female drinking patterns:

Females who were alone more often than not drank more, as opposed to their more “social” counterparts.
Translation: A depressed Bridget-Jones-like monkey is a drunk monkey.
Non-dominant females and most male monkeys tended to out-drink the others in general.
Translation: Ballsy females may not drink as much if they have to compete over it.
In males, researchers saw a general increase in booze consumption immediately after the testing hours ended.
Translation: Boys are booze-hounds, especially after a rough day.

Sounds like the average happy hour scene at any New York City pub.

No wonder we share so many chromosomes…

Drunk Monkeys Mirror People (Discovery News)

Extreme Dream

2006-05-10T13:10:00.000-04:00

About one week out of every month, I have crazy dreams that I always remember with absolute vividness. Not that I never have dreams, it’s just that I never remember them. Only for one week…and this week is that week.

Usually my dreams are a convoluted hodgepodge of random imagery and conversation that only the best psychoanalyst could decipher. On occasion the happenings are strung together with some semblance of coherence, and last night’s dream happened to fall into that category.

I’ll make it a short description and let all of you tell me what the hell it means:
I’m back in a neighborhood that I grew up in as a small child, full of trees and kids on bikes. Only, I’m not a child, I’m completely grown up. As I walk around the neighborhood, the streets morph into the streets of my New York City neighborhood. I’m wandering aimlessly and it’s raining. Suddenly I’m at a doctor’s office where I’m quickly diagnosed with breast cancer. The cancer lump begins as the size of a pea and proceeds to double and grow as I leave the office and walk around in the rain. At one point I stop walking to give myself my own Chemo treatment, which consists of plunging a large syringe full of whatever into myself a la adrenaline-needle-in-pulp-fiction style. I lose my hair right away and start donning Samantha-from-Sex and the City wigs where ever I go. I recall feeling disjointed and depressed, because I have a feeling that I'm going to die. Just as I’m walking down the NYC/childhood memory street I hear a bus horn going off…

…and I wake up to the sound of my alarm going off where I promptly sit up and hit snooze.

Someone please tell me what me getting breast cancer has to do with my current life. I hope to god I don’t have any powers of foresight.

What happens in Vegas...

2006-05-09T15:32:00.000-04:00

...gets posted on a blog. So, I’ve kicked the shakes and blurred vision, and I believe I’ve regained the ability to type coherently so I’ll divulge a bit more detail on my fabulous trip to Vegas…

I arrived at the Hard Rock on Friday afternoon after a long cross-country flight, but no matter because my ladies were standing at the entrance with a cocktail as I strolled in, which – of course - is a great way to start a reunion weekend.

Over the course of day one, people in our group arrived one by one, when finally dinnertime rolled around and an outing was in order. It was at this time that I was introduced to some friends of friends that came along with one of my guy friends, better known as Gumby (he kept doing this odd kick thing with his leg), The guy who’s name starts with an M (because I could never get it right), Ibok (too long of a story to tell) and Nameless (because he just was).

Over dinner I sat next to M, who was quite the jokester. Funny, sorta cute, but wasn’t really thinking he’d be my conquest for the weekend. After dinner, two of my friends and I strolled over to the Bellagio and grabbed some martinis while getting ogled by a bunch of Brits on holiday for a bachelor party. This of course made for some interesting exploits in the right direction of my mission. The night rolled on and before I knew it, I had been up for over 24 hours and was starting to see spots from my delirium. In order for a throw down the next evening I knew I needed to get some sleep. Enter day two.

Around 9am, we snagged some beach chairs at the pool, which is where I sat with a large bloody mary/pina colada in hand for approximately 6 hours. I had no intention of moving from my spot. To boot, Aviator Man was sitting right next to me, which made for some high quality eye candy and conversation for the brunt of the afternoon. M was also seated nearby, but he hadn’t made it to priority status at that point.

Following the skin cancer session, we ladies headed out for dinner at a place over on the strip, followed by glitzing up and consuming as much Red Bull and vodka as humanly possible. Enter the VIP section at Body English. Four bottles of Grey Goose and a lovely banquette were waiting for our party where we proceeded to lounge and dance the night away.

It is at this point of the trip where my girlfriends and I all decided that M got cuter the longer we knew him. It was true, tall with piercing blue eyes and a nice, strong jaw line...what had I been thinking?! M was now my mission. In a nutshell, the mission turned out to be pretty easy considering half way through the evening, M all out attacked me on the stairs. The stair-scene turned into an all out sucking face session. And yes, I finally did manage to get his name right by the end of the night (unlike some gals I know) ;-)

I woke up the next day with a dull hangover, so you can imagine my delight when I found out Sunday’s at the Hard Rock Pool are called “Rehab.” I was picturing massages and a serene scene, but then I walked in and encountered an event that should have been called “Dehab." Plainly put, it was more drinking, more people making out and a scene that resembled MTV’s “The Grind” in its zenith. I even saw some lewd activity going on in a couple of the poolside cabanas…how spring break like. On one trip to the ladies room, I looked around and realized my weight was likely equal to the amount of silicone in the room…it was about then I realized it was time to say goodbye to “Rehab.”

I left for the airport around 9pm feeling dejected, broke and extremely tired from a long yet, massively fun weekend. All in all, of all my trips to Vegas (count ‘em…1,2,3,4,5,6), this one definitely is up near the top.

Vegas Recap

2006-05-08T12:58:00.000-04:00

There are too many ways to describe my time in Vegas. I’ll keep it short for two reasons 1) too many details would incriminate me for any future career in politics and 2) I'm just too damn tired.

So in a nutshell, here are the top reasons why Vegas 2006 was fabulous:

1) The Hard Rock Hotel is THE place to be if your goal is to hang out with good looking people all weekend (The Sunday pool-side "Rehab" event was anything but rehabilitating...on the contrary)

2) I hung out with a rowdy bunch of people, some of which I hadn’t seen in years. We affectionately referred to the weekend as being in a “time warp” since we all easily reverted back to collegiate-like behavior (i.e., table dancing, conversations ridden with profanity and day drinking)

3) I’ve lost my voice entirely

4) I have tan lines

5) I accomplished my mission

As fun as my weekend was, I can honestly say I’m glad to be back in the Big Apple. My own bed is calling my name, and I’m happy not to be surrounded by silicone, blinking lights and hair gel at all times.

It’s time to catch up on sleep…

Mere Hours...

2006-05-05T00:07:00.000-04:00

I just arrived home from a friendly New York blogger "Cuatro de Mayo" dinner with Polly, Downtown Chic, Betty, Damn It Anyway, Pookalu and Actor Serf...quite a good time everyone, quite a good time...

But I must brag some more...at this time tomorrow, I will be baking, literally, in the Vegas sun.

As I mentioned, I am going on this trip with a pack of nonsensical crazies (fun crazies of course)...and I got a "shout out" this morning from one of the guys. At the beckoning of Ms. Betty, I will share for pure humor.

Disclaimer: This is a college guy friend of mine. He's slightly thuggish, in a funny and cartoonish manner. Please take with a grain of salt...cuz it's just funny...Also, read the following as if you were a rap super-star...

(I've shortened it up a bit since posting the whole thing would be borderline obscene and probably land Avenue Elle on the XXX list)

Elle's Shout Out:

BOUNCEUUUUHHHHHH, UHH,
UUUUUHHHHHHAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGHHHHH, UGGHHHHH, UUUUUGGGHHHAAAAATHIS IS FO MY HUSTLAS.... UH-UGHHAND FO DA BITCHES...YEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
…
UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!ARE
YOU FUCKERS FEELING DIS!!?!?!?!?!!?!? IF NOT....CHECK YOUR FUCKING
PULSE CAUSE YOU MIGHT BE DEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
…
NOW TO THE LAST, BUT NOT, LEAST ROOM!!!!!!!!!! DA HIPPIES AND HOESROOM!!!!!!!!!! AKIN TO THE PICK ROOM WHICH IS AKA THE "HOES AND BLOW" ROOM...."THE REDBULL AND ADDERAIL" ROOM!!!!!!!!! BIG UPS TO ELLE "STRAP-ON"!!!!!!!!!! I HOPE
YOU'VE BEEN TAKING CARE OF DEM TIT-TAAYYS!!!!!!!! THEY MAY BE
EXCEPTIONALLY LARGE, BUT YOUR NICKNAME WILL ALWAYS BE
"STRAP-ON"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WEAR THAT NAME WITH PRIDE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
…

WELL......DATS IT!!!!!!!! DATS MY VEGAS SHOUTOUTS FO DA ZERO SIX!!!!!!!!! I'LL SEE ALL YOU MOTHA FUCKERS ON THE GROUND IN VEGAS!!!!!!!!! AWWWWWWW
SHIIIITTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I CAN'T FUCKING WAIT!!!!!!!!!! TIL DEN......DIS IS DA HOTDOG SAYING PEACE DAFUCK OUT, YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Filet-o-Heaven

2006-05-04T10:08:00.000-04:00

I love meat. In fact, strike that. I am a carnivore.

Having grown up in the Midwest with a deer-hunting/fishing/duck shooting father, I was pretty much raised on “the hunt.” Breaded and fried perch from the lake out back. Venison chili. Roasted duck. Hickory smoked turkey (out of his very own smoker). And his specialty…grilled steak.

I’ve always said, no matter what restaurant in which my dad has a steak, he will always criticize the cut and the flavor of the meat that is put in front of him...all in comparison to his own talents. Well, I think I found a place that he may be impressed: Sparks Steakhouse on E. 46th St.

Yes, it is the restaurant of the infamous John Gotti mafia plot, and I will say that the clientele was definitely not absent of Vitto-esque characters. We were definitely the only table that was predominantly women, and we felt slightly naked without a large man in a silk suit sitting at our table. But no matter.

As for the ambiance, the scene felt quite dated. The china looked like it belonged in your grandmother’s hutch, the paintings on the wall were cheesy and old-looking, and the carpet looked like it was stripped from a local VFW and pasted to the floor. However despite it all, I think this is what gives the place that certain old New York feel.

Regardless of the scene, I must get back to the meat. The steak was phenomenal. 8 ounces of filet mignon, broiled to perfection. There was not an ounce of fat to slice off, not a portion was overcooked. I tend to like my beef still kicking…not mooing outright and definitely not dead, so it was just the way I like it.

A perfect steak must be paired with perfect wine, and the list we could choose from was a who’s who of wineries featured in Sideways and Wine Spectator.

All in all our meal was spectacular. Sparks is not a place to go for post-work happy hour or even to have a casual steak dinner with friends. It's a place to go with a client, your carnivore father on a special occasion or your friendly, local Mafioso connection.

So go, enjoy it to the hilt, be shocked into cardiac arrest by the bill, and enjoy the rest of your evening knowing you just ate the best slab of meat money can buy.

T-Minus 2 Days and Counting…

2006-05-03T10:14:00.000-04:00

…until I am lounging pool side in the Las Vegas heat.

Yes, my friends, I am venturing Southwest to meet up with a large group of my friends from college, some of which I haven’t seen since I hightailed it East immediately after graduation. I must say I’m quite excited for this trip because partaking in some minx-like behavior in Vegas is just what I need at this juncture in time.

For starters, this particular group of friends from college is debaucherous to the hilt, and is guaranteed to be ridden with large amounts of nonsense. There will be six of us girls and it recently dawned on me that the last time we were all on vacation together was freshman year, spring break. Said trip entailed 56 bottles of booze, a keg-er-ator and saran wrap tube tops...so you can imagine the reunion we will be having. To boot, all of the guys that will be in attendance are dirty-minded and hilarious, which will add just a touch of raunchiness to the affair. Based on past exploits in college – the trip is guaranteed to be an absolute riot.

My second reason for needing a trip to Vegas is simple: I’m on a mission to make out. I’ve mentioned the recent state of coupledom most of my girlfriends currently reside in, and it’s about time for little miss Elle to have some fun of her own. You see, women hate dry spells just as much as men do. In fact, I’d be willing to say that it bothers us more. Why? Well…I assume men always want to get a piece of ass. Women can usually go a bit longer in a spell than men, however once we feel the need for a drink of water…oh boy, do we need one. I’m borderline parched, hence my mission.

In a nutshell, I plan to drink, get a smidge of skin cancer, play craps, dance, flirt and be merry.

Viva Las Vegas!

Free Dates...in Japan

2006-04-28T11:16:00.000-04:00

Wouldn’t it be nice if the government paid for you to go out and find a suitable mate? If this is an enticing proposition then move to Japan, because the government has started paying for people to go out and meet potential partners.

According to an article posted on BBC.com, Japan has started to fund some speed dating events to curb their falling population. I have my own qualms about speed dating, as well as the fact that I believe the world to be overpopulated, however the notion that a government views it’s populace as ‘too single’ is just intriguing to me.

Think about it. If the U.S. started paying for single people to attend dating events, would we be more motivated to find the right person or would we exploit the system for a free date – courtesy of the man?

It’s interesting to think that as the industrialized world moves faster and faster, people work harder and become increasingly selfish about their personal time (which is not necessarily a bad thing), it’s become apparent that finding love has been put on the backburner leading to a longer single life.

Instead of family and stability, we are increasingly seeking autonomy and success, thus building a successful and long-term relationship is absent of the traditions that went into marriages of past decades. I’ve heard many arguments that our generation doesn’t value those past traditions enough, leading us all to be nonchalant daters. Maybe it’s true and maybe not, but is getting paid to date really a solution for the plight of our generation's singleness?

Obviously, I don't have an answer for that question, however I do know one thing. Government-sponsored dates would absolutely eliminate any awkward "who pays" moments.

Japan pins hopes on 'speed dates' BBC.com

Are we becoming boring?

2006-04-26T11:22:00.000-04:00

According to an article in the New York Observer (a paper that deserves WAAY more credit than it’s even given), New Yorkers are increasingly becoming…well, lame.

The article proposes that people are going out less and staying in more all in the name of a lack of motivation. A lack of motivation to do everything from keeping up with fashion, trading in text messaging for an actual one-on-one get-together, waiting in line for that hot new nightclub, having people over for a cocktail party and even looking for that special someone. Apparently we’ve all lost our mojo.

To our credit, the article states, “giving up is not a defeat, not at all. Because what more and more New Yorkers are “giving up” is engaging with a social and intellectual public culture that more and more fails to enchant them.”

Wow. New York culture is failing to enchant?! I thought that was that certain something about the city that keep us all going. Will we all turn the way of Seattle and start being hermits, committing suicide by the hordes? I sure hope not. After all, New Yorkers may be cynical, but we’re not known for being depressives.

In my opinion, I think we’re all stuck in an evil cycle of apathy. New York still enchants, but we’re all failing to allow ourselves to be enchanted. We’re all so overloaded with options – being busy bodies, so we’d rather just stay home, crack a bottle of Pinot, order take out and a good movie on demand.

It’s interesting to see that the Observer has successfully plucked that certain something out of the air and put it into print. Perhaps it will help in snapping us all out of listlessness.

N.Y. Beauties Collapse: Formerly Chichi We, Now Netflixed, Dumpy NYO

The "Onesie"

2006-04-25T16:09:00.000-04:00

I need to give one of my gal-pals a serious shout out. This past weekend, a friend of mine went balls out fashion forward and upped her trend-setting status to queen bee of daring wardrobe selections. Thankfully, she refrained from the socks/sandals trend, however she arrived at a friend’s party on Saturday wearing a black, fitted jumpsuit – affectionately known in our circle as the “onesie.”

I must admit, I was a bit concerned a couple weekends ago when I met her in the park and she spouted off about her new purchase, which was neatly tucked away in her purse in a ball about the size of a nerf football. I wondered, how on earth will this slab of fabric be turned into an actual outfit worthy of a Saturday night out on the town?

Well, I don’t know why I even questioned it, because this is the same friend who showed up at Newark airport at 4:30am in 4-inch heels. To her, donning a onesie is just a small offering to the fashion gods. All in all, she totally pulled it off, looking absolutely fabulous. I have to give her credit for looking so snazzy because I would have just looked like an overstuffed sausage.

Cheers to you my friend for setting the standard for excellence in a onesie. Now, if you’re seriously considering the zip up denim jumpsuit, I might need to see it modeled in the dressing room prior to purchase.

The Ninth Wheel

2006-04-24T10:30:00.000-04:00

I’ve been perpetually single my entire life. Despite my ongoing circumstance, I’ve always been pretty content in my singledom. I’ve never been a serial dater, and I’ve never been one of those girls who dates a guy just to have someone around. On the contrary, I’m either 100% single or 100% in a “relationship.” Obviously none of those past relationships have worked out for me, but they were all meaningful to my life in some way.

I’ve just come off of a marvelous, yet bittersweet weekend where for the first time in my life, I felt an air of discontentment over being single. Saturday my friends and I celebrated the birthday of one fabulous gal pal and on Sunday we said goodbye to another who’s leaving us for the Windy City. Through all of this I noticed that it was the first time that each one of my close friends is coupled up and I’m not.

Now I must say that I’m extremely happy for all of my friends. It was this time last year when I was the one in a relationship and everyone else was single, so I’m all too familiar with how fantastic it feels to be in love (or something that lies on the spectrum). Now I’m the odd one out and I must say I’m a twinge jealous.

I’ve been the odd one out before. In college for instance, all of my roommates had boyfriends and I didn’t (most of the time). It didn’t bother me then. So why now?

Another self-observation. I’m usually one to have a hard time when a friend drops me for a guy. Even if I like the guy they’re dating, it hurts to be put on the back-burner.

To top it off, it’s springtime. Everyone is happy in love and I’m just the cynical New Yorker in the backdrop who’s making fun of (i.e. projecting my angst onto) all the happy people.

Pairing these sentiments together I can only conclude that my current discontentment is rising from the fear of being left at the end of the dinner table a la Bridget Jones spouting off about singletons being covered in scales. Alas, the joy of the possibility of being the ninth wheel. Ug.

It’s funny how the fear of something motivates people to act. In this scenario it’s become apparent to me why so many single urban women go through their twenties in a blissful state, realize they’re the only one left, and then snap into “find a husband mode.” It’s desperation at it’s finest.

Clearly, I’ve got to put things into perspective so I don’t become one of these women, however it sure does suck being left out of the couple’s club.

The Joys of Marketing

2006-04-21T17:46:00.000-04:00

One of the little perks about working in the marketing industry is that there are a plethora of freebies involved. Purging the product closet leads to hauling home an armload of cleaning products or tampons. Sometimes we even get free beer!

On some special occasions, other companies think I have enough power in this world to send me freebies. This virtually never happens so I’ll take it when I can get it. So you can imagine my excitement when I received a package on my desk the other day from a large music label.

I shook the box, like a kid on Christmas Day, trying to discern what treasures might lie inside. I have no patience so I tore into the box and found a stack of CDs and a letter from a potential partner we’ve been chatting with. How lovely! Free music!

I started checking stuff out yesterday and some of the selections, all new artists, are just not my cup o' tea, however there are two gems out of the stack that I’d like to spout off about.

First off is Pink. Sometimes I like her “ass-kicker” music for a good workout, but otherwise I steer clear. Her new album is actually quite good with a lot of acoustic guitar and catchy rock tunes that show off how good of a singer she really is. I’m also now a fan purely because of her song “Hey Mr. President.” It’s brilliant and you must read the lyrics.

My other rave is Mat Kearney. At first I thought this was going to be a Chris Martin copy cat, but then he started rapping – of sorts. Think rapping as in P. Diddy rapping - not a hard edge and kind of wimpy. I’m not sure how, but it works.

Now that my craving for new music is satiated for the week I can happily jaunt down the street with my iPod on a loop. Note to self: must take said music label contact to big fat NYC lunch. Just think of the lovely selections I could score if I offered up free food…

Halted Hiatus

2006-04-20T09:39:00.000-04:00

No, I did not travel anywhere exciting. Work was not overly busy (surprise surprise). My social life has not been overly active. In a nutshell, I’ve been largely indifferent to just about everything. And sadly, I hate being indifferent. There is just too much going on in this world to be indifferent.

What’s my problem then? Well, I think I’ve just needed a break from thinking. Have you ever had those times that life just sucks you completely bone dry, leaving you with no energy? Well, I think that was my predicament in February and March. In the midst of the quest to slow my life down, which I can successfully say I’ve gotten a handle on, I’ve had more time to let my whole self do some major catch up, and when one “catches up,” sometimes it’s just nice to sit back and do nothing.

Now it's time to put a stop to my self-inflicted lameness. This weekend will be the blow out of all blow outs in the honor of two amazing friends, I’ve got some fabulous trips coming up: Vegas and London, and I’m still waiting to get more information on my life altering “thing.” All in all, hopefully the next couple of months will be an exciting time for Elle. We shall see.
_______________________________

In a short update: The Thinker never called back. But then again, I never called him either. Given some of this guy’s hang ups I saw on our date, coupled with the no call back, I’m perfectly fine with the situation. There isn’t even a sting of rejection, which tells me there wasn’t really a love connection to begin with. Next!

Un-Nerved

2006-04-11T12:57:00.000-04:00

Have you ever gotten the feeling that your life was in for a very dramatic change? You get that pit in your stomach feeling, woozy nostalgia about how your life currently is and start freaking out about what the hell to do next? Needless to say I’m kind of feeling like I’m in this spot right now.

I can’t go into details because I can’t jinx the situation or dwell on the tiny amount of facts I do know. What I can do is tell myself to calm the eff down and not get ahead of things...hard to do considering I hate being stuck in a state of the uncontrollable unknown.

I'm being incredibly vague I know, however I'm sure I'll have more to say soon. I'll just say this for now: Avenue Elle might be in for some serious road construction…

Sticking to the Rules

2006-04-10T10:34:00.000-04:00

A few weeks back I was in need of a major sanity kick in the pants and I instilled some ground rules to abide by. I thought I’d throw out a little update on my progress.

Here’s a refresher of the basics…

Work out at least 3 times a week.
Cook at home more.
Instill a three drink maximum at every social outing.
Get to work at 8:30am and leave by 6:30pm
Start sticking to a budget.
Watch less TV and read more books.
Try to get at least 7 hours of sleep a night

There are three rules that have been immensely more difficult to stick to than the others…

Rule 3 has been difficult for obvious reasons. I’ve broken it by a smidge a couple times and I severely over did it on one occasion.

Rule 6 is hard to stick to as well considering I’m a sucker for movies and Sunday morning political commentary. I’m not one to waste away watching reality TV or entertainment news shows (although I have my moments), rather I enjoy sitting comfortably on my couch with a cup of coffee while watching Tim Russert or AMC.

Finally, the hardest one to follow has been rule 5. I will say that eating in and keeping the booze intake at a minimum are helping in my efforts for reaching devine uber-frugalness, but I’m in serious need of revamping my spending habits. To top it off, the desire for new spring fashion additions in my closet are not helping my predicament.

As for the rest of the rules, I’ve been pretty good at sticking 99.9% to 1, 2, 4 & 7. Even from just this small amount of progress, it’s obvious that setting some ground rules for myself has been a wise decision. I’ve still got a ways to go of course, but I can honestly say my goals are helping to get me back to where I feel I want to be. I’m calmer, my energy levels are higher, my head is clearer and I’m not permanently walking around with a scowl on my face. All good things.

It’s funny how it took an active decision on my part to get to this point, but that just makes it all the more clear that my current problematic state of mind won’t solve itself. As my wise mother has always said: Everything is a choice. Hence, I must chose to make my life what I want it to be.

Tears on the Job

2006-04-08T11:57:00.000-04:00

In the vast world of marketing there are many different types of people. As one works their way up the ranks and subsequent increase in responsibility, it becomes quite apparent that many, glom into just two: 1) relatively normal and 2) beaten puppies.

Yesterday at work was the pinnacle of seeing all the beaten puppies of the world come together in the name of stress and essentially lose all emotional control. My particular niche of marketing is made up of predominantly women, so you can imagine what estrogen overload at the workplace equates to…unadulterated hell.

Yesterday I saw more people cry at work than any other day in my professional career. I wasn’t exactly having a stellar day myself, however it was made worse by tensions rising throughout the day as all the beaten puppies in the office decided to tear up and lose it. Call it an overabundance of work in a time period that is notorious for new business, planning for next year and burn out from being under the gun for end of year results. It’s a bitch, but most of us manage to keep it together don’t we?

When the little ones tear up and cry, all of us middle-level plebes start to worry about what the top dogs think we’re doing to these girls. My co-workers and I are by NO MEANS slave drivers. Quite the contrary. We are the ones that turn beaten puppies back into normal people, but this process of serving as Dr. Freud on the job just adds to my stress level.

In conclusion of my little rant. I hope all the beaten puppies went home last night, had a glass or two of wine, kicked their feet up and watched Meg Ryan movies, because I don’t think I can take another week of tears. I might just be one of them if it comes to that.

Bravo Massachusetts...

2006-04-06T12:11:00.000-04:00

...Once again, you’re ahead of the rest of the country on being proactive about social issues. Recently, it was gay rights, now it’s universal healthcare. Brilliant.

Yesterday, the state became the first state to offer health insurance for every single one of their residents. The plan is expected to cover 515,000 uninsured people within three years, which is about 95 percent of the state's uninsured population. This will leave less than 1 percent of the population unprotected.

Massachusetts was of course motivated by the ineptitude of the federal government. In sum, they are moving on the deal as a result of a threat by the federal government to eliminate $385 million in federal Medicaid money unless the state reduced the number of uninsured people. Compassion. Out the window.

Now let’s just hope other states get onboard with this idea. It’s a step in the right direction to get this country back on track.

Mass. to provide near-total healthcare UPI

No More Fish In The Sea

2006-04-05T11:13:00.000-04:00

Recall the old line “There are plenty of fish in the sea?” Well, according to an article posted last week, that old line, when applied literally, no longer rings true.

According to the study, oxygen deprived “dead zones” in the ocean are causing male zebrafish to be born, outnumbering females 3-to-1. As if the sausage-fish-fest wasn’t bad enough, the precious few females that are born have testosterone levels about twice as high as normal. The culprit? Hypoxia - a lack of oxygen in water.

Does any one else think this sounds oddly analogous to the NYC dating scene?

I’ll explain…

We already know NYC breeds uber-independence, so let’s say for argument’s sake that NYC as a whole is a “dead zone.” “Oxygen” could be any number of things. Perhaps it’s a lack of sex, holding certain attitudes toward commitment, an over exertion of self-esteem, it runs the gamut of possibilities and psychoanalysis.

So, due to this mysterious “human-hypoxia-effect,” the few precious females that are left over and available have “testosterone levels” that are twice as high leading to their undesirability. Testosterone in this little scenario could equate to success, intelligence, good looks; basically the more “testosterone,” the less desirable.

(OK…there is the possibility that some single women really do have higher testosterone levels, but that’s a different topic for a different time)

Of course there is the caveat that women outnumber men in NYC by 1.4 to 1, however that doesn’t diminish my speculation that quality female singletons are left over because of too much “testosterone.”

In sum, my convoluted analogy equates to this question: why is it that New York women that seemingly have it together remain oddly single in the city due to this “hypoxia?”

As one of two million single women in New York City, I’m hoping for someone to add some oxygen back into my wading pool…

Oxygen Starved Fish Looking for Ladies CNN.com

Date Update

2006-04-03T11:39:00.000-04:00

How does one assess how a date goes? Usually people dwell on things in hindsight and partake in ample amounts of self-reflection. To be honest, the process is nullifying. Replaying a date in one’s mind can cause a person to go crazy with questions that don't really matter. Did I over do it on that topic? Did he think I was too forward? Did I look ok? It’s a never-ending cycle of insecure assessments.

When in these situations it's important to take a step back and assess to overall feeling of the date. For example, was the conversation easy? Was there a feeling of attraction? Was there an air of putting on a front? Was there any game playing? If it was easy in an overall sense, that’s a good sign in my book.

In the case of my date with the Thinker, I can say that things were easy. At least from my perspective. Here’s the recap:

We met for drinks and sushi around 6:30…smiles and conversation came easily as we tried to catch up on the basics. In fact, the conversation was flowing so quickly, we went off onto tangents frequently and had to back track to previous topics.

Post sushi, we walked through the village and stopped for some wine. We talked about politics, history, relationships…again, all sorta came very easy. I did notice he was very passionate about certain topics, making me see that we could easily get into arguments about stuff if we weren’t on our best date behavior. By midnight, the date came to an end. He walked me to the subway and we smooched for a bit. We confessed we both had a good time and called it a night.

Would I go out with him again? Probably. Will he call? I have no idea. I’d like to think that things went well (given the easy convo, prolonged date and end-of-night smooch), however one never really does know do they? Given my post-date self-reflection and hindsight, I can definitely pick out moments of shoulda, woulda, coulda’s, however at the end of the day I know I need to just stop the dwelling and let it be what it will be. It’s this reason alone, why so many people hate dating…rejection.

At the end of the day, dating shouldn’t feel forced and we shouldn’t take it personally if the other person didn’t like what they saw. All we can do is be comfortable with ourselves, and hope someday the right one will come along.

Ah, optimism…sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps a single girl going.

Date!

2006-03-30T09:26:00.000-05:00

Sound the alarms! We have a date set up with the Thinker for tomorrow night. Man, I thought I’d never see the day!

The latest was that I called him last weekend and left yet another message. I thought it had totally fizzled out, however I received an email yesterday, which said the following:

"I really enjoyed those early emails and was excited to meet you. But if we can't even make plans for one phone call or date then how could we have time for a real relationship? Anyway, I know I've been all over the place too, but I'd still love to meet you."

Of course, given my newfound zest for slowing life down, I adamantly agreed with him and pushed for a meet up this week. It’s time to just get this over with already!

It’s weird actually. This date will be unlike others since we’ve been “talking,” literally, for weeks. Due to the circumstances, I consider the ice to be broken so the date will either be a rousing success or a massive failure. It will all be based on whether or not there is that proverbial spark, and enough of a spark for Thinker and I to actually want to work around our schedules more regularly.

We shall see how it all turns out…

Do You Keep Secrets?

2006-03-29T11:16:00.000-05:00

Everyone has them. Whether it is a childhood memory you can’t stand to share with the best of friends, or something you did or thought recently that’s causing you inner turmoil. Secrets range from small personal turmoil to life-altering confessions, which can rock a person’s existence to the core.

I’m not one to keep many secrets about myself, since I consider being an open book to be a healthy habit. In fact, I’ve sometimes shared too much, but at least it’s out there and I can get real advice or thought from the people that matter in my life.

While watching the news this morning, I saw a story about Frank Warren, a man who started up a community art project surrounding secrets. He asked people to send him anonymous postcards with their clandestine thoughts inscribed on them. He receives over 200 postcards per day and has received over 25,000 to date. Mr. Warren even started a blog, called postsecret, to showcase some of the amazing cards he gets in daily. His little project is now being turned into a book.

So why is Mr. Warren’s secret art project so interesting? Honestly, it has nothing to do with each individual's plight; rather it is a fascinating look at human nature. Cheating, committing crimes, self-image, thought processes on interpersonal relationships…it’s all there, presented on colorful and poignant postcards. It’s a window into a person’s brain on what is literally eating them alive.

Check it out; you’ll be surprised at what kinds of things average people are keeping locked away from even the closest people they know.

Blogger gives dark secrets the first-class treatment USA Today

Fear vs. Desensitization: Which is Worse?

2006-03-27T18:36:00.000-05:00

A moment of seriousness...

We’re all aware that it takes some major sensationalizing to make a product or social issue come to the forefront of our minds. The mentality that instilling fear into the public will cause action is a well-known motivation factor for us here in America. Picture a mass exodus to pick up canned goods and water when they announce a possible black out or a case of the bird flu. Or perhaps an average, understanding person turning against others because the government keeps telling them that “certain people” pose a risk to national security, thus making that person racially prejudiced. Fear is a catalyst for not only extreme behavior but also ignorance.

The New York Times recently touched on this briefly as it relates to health issues. The article was entitled: When Disease Loses Its Most Potent Ally, Fear. Disease is probably an area that this fear vs. desensitization issue comes into play more often than not. SARS, Bird Flu, Mad Cow…it’s amazing how crazy people get over these things. Especially when they don’t even recognize that obesity or smoking is killing tens of thousands more each year than all of the aforementioned combined.

On the flip side, we are also aware that too much of pushing an issue will cause society to get bored with hearing about it, as the Times article points out. Think the current state of the education or health care systems; contracting STDs or caring about our environment. People are so sick of hearing about all the problems that we have to deal with that they tune out altogether.

I feel that the current state of the American perspective is largely a battle between fear and desensitization and I don’t know what’s worse. Having Americans constantly afraid, leading to massive consumption of un-needed things and borderline mis-truths, or having the general populace not giving a shit and being ignorant to things that do need to be tended to? It’s a fine line these days, but I hope at least some of you can see through the fear mongering and actually care about things that matter to you.

There is too much going on these days to be indifferent.

Rules for Sanity

2006-03-26T12:07:00.000-05:00

If you read this blog often enough you know that I often bitch about how worn out I feel. Everything from being “too social,” to working long hours, to spending too much money, to not finding time to really talk with people…I could go on.

My weekend of borderline solitude, coupled with all the latest news-talk about sleep disorders and how brain functioning severely depreciates when it doesn’t get adequate rest, has lead me to believe that I need to stop the complaining and do something about my current state of being. Call it a penalty of the New York lifestyle if you will, but this Midwesterner has decided that the unhealthy pace of life needs some serious reigning in. Therefore, here are my proposed action points to remedy the situation:

Work out at least 3 times a week. No bailing or bitching allowed.
Cook at home more.
Instill a three drink maximum at every social outing. (This inspired by my friend Ivy, and will clearly allow me to dismiss the disclaimer for obnoxious behavior that I so often put out there before the night gets dicey).
Get to work at 8:30am and leave by 6:30pm (Of course extenuating circumstances do apply, but this will be my daily goal).
Start sticking to a budget. (Clearly, sticking to items 2 & 3 will assist in this aspiration)
Watch less TV and read more books.
Try to get at least 7 hours of sleep a night (I figure this will work out if I stick to all of the items listed above).

I wonder if I can do it all. That’s a tall order for a gal who’s gotten used to a certain way of life. It will take an active thought process and a few social sacrifices to slow things down, but I really think if I stick to it my brain will start functioning in a smart way again and I will truly welcome the clarity that I hope to gain. I need to enjoy life more instead of feeling stuck in a constant game of catch-up. I’m tired of being tired.

iDeath

2006-03-25T11:37:00.000-05:00

Today is a difficult day for me. As I was walking out of work last night, happily listening to some shuffled music on my iPod, I advanced to the next song and something happened…my iPod died. I literally stopped in my tracks and stood there staring wondering if what had just happened, really happened.

As people passed me by on that curbside (think: slow motion), I tried to revive my dear iPod, but to no avail. All I got was a tech support web address and a picture of a Mac with a question mark in the monitor. *Tear*

I am literally paralyzed today. I certainly can’t go to the gym without iPod. I can’t traverse the city. I can’t even listen to happy tunes in the comfort of my own home. What’s a girl to do?

Of course, I have a date with either Best Buy or the Apple store Genius Bar, however the last couple of genius bar visits were not so fruitful. I felt like I was waiting at the eye doctor. You know, the lone doctor in your rolodex that makes you wait upwards of an hour just to have a machine tell you how blind you are. It’s infuriating.

Anyway, I’ll be in mourning today until I know that iPod can come back to life. The thought of bringing an actual CD to the gym, so I have something to run to, is just too much to take right now. I guess until it’s fixed the soundtrack of my life will just inherently be more quiet…sigh!