Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Most Beautiful People

People magazine just came out with the most beautiful people issue with Kate Hudson on the cover, which is not really surprising considering she is the celebrity I most resemble (and don't even try to comment that I don't look like her because I will be rejecting that comment ASAP), but usually they list people that are not even good looking at all, like some Olympian swimmers that no one cares about with long torsos or Katie Couric. So here is the REAL list of the most beautiful people, with 1 being sexytime EXPLOSION and 10 being extremely goodlooking:

2. Colin Farrell - very sexy
3. Tom Cuise in A Few Good Men
4. Ron Livingston - sexy
5. Perry - furry
6. Adrien Brody
7. Johnny Rzeznick - has amazing highlights
8. Rivers Cuomo
9. Lieutenant Andy Baldwin from The Bachelor
10. Jon Stewart

Sophie's Choice

This weekend I saw my friend Milan for the first time in like 6 months which is good because I like him and doubly good because he always gives me an honest evaluation of how I look. Last time he told me I was getting fat, which expedited Operation: Facial Deflation 2007 which put shit back into place. This time he told me I looked skinny, but asked me where the hell my boobs went. His comment brings into high relief Sophie's Choice. Just like Meryl Streep had to make the heart wrenching decision between saving her son or her daughter, I must make the terrible decision of either being jacked and thin with smaller boobs, or being fatter with bigger boobs. Look slamming in my size 25 jeans with padded bras or pour Crisco into my size 25 jeans and wear them as a wet suit, but have bodacious breastaculars?

Every day I struggle with this decision and wonder if I am making the right choice to be thinner and less breastaculared, and this is EXACTLY why people in Hollywood get implants, so they don't have to choose between buffosity and boobs. The same thing happened to Jessica Simpson - earlier in her career she had ginormous real boobs and then she had to lose weight in order to become famous and obviously her boobs went out the window so she had to get implants to beef that shit up. I once told my friend Chris about this struggle in law school and he said the obvious answer was fatter with bigger boobs, but he's really into boobs so that doesn't count.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Sometimes You Want To Go Where Everybody Knows Your Name

The best thing to happen to me in the past two years besides Doodlehead's birth and my subsequent acquisition of him is that my ex-shrink Dr. Laikin identified my daily uncontrollable crying for no reason as "depression" and put me on Lexapro. Now, whenever I'm feeling sad about something like some bullshit at work or a guy who was once on Broadway like ten years ago and is now an out of work actor not calling me back, I take an extra 5 milligrams of Lexapro, wait 15 minutes for the psychosomatic effects to take effect and then I'm right as rain and back to thinking I'm one of the top 5 people who has ever roamed this earth.

The only problem with the Lexapro is the prescription pick-up situation. Usually I go to a Duane Reade before or after work where there is a large crowd at the pharmacy counter in order to my maximize my humiliation, give them my name, and then, rigorously adhereing to the HIPAA medical privacy act, the pharmacist picks up my bag and says "Feldman - Lexapro 10 milligrams?" and I answer as excited as possible, "Yup, that's me!" in order to fake out my fellow customers so they never suspect that I go home every night and read online horoscopes and ask Perry for kisses or I trick them into thinking I'm picking up the prescription for a depressed family member. I was discussing this with my sister Jenna who said that if I thought that picking up depression medication in front of sexxxy wall street men was bad, the last time she went to pick up her load of psychiatric medication at the large pharmacy servicing the entire U. of Penn community, the pharmacist said "Hi, Jenna," gave her her sack of medication, and said "See you next week." HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHHHA

In unrelated news, I think the paralegal who moved onto my floor is the bad guy from Kindergarten Cop.

Wildfires: Give Me a Break

Yesterday on the Elevator Captive network, where I get all the news I care to watch, I read that there are apparently more "wildfires" in California. Is this is a joke. Who keeps smoking cigarettes in dusty forests or lighting birthday cakes near flour factories - can people stop doing this. I feel like every year the entire state of California gets on fire and we have to hear the same boring news story over and over again - people have to evacuuate, celebrity homes are burned and people vow to "rebuild" IN THE SAME LOCATION WHERE THE OLD FIRE WAS. I mean, if your house is in a fiery forest, time to close up shop and maybe this time move to somewhere not directly in a volcano or on the San Andreas fault line. This reminds me of a segment of 20/20 where John Stossel interviewed people who kept on rebuilding houses on stilts essentially 2 feet from the ocean and were completely shocked that when it was drizzling their houses floated out to sea. If you pretty much have to be a trained clown to walk on stilts, seems like it might be a bad idea to build your house on them.

My other question about these forests on fire is why don't people just get some water and start putting them out instead of just standing there reporting about how they're spreading. I've seen footage of firefighters standing there with a hose shooting two pieces of water at this giant inferno, which is essentially the equivalent of trying to bail out of the Titanic with a thimble. They need to get some rain machines in there and do something real because shooting at a ball of flames with a gentle stream of SmartWater is not doing the trick and it is time to try it my way.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Geek Squad

Here is a list of things I expect other people to do for me: file my taxes, fill out all my work tax and benefit information like W-2s and tell me what exemptions I should take, change my light bulbs, fix my computer, hook up my cable and/or tell me what's wrong with my cable, install new things on my computer, apply for credit cards and generally attend to any maintance crap around my apartment such as building shelves or changing the thermostat in the refrigerator. Among this list is fixing my home computer, which was freezing up due to all the spyware that I had on it from my visits to celebrity plastic surgery websites, according to Megan. I was pretty sure this problem would just go away by itself because otherwise it would mean throwing out the computer and getting a new one because chances of my fixing it are about 0%, but unfortunately the problem was not going away so I've just been using my work laptop for everything.

Luckily, my friend Max who USED to be into robots and computers came over for Perry's birthday party so I told him to fix my computer or else I would have to call the Geek Squad. And everybody knows the calling the Geek Squad and getting one of their people to come over would mean that I would have to dress up in negligee with feather mule shoes and a silk robe, dim all the lights and light candles, fix myself a martini and spray my computer with perfume and put out a crystal goblet with Fancy Feast for my cat while telling the Geek Squad guy to relax and have a drink and commenting on his strong forearms as he fixed my computer. Fortunately Max fixed the computer so I was able to avoid this.

Massage Perverts: Back by Popular Demand

So apparently people want to know what happened at the massage, and it was pretty much exactly what you would expect. I rolled up in an oversize robe, this cute guy with curly hair comes out of one of the massage rooms and I practically shit my pants, and he says "Michelle?" which is not me, so I continue reading Details magazine. Eventually this tall Russian guy in a leather jacket barges in to the spa and says "You Mary?" and I said yes, and he rudely tells me there are no rooms available for 20 minutes, and I say "um, ok" and then he says angrily "Dees is not my fault, dey try and call you, now it is all a mess, so now I don't want to involve myself." So then we proceed to ignore each other in the waiting room for a half hour and finally a room frees up, I hop on the table and say "Deep tissue massage, right?" and he said "I do all my massages the same" so I knew I would get the individualized attention I was hoping for.

So I'm laying down butt up on the massage table, and I'm wearing my underwear because no one ever told me whether you're supposed to wear your underwear or not and I figured I'd err on the side of caution, and he starts massaging my back and all of sudden says "I pull your underwear down" at which point I died of humiliation and pretended that it was perfectly normal for this conversation to be happening. Throughout the very rough massage he commanded me to relax and stop holding my breath which I found difficult to do since he was massaging my butt with his elbow. I don't understand why every Russian massager, waxer or other service person follows the same 4 step cruelty process of criticizing you, telling you you're doing everything wrong and to trust them because they are the authority, abusing you more than necessary just to delight in watching you suffer as they suffered during the pogroms and abruptly ending the service by leaving midway and slamming the door.

Anyway, so the bottom line is that now I have bruises all over my body and can barely move, and I know it would technically have been harrassment for him to be like "nice body" after the massage, but I was pretty much naked and now I feel sort of used.

Sunday, April 27, 2008


Um, can people get on the ball with commenting here. Look, I know people are reading the blog because the Sitemeter tells me so, so don't pretend you're not reading, but can you please just comment since I'm out here busting my ass living as mediocre a life as possible in order to complain about it for your amusement and once in a while I need some feedback or some comments or SOMETHING. And not the kind of feedback that they'll give me at my annual review at work. I can't decide if this post is funny or makes me look pathetic = great.

Week of Purgatory

Picture from Perry's 1st Birthday/My Descent into Looneyville

Now that Rock of Love 2 is over, Megan correctly pointed out that there is nothing to look forward to anymore, other than online shopping. I now officially have nothing to discuss with people who call me in the office on Monday morning - great. As I pointed out to Megan, this week will doubly suck because it is one of those interim weeks -April is basically over, but we're not making any headway into May. What's the point in the 28th, 29th and 30th when April is already a wash since I haven't located my soulmate or gotten substantially better looking, so it's like the first half of the week is just biding my time until Thursday, May 1st, when my new horoscope starts and many good things will befall me. But since May starts on a Thursday, while technically the new predictions will start, it's the end of the week, so May won't really kick off until the following week. It just makes no sense to have these split month weeks because it just drags out the old month and delays the new month and everybody thinks of it as wasted time were nothing happens and no progress is made.

I mean, on the one hand, it's time for April to end and the month of festivities relating to my birthday to begin, but on the other hand, if I turn 28 that means I am one step closer to dying and also Risa will make fun of me for being old for 7 months before she turns 28. I just don't understand how we have managed to have 3-D movies and the internet superhighway but they haven't developed any time travel technology so I can go back to being 22 but with my current knowledge of how to do my makeup and hair so I can look better in pictures, because 28 is almost 30, and when 30 strikes, time to walk calmly to the nearest cliff and jump off.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Massage Perverts

I woke up today craving a massage, so I called Equinox to book one, which has the added benefit of requiring that I show up at the gym as well so I'd be guilted into working out beforehand. The woman at the desk asked me if I wanted a male or female masseuse and I said female, because obviously when I'm getting massage I don't want to be worried that I might get raped or there might be boners or other annoying things going on, since only male perverts become masseuses since it's free touching. Also, someone once got me a gift certificate for a chiropractor massage in Philadelphia and over the course of this massage I was forced to climb naked into a vibrating egg and then lay on a table with only a threadbare napkin covering my shit up while this guy massaged me and the entire time I had a sneaking suspicion I was being molested.

It's the same concept with gynecologists. I obviously see a female doctor because if you agree to see a male doctor, a female nurse has to be in the room with you at all times to make sure he doesn't text his friends or ask you out on a date, and then two people instead of one are looking at me and judging. Also, male gynecologists are obviously all perverts too and I don't want to have to worry that he is pretending to be clinically interested in my vagina when actually he's secretly taking pictures of me with a hidden camera in his glasses.

Anyway, so obviously no female masseuses were available today, but she said that the male masseuse she recommended was gay, so I tried to book him, but he was unavailable, so I had to book "Dmitri." She put me on hold to try and find out Dmitri's sexual orientation, but she came back and said he was either Euro or gay, nobody could tell yet because he was just hired. So at 5pm today I will be massaged by either a gay man (hopefully) or a European pervert (hopefully not). I didn't want to look like a loser who was afraid of male masseuses, so I ended up putting down my credit card to reserve the massage, but frankly there's no point in even going now because I will be 100% shitting myself the entire time.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Queen of the Garbagemen

I just got back from the cafeteria and one of the maintenance workers tried to start up conversation with me. On the way to work today, one of the small Dominican men who works at the hardware store on my corner told me to have a nice day. One of two things is going on here, I either a) have an absurdly good looking face and shamazing body or b) am the patron saint of blue collar workers. This shit happens to me and Risa all the time - we walk by a bank or some corporate place where very sexxxy and r$ch men work and the guy picking up the garbage in a blue prisoner jumpsuits outside of the bank yells "you go, shorty." I have never once walked by anything and had any dapper men in suits say "work it out" or "damn!" or "hello?...HELLO?...I love you" and this is because I simply do not attract men in suits despite my best efforts to look amazing at all times.

I've done extensive analysis about why only minimum wage workers are into me and Risa, and I have concluded it is because only minimum wage people are into shapely badonkadonks, of which both me and Risa are in possession. Apparently thin, and ethereal is "in" in corporate America, and short and bootylicious is "in" in the elevators, on the streets and pretty much other places that need to be cleaned or maintained. I will seriously be lodging a complaint very soon because frankly there is nothing I can do to reduce my butt size (but luckily it does not have cellulite on it which is a plus).

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Financial Solutions

After I had forwarded my tax forms to the offices of Daddykins Feldman for processing, my dad called me up and asked me if I had any other "investments." I asked him what he meant, and he asked whether, besides investing in shoes and makeup, I "put my money anywhere that would actually MAKE money" for me. I still didn't really know what he meant, because I was told there were only checkings and savings accounts, and someone had to me to keep things in checking and only use my savings account on pain of death, because apparently money in savings account "makes" money, and money in checking accounts does nothing. He explained that he was referring to "stocks" or "mutual funds"and not my ridiculous Commerce Bank accounts, and that he would send me some Fidelity Mutual Fund crap to look over and that I should "consider"investing my money instead of "letting it go to waste" in a bank.

So he sent me this Fidelity crap which was basically a bunch of boring documents with charts with the gist being that I hand over all my money, they apparently put it into some magical money making machine where I just put in one dollar and 30 gold coins come out. Despite 3 centuries of medieval people trying to turn turn lead into gold, Fidelity has solved the problem and discovered an easy way to turn money into more money. Incidentally, Fidelity has also tamed the elusive unicorn and solved the mystery of the abandoned settlement of Roanoake. Um, frankly I'd just rather have my money rotting in the bank and diversify my investments in lottery tickets and clothing and haircuts or whatever, because the better I look the better my chances are of marrying a repulsively rich person who will pay me to work out and watch tv.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Scientology of Waxing

Megan just sent me a gchat asking if I wanted to make an appointment with our waxing guru, Yasmin for this weekend. The background to this story is that Megan is a fanatic about getting waxed like every 2 weeks, and her Saturdays often revolve around making the trek to the West Village to get Yasmin to apply steaming hot wax to the areas she desires waxed, a) because she hates hair and b) because she, like many other women, is of the delusion, perpetrated by waxing professionals worldwide, that the more you wax your hair, the thinner it grows in until one day it miraculously disappears so there is nothing to wax at all.

In a nutshell, this "keep on waxing until you're hairless" scheme is the oldest Scientology trick in the book, just like Scientology people have to do all this auditing crap, watch Tom Cruise movies and sit in the Times Square subway station with a "stress test," in order to ascend the levels of Scientology from OT1 to OT8 until they're "Clear" and then Xenu, their internal Thetans, and the intergalactic forces will no longer have any power over them and they can walk through walls and make chalk move and do other shit described in the book Matilda by Roald Dahl. Well, apparently Tom Cruise is "Clear" and as far as I know he's can't walk through walls, hide his shoe lifts or make good movies recently, and similarly I have yet to meet one female friend who has attained "hairlessness" after copious waxing appointments and spending approximately 7 cagrillion dollars. I'm not saying that there isn't a point in getting waxed because obviously getting waxed is KEY, but people need to stop tricking themselves into believing in this hairless El Dorado and maybe consider laser hair removal.

Missed Connections Needed ASAP

When I'm bored at work which is mainly every day, I check the Craigslist Missed Connections to see if anyone has seen me on the street and fallen in love with me from afar. A few times people have posted about some blondes at the Equinox gym that I go to, but one of the times they described her as always being on the elliptical, which is a lame fake workout and obviously not me, and the other time as "being extremely thin and Swedish looking" which sounded like me except for the being extremely thin and Swedish looking part. Normally I'm only mildly insulted that people aren't posting about me, but I actually become enraged when I make a concerted effort to look good in bars after work or on the subway and NO ONE is posting a missed connection about me, which is not legitimate.

Take, for instance, last night. I went to a bar with my friend Jen in midtown. I was wearing a sextacular work dress that had received compliments yesterday from my secretary, and generally shit was looking relatively top notch. Obviously the bar was filled with men in suits and I saw a few of them checking me out, but no one approached me. "That's okay," I thought to myself, "they will definitely post about me tomorrow on Missed Connections," but I just checked and unless someone mistook me for the Asian beauty on the G train, no one has posted about me. Or the time I DEFINITELY made eye contact with a cute and r$ch looking guy on the subway - no Missed Connection post - WTF. Can people please get on this? Thanks.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Second Most Important Holiday

My messy desk and Valentines Day flowers

On the subway this morning I was thinking of my upcoming birthday and how my office better look like the Amazon with all the flower deliveries I better receive or else, and it reminded me of Valentines Day and how I should write a post just letting people know what the acceptable protocol is. This past Valentine's, I was dating someone who said that he "thought that I wasn't the kind of person who would buy into Valentines Day" the implication being that only low-brow people cared about such a ridiculous holiday, and as a result, he just didn't plan anything. This is acceptable IN NARNIA. I informed him that he obviously didn't know me at all because I was actually the kind of person who believes that Valentines Day is the second most important day of the year (the first being my birthday), the day when you prove your love for me with the most critical aspect being that whatever is done should be done in public so that I could brag to my co-workers. After yelling at him, I then instructed him that if he cared at all about me, Valentines Day was to be as follows:

I wake to the gentle wind of him fanning me with a palm frond and then he serves me breakfast in bed off a golden tray. When I get up, my feet do not touch the ground because there are rose petals on the floor. Horses and a chariot bring me to work on a red carpet, and when I arrive at work, my office looks like a goddamn lagoon with all the flowers and topiaries in there and they announce over the PA system that there are more flower deliveries for me. Following work, my handsome carriage brings me to Per Se, where we dine and he presents me with diamond earrings, Agent Provocateur lingere and $500 in ice cold cash and asks me if I've been working out more. After dinner I take the cash and go home.
Anyway, I realize this post is untimely, but this is just an FYI for the future.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Living in Narnia: Part Infinity Hundred

Um, I just saw on the "Elevator Captive Network" (which is apparently a network for slaves and other captives) that the presidential candidates will be appearing on Monday Night Raw. At first I thought Monday Night Raw was one of those annoying CNN shows that make no sense like Hardball or Mad Money or Meet the Press where you actually don't meet any press and old people argue with each other and yell at the screen and insult callers and tell them to invest in their 401(k)s. But apparently Monday Night Raw is the new name for the show featuring fake wrestlers of the former WWF (before the World Wildlife Federation sued and took their name away) and the WWE that our housekeeper Pat let us watch in secret in addition to American Gladiators because that crap was forbidden at Chez Feldman.
Um, let me repeat this - the presidential candidates will be appearing on a wrestling show. Well too bad they already made the movie Armageddon, because this is definitely the fourth horseman of the apocalypse. I actually don't know what to say except that it is 100% not acceptable and I'm not sure how everyone will go on living when possible presidents advertise on a jumbotron in a split screen with Jake the Snake and The Undertaker greased in Crisco.


The Ordinary Life of a Beautiful Person: Me (on left) at a dance recital. We danced to Whitney Houston's "So Emotional"

After being ill all of Friday morning, I discovered that if you take two Advil instead of one, you feel better, as opposed to just taking one which really doesn't do anything except taste good. So, armed with a new lease on life I put on a purple breastacular dress, sunglasses, leashed Perry up and went to the stationary store to get Dr. Russett P. Feldman, M.D. personalized stationary for her birthday and simultaneously be robbed of $194.73. On my way home from the robbery, this really tall good looking guy carrying two Bed Bath & Beyond Awful bags got tangled in Perrydoodles' leash, and he turned around and said he worked for a site called "Ordinary People" and asked if he could film me. I asked him if this was for Girls Gone Wild or a porn site, and he laughed and said no, that his site was a "meta-reality" site that just filmed "beautiful people" doing every day things, the implication being that I was a beautiful person doing an everyday thing.

As this could be my chance for everlasting fame and riches, I agreed to walk 30 feet and wave to the camera. So this guy runs in front of me, takes out a camcorder and films me walking Perry on Astor Place which meant that I obviously had to trip in a gap in the sidewalk and couldn't straighten out my dress as the wind blew it against me into my crotch but hopefully not revealing my Spanx. After I stop walking, he runs up to me so that I can see the footage but obviously I would rather die than watch myself on video looking horrible, so I said no, he could just post it on his porn site or whatever. He laughed, told me his name was Patrick and told me he'd post it to his site and then he walked away when he technically should have been asking me for a date which he didn't which is annoying.

I later went to the site and somewhat insultingly for me, it's not really beautiful people at all, it's just mainly average looking girls with large breastaculars and this guy obviously has a boob fetish. I've been refreshing my browser like a maniac but I'm not on the site yet which either means I'm not beautiful enough which would blow or you can see my Spanx, but I'm not lying, I really was filmed.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Happy Birthday, Dr. Russett P. Feldman, M.D.

My mom does not read my blog a) because she doesn't know how to turn on the computer and b) because I haven't told her about it, but nevertheless, Happy Birthday mommy. Her birthday is April 19th, which is also the anniversary of Waco, the Oklahoma City bombing and the day before Hitler's birthday. She turned 57, I think.

She baked herself a cake and we put candles on it that said "157." HAHAHAHHHAHHA. Here is a pic of my mom "pretending" to be old wearing a frog t-shirt in honor of the Passover frog plague. She is a wacky and offbeat woman and for many years I was embarrassed by her, until I realize that I basically am her. She's the Feldman Feldman Feldman, Feldman Feldman & Feldman prototype and a true original. I love you mom.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Just Kidding

My friend Jon graciously forwarded me this link to the official store for apparel, magnets, key chains, plastic spider rings and other dentist office crap that you can buy to commemorate Benedict's visit, so apparently some people are into him. It is powered by the website which is potentially the best website name ever, except for, which someone once bought for me for my birthday because I'm always bragging about how all my essays and papers have the most amazing last lines potentially ever written. Here is the last line to my phenomenal law school admissions essay, which I occassionally call someone up to just re-read aloud and discuss what a great writer I am:

"As the crowd chanted '41 shots!' I yelled 'Justice!' but secretly feared that justice, in the law's narrow sense, was already served."

I literally just got chills typing it - is this a joke

Friday, April 18, 2008

Pope of Hope/Hop on Pop

This is my John Paul II action figure

Yesterday they sent this email out at work about street closings for Pope Benedict's visit to Ground Zero because of the crowds that would gather, which struck me as odd because it just seemed like people stopped being into the Pope after John Paul II died. I live right across the street from a Polish Catholic church with a giant marble bust of JP II outside and every Sunday all their little service booklets say on the cover "In Honor of the Holly Pope John Paul II" because they like to pretend that JP II is still the "holly" father. I think the general consensus is that JP II rules and Benedict needs concealer under his eyes, and I don't understand why anybody would be into Benedict when he was a Nazi youth, looks like Gargamel and his last name Ratzinger includes the word "rats."
JP II was so cute and grandfatherly and he looked completely a.dorable in his little red shoes and miter when they were carrying his body in procession during his funeral. JP II was also pretty hardcore and waved to people in a sweet convertible popemobile until he was shot and in fact he was so hardcore he even forgave the guy who shot him, and Benedict has not even been shot once but he still rolls up in a diamond reinforced assassination-proof mobile. JP II also had collectible dolls made of himself, and I bought one on ebay right after he died and that shit cost me like $47 and I don't think Benedict has an action figure out yet, which is not a good sign. So far, Benedict has only impressed me with his Daily News headline yesterday, which was "Pope of Hope" (in a hilarious nod to Dr. Seuss' Hop on Pop) which is pretty good because it rhymes, and rhyming is KEY.

"Battling an Illness"

Me in bed

One of the amazing things about being a secretary is that when you call in sick - that's it. You stay home, watch soap operas or go water skiing or do whatever secretaries do when they are sick or fake sick. Today, for instance, my secretary Rosemarie called in "sick" but privately she told me she was going to Mystic Seaport this weekend with her boyfriend that she met on a cruise, Ed. And it would be patently ridiculous for me to dial her home number to tell her I need some copies of something and expect her to do it ASAP.

Unfortunately, today I am legitimately sick with a fever. I slept in 37 layers of clothes, moaned occasionally, complained to Perry, asked Perry for kisses and sweat up a storm. But instead of spending today nursing myself back to health in order to drink heavily this weekend, I had to drag myself out of bed at 7:30am, work on some "urgent" documents, get on a conference call at 11, send out several emails profusely apologizing for being ill, and in general just pretend my apartment was an office and work just like any other day while trying not to be on the verge of death. Apparently the price of being legitimately sick is also being publicly humiliated by having it announced on a conference call that I was "battling an illness" which I guess is nice so I could leave the call early but then I also had to try my best to sound sick and downtrodden so I didn't look like I was faking. I'm sorry but this is not legitimate - since when are my secretary's fake illnesses and podiatrist appointments (for which she had to leave 3 hours early on Tuesday - he told her to hold off on bunion surgery) more important than my real diseases?

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Man Jewelry = No

The guy with the 30 inch Star of David is on the right. Unbelievable and hilarious pic courtesy of Jen. This entire picture is unacceptable.

My friend Jen informed me, post hoc (actually, I don't know what "post hoc" means, but I think I'm using it correctly) that some guy she had gone on some dates with wore his Tufts college ring. This is absolutely 100% unacceptable, and had she revealed this information to me in the beginning I would have strenuously advised her to dump him immediately. Unless you are literally in the movie Goodfellas, bejewelled or non-wedding related rings are absolutely ridiculous and make men look like child molesters. This past summer I went to Fire Island with Jen, and she befriended a guy whom I refused to even introduce myself to because he was wearing a gold necklace with a 2 x 1.5 inch long Star of David pendant while shirtless on the beach. I begged the people around me to agree that it was completely ridiculous and potentially illegal, but everyone just seemed to be acting casual about it, like it was no big deal whatsoever that some guy was tanning with a 30 inch Jewish star danging from his neck. Um, needless to say I did not fit in in Fire Island whatsoever, and in fact you'd have to light me on fire in order to get me to go back.

For your reference, I've compiled a list of other unacceptable man jewelry: Livestrong bracelets, gold or silver metal chain bracelets, thumb rings, hemp necklaces, shell necklaces, hemp and shell necklaces, crosses, Jewish stars, leather cuffs, Kabbalah bracelets, and college or fraternity rings. The only acceptable bracelet I can think of is that Diabeetus alert bracelet, and even that is borderline unacceptable.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008


One of the things I am very grateful for is having reasonably large breasts. Not that small boobs suck and large ones rule, but I feel like I wouldn't be ME without them, like if you cut off my boobs I would lose all my power like Samson. What I really don't get is people with small boobs who say they are "embarrassed" about it and then get implants. If the whole idea is that you take your shirt off and are paranoid that the guy you are making out with is going to keel over laughing and take cell phone pictures and email everyone he knows about how small your boobs are, it doesn't really solve the embarrassment problem if you get implants because he will obviously know you got implants and then you have to be embarrassed about the fact that you were so historically embarrassed about your chest that you needed a boob job, and that is actually really embarrassing.
Implants are like the elephant in the room when you are hooking up with someone - obviously the guy knows you have funbags but he's too embarrassed to say anything for fear he'll offend you and you feel like you shouldn't just announce "FYI, I have implants." This is a terrible situation, but if my boobs ever sag or get small or they are by accident destroyed somehow, I will be getting implants by Dr. Rey on Dr. 90210 ASAP.

Anyway, I bring this up because if you're a small person with larger breasts you have to go to a specialty bra store, such as "Bra Symthe" or La Petite Coquette to find the right size. And these stores are pretty much genius because you walk in, they tell you you've been wearing the wrong size bra for your entire life and then announce you are some ridiculous size like 28DDD or 34G or 30C+ which of course only exists in their store for the bargain price of ten thousand dollars. And of course the bras don't fit as is - they have a special "bra tailor" that does some shit to the bra to make it fit and look shamazing. I went with Megan a few months ago to Petite Coquette and we both dropped approximately 17 cagrillion dollars on these custom boob holders. In any event, it sucks because I want a new bra now and I slavishly have to go back to this store and get their bra artisans to craft me a new bra with my weird size that exists nowhere but this store and spend another year's salary on undergarments.

On a related note, I was just discussing with a co-worker whether, if you poke someone who has implants in the boob with a safety pin, the implants deflate and neither of us could figure it out.

Necessary and Sufficient Codicil

After consulting with Risa, I think it may be necessary to add a codicil to the "Necessary and Sufficient" post by putting my boyfriend criteria in order from 1 to 10, 1 being 100% critical dealbreaker and 10 being profoundly important.

1. Slamming body but not too jacked
2. Is not a jerk or douchebag
3. Finds me hilarious
4. Hilarious
5. Above 5'8
6. Loves dogs
7. Compliments me profusely
8. Has square or chiseled jaw
9. Has majority of hair left on head
10. Filthy rich
11. Will occasionally entertain discussions about celebrities

Necessary and Sufficient

I have recently been asked to provide an updated list of required criteria for boyfriends, so here it is:

1. Above 5'8
2. Has majority of hair left on head
3. Slamming body but not too jacked
4. Hilarious
5. Finds me hilarious
6. Filthy rich
7. Is not a jerk or douchebag
8. Loves dogs
9. Will occasionally entertain discussions about celebrities
10. Compliments me profusely
11. Has square or chiseled jaw

And if you think I'm being too picky, I am listing below my extreme dating qualifications:

1. Bitching face
2. Slamming body
3. Amazing personality
4. Amazing dog
5. Crazy education and job
6. Good listener
7. Likes to go out
8. Will attempt ONCE during duration of relationship to cook
9. Thoughtful gift giver and party planner
10. Expanding shoe collection

Incidentally if you know anyone with the above male criteria please forward their pictures and email addresses to the offices of Feldman Feldman Feldman, Feldman & Feldman for immediate processing.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Weather Predictions Are Ridiculous

I just ran into a maintenance guy at work who is pretty much in love with me and he was complaining about how last weekend he had agreed to take the Saturday shift because they were predicting rain on Saturday and nice weather on Sunday, and obviously Saturday ended up being beautiful and Sunday was gloom city.

This proves once again that predicting the weather is the most ridiculous thing known to mankind. People give me shit all the time for going to psychics, reading my horoscope, judging people based on their zodiac signs, etc. but the same people turn on the tv and watch men predict the future weather by drawing things on maps and using high powered "doppler" radars and other crystal balls and ghostbusting machines like it is the most normal thing in the world to tune in every night to an charlatan who kisses bones of saints and tells you whether it will rain in 3 days. What's even more ridiculous is that every prediction they make is always 100% hedged, like it is always "partially" cloudy with a "chance" of sun and"60% chance" of "scattered" showers, which is basically the equivalent of saying that it will rain when the eagle lands.

Look, I am all for pseudoscience, but when people treat Al Roker and meteorologists as legitimate professionals with actual knowledge of how the future weather will be, it is almost too outrageous for words. If Al Roker is Nostradamus, then I have some questions about the future, mainly, a) will I be getting a secondary rhinoplasty and b) will I be disgustingly rich very soon.

No News is Good News

So last night I had tuned in to watch The Bachelor, and then got bored because he sucks so I took a shower. I came out and apparently Perry was bored too and had switched the channel... to the news, which I find even more boring than math, if that is even possible. I actually stopped watching the news when George W. Bush was elected President - I remember I was in my dorm junior year and he won and I announced that I would not be watching the news anymore for at least 4 years, which I haven't unless you are counting 20/20 or Dateline which has more of the news stories I care about, like people getting switched at birth or the toothpaste industry duping people. The headline last night was "Hillary and Obama: A War of Words" which is ridiculous because every time I mistakenly turn on the news or Perry jumps on the remote those two are always yelling and backhandedly insulting each other and they just need to calm down because nobody cares.

Luckily, all the news that I need to know is in Us Magazine, In Touch, Perez Hilton and occasionally People, which sometimes covers politics which makes it boring 40% of the time. Frankly, if it's not on Access Hollywood, it's pretty safe to say I'm not interested. Even sometimes Access Hollywood covers crap, like when they spend 15 minutes talking about Dancing with the Stars, which is a terrible show. I just don't understand how I'm supposed to be interested in daily coverage of the war in Iraq (other than the fact that I do care when people get killed there) when it's been going on for 20 years and everything looks very dusty and we're just storming towns and shooting at sand and I'm not really sure what we're doing there because no article anywhere ever explains so that people who don't read the news religiously can know. I do know, however that some pretty lame celebrities have been visiting the troops, but I guess if you're in a desert, Lisa Rinna or Danny Bonaduce is better than no one.

Monday, April 14, 2008

In Memoriam

In Memoriam: KC
October 1990 - April 14, 2008

I got an email today about the tragic passing of Liza's family dog, KC. The only comfort in these situations is knowing that all dogs go immediately to heaven. My thoughts and deepest condolences to Nanci, Leon and Liza.

"I have sometimes thought of the final cause of dogs having such short lives and I am quite satisfied it is in compassion to the human race; for if we suffer so much in losing a dog after an acquaintance of ten or twelve years, what would it be if they were to live double that time?"

---Sir Walter Scott

Your Tour Ends Here

My favorite show on tv is Rock of Love 2, along with Nanny 911, Wife Swap, Intervention, What Not to Wear, Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious, True Life, Celebrity Fit Club, I Love New York, I Love New York 2, The Pickup Artist, Dateline: NBC, 20/20, I Know My Kid's a Star, The Biggest Loser, and Supermarket Sweep. I love it so much that when it airs on Sunday at 11am and 9pm, I watch it both times so that I can memorize the dialogue and recite it the next day with anybody who calls me at the office to discuss what happened.

Unfortunately, I didn't see last night's finale because I was out, but I asked Megan today to tell me who won if I guess correctly, which makes no sense, because there were only two finalists, Daisy and "Ambre" so if I guessed wrong I would know the answer anyway. In any event, I guessed Daisy but apparently Bret has not getting my telepathy signals because aged fat leg Ambre won. First of all, while admittedly Daisy's face is completely beat and her lip injections interfere with her ability to speak, her body is 100% slammin' and Ambre looks like a glow worm and has the worst legs I have seen since Megan pointed out Jennifer Love Hewitt's legs one day while we were getting pedicures. Second of all, BRET PULLED THE SAME SHIT LAST SEASON. He got rid of stripper Heather (this season's Daisy) and went with dependable, likeable Jess (aka Ambre), and they broke up before the reunion show even aired. Why would he make this same mistake again? Also this season Bret stopped wearing his snakeskin trenchcoats (good) but he stopped talking about his Diabeetus (bad).

The next question is now that Rock of Love is over what the hell will I watch on tv and now I have nothing to look forward to until Perry's Thai food and margarita birthday party next week. They need to have a Rock of Love 3 and also The Pickup Artist 2, so I can keep on drooling over Mystery who is VERY sexy.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

The Price of Recommendations

The gorgeous Louboutins, pre-4/11/08, on my messy desk

Bad recommendations are the most annoying thing in life, and at the top of my list of things that piss me off are when people recommend bad books or bad service providers, like tailors, shoe people, cleaners, or whatever. I will never forgive my college suite mate Lyn (who has since become a mortal enemy for other, legitimate reasons) for recommending Slaughterhouse Five. I read 20 pages, told her it sucked and she told me to keep on reading because it "gets good", so I read the whole stinking book, got to the last line, which was, I kid you not, "Poh too weet?" and I was on the bus at the time and I remember my eyes welling up with tears of anger - how could she have wasted my time with this shitty book? Why would you recommend things if they don't rule.

I personally have amazing taste in books and I take recommendations VERY seriously - and I have NEVER recommended a book that the other person didn't find 100% awesome afterwards. My friend Emily highly recommended to me The God of Small Things once despite the fact that I had a sneaking suspicion it would blow, I read 5 pages of it and determined that it was actually a piece of shit directly from the toilet - I can't get into books that have sentences like "Nana poured the milk for me and I watched her leathered brown breast dip toward the table. A fly landed next to me and rubbed its legs against my skin." Um, this book might be good in Narnia.

Anyway, I bring this up because yesterday I picked up my originally shamazing gold-ish bronze Louboutins from my shoe guy who was supposed to redye the shoe because there were some scuffs. I told him that if he didn't think he could get the color EXACTLY RIGHT, don't do it. Similarly, if you don't think you can get him to say he ordered a Code Red, don't put Jessup on the stand. So of course I pick them up and they are now a dull gold color and to say I went ballistic was putting it mildly, because when service people fuck up my shit, I feel completely betrayed. I left my Louboutins at the shoe hospital with a mild cold and basically they came back amputees.

It makes no sense that in this city of ten bagillion people there are no cleaners who won't bleach stain your shit, no tailors who won't ruin your stuff, no shoe people that can dye metallic shoes correctly, and no hair dressers that won't fuck up your hair. When I first moved to the city I remember asking around where people got their hair dyed and it took me two years and several shitty recommendations from friends to find Saori at Salon Seven who always dyes and cuts my hair perfectly and generally kicks shit into high gear. The next get rich quick/Feldman, Feldman, Feldman Feldman Feldman & Feldman scheme is a business where we clean your clothes, tailor your shit, spruce up your shoes and cut your hair and all these services will rule and you will never have to be angry again.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Barely Essential

Yesterday I was at Sephora picking up some essentials, namely Nars Cruella velvet matte lip pencil, my Shu Uemera eyelash curler and Dior Show mascara. Normally before I go into any Sephora, I reapply my makeup because the mirrors and lighting in there are just devastating, and I typically leave vowing to cut off my face and start over, or adding to the list of necessary plastic surgeries. Yesterday was no exception, and as I was hunting around for the eyelash curlers I by accident looked into one the mirrors and literally saw Freddy Krueger looking back.

The mirror in which I caught sight of this hideous visage was conveniently located next to Bare Escentuals, which is that mineral foundation garbage that they sell on infomercials right after the ProActiv infomercials, the idea being that once you've rid yourself of your truly monstrous disfiguring pizza face acne, you can conceal the ghosts of zits past, the acne pits and the damage done by all your disgusting past carbuncles by applying these light-as-a-feather minerals and the ravages of your face will be magically 100% concealed. I have long been wary of putting minerals on my face due to the fact that "minerals" is actually a code word for "rocks," but frankly, desperate times call for desperate measures. I asked the Sephora lady what these minerals were all about and she helpfully suggested that I start out with the $60 starter kit, which contained a "base layer" and a "glow layer" which any idiot knows are the two key layers when painting on your face. She then put on the "base layer" on one side of my face by swirling around a brush with practically no powder around my cheek for about 3 minutes. I looked in the mirror and it looked EXACTLY the same as the other side of my face, except slightly sparklier. I asked her if the "base layer" did anything else besides nothing, like grant me everlasting youth or eternal happiness, and she said it contained SPF 15 and that in general "minerals are good for the skin."

Her logic was airtight and as a lifelong and ardent believer in the power of horoscopes, psychics, tea leaves, omens, magical creams and elixirs of youth, I decided that while the effects of Bare Escentuals are not visible to the naked eye, its powers are gradual and cumulative and that in order to see its effects I will have to wear it every day from now until I die, but I have a very strong feeling that this is the key to all my problems.

Head of the Class

"Naturally Beautiful" - me in 8th grade

April 19, 1996: I wore my best blue t-shirt and converse sneakers, made sure my clear braces were as non-yellowed as possible, applied my (No) Escape by Calvin Klein perfume and made sure to draw in my eyebrows extra carefully. It was the anniversary of Waco, my mom's birthday and the day that I had been scheming and planning for for at least 2 weeks. Right before second period, I spotted him kneeling by his locker, I rolled up, mustered all my courage, and asked Jon to the Sophmore Semi Formal. He laughed and asked me "Can I get back to you?" and I walked into my English class on cloud 9, positive that it was only a matter of hours until he revealed the good news. Though I didn't realize it at the time, there was basically no chance in hell he'd say yes. He was cool and had apparently been cool through all of middle school and I was a nerd that had transferred into the school at ninth grade. His friends drank, and my friends drank Hawaiian Punch. I had an awkward period that lasted from age birth to age 26, and let me assure you high school fell squarely in the middle of that shit.

Anyway, the end of the story is that he obviously rejected me by telling me he didn't know his plans for the dance and didn't want to "string me along." Right after the rejection I had English class which happened to be a tour of the library for the thousandth time that day and a dewey decimal info session throughout which I sobbed uncontrollably. This sounds ridiculous, but I vowed that one day he'd be sorry he didn't ask me out, not in a Columbine-type way, but in a wistful way. So essentially I have spent the subsequent years of my life doing everything- working out like a goddamn maniac, going to SHAMAZING schools, working for, getting a nose job, becoming the outstanding, considerate and humble person that I am today - all in an effort to rise above that rejection, which for some reason really fucking hurt. I don't understand - I'm so good at so many things - taking reading comprehension tests, being a friend, writing admissions essays, drinking and not throwing up - why can't I be good at being cool? Even when I wear my hot ass Botkier bag, DVF shirts and expen$$$$ive jeans, why am I still a nerd in cool clothing?

This weekend is my friend Grant's wedding, which I'm really pumped for. Jon will be there. He might even be reading this now, which would be really awkward, but in honor of Black History Month, the truth will set me free. Just so you know, this post was not necessarily supposed to be funny, but I felt like writing it anyway, so if you're not into it you can actually go suck it.
Upon review, it has occured to me that "the truth shall set you free" is a quote from Jesus and not from MLK Jr.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

No Point in the Olympics

So today, my friend Chris texted me that he was looking for ideas for how to put out the flame of the Olympic torch. I suggested Supersoaker Sniper which I think would be the only way to do it, but his text actually reminded me that the Olympics are coming up sometime soon, possibly in China but I'm not sure. I'm mainly not sure about whether it's in China because I don't care, which got me wondering whether anybody actually cares about the Olympics other than people who are in them, and I'm pretty sure the answer is no.

Frankly, the Olympics were relevant when we had a grudge against Russia or other places, and instead of killing civillians we just killed shit on the gymnastics floor and beat them in running races. But now that that grudge is over (which is clear based on the fact that all the Russian villians in movies have been replaced by Middle Eastern villians), who cares if a Russian swims faster or does beach volleyball better - good for them. Apparently the Olympics gets really high TV ratings but that's obviously because there aren't any other viable choices if the other options are a) watching a wall in your apartment, b) watching According to Jim or c) watching Amnesia.

The only potentially non-boring Olympic sport is women's gymnastics. I can't remember if gymnastics is part of the summer or winter Olympics, but sometimes it is mildly entertaining to watch for armpit stains or watch them put on the American flag windbreaker jacket immediately after they have done an event. But even gymnastics is a total snoozefest now that that pervert Bella Karolyi isn't coaching any more, but sometimes he is in the audience. Also, if they win a gold medal, is the point that they win gold or that they win a medal? Because I can understand competing for an actual piece of gold but if it's just gold plated then you can buy that easily on Canal Street.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Living in Narnia: Part Infinity

So I am looking into taking some classes at NYU this summer. I found a class I liked, called up "NYU Summer Sessions," listened to their 5 minute recorded message, dialed "0," was forced to listen to it again because apparently "0" is not a valid extension, and eventually got someone. I explained to her my situation and asked her how much taking this one class would be. "Well, it's $1,300 a point, and this is a three point class...$3,900 plus registration."

I told her that she must be mistaken, because I wanted to take a psychology class, not the class where they gave us the treasure map to El Dorado or where we learned from gold textbooks. She laughed and said "I know, it's really expensive. You can apply for a private loan though." I then asked her whether NYU was kidding me or whether everyone in the admissions office was actually living in Narnia because $4,000 is an extortionary amount that actually might be illegal. She laughed again and apologized that no financial aid would be available for summer students, and I assured her that I am EXTREMELY WEALTHY but really couldn't justify spending $4,000 unless the class involved the secrets of the universe.

To Snag a Met

So tonight I have to go to this work function - it's the Mets Welcome Home Dinner/Leukemia Foundation Fundraiser, I'm guessing for baseball players with leukemia, which is potentially the least deserving charity I've ever heard of. Apparently all the Met players and their coaches and other Met-related people will be there and will be coming around to the individual tables to sign autographs. As this is a prime opportunity to hook a Met, I've been strategizing my outfit for weeks and applying my eyelash lengthener serum RELIGIOUSLY which has been working. I finally decided on this sexpatrol Laila Azhar dress but unfortunately it's cold today so I had to settle for a B-team dress which is not as sextacular and all hope may be lost, except that my hair looks shamazing today and it makes up for it.

I have also narrowed down my pickup line to "Do you guys play in the Bronx or Brooklyn?" and when one of the Mets goes in for the kill to french me I will ask him if he's trying to go to first base. I am pretty confident that no one has used these amazing lines before and I'll pretty much be the only woman at this dinner so basically there is a 100% guarantee I end up going steady with a Met, in which case I will quit my job and wear only diamonds and gold for the foreseeable future.

In other news, Khalim from Pakistan, the car driver who drove me home from work last night, asked me when I got into the car, "What is a beautiful girl like you doing working?" I said, "I have no idea," which is true. He then asked me out on a date to the park and I asked him what park and he said there is one in New Jersey that is good, which makes sense.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Cribs: Feldman Edition

Aliza in the 80s workout studio, note the Chia Head in background

My sister Aliza and I have always dreamed of opening up Feldman, Feldman, Feldman Feldman & Feldman, which is a business that combines all our interests and talents (which are many). Aliza is going to school for a masters in psychology and I'm a lawyer, so we'd have a business where you complain to Aliza and drop your annoying legal problems off with me, and I will Google the answer. While Aliza is waiting to see you, you can buy t-shirts from our CrusTee t-shirt line which feature hysterical iron-on logos such as "Two Surgeries" in the front and "I Believe You, Michael" in the back, and "Will You" in the front and "Accept This Rose?" in the back, and includes our best seller which says "I'm a Star" in the front, and "Jones-Reynolds" in the back. HAHAHAHHAH.

One thing that this business will not do is that we will not try to interior decorate your home or attempt to do your math homework. I am a firm believer that interior design is something that you learn from your parents. Unfortunately, I grew in a house designed by Helen Keller where the bathrooms were specially decorated by Michael Jackson a la the Billy Jean video, the kitchen has McDonalds wallpaper and floors, and there is a giant leather couch in the den that was taken directly from Rockaway Bedding. Throw in some watercolor Holocaust paintings with people randomly blowing shofars and you get the picture.

Both my room and Aliza's room look like 80s aerobics studios with splatter paint wallpaper. Aliza's bed has been broken for literally 20 years so it's not surprising that she hit her head on the drawers above her bed 10 years ago and had to get stitches when she came up to my parents room with her with her face covered in blood. You can still see the blood on the drawers, but luckily it's camouflaged by the splatter paint. Jenna's room was modeled after a "horse stable" and has a fake wooden wall on one side.
Unfortunately, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree and the only decoration I have in my aparment is a Harry Belafonte record album framed and my prized Pope John Paul II paint-by-numbers. Everyone always comes over and tells me that the place is ridiculous loooking and that I need to decorate immediately, but I can't see the point of decorating if I'm going to move or die one day and frankly I'd rather spend the money on shoes or facials to decrease my zits which have apparently taken over my face. I mean, I can still conceal them masterfully, but it is actually not legitimate to have wrinkles AND zits at age 27.

Sunday, April 6, 2008


I've been sleeping all day/watching re-runs of Rock of Love, and I determined that I need a vacation STAT. The last "vacation" I took was for 4 days in February visiting my grandmother in West Palm Beach, Florida, with my sister Aliza, which can be classified less as a vacation and more as the Jewish mitzvah of "Bikur Chulim" - i.e., visiting the sick. Every day I a) got up, b) made myself a smoothie while my grandmother watched and directed, c) went down to the pool to watch the old people swim with feathered bathing caps, d) read a non-fiction book about Henry VIII and his court because Borders didn't have the one about Henry VIII and his wives in stock, e) went back upstairs, f) showered d) ate dinner and e) watched Law & Order SVU episodes until 11pm with my grandmother who who encouraged me to eat a piece of fruit during every commercial break. It wasn't really relaxing considering there was no internet connection, no fruity drinks with umbrellas and no native people coming around and pestering me to do water aerobics every five minutes.

The vacation I was supposed to go on before that was a biking/hiking/"wilderness" trip to Ecuador that I was going on by myself, due to the fact that I am strong, independent woman and in no way due to the fact that I don't have a boyfriend. I booked it when I was really depressed before my dosage got raised and looking back on it, I literally must have been clinically insane when I booked it. I think I wanted to fancy myself as this trail mix fleece vest wearing aunt who rappelled to work with my caribeener, but by the time the extra Lexapro kicked in, I honestly was horrified that I had shelled out $3,000 for this trip/nightmare, although we did get the list of fellow travelers from the tour agency and there was "Matt" from "New York, NY" that sounded promising, but then I realized that my concealer would come off while sweating and I wouldn't have a hairdryer/flatiron so obviously nothing would come of it. Luckily, I couldn't go on the trip for other non-blog-appropriate reasons, but I still got the bragging rights of saying I had booked the trip, got to blame my not being able to go on something else, and got the respect of people who said they were "impressed" that I would go on a trip like this.

I'm hoping my next trip can happen, which is a trip to Utah with my friend Victoria to investigate these so-called "Mormons," try and get them to convert me, and visit some polygamist communities and see what is going on there. A few years ago, my friend Anna was in Utah and brought me back a bunch of Mormon literature which was absolutely hysterical and by far the best vacation gift anyone has ever given me, except for the Norwegian Cruises thimbles and commemorative spoons Risa gets me from her cruises.

Um, the song "Kokomo" includes the lyrics "tropical contact high" - is this a joke.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Gorgeous New 'Do

If you think this blog is going to be mainly boring posts about my dog, Perry, you're right. If I had an annoying or ugly dog, I wouldn't bother mentioning him, but unfortunately Perry is the best looking dog I have ever seen with the greatest personality known to mankind.

Since Perry is a Bedlington terrier he has to have a very complicated mohawk/pompadour hairstyle called the "trojan." Every 4 weeks I take Perry to Walter's Pet Styles in Murray Thrill where Perry is treated to a day of beauty, if that is even possible because Perry's beauty is already exponential. Perry's stylist Walter and junior stylist Donna bathe him, clean out his filthy ears, give him a manicure, cut his hair and then give him an amazing blowout. When they're through with him, Walter robs me of $100 plus tip and hands over Perry who looks exactly like a little lamb. I was walking him home from grooming today and a guy on a smoke break told Perry he was "keeping it real" and I honestly cannot think of a higher compliment.

When I am extremely rich I plan to buy another Bedlington. If I'm still not married by age 35 and am still exceedingly rich I plan to throw in the towel and start a town filled only with Bedlingtons, human population: 1. There will be Bedlington innkeepers and Bedlington policemen and a Bedlington mayor and I will live out the rest of my days in this town and die happy.

Here are some pictures of one of Perry's historical blow outs. He wouldn't sit still for me today, but his new 'do is definitely amazing.

Too Sexy For Verizon

Last Friday I attended my friend Risa's Fordham Follies show, which basically makes fun of all things Fordham in musical form. The show was really good, and afterwards there was an open bar party at the Gin Mill on the UWS, which is a place that I have both thrown up and made out at, which speaks fairly highly of it. It was mostly Fordham people which meant that I had no choice but to sit in a corner drinking Long Island Ice Teas and openly mocking men in Kenneth Cole button down shirts and generally belittling others until I felt good enough about myself to join the party.

Anyway, so across the crowd, this guy who is in the middle of hitting on someone else made eye contact with me. He was tall, cute and looked like he might have an education for once and not work at a Verizon store and he just kept on staring at me. Admittedly my shit was looking pretty hot that night and I decided he might be my soulmate, so I walked by him and put my business card in his back pocket while he was hitting on this other girl. A few minutes later he walked by me and puts the above crumpled note in my hand.

Um - THIS IS THE MOST GLORIOUS NOTE EVER WRITTEN. It's perfect in every way- he compliments me, uses an emoticon and wants my number FOR DATING PURPOSES and not bootycall purposes. Risa agreed the note was amazing and we both took picures of it and posted it on Facebook to brag. I later spoke with "Matt" and confirmed he was a Libra (since I always get along with Libras) and we had a decent conversation about Doritos v. Cheetos and guns, but he said something else that I can't remember which enraged me so I stormed away and I think he ended up hooking up with the girl that he was initially hitting on.

Friday, April 4, 2008


Friday night rules for a number of reasons, the primary of which are that I don't have to be at work, Intervention is burning up my DVR, I get to eat pizza at 4AM and accuse other people of trying to make me obese, and I can drunkenly solicit compliments from friends that will temporarily boost my self esteem. Friday night does NOT rule around 9pm, when I emerge from the shower and face the moment I've been dreading all week long - putting on my "favorite" pair of Paige Premium Denim Petite jeans in size 25.

Some weeks when I've been successfully starving myself all week long and hitting the gymnasio like a madman, the jeans fit well and I look pretty much outrageously amazing. But other weeks when I've been drinking too much or where I've been trying to convince myself that "power yoga" burns just as many calories as seatbelting myself into the treadmill, putting on the jeans is a nightmare. I basically have to dump Crisco all over myself, spray my jeans with Pam, take a shoehorn and force myself in with a pulley and lever system. And once in the jeans, I look like I'm in a denim wetsuit and feel 100% gross all night.

This problem could be easily solved if I bought into the current "leggings" trend and just wore fatso leggings and a "tunic." My main problem with this is that I am not a medieval troubadour. Maybe someone really tall and thin can pull off this towne crier gear but on me I assure you it looks ludicrous. I'm not exactly sure when the 21st century became the 1400s but apparently these days it is acceptable to put on leggings, go backstage at Les Miserables, steal all the rags from the French peasants, pair them with Robin Hood boots, throw on an oversized pirate belt and then be ready to go party it up in the East Village.

Buying a larger size jean is clearly out of the question, but I am open to other suggestions that do not involve the "skinny" jean and Nazi boot look.

Descent into Decrepitude

This morning as I was putting on my makeup I was once again confronted with the horrifying reality that my upper eyelids are starting to droop. I have known this for about a year and have previously done extensive research on asian online message boards, which are the authoritity on which miracle creams help stop this affliction. However, after paying $78 on ebay for "Guerlain Issima Success Eye" and religiously putting it on every night, I have seen no progress, so the next step is an upper lid blephroplasty. Right now I'm trying to save my normal paycheck money by doing things such as buying a D&G dress at Bergdorf's last weekend and getting a full head of highlights and a haircut next weekend, so I've resorted to saving for my upcoming blephroplasty by collecting all the loose change around my apartment. In a few months I will go to the Commerce Bank Penny Arcade and get that shit calculated and I have a strong feeling it will be millions.

This premature aging process has definitely been brought on by work. Check out my professional picture on the side of this blog. My shit was pretty much out of control then. Now, every day is a fight to stay looking amazing. I have to do new eyeliner techniques to counteract the eyelid droop. I have to do running intervals at the gym for a freaking HALF HOUR in order to keep this shit at 105 lbs. Crest whitening strips, which supposedly last you for 6 months - I'm applying that stuff EVERY DAY (when I don't forget). And I'm taking calcium pills like a grandmother because I read in a reputable magazine that women start to lose bone mass at age 25 and I'll be damned if bone mass is lost on my watch.

If I had been a woman of leisure, I could devote my time to the eyelid exercises they prescribe on the asian message boards and also to lengthening my already slamming body with pilates or yoga or some other stretching garbage. I seriously cannot afford to keep on looking at a computer screen for 14 hours a day or my chances of looking good enough to find a disgustingly wealthy husband will be out the window.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Mr. Doodlehead

About a year ago I got a dog. I had been threatening to do so for a while and my parents tried to dissuade me in their typical reverse psychology fashion by giving me a stack of dogs-will-ruin-your-life books along the lines of "Dogs - Terrible Idea" and "Regret City: Dogs" for my birthday last May. I had a feeling my parents would pull this sort of trick after my sister Jenna informed me that my parents described me in family therapy (to which I was not invited) as "irresponsible" and as "spending money wildly." I thanked my parents kindly for their jerk gift, but I was secretly shitting my pants about getting a dog. Apparently the way it works is that you just give some lady money and she gives you a dog and then you go home with it and have a panic attack.

I was slated to pick up Perry (aka Doodles) on Memorial Day weekend with my sister, Aliza. I had booked the finest car in the land - a Kia - through Hertz, but when we got to the rental agency, all they had left was a red Mustang which I guess in general is cool if you've appeared in Grease 2 but is actually NOT cool if a) you can't reach the pedals without laying down in the seat or b) are rolling up to "Honeydew Farms" Bedlington terrier farm.
When we showed up to the breeder's house, it was pretty much a dream come true. She had a Bedlington terrier mailbox, Bedlington lawn ornaments and trophies, "olde tyme" sepia photos of civil war Bedlington terrier veterans with muskets and dishware with Bedlingtons. The breeder was also wearing an amazing gold necklace with a Bedlington charm on it which I obviously Googled and bought ASAP. She lived alone with 13 Bedlingtons and had been reading a Dean Koontz novel when I showed up, which naturally qualified her to be my personal hero and mentor.

Anyway, I bring up Perry because his 1st birthday (April 27) is coming up and I will be throwing him a (virgin) margarita and Thai food birthday party in honor of his favorite cuisines. Also, if people could stop asking me, "How long do Bedlingtons typically live?" that would be great because I know for a fact that dogs live forever and if Perry ever dies (which he won't, luckily), I will very calmly hail a cab and request that it drive me into the Hudson.