Friday, February 29, 2008

A Brush With Greatness

I'm leaving for the West Coast tomorrow at the crack of dawn for six days of family visits and work. I'm already feeling like the brutal cold of the East Coast winter has worn down any of my shiny exterior veneer so I decided to sneak in a facial after work to slough off a layer of this dreary season. Got to look good for my home town peeps and all.

I discovered a small place in Chelsea that offers a series of spa like services, tailored specifically (but not exclusively) to men. I love the owner, Anna, who like me is a California transplant. She's funky, edgy, funny and one of those people that I bounded with the moment we met. She's the woman who treated me to that ionic foot bath that sucked all the bad minerals, waste and karma out of my system so she's already witnessed firsthand my vices (as they exited so exuberantly from the soles of my feet). Her little venue is called Mortal Man.

A few days ago, I called her to move my appointment back a half hour. When I got her answering machine, the message carried a distinctly familiar voice which announced the spa, its hours and the like. Can it be? I know that voice? Is it an imitator? Then the voice proclaimed, "Mortal Man. Make it work! Carry On!" Sweet screaming Jesus--it WAS Tim Gunn.

So of course the moment I arrived at the spa, I pressed Anna about the message. She was totally cool, "Oh, Tim is one of my clients. He did that message as a favor to me." Oh Lord. So as I sprawled out on the table and as she exfoliated my forehead and cheeks, I plied her with questions. Did Tim lay on this same table? What does he say about the people on "Project Runway?" Who is going to win season 4? Is Nina Garcia a bitch or a softie in real life? Did he hate Wendy Pepper? Who does he think is the most talented? Does he agree with the judges' choices? Is Michael Kors a prima donna in real life? Is Heidi nice? Does he like his new gig with Liz Claiborne? Will his "Guide to Style" show be renewed?

She answered all these questions and more. I could go into a lot of detail, but I can tell you a few things. Tim couldn't reveal the winner of season 4 (of course) but he did throw out this tantalizing tidbit, "The winner was in danger of being eliminated early in the show but they really bounced back." Nina is very competitive and not so nice. Kors has an entourage now that he has a new burst of fame from "Project Runway." Heidi is wonderful. Pepper is a bitch. And his other Bravo show, "Tim's Guide to Style" has been renewed but they've dropped his co-host Veronica Webb because she was so nasty. He does not have a new co-host yet. I told Anna that I'd like that job. I hope she passes that along to Tim. (I hope, I hope, I hope). He thinks that this season's designers are the best yet and they are all very professional. He thinks Christian is the only example of a true fashion prodigy that's he's seen on the show thus far. Tim is as nice and modest in real life as he seems on TV. I could go on.

By the way, the facial was great too. Tim has beautiful skin so I'd chalk that up to Anna's skills. This may become a new habit.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

BSD

I worked in the New York office today and that experience always offers me multiple intriguing blogging options: overheard conversations, strange people/fashions/overheard dialogues/behaviors on the street during my lunch hour; and conversations with my office homies. Today presented a truly blogworthy opportunity.

I sat in an unoccupied cubicle which shares a wall with an impossibly loud salesperson. She's a WASP masquerading as a Jew, she lives in Westchester and she squeals between sentences. She's blonde and oddly accessorized and awfully chirpy (I am convinced medication is involved somehow). Her phone voice is voluminously high so if you have the pleasure of sitting alongside her with only a flimsy partition separating you, you'll learn everything about this woman whether you wish to or not. Her syllables are sharp and deliberate. Her tone is giddy with sing-songy accents. It's a miracle I didn't walk around and throttle her today after listening to a discourse with her gynecologist ("How can I have vaginal warts? That's impossible").

During one of her conversations today, I heard her take a call from a colleague/friend. She was talking about an IM she had received from a friend of hers (she breathlessly reported, "This was so funny! I was telling my babysitter about it this morning!"). The IM contained some of the abbreviated language common to this medium. I heard her cite "BSD." There was a pause then she said, "You don't know what it means? It means 'Big Swinging Dick'." She said the last word sotto voce...for her, anyway. I was next door so I got an earful.

I had to tell my boss Norma. She loves this shit as much as I do.

Of course Norma loved it but she asked the logical question: what does "big swinging dick" mean in the context of an IM? Well, that's a fair question. We had to have a brief discourse on the meaning of "big swinging dick." I offered two suggestions. It could mean pure physical appreciation of a man who is front loaded. He's carrying the goods and this is obvious by the frontal presentation of package (and if you people don't know by now that I am an uncertain package appreciator, return to Go and do not collect $200). I illustrated this by miming a v-shape with my hands at the crotch area; that usually gets the point across. We also interpreted it to mean a person of particular ego, supreme dick-titude and baseless bravado. Since we haven't got the background in this particular instance, this assessment was totally up for interpretation. Still, I have to throw props to Norma for asking, "Was it used as a pronoun?"

Am I missing anything? I value your thoughts.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

My Pork Loving Homies


My friend The Dog Whisperer shares my copious love of pork. Today she sent me a delicious appreciation. May you enjoy our swinish friend...all parts of him. As quoted in this article:

A hearty pig is a leg of ham and a shoulder roast to boot,
His belly and his loin taste good with a garnish of some fruit,
His spare ribs make a sumptuous meal - indeed, from snout to heart,
The pig rewards the frugal chef with a meal from every part.


It's a most perfect foodstuff.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

The Good, The Bad & The Overstyled

This year's Oscar fashions were lacking appalling faux pas and shocking delights. However one particularly appealing trend represented was the plethora of brilliant shades of red on display. Blondes always look sharp in some shades of red, but it takes a dark eyed porcelin skinned brunnette to really rock a true red. Anne Hathaway looked stunning (although I'm still deliberating on the cascading flowers; it reminds me of cheap holiday garnish).
Now, I'm a drama queen by nature, so I confess the dress worn by Heidi Klum really appealed to me. You could hurt a man (or Seal) with that train. There were other bright displays of color as well. Here, Kelly Preston wore a school bus yellow gown that reflected effectively off the shellacked Ken dolls she carted on both arms. Taxidermy is such a wonderful science. Maternity chic was clearly front and center (though, Cate, what up with that neck accessory? It looks like the shell necklaces they sell four for a dollar on the beach in Oahu). Jennifer Garner would look gorgeous naked; instead she chose to channel her inner flamenca. This dress is perfectly fitted althought I tried to imagine what it would be like to use the lady's room at the Kodak Theater while wearing this. That's gotta hurt. Daniel, I love you to bits. And damn, you really did deserve to win the Oscar. But honey, there's no excuse for that suit. And while I admire your talented partner Rebecca Miller, did you pick out her dress? Or breastplate? Or orange bra?Marion Cotillard, you broke our hearts playing Edith Piaf and your Oscar win was a nice upset. Yet, there's a really big fish somewhere near Marseille who, stripped of its scales, suffers tonight at your hands. Let that be on your head.

While Nicole Kidman usually pulls off something elegant and dramatic, this chainmail accessorizing was not working for me.

This looks good with Cameron's tan and the dress color is divine, but was this actually fitted? Doesn't appear so from the back, if you ask me.

Amy Adams looked so stunning in this. Fabu-lousness.

Oh, Jennifer. Why? Were you listening to Andre Leon Talley again? It looks like you're smuggling puppies.

And the worst of the night? It has to be the very talented (and Oscar award winner) Tilda Swinton in what appears to be a Hefty cinch sack. Oh, honey. Please don't do that in 2009 when you present "Best Supporting Actor." We won't think any less of you.

So that's my take. What were your picks?

Monday, February 25, 2008

The Skeeve Meter

Someone at work had picked up some children's cards that featured a cheerful, goofy clown. I saw them sitting on her desk and I had a completely physical reaction. My lips curled back, a shiver ran through me, my skin tightened. I simply can't handle clowns in any way, shape or form.

Perhaps I had a traumatic childhood event at the Barnum & Bailey's circus that I have chosen to blank out, but to this day if I see anyone is clown guise (even something as simple as the red nose), I recoil in horror. And God help them if they approach me for it's likely I might attack them in my sheer and unreasonable terror.

Once I recovered from the shock of seeing the clown cards, I started thinking if there was anything else that causes such a physical reaction. I categorize it as my "Skeeve Meter." There are few items that would qualify as HIGH on the meter, but clowns are at the top. They would be followed by:

-Mimes (they're practically cousins to the clown);
-People in animal costumes with big heads. Sport Team mascots are included;
-Cockroaches;
-Men hocking lugies, especially if it is proceeded by a particularly boisterous collection of said phlegm in their throats first (OK, I almost threw up in my mouth just typing this);
-Really gelatinous foodstuffs (aspic comes to mind).

And mercifully, that's really about it. What scores high on your skeeve meter?

Jimmy Kimmel Replies

Here's Jimmy Kimmel's response to Sarah Silverman's "I'm Fucking Matt Damon" video. It's not as funny as Silverman's video but there are lots of campy celebrity cameos.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Oscar Night


When I was a kid, I couldn't wait for Oscar night. I loved watching the parade of dresses and reveled in the pageantry of the climactic choices. As I got older, I became proficient in making the right choices (even in upsets) and I pocketed a fair amount of coin in the many office pools. For once, I've seen a few of the nominated features and here I offer my predictions for tonight's winners:

Best Film -"No Country For Old Men"
Best Director - The Coen Brothers "No Country For Old Men"
Best Actor - Daniel Day-Lewis, "There Will Be Blood"
Best Actress - Julie Christie, "Away From Her"
Best Supporting Actor - Javier Bardem, "No Country For Old Men" (How scary is a man in a page boy haircut?)
Best Supporting Actress - Ruby Dee, "American Gangster"
Best Screenplay - "Juno"
Best Editing - "The Bourne Ultimatum"
Art Direction - "There Will Be Blood"
Cinematography - "The Diving Bell & The Butterfly"
Costume Design - "Sweeney Todd"
Original Score - "Atonement"

And that annoying but catchy song from "Once" will win too. I love and hate it.

I'd like to stay and chat but the show is starting soon.

The Oscar fashion discourse must take place tomorrow.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

A Woman to Aspire To

As girls growing up we have several real life role models we seek to emulate; we also have celebrity role models that set a bar for the woman we want to be. For me, that was and is Catherine Deneuve.

As a child, my mother dragged me to see an art film because no one else wanted to go with her. I couldn't read the subtitles well but I found the visual interplay fascinating. The film was "Belle de Jour." I was only five years old, but the golden brilliance of Ms. Deneuve overwhelmed me. With her gleaming halo of hair, flashing eyes and overt sophistication, she was a woman I wanted to be. Now, I didn't actually realize this at age five, but the film interested me enough to later invest a fair amount of time watching a great deal of French cinema (I love you, Francois Truffaut!) and I came to appreciate Ms. Deneuve in particular. Not only was she the epitome of sensual and chic Parisian, she had touching depth of emotion as an actress. She was strong, she was undeniably womanly and well, she dressed so damned well. She always looked perfectly pulled together.

I sometimes think I keep the hairstyle that I do because of Ms. Deneuve's classic blond mane. I like her elegant style and confident sense of self as a woman. She makes a physical statement when she comes into a room. I wanted to do that too. As I've gotten older, I wonder if a woman can still maintain a sense of elegant, intriguing charm. Ms. Deneuve has done so; I hope I can do that too.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Snow Day

The weathercasters on television here have a decided penchant for overreacting when they see a storm front moving on an Easterly trek across the nation. The stations create alarming graphics that exclaim "Winter Storm 2008!" and grave predictions are spewed forth like soothsayers foretelling an impending swarm of locusts.

Such was the case here as of Wednesday when meteorologists shook with fervor as they predicted a winter storm arriving in this area today. Well, these weather folk have been wrong and this thought was in my head yesterday at work as I shut my computer down for the day. After all, Thursday was a chilly day but the sun was brilliantly bright and the conditions were dry. Still I cautioned Hollaback to pack up her laptop and her work accoutrements in the remote chance we'd be storm bound. I did the same, albeit skeptically.

This morning when Fang rolled out of bed, he stopped at the window and glanced out at the street. "Oh you are SO not driving to Connecticut today," he said, "baby's got a snow day." I went to the window and peeked out. This is what I saw: You know, it's not so bad working from home once in awhile.

Don't Try This At Home

Brooklyn Sue sends me the craziest videos (go figure--she's an artist after all). This one is right up there.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

What DO Men Want?


At the risk of asking the age old question--can anyone tell me what men really want in a woman? Is it someone who challenges them and sparks the far reaches of their minds? Is it someone who makes them feel like Superman in the bedroom and a master of their domain in the rest of the house? Is it a person who is their equal in all respects, who exemplifies the true definition of "partner?" I still haven't figured out this stupid dichotomy.

While this is a loaded question for an easy Thursday night, I will cite this: I do know one thing for sure. That whole Madonna/whore syndrome most certainly does exist. For any of us who enjoyed adventurous sex and risky abandon prior to a marriage, we know that we represented at some point in our lives a legit and appealing whore (presumably with intellectual equal) to the men in our lives. One those little bands of hard won gold slide down a finger, not much else is going down in a marriage (pardon the obvious euphemism). If you think you'll ever get fucked in the backseat of a car again (even by your husband), you have another thing coming. You're suddenly "better" than that. You are a wife, a participating member of a family and the most holy of holy, the potential mother of this man's children. Cue ecclesiastical music now and don your halo. You have migrated to The Madonna. Preserve your vaginas, girls, for it may possibly be enshrined. You are a relic and therefore, to be honored and respected and perhaps reverently handled.

It would be far too easy to blame Catholic school for this one. And even easier to blame the man's mother. Perhaps the origin can be squarely placed in the hands of the male mind. I suspect some organic make up suggests a clear status separation between a woman you are dating (a woman that is as disposable as a soiled wet nap as she shows signs of wear) and the woman you marry (and her truly significant role as a mother). I recognize this requires some deliberation.

The fact is this; men are wonderful creatures and undeniably, we adore them. It's no mystery--we are continually drawn to them. Personally, I value their candor, their overt charms, and their genuine lay-it-on-the-line sweetness. I count on a man to be forthright and fun. Most of them are. They swagger with a natural confidence and crumble with earnestness. I won't degrade their sex by generalizing in black and white terms. Indeed it seems to be me that they are as complex as their female counterparts.

But let's get back to the whole Madonna/whore thing. The lesson to be gleaned from tonight's diatribe should be thus--if you marry, be prepared to be adored but perhaps not fulfilled as a woman. If you don't chose said path you will probably be parenthetically lonely but you will (theoretically)have a hell of a lot of fun. Perhaps that is why a lot of single women own cats---cats provide some aspect of maintenance in a routine but the cats don't talk back. And the single gals get the high hard one too. They may be the lucky ones.

It's a loosely realized theory so know that I welcome your comments; good, bad, angry--they are all sound voices.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Snarky Ironies


The last 48 hours have been fraught with a few deliciously snarky ironies. A girl takes her petty pleasures where she may. Here are a few case studies.

-I flew out to Phoenix on Monday for a 36 hour odyssey in order to persuade some pharmaceutical muckity mucks to buy annual sponsorship in a quarterly publication. One did bite (essentially) so that will mean $100K to the corporate coffers and validation for the expense of my trip. Because I was planning only an overnight trip, I had with me only one pair of shoes--a pair of impossibly uncomfortably three inch black stiletto slingbacks. While they served their purpose for business, by the time I was ready to head back to the airport, I was in pain. The notion of a four hour+ pink eye flight home in these heinous shoes (after wearing them for two days straight) was too much to bear. I had 20 minutes before my cab was to arrive at the hotel; I high tailed it to a mall next door, found an Ann Taylor store and bought a sweet pair of bow embellished suede black flats. They had to be comfortable. I'm such an asshole. The suede flats had little give. By the time I shoved by air-swollen dogs in these sweet little slippers when the flight descended in New York, I yowled in discomfort. They cut my heels. They pursed my toes. Walking to baggage check, I was praying for my stilettos. Those flat motherfuckers are going to Goodwill.

-On the aforementioned flight, I sat next to a very skinny woman who I came to know during the course of the flight. She was from New Canaan, a rather ritzy area of Connecticut. Her husband was a successful bonds trader in Manhattan and she was a mother of three who was taking a challenging six month course at the French Culinary Institute so she could make tarts. She was clearly privileged and someone who enjoyed a charmed, easy life. At one point she arose from her seat to remove something from her Hermes bag. Out tumbled a distressed Almond Joy candy wrapper. Instinctively, I retrieved it from the ground and handed it to her. Her face dropped and while taking the wrapper from my hand uttered, "Oh...busted."

-Arriving home from work tonight, I got to the building elevator and saw another woman coming down through the vestibule. Because I have my moments of good etiquette, I waited and held the door for the woman to get to the elevator. She started to walk past the elevator, saw I was confining the door and reluctantly got on. After I inquired to her floor and pressed the button on her behalf, she volunteered, "Well, I usually walk up." Now, I had pressed the tenth floor for her so I had to ask, "You walk ten flights of stairs?" She nodded and then said, "I once read an article that said if you walk up ten flights of stairs a day, you can lose ten pounds a month." Now she was a petite, slim woman so I said, "It must work. You're quite slim." "Oh, I've always been slim," she retorted, "I just like to keep firm." I agreed she appeared very firm, but I didn't have the heart to tell her it would take Restalyne and not ten flights of stairs to firm her face.

-On the aforementioned flight back to New York last night, we came in over Manhattan. I always enjoy this flight path and never tire of it for if the night is clear (and it was last night), the outline of my intense borough is as concise as the maps posted in the subway. The island is such a perfect grid--when lit, it's as if an intrepid child took a Lite Brite kit and fashioned a grid, leaving a small darkened square patch for Central Park. I may be old and I may be cynical but the beauty of my little patch of the world was clear. There's my neighborhood and the George Washington Bridge. There’s midtown and Times Square with blazing lights. There's the tip of the Empire State Building and the scalloped edges of the Chrysler Building. There's downtown with the MetLife Building and the lit hole that is still Ground Zero. From this height, it is perfection and I revel in its symmetrical beauty. This morning while firmly on the streets of my beloved island, I see clearly all its rough and ratty earmarks which lack the pristine clarity spied through the evening skies.

And oddly, I appreciate them both.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Life At A Standstill at Grand Central

My dear pal Brooklyn Sue sent me this link today. It documented a genius stunt that took place at Grand Central last week. It certainly freaked the bejesus out of more than a few Westchester commuters. I wish I had witnessed it live. Shades of "The Fisher King."

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Wordsmith


Hollaback is one of those people who is a bona fide wordsmith. She comes up with superb words that I feel must be introduced into the lexicon of popular language. My favorite? Fucktard. I think this word needs no introduction. I use it alot now. Another word? Asshat. As in Asshattery. I presume headgear and a bad attitude are involved. She's been using masturbatory with frequency lately (especially when I describe work sales meetings with overly self confident sorts). It's appropriate.

Any new words you'd like to share?

Saturday, February 16, 2008

I'm So Done With Winter


This bloody cold weather; I'm done with it. I hate wearing four layers of clothing and looking like The Michelin Man. I feel bulky, restricted and harnassed in my clothing. It's uncomfortable and it's making me very grumpy.

It's at this point in the season where I am utterly exasperated. I deplore trawling through the closet searching for an appropriate coat, scarf and other cold weather accoutrements. My skin feels like burlap from exposure to the elements, despite continued and copious applications of moisturizer. And what's worse, it's not tempting to go outside and enjoy this city when it's cold and the wind is whipping around your ears. Screw it--it's better to spread your fat ass on the couch and watch a "Rock of Love" marathon on VH1 instead.

It's just when you get to this point that you get that little slice of hope that keeps you going. Today I passed a local garden space (and it was a 6 ft. by 6 ft. area). In the frozen soil I saw a shaft of green emerge from frigid ground. The promise it boldly presented of a pristine spring, renewal and new life was inspiring. Really, it takes so little.

I had an epiphany while looking at that single blade of green. I saw that with the spring there may be a change for me. Something this year will be different. A rebirth? I couldn't tell you what it was, but let's hope it's interesting. Watch this space.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Slave To Fashion


It always seems weird to me that designers are showing fashions for the upcoming Fall season in winter, but fashion week is for the retailers as well as us armchair connoisseurs; stores have got to be properly stocked in due course for prospective shoppers scoping out their September trench coats.

Of course, we must look to fashion week here in New York to set the tone for what will be the must-have items for the season. I like to have an inkling of what those things will be so I can weigh whether or not it's worth keeping that neon jacket with the zippers from 1983 for one more year. My Manhattan apartment doesn't have THAT much closet space and hard choices have to be made. The heady question: will it come back into fashion or is it doomed to Goodwill? I really fucked it up with that whole platform shoe thing a few years back so I'm a tad gun-shy.

Drawing on a few sources post-Fashion Week, these appear to be the hottest trends for fall:

-Black-clad Femme Fatale - Aw, come on. That never goes out of style.

-Fur - Faux, I hope. I am with PETA on this one.

-Grey Dresses - Classic. Who doesn't look good in grey?

-Slouchy-Chic, High-Waisted Trousers - Please. No one looks good in this style, Grandma.

-Metallics - Still loving this trend, but limit your metallic largesse on shoes and accessories. Anything too big has HOOKER written all over it.

-Color, Color & More Color - More jewel tones, please. They ignite anyone who wears them.

-Hats - Bring back the huge picture hat, please, but ditch the Von Dutch trucker hats.

-Spats - Fop, marching band member, bagpiper or fashionista. You decide.

-Touches of Classic Red - Oh. Yes. Please. And I recommend that touch of red be lipstick. Christian Dior, Tres Dior, Classic Red. Or MAC's Viva Glam Russian Red. Or Chanel's Classic #12.

-Hitchcock Blondes - Yeah, baby. I am all over that sophsiticated Kim Novak/Tippi Hendren look. Shame you practically blister your head achieving it.

-Asian Influenced Florals - A timeless trend as far as I am concerned. I envision a chinois trench in my future this fall.

I suppose trend interpretation is open to all of us. This week I wore something to a client meeting that I was dubious about (actually it was an accessory which was very bold but something I was comfortable wearing). I sought a second opinion from a trusted source. Jewels said sagely, "You could wear a maxi pad stuck to your head. No one should question it at all. You merely have to say is, 'It's Fashion Week, people." Apparently that provides everyone a brief exemption of fashion sins.

That works for me.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

I Hate Valentine's Day

Call me a cynic, but I am no advocate of the holiday called Valentine's Day. I squarely blame Hallmark for creating yet another holiday based on a martyred saint that forces people to purchase gaudy pink cards and *shiver* balloons that proclaim "I love you" and the scourge of the flower race, red roses. Let's be honest, there's a cottage industry in creating popular holidays that serve only to fuel sentimentality which then improves the retail economy. Bah!

While that's one aspect of my issue with Valentine's Day, there are other deep seeded reasons why I think this particular holiday is unhealthy.

1. The pressure it creates on our menfolk to deliver is horrendous. Fang and I have ignored this holiday for twenty years. That makes us freakish by all standards (and well, we are). But most normal people consider this day sacred in the annals of a relationship. A woman has an expectation of some sort of floral largesse, some expression of passionate outpouring expressed in physical substance and a romantic dinner at some place with flattering lighting and goddamn rose petals. Most men are procrastinators and will wait till the day before. Then, they panic, spend far too much money for flower delivery, a dinner with a padded prix fixe menu and whatnot. You have to hope the gesture alone will get them laid. At least. It's horrendous pressure and still, you can be sure that despite their best efforts, something will get fucked up. Arguments ensue. You have to feel for menfolk on this day. I do.

2. On the other hand, there is the dynamic of the female posturing. This usually happens at work when the flower deliveries start to come in. They retrieve their bounty in the bottle green vases and parade them around the longest route to their desk, showing off their value to the envy of their co-workers. They post the vase in a prominent spot (generally at the top of a high file cabinet so it can be seen from a three mile radius). Like peacocks strutting for a mate, the women flaunt their in-office bounty as if to say to the other hens, "Look at me. I am loved, desired and valued. Take it, bitches." Well, that's actually cool if that makes them feel good, but there is a profound downside. The single, the lonely, the uncertain feel this sting from the peacocks most deeply. Not everyone has guilted their man into spending far more than he should. They won't say anything, being a polite society and all, but the worst of it is this: it's not a question of having a mate that undermines these souls--it's a question of their perception of their self-worth. The day may look different tomorrow, but in principle, it's always wrong to bring a sister down.

If we need to have a Valentine's Day, why not make it everyday. There’s the same sweet strain of the violin playing daily. It's there. So just go and capture it.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

The Fickle Finger of Temptation


Occasionally at work, I'll receive an e-mail from some industry or publishing organization that blasts a listing of current job openings. I'll usually glimpse at them, not because I'm looking for a job, but to see which of our competitors have lost which key staffers. It's a jungle out there, you know, so it pays to keep one step ahead of the competition.

Today I received a listings blast from a large publishing industry organization and there at the top of the list was my ultimate dream job: Advertising Director at US Weekly Magazine. My first thought was "Wow, if I had that job, I wouldn't have to pay for my subscription anymore." I then read the job description and realized I was more than qualified to do the job. The final qualification had me in its thrall: "Candidate will have a finger on the pulse of contemporary culture." I couldn't get over the notion that I could be paid for possessing expertise generally categorized as utterly useless. And the job is based in Manhattan. Oh, sweet temptation.

I forwarded the listing to Jewels. He replied in his usual succinct fashion, "I say go for it! You can use me as a reference. Then once you get the job, you can invite me to all the social functions and we can make fun of everyone." That's right; I had forgotten about the social functions and interaction with celebrity. My, my.

It didn't take long for the smack of reality to seep in. Consumer publishing and the consumer ad market is wildly, viciously competitive and turnover is high. More than that aspect (which actually doesn't intimidate me..much), the simple fact is, I really, really like my current job. I thoroughly enjoy the people I work with. I like the opportunities and responsibilities that I've been entrusted with. I genuinely take pride in the products we produce. And most importantly, I am having fun. Everyday, I do have fun.

Funny these choices that come to you at the strangest times, but I believe they surface to force you to take stock of your current situation...and to perhaps make you appreciate it that much more. That's quite a reality check.

Uno!


For the first time ever in the history of The Westminister Kennel Club, a beagle has taken best in show honors. Uno, a 3 year old, beat out two poodles, a Sealyham terrier, a Weimaraner, an Australian shepherd and an Akita.

We had a beagle as a family pet when I was growing up and they are such sweet creatures (to say nothing of that whole Snoopy connection). All hail the beagle!

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

The Big Night Out


So the night was a success and my new basic black dress worked for all intensive purposes. Here's a couple of old broads making the most of it to prove it (I'm the old broad on the right). Glad that's over and done..!

The Morning Ride

I'm in the City today and have the pleasure of subway commuting with the masses at rush hour. Maybe I'm getting spoiled by the cushy comfort of my morning drive to Connecticut, but today's ride was rife with unpleasantness.

So to the person who decided to release a highly noxious fart in the jam packed confines of an overheated subway car, shame on you. To the woman pressed into the seat next to me who reeked of cabbage and celery, please ask a family member to do a sniff test on you before you step out the door. To you, boorish man so obsessed with your blackberry that you completely block the door for people entering and exiting, if you actually looked up, you'd see there were other people on the train besides you. To that street person badgering the masses for a dollar, consider panhandling when you can actually walk the length of the subway car without forcing people into the wall so you can get through to ply your pitch. And to you, obnoxious teenagers who don't understand the expression "use your indoor voice," may you all be struck mute for a good day or two. Or three.

Oh, I'm just loving humanity today.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Showtime!


The actor Roy Scheider died yesterday. When I heard the news, all I could imagine was the reference to his best known role, that of the police chief in "Jaws." While familiarly associated with that blockbuster as well as "The French Connection," Mr. Scheider's best work was clearly his tour de force in "All That Jazz."

"All That Jazz" remains one of those films that is raw, overt and uncomfortably humorous. Scheider's turn as Joe Gideon is flamboyant and edgy. You experience his life ebbing away and from it springs glitzy art. The final sequence, played out in musical sequence (jazz hands included), is grotesquely brilliant. I credit Bob Fosse with the ability to objectively see his own shortcomings as well as his strengths and to infuse them so seamlessly into Joe Gideon. Even more curious was Fosse's accurate prediction of his demise as embodied in Joe's celluloid death.

At the time "All That Jazz" was released, critics called it "self indulgent." Maybe, but critics also compared this film with Fellini’s "8-1/2." Regardless praise was reserved for Scheider who nabbed an Oscar nomination and admiration for a sound display of acting (and singing) chops.

Tomorrow when his obituary appears, we'll all be reminded of his role of Chief Brody in "Jaws." But if you want to honor the actor, please rent "All That Jazz."

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Dress Dilemma

I am attending an industry event on Tuesday night. It's not the kind of evening where I can actually have some fun; yes, it involves donning a cute cocktail dress and some dark eye make-up. However it will also be populated by dull, conservative, back slapping industry types so it'll be work and I will have to be serious. Oy.

I must own ten black cocktail dresses. I went through the effort of trying them on this weekend to see which would work best. The first, a satin BCBG with flared skirt and black net crinoline showed too much boobage for such an affair. As did a black chiffon dress that I love. The sequined tank dress was a little flashy. A layered ruffled Ralph Lauren column dress with spaghetti straps was elegant but perhaps just a bit too bare. The velvet sheath looked too short and so on. Nothing seemed quite right for an event that needed some modicum of gravitas. Aw, fuck. I had to go shopping.

I went to Macy's at Herald Square. I love this flagship store with its nine floors and two buildings. Encompassing an entire city block, one can easily get lost in this massive emporium. I love the old wooden escalators and the open pageantry of the main floor, especially during their annual flower show in April. It's spectacular.

I made my way up to the fourth floor and proceeded to try on dresses. My MO is pretty predictable: I first go for an armful of flashy stuff--the embellished necklines. sequined sheaths, low cut. After the shock of the dressing room reality check (and today it was, "I am shopping for a dress for this event because everything else I have is too hoochie for this event"), I move on to round two. I seek more conservative necklines but with a touch of femininity and flash (fuller skirts, some beading or sequins, maybe a jewel tone color of the dress). Round three is usually "business time". By now, I'm tired and ready to make the practical choice. I aim for a black dress with some pizzazz, feminine without showing too much flesh. I find an Evan Picone chiffon halter dress with knee length flared skirt. I know I can pair this with some edgy Ferragamo sandals that I already own, some inherited Kenneth Jay Lane costume jewelry, a silver clutch and a vintage velvet jacket I bought 15 years ago in Berkeley. Not too offensive for the old boys; girlish enough so I don't feel like a hag.

This is ALREADY work.

Since You Asked


Thanks to a typo on my part, I left many of you confused by an item on last night's post. I'd like to leave you wondering if runching is some nasty sexual practice (and maybe it is) but I meant it in the context of fashion, as Hollaback astutely predicted.

In ruching, a large number of increases are introduced in one row, which are then removed by decreases a few rows later. This produces many small vertical ripples in the fabric, effectively little pleats. The technique of shirring produces a similar effect by gathering the fabric in two parallel rows (not necessarily horizontal), usually by smocking.

A great aesthetic for Project Runway and master drapers like Rami; bad for everyday people who look more like they slept in their clothing.

And there you have it.

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Do Not Attempt

Perhaps it is the litigious nature of our society today, but it seems every commercial on television that portrays some wild extremity (cars driving at 80 mph over an ice mass, a woman pushing her washing machine off a diving board, dogs freestyling on a skateboard) cites in large print "Do Not Attempt." How stupid do we look? Clearly the majority of us would not attempt such feats that would likely result in some misadventure if not death.

It got me thinking about a more practical use of this disclaimer in everyday life. Having considered it, I think I would apply "Do Not Attempt" to the following events:

1. Putting grated cheese on seafood pasta
2. Calling San Francisco "Frisco"
3. Having that fourth martini
4. Nipple piercing
5. Talking back to the crazy ranting man on the subway
6. Ordering a prime rib dinner in a New York diner
7. Wearing Ugg boots
8. Eating corn dogs in public
9. Runching
10. Fucking your cute co-workers

Anything I'm missing, people?

Friday, February 08, 2008

Checking Out

I do a large grocery shop every two weeks. In the days pre-vehicle, I would drag a large collapsible cart behind me and walk 14 blocks to the largest grocery store in the vicinity (large by Manhattan standards; outright dinky by any suburban standards). This particular grocery had a reasonable selection of produce and protein stuffs, but it was always crowded, had very narrow aisles and carried an odor that I couldn't exactly pinpoint the genesis of.

As soon as I purchased a vehicle, I retired the cart. I now drive 18 miles to an uber Stop & Shop in Westchester where I have a whole multitude of choices. I load up my cart with abandon. Once home, the groceries are loaded onto a luggage cart and schlepped upstairs. It's positively civil.

One thing I particularly enjoy about the Stop & Shop emporium is the check out options. One can select the traditional in-person cashier or one may choose to do self-check out. Personally, I prefer self check out. There's something very self important about scanning the bar codes on packaged foods and punching in item codes for a head of cabbage. Because self checkout is utterly automated, you enjoy the sensation of an electronic voice verifying each purchase and reminding you to take your receipt. The voice is always friendly and warm, ensuring you'll want to return time and time again to Stop & Shop.

On a drive to work this week, Hollaback and I enjoyed the presence of Jewels and we got on the discussion of self check out in grocery stores. Jewels agreed that he and his other half, Scott, enjoyed the same exercise at their local grocery. He mentioned that after they had completed the scanning of their items, the voice in their store reminds them to "check your basket." Invariably, Scott will grab his crotch in compliance with the automated command.

You gotta appreciate it.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

I'm Fucking Matt Damon

Don't get excited, people. I'M not fucking Matt Damon, alas, but apparently, Sarah Silverman is. In case you happened to miss this clip from "The Jimmy Kimmel Show," you should enjoy this parody. I love the hip hop segue particularly.

That Makes Sense

A friend send me this rather sound rationale today. It made me think of Morewines, a sage and valued friend. I'm thinking she'd agree.

To my friends who enjoy a glass of wine... and those who don't. As Ben Franklin said: In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is freedom, in water there is bacteria.

In a number of carefully controlled trials, scientists have demonstrated that if we drink 1 liter of water each day, at the end of the year we would have absorbed more than 1 kilo of Escherichia coli (E. coli) - bacteria found in feces. In other words, we are consuming 1 kilo of poop. However, we do NOT run that risk when drinking wine & beer (or tequila, rum, whiskey or other liquor) because alcohol has to go through a purification process of boiling, filtering and/or fermenting.

Remember: Water = Poop; Wine = Health

Therefore, it's better to drink wine and talk stupid, than to drink water and be full of shit.

There is no need to thank me for this valuable information: I'm doing it as a public service.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Spanish For Your Nanny

Norma forwarded this video to me today. Perfection!

Monday, February 04, 2008

Puck Monkey

Fang has taken to calling me Puck Monkey. If I could explain it, I would. I do sport rather simian features, in particular, my large hands and feet, but outside of that I tend toward the homosapien.

With this new moniker, I enjoy from him an ongoing scenario of a monkey on skates sporting a monkey-cam and there seems to be some kind of accidental collision with a Zamboni. In the spirit of things, Fang gifted me with several crank phone calls today. In one, he was acting as a Mr. Schwartz from PETA protesting animal abuse. The second was a message from a veterinary hospital in Queens. His closing line was, "We can't save the leg." It's silliness at its best.

Perfect for a Monday.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

So Proud

Playing against the Patriots, the Giants' odds were tough. But who knew? The brothers pulled it out in the 4th quarter. So sweet, so satisfying and let it be said--New York represents!!

Get Yer $1.2 Million's Worth

The Super Bowl makes for good television, but the commercials are always a high point for me. This one tickled me in particular.

Saturday, February 02, 2008

Mel Tormé

There's a reason they called him the velvet fog. The brother could seriously swing. And I want those clothes. Just saying.

Gotta Represent

After two weeks of hype, the Superbowl finally takes place tomorrow. I'm in the spirit of things; I play several office pools and we go to Aunt Bert's for our own version of a tailgate party. And of course I have to support Eli and my local boys. Let's be honest--Brady and the Patriots are probably going to cream the Giants, but I gotta represent so the game face is ON.

As football goes, I converted in the 1970s. That was the time of Larry Csonka and the heyday of the Miami Dolphins. Larry, with his porn-stache and sideburns was muy macho. But Larry was nothing compared to the quintessiential quarterback--Broadway Joe.Joe Namath was the ultimate quarterback for me. He was sleepy eyed and dangerously dark and damned sexy. It didn't hurt that he was something of a bad boy with a decided penchant for blondes. Playing in Alabama with the legendary Bear Bryant, he was born to be a superstar. I idolized him as a young girl for his skill on the field and his charisma off the field. I admit it--I'd do him now. Seriously. Digression aside, I learned to love the Jets during the Namath period and I've always remained a fan. While the Jets had a crap season this year and an ice cube's chance in Hell in making the playoffs, I'll still continue to support them. In the meantime, I'll be rooting for the Giants tomorrow and hoping for a 12th hour miracle.

Come on, people--you never know.

Friday, February 01, 2008

When It Rains, It Pours


Hollabeck laments the lack of snowfall in our region this year. I'm sympathetic. Why make a cross country move without the outcome of the seasonal trappings? While this winter has had its moments of bitter cold, it's failed to produce much snowfall. The month of January had the least recorded amount of snowfall in New York City for 75 years. Why, that's practically dire.

This situation is more than accommodated with copious rainfall. As you may (or may not) be aware, I deplore rain. I can handle blistering sun, blustery wind and heavy snow but I absolutely despise rain. Today it rained with impunity. The grey mottled sky brought forth ongoing rain from the moment I arrived at work until the time I got home. It came in waves, from a light mist to slathering walls of water. Of course by the time I drove home tonight, it was an ongoing waterfall of water rendering highway driving a most arduous experience. I had to concentrate with superhuman skill in order to see the lines on the road through the wall of water and the dark. Since I drive this bit of road daily, I know it intimately and that habit of memory served me well.

However, one positive thing occurred which I can positively credit to this hated element--at one point during the storm, I peered out of the window and saw one of the large trees outside of my window occupied by a robin. His breast was red and vibrant and he rested on the branch unfazed by the elements. He was soon joined by another robin, then another and before long; the tree was populated by two dozen of them. It had a rather Hitchcockan quality to it so I went to the window to examine it closely. Where were they coming from? Didn't they know it was winter? I happened to look down and there in a sprawling yew bush I saw multitudes of robins congregating; they had apparently nested right below my office. The onslaught of rain must have roused them from their home. I watched them continue the process of moving from yew bush to tree and within an hour, they had dispatched to parts unknown.

Maybe Spring is closer than I think.

I Can Relate

Urban Word of the Day: ACB

Definition: Mnemonic device for "Air Conditioner Booty": a woman whose buttocks, when viewed from the side, resemble a wall-unit air conditioner protruding from a house.

Example: "Holly's ACB was knocking peoples' drinks off the table last night".