Piratitude

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.

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.

Robespierre House, M.D.

A picture Megan took of me from her deathbed

I got one of these ridiculous absence emails today from someone in the group who was "sick," which reminded me of my favorite illness story. While studying for the bar exam, a few friends of mine were planning a bar trip to India. They asked me to go but I told them that there was NO WAY in hell because I didn't want to die right after having taken the bar exam. They called me a "racist" and a "xenophobe" and basically said that it was ignorant of me to say that everyone who goes to India dies or becomes fatally ill, which they obviously do.

Anyway, after their vacation was over, I went over to Megan's new apartment to help her set it up. She looked yellow, sweaty and pretty much on the verge of death. Later that night she calls me up to sleep over my apartment because her air conditioning wasn't working, and prior to going to bed she threw up in a vase. At 4 AM she woke up screaming that it felt like there was a knife going through her skull and she couldn't turn her head, so I do what every normal person would do in this situation which is go to the deli and buy some bread. She was still screaming when I got back, so I diagnosed meningitis, we hopped in a cab, stopped off at her apartment for her COBRA forms and glasses, and went to the NYU hospital.

At the hospital I explained to the doctors that as a former psychology major, I had diagnosed her with meningitis. Unsurprisngly the doctors agreed with me and put Megan in an isolation ward that is vaccuum sealed. So I'm in the waiting room reading Family Circle when a doctor comes out to see me and says that Megan is refusing the spinal tap and wants to see me. Normally, the doctor (who is on Friendster, I later confirmed) explained, they don't allow visitors into isolation, but because I had already been exposed to Megan's meningitis "for a long enough period" the "damage was already done" so I might as well go see her. When I asked the doctor to clarify what he meant by "the damage was already done," he simply explained that I had already been exposed to meningitis and now it was only a matter of time until a) nothing happened, b) I got sick or c) I died.

I put on a brave face for Megan, telling her it wasn't that bad, taking phone pictures of her in a hospital gown with an IV, and making fun of the acne of one of the orderlies. Luckily she recovered, but later discovered her mom had forgotten to fill out the COBRA forms so she basically had to pay for the entire thing out of pocket. It seems to me that the two lessons here are a) I am an amazing diagnostician and should just be given an honorary medical license and b) I told you so.

Better Nosejob, Better Life

When I was looking for plastic surgeons for my nosejob, I really did my research. I spoke with all my friends who had nosejobs, I looked online, and I read New York magazine on the “Best Doctors.” I was pretty happy with my decision to go with Dr. Michael Evan Sachs, or “Dr. Snaxxx” as my sisters referred to him. His “finesse rhinoplasty technique” (yes, he actually called it that) seemed less invasive as he wouldn’t break my nose; plus, I knew a girl who had her nose done by him, and it was a goddamn work of art.

By way of background, my main problem with my nose was that it drooped when I smiled, and to a lesser extent I was bothered by the small bump in the middle. Dr. Snaxxx cautioned me to keep my expectations realistic and I told him that I was merely hoping that this procedure would solve all my problems, bestow eternal youth upon me and turn me into a supermodel. Needless to say, when they removed the cast 5 days after surgery, the bump was gone, the droop was still there and my friend Risa had to look twice to make sure I actually got the surgery I had been bragging about. On an unrelated note, many years later Dr. Snaxxx had his medical license revoked in part for a number of botched surgeries and deaths.

Although in retrospect I am lucky to have escaped with my life, I have absolutely no doubt that my life would have been completely different if I had had an amazing nose job. First of all, I wouldn’t always have to take pictures from 3/4 angle. Second of all, I probably would have found love by now and gotten married. Third of all, my beauty would have increased exponentially and many good things flow from extreme beauty. Not that I think I’m ugly now, but I’ve learned that having a mediocre nose is just another cross to bear, like the bunion on my left foot or 20/400 vision or the prune chin that I have to get botoxed twice a year in order to de-prune.

Things I Will Need When I Die

A while back when Jerry Orbach died, there were all these ridiculous and grammatically incorrect subway organ donor ads saying “Jerry Orbach was a gifted actor and his greatest gift was that of sight,” which advertised the fact that he had donated his eyes. When I commented to my friend Megan that it was actually really gross to be wearing somebody else’s eyes and that personally I would rather be blind, Megan got extremely offended and asked me whether, if I died before her and she needed a heart or would certainly die, I would give her mine. I said no, because what if I needed it for the afterlife? Obviously I have no idea if there even is an afterlife, but I’m just not willing to take the chance in case I might need it for something.

Which brings me to my next point - if you think I’m getting buried, nice try but forget it. 1-800- Mausoleums R Us. Also, I will need the following things buried with me:

1. Mirror
2. Concealer
3. Eyelash curler
4. 2 year subscription to Us Weekly
5. Internet connection
6. Phone with unlimited texting
7. Braveheart DVD
8. Perry or replica of Perry
9. The Canterbury Tales
10. Flat iron
11. My amazing law school admissions essay on Amadou Diallo

I would also include my Louboutins in this list but Megan has already claimed them for her own burial.

Turning into Rusty

So last week I was at this shoe repair guy on Wall Street, right near where all the R$CH guys work, dropping off some redonkulously amazing shoes, obviously all of which were purchased on ebay. I had just come from the gymnasio, so my hair was freshly blown out, my pancake makeup freshly shellacked on, and frankly shit was looking top notch. Except that I was wearing a skirt with my gym sneakers, like a nerdy commuting 80s power woman executive.

As I’m explaining to the shoe guy what needs to be done, out of the corner of my eye I see three i-banker types come in to get their shoes shined, right next to me. Normally I would try and make eye contact or spray perfume or “mistakenly” pour milk down my back, but I was pretty much 100% humiliated that I was standing there in gym sneakers, so I just did what I normally do, which is turn red, start profusely sweating and basically race out of there like a giant nerd.

Unfortunately, I wish I could say that that never happens to me, but sadly I wear sneakers every day to and from the subway to work and to and from the gym. If I wore heels instead of sneakers while commuting, I would basically have to get up an hour earlier so that I could hobble for 45 minutes to the subway, get to my office and ice my feet for 3 hours and then spend the rest of the day scheduling bunion surgery.

My friend Liza suggested I get “cooler” sneakers like Pumas or something for the subway so I can stop looking so unbelievably dorky. But that would mean I have to bring 3 pairs of shoes to the office every day - heels, gym shoes and “cool shoes” and that is getting out of control. And besides, are these woman who wear their heels on the subway joking me? Also, are those impeccable asians that roll up with sleek, freshly pressed clothing and coats with no dog hair or lint joking me? It makes me very angry because I have seriously tried my entire life to conceal and overcome as much as possible my inherently nerdy nature and I feel that these people are just all there to remind me of my Rusty destiny.