A Quick Update

Well, the stick insects have just left and I wanted to let everyone know, that not only is my self-esteem intact...it's better than ever. I must say that it's hard to hide in the harsh fluorescent lighting of my office and these girls didn't fair too well under my well-trained and highly critical eye. The best part was, I put two boxes of really good chocolate on the table and offered it to each one of these pretzel-people. Those who did not take a piece were marked off the list immediately. Who's laughing now? Well I would be, but I'm too full from the marshmallow creams;-)

Model Employee

Any other morning I would have gotten up late, hastily glanced in the mirror to decide if my hair was greasy enough to necessitate a washing, thrown on jeans and a top and strolled out the door. Seriously, when the only people you see all day are the mailman and the janitor, your work wardrobe tends to suffer. But this morning was different. This morning I not only washed my hair, I actually took a styling implement to it and attempted to straighten it into some semblance of a style. My outfit, and yes today my attire can genuinely be referred to as an "outfit," I selected with careful regard, complete with the heeled shoes I reserve for occasions of significant merit, like both times I've dined at a restaurant where the tables didn't have vinyl clothes and paper napkins.

Why, you ask, am I making such an effort this morning? Well today, my job is not about filing papers or answering phones or pretending to be concerned about the inventory tragedies of complete morons. No, today my job is even worse for my self-esteem because today I will be interviewing spokesmodels. Yes folks, I, in all my 5 feet five inches of round-bottomed glory, will spend the afternoon with impossibly tall, thin, beautiful women, trying to remain professional while secretly dreaming of stabbing them in the eye. Now you understand why I spent 15 minutes this morning cursing my closet for it's lack of vertical stripes. And what am I supposed to talk to them about? I'm just sure I have sooo much in common with these emaciated giraffes, seeing as how my life revolves around food and these girls wouldn't get within spitting distance of a piece of bread or they might go into carbohydrate shock, makes you want to eat a bag of Oreos right in front of them.

So, hear I sit, regretting last night's dinner...and the dessert....oh, and the other dessert, just waiting for the skeleton procession to make it's way through my office so I can smilingly write hateful comments about all of them and attempt to repair my wounded ego by imagining them all getting extremely fat once they go through rehab in five years. I guess it could be worse...I could have jeans that didn't allow me to sit and breath at the same time- thank God for Lycra, right?

One day their breasts will sag, their cellulite will show, they will be too old to dance on bars and then what will they do? Having already conquered my fear of cellulite, I can live happily in the knowledge that I will always have a Sweetpotato at home and a cupcake in the fridge;-)

HDTV

As ya'll know, I have recently moved into a new apartment. It's been a little slow in coming together, but we're finally starting to furnish the place. We don't have a dresser or a nightstand. We don't have a table or rugs or lamps, but we do have the necessecities - a giant television and a surround sound system. Thank God. Now you know I could care less, but Sweetpotato insisted upon purchasing the world's largest television so that my once spacious livingroom could be reduced to his tiny home theater. I don't know what kind it is exactly, but there are a lot of random letters and apparantly the picture is incredible... I mean, it's nice and all, but other than seeing exactly how well my favorite soap stars are aging, it doesn't matter that much to me if I can see the faces of the fans in the background of the baseball game I'm pretending to watch. Now I knew when I signed up for this relationship that I was going to have accept football watching as my Sunday afternoon activity, but I didn't agree to spend my weekends with linebackers sitting on my lap. Nor do I need to hear the sound of clashing helmets coming from behind me...it is not cool, it creeps me out.

Last night while Sweetpotato was out bonding with the boys over brontosaurus-sized steaks, of which he brought me nary a left-over, I spent the evening alone with the monster tube for the first time. Of course the thing has about 18 remotes and I'll be damned if I can't get a single one to turn on both the sound and the picture. After fifteen minutes of random button-pushing, I finally had to give up and operate it manually. Having spent the past two weeks with Sweetpotato yelling in my ear about the fabulous picture, it was nice to actually watch a show without having him pointing out the blades of grass every 10 seconds. The male attachment to all things technological is really quite bizarre; it's like there's some sort of circuit in the male brain that operates on a television frequency...too bad it's not in Hi-Definition.

Hot Mammas

Today's message is not a story, it's a call to action. We must stop age inappropriate dressers everywhere! Sweetpotoato and I were walking our poorly-behaved mutt last night, minding our own business, when what bounces down the street, but two balloon-like breasts in a little white halter top. Now I don't mind Sweetpotato looking at fake breasts, I too enjoy a giggle at silicon's expense, but when these bouncing buoys belong to a fifty-year old, they becomes considerably less appealing. I'm not saying that you shouldn't make an effort after forty, I'm just saying you need to look good in clothes, not out of them. I do not care how good you think you look or how many pounds you've recently lost on the Southbeach Diet, if you have grown children, you cannot go out in public wearing a shelf-bra tube top...it's just not decent.

I would like to petition the fashion world to begin carding for all mini-skirt, halter-top, and low-rise purchases. Women over the age of 37, without proof that they have a 17-year old at home, should not be permitted to purchase such youthful apparel. I know these flesh-barring women think they're hot mammas and all, but someone should let them know that at their age "hot" is less about looks and more about flashes!

Fashion Week- episode two

Now there are many disturbing things that go on in the world of high fashion, the Tommy Hilfiger reality show for example, but even horrible prime time television cannot be as remarkable as runway models. These women, no teenagers, frighten me with their stick-like frames, and I have to wonder how they stand upright, considering they've probably only ingested about 400 calories in the past week. (I really wanted to offer them a cookie, but I figured they were too busy to eat right then, so I just kept it for myself.) So I'm sitting in the big tent, watching the skeleton parade, and my friend Fashion Slave is pointing out which of these dull-eyed giraffes is "the model" to have in your show. Now let me tell you that this girl was virtually indistinguishable from the other anorexics, except for her amazing ability to sling her legs back as if to dislocate her knees with every step. Apparently they teach you this whole slumped-shouldered, forward-hipped, lock-kneed walk in model school because all of these girls were parading down the runway like Bambi taking his first steps. My joints ached just looking at them and I had this incredible urge to call my chiropractor. It's really unclear why someone would design such beautiful clothing and then hire a scoliosis convention to show it off. Alas, this is the way of the fashion world. Fortunately for their health and everyone else's self-esteem, these famished, crooked creatures only surface twice a year and then return to the European land of their birth to recuperate from their 20-foot walk, for which they earned my month's salary. Not that it much matters what they earn, seeing as how they don't have to buy food or clothing...though, in fairness, drug habits are rather expensive. And of course they are not of this nation, we don't grow 'em like that over here, just visit your local fast-food joint if you have any doubts.

Ahhh the runway model - inspiring fashion designers, magazine editors, and cheeseburger eaters everywhere.

Fashion Week- episode one

How bad is it when the security guard at your office building knows you have a big meeting just because you show up in real clothes instead of the jeans and flip-flops you stroll in with every day? Oh well, what does he know, he's wearing a polyester blazer for god's sake.
Speaking of clothing, I spent last evening immersed in the bizarre trends of Fashion Week, currently taking place in Bryant Park. I tell you, the statements on the runway are nothing compared to the ones made by the folks waiting around outside. All these young social wannabes loitering around in their best "dress up" clothes, trying for all the world to look like they belong amongst the socialites and industry leaders. You'd think they'd be attempting to look nice, instead they throw on the most random hodge-podge of sample sale rejects and act as if having a designer label in their shirt makes up for their total lack of style and taste. It's almost as if fashion interns believe it's their God-given right to dress as if they've stepped out of a thrift store with a seeing-eye dog. A word to the wise here, knee-length khaki cut-offs with ankle boots are not so much a style as a mistake. Paying a ridiculously exorbitant amount of money for your blouse does not necessarily mean it looks good on you; it must still A) Fit correctly, B) coordinate with your pants, and C)Pay some respect to time, place and manner: ie, your white, sequin tube top is not appropriate for a Tuesday in September at 5pm.

You know I hate to say an ugly word about anybody, but really, someone should tell these folks that a semester at F.I.T. does not a fashion maven make. There is nothing that says you can't just wear the nice black pants that make your butt look good...that is, in my opinion, what clothing is all about.

Commuter Hell

I have spent the past two days in commuter hell...also known as the Subway at rush hour. Those of you driving your Civics on an open road may find it difficult to relate, but even gridlock traffic would be a welcome change to the gridlock of bodies I encounter every morning. I mean to tell you these folks act like it's life or death that they get in this particular train car that's already way over capacity and stuff their size 14 selves into a 6-inch square of space, leaving their giant gym bag flapping in the breeze and holding up the doors. Funny how tourists think New Yorkers are unfriendly, yet we'll sit right in your lap and read your paper with you at 8:45 any weekday morning. Now really I don't understand the rush, I mean you're only going to work. I would happily be a few minutes late (my actual hours being relative...to my mood that day) and wait for the next train, rather than shove myself into a grumpy mob at 9am. Of course, some idiot who has already had too much coffee will bound into the train, naturally he will bump into the disgruntled postal worker functioning on 4 hours of sleep, she will begin the high-pitched, head-wiggling curse-out that only a New Yorker could give over a little nudge, and I will put in my earphones and bop merrily along to "Manic Monday," sadly knowing that Tuesday's are just as bad.

I'm not sure if there need to be more trains or fewer people, or if everyone just needs to break down and get a bike. But I do think that for the sake of my mental health I will just have to avoid the heavy traffic times, so if someone could let my office know I'll be in as soon as I possibly can;-)

Campaign tactics

'Tis the season for campaigning, the time for every city council hopeful to stand outside a major subway station shaking the hands of groggy commuters as they try to sneak past without accepting a flier. Now this is all quite ridiculous to me because, while I appreciate that you're getting out there among the people and all, I am undoubtedly late for work and already attempting to avoid the screeching morning paper distributors who are also shoving papers in my face, as if I have room, with handbags and coffee and Metrocards, to grab some poorly-written newsprint. And these smiling politicians stand there in my way, clogging up the Subway entrance, actually touching the hands of complete strangers in New York City. This is not the Wal-Mart in Duluth, folks, there are some 8 million people, carrying all manner of diseases, climbing in and out of these Subways everyday, touching the handrails, and you have just shook hands with about 100,000 of them.
I am in no way a germaphobe, but I have to tell you that there is no circumstance for which I would be caught dead greeting folks on the street first thing in the morning without a tube antibacterial hand gel.
Besides all that, it's not even 9am, I have only had two sips of coffee, I don't want to speak to anyone, and you are bothering me.

I just want to say to these people (if I were capable of speech at that hour)I know you want me to remember your name on election day, and to be sure I will remember it, but there's no way I'm voting for a disease-carrying morning person who accosted me before full caffination. In my opinion you'd have better luck if you put up a poster and stayed your ass at home.

The "Art" of Decorating- part 2

I just want to let everyone know after yesterday's gentle bashing of Sweetpotato's artistic tastes, that there is in fact a glimmer of hope that he will one day develop the aesthetic acumen to be trusted with domestic decorating. I returned home last evening to find his first solo apartment purchase staring me in the face...and what a lovely face it was! He went out and bought me an enormous floor to ceiling mirror for the bedroom wall. Times like this give me assurance that he does in fact know me better than anyone...it's enough to bring a tear to your eye (as long as it doesn't run your mascara). Anyway, it just goes to show that the Y-chromosomes are much more trainable than previously thought. I told him if he'd go get me another big mirror to hang on the wall behind that stove, I might just learn to cook;-)

The "Art" of Decorating

I realize that it has become the norm in this country for men and women to live together before they get married, but I can't for the life of me figure out how, after attempting to decorate an apartment together, couples still manage to make it down the aisle! This weekend Sweetpotato and I sat surrounded by furniture catalogs and paint samples and attempted to consolidate our tastes (taste being a subjective quality rarely seen in the Y-chromosome) into one semi-coherent living space. I was initially excited by the idea of the total acquisition of his assets, I mean he has both a couch and a television! I quickly realized that while he may possess a few key pieces of furniture, the majority of his things should have been left in his dorm room many moons ago. I found myself explaining how nothing with a football score qualified as "art," and, yes dear, that includes your blue and gold felt banner listing all the Notre Dame wins since 1924. You did not play football for Notre Dame, you did not even attend Notre Dame, you may not thumb tack their season records on to my wall. And while I'm measuring the space for a kitchen table, he's measuring the wall for a television the size of Vermont, which he assures me is absolutely vital to the state of his being.


I'm not sure how women are supposed to fall in love with people whose entire set of glassware was stolen from a bar. I mean, does your glass of milk really need to say Amstel Light? Regardless, many women will continue to sign up for co-ed cohabitation and find themselves sitting in a living room full of sports posters without room for a single decorative candle, and I just think someone should tell them not to worry about his taste as displayed in his own place, after all you'll be there to help him from now on...and it really is okay if one or two of his boxes get "lost" along the way.

Costume Jobs

Everyone has had those terrible entry-level jobs, the memories of which you can only hope will fade with time and tequila. But for most of us it was just working at a fast-food joint, where the most embarrassing thing that could possibly happen was taking an order from the hot guy in your chemistry class while wearing a foam visor. For struggling performers in New York, finding themselves in an unflattering headdress would be ever-so-much better than finding themselves in an entire foam bodysuit. This morning I passed this poor girl dressed for all the world like a giant cup of coffee standing in the middle of Grand Central Station trying to get people to visit some low-rent greasy spoon on 42nd Street. This was the first time I was ever thankful for my job as a waitress because, though serving a cup of coffee to a gaggle of whiney women is a rather miserable existence, I can only imagine being a cup of coffee is considerably worse. It reminded me of the time I passed the bunch of giant bananas doing a choreographed dance to promote a smoothie shop in Times Square. I was very thankful on that day that no matter how low I stooped in my quest for stardom, I had never become a dancing fruit.

Ah, the path of the Broadway dreamer...always poor, usually hungry, and often humiliating, it is little wonder that "actor" and "alcoholic" are so often confused. Someone should tell these foam-form food products that there is life after theater...and it's in real clothes.