Three New York Women

Popcorn Soaked Tears

2008-03-06T14:06:00.008-05:00

Be Kind Rewind (BKR), a film starring Mos Def, Danny Glover and Jack Black has received mixed reviews reviews at the box office. I loved it. It made me cry.

Very few movies make me cry happy tears. Actually – I take that back – that is total and complete horse shit. I’ve teared up watching Hallmark commercials. I cried watching this commercial, hearing this song, observing the finale of this tv show and telling this story.

Many Hollywood films try to pull out all the stops to get you to leak salt water into your popcorn. They orchestrate and manipulate, add music, throw in a kid and bring together all the elements of a formula guaranteed to evoke sobbing. Take Kite Runner for example, a recipe for wailing: Fold in two parts little boy, mix vigorously with a voiceover, sprinkle a pinch of child rape, bake under the heat of swelling music, garnish with the kite, flying in the air = Instant Cry.

But BKR isn’t the orchestrated Hollywood formula created with the sole interest of coaxing a cry. No, BKR is an organic and lovely little twinkle of the heart. It’s a celebration of mediocre people with individually few charms – but collectively capable of making a great movie. Discovering BKR filled me with the same unexpected joy received upon stumbling into a dingy New York Diner that turns out to be an undiscovered gem of the city. I thought I would hate it – turns out I love it and kind of want to keep everyone else from discovering its charms.

Synopsis:
A small community video shop owner (played by Danny Glover) is told that his business and home are condemned and that without expensive improvements, his building will be soon be replaced by a fancy new condominium complex. Determined to save his home and livelihood, he sets out to investigate the competition and leaves his adopted son (played by Mos Def), to watch over the store. Mos Def is renting the occasional 1 video for $1 until the arrival of his BFF Jack Black. BFF Black has been magnetized through a freak accident and as he touches all the videos in the shop they are erased. Threatened by demanding neighborhood renters and fearful Glover will be disappointed with them both, Def and Black come up with the idea to re-shoot each film using a dusty old camera - playing all the parts themselves. Herein lies the heart of the film. In order to make the low-budget films – Black and Def employ the help of the local community and soon there is a line around the block of people wanting to see their town and their friends in the low-budget remakes of their favorite films. In a last ditch effort to make enough money to save the shop and keep the condos from going up, the entire town participates in a mockumentary film that recreates the town as the home of a historical hero.

In the end – the shop folds to progress – but you get the warm feeling that the community rallied together and were closer for their efforts. It makes me wonder if this is what the first few Hollywood films were really about. In the start of all the craziness, before the money and rehabbed actresses, before DVD’s and internet piracy – perhaps a movie was about bringing a community together to laugh and bond and share in the spirit of creating something together.

Things I Didn’t Like:
• Movies love to make “progress” evil, casting static cities as unlikely heroes. This film follows the Hollywood trap of trying to make it look like chain stores and DVDs are killing real art. The concept that VHS could be worthy of preserving is more unbelievable to me than the idea that Jack Black could become magnetized enough to wipe videos but not stick to cars and then demagnetize within the course of 48 hours.
• I wanted to see more home made movies!! This was really the best part – watching two people on a $5 budget recreate scenes from our favorite films. I think reality TV proves that while Hollywood makes the big blockbuster films – in the end, it’s the films shot in your own back yard that make people feel warm and fuzzy. Even better if they can quickly be uploaded to YouTube to share with friends and family.

Things I Did Like:
• Watch for the film-within-the-film scene of Fat’s playing the organ. The low budget effects of the trumpets leaping from the church organ brought out my first Kleenex.
• The fact that this film was likely shot in Passaic New Jersey with actual Passaic locals playing bit parts and working as extras makes the film extra special. Indeed, while there were several big name actors in the credits, the true stars of the show were the people of Passaic. This point is best illustrated in the films final three minutes when community members appear in the home made film-within-the-film giving the most natural and spirited performances of the flick.
• The movie doesn’t bother with painting the town, the people or the condemned building as anything more than junk – but it does make the point that with spirit, cooperation and creativity, one man’s junk can be another man’s treasure.

This is what she said, click here to see what he said. Same date, two different perspectives

Sweat Lodge in the Poconos

2007-09-24T10:49:00.000-04:00

It was a perfect weekend. Tranquil lake, morning dew, warm fire and spiritual beings gathering for an experience. It was different from the one I partook in last year. The one that changed my life. This one was lead by Lunging Bear. Tall, gentle voice, and blue-eyed leader. He was having problems with his prostrate. TMI? Well, that's what he shared.

His goal was to take us in and out. One swift motion. He smudged half-heartedly and recited none of the rituals. A cd played in his S.U.V. and the hypnotic voice instructed that if a woman was on her moon cycle, to be sure to share this with the chief. I did as instructed.

Lunging Bear looked at me with dismay. His blue eyes widened and he whispered, "You will have to do a separate sweat. Otherwise, you will drain me of my energy. You see?" I was a little annoyed. It wasn't just that I would have to paddle back to the other side of the lake and wait an hour or so, it was that so many people were turned off to this sweat because he was a man that preferred to have the women dressed in long gowns upon entering the wee-pee (or tee pee, as it is more commonly known). Time. Patience. The bane of my existence, really.

The long hour passed, and I watched the sun move from the sparkling angle of the trees, to the shining kisses on the waters' edge. They shone like diamonds. The ripples calmed down to a faint murmuring reflection. I was calm. I was ready.

I entered in the wee-pee. Fully ready to disclose my intention. Lunging Bear sat outside and smoked his Marlboro reds. "Go in," he said. "Don't I have to re-smudge?" I asked. "No. You're fine," he answered cavalierly. I was ready. I was waiting for an awakening. I went in the wee-pee and only about 5 people (from the 35) remained. Some where lounging in bikinis, some were in full gear. I sat close to the rocks and breathed in serenity and centeredness.

There is a tradition among the Indigo people whereupon women in their moon cycles are asked specifically to sit on the Earth and feed it with the milk of human suffering. It reminds nature to awaken and protect, as it had so many centuries ago. With mindfulness, I let the drops kiss the Earth. I let go.

Lunging Bear entered the wee-pee, and when the panels closed, we were cloaked in darkness. He went through the ritual. "What are your concerns?" he asked. In a round-robin fashion, people shared their most intimate worries. He spoke beautifully. He called in all the spirits of healing. A calm swept over our little clan.

"What are you grateful for?," Lunging Bear then asked. I could hear some people hyperventilating and weeping. So much had been revealed, so many wounds were exposed. Three people expressed their gratitude. So many more sat in silence. Lunging Bear retreated. I was anticipated the four directions, and found myself caring for two spirits, like wounded fawn. I gave reiki to those remaining. I called healing and pure energy and spirit to come and infuse this wee-pee. When I retreated, the sun was setting. I felt the trees call to me and awaken an appreciation for having fed them with the milk of human kindness. I was no longer afraid of the woods. I was no longer afraid of the Earth. I had transformed in a different way. Thank you Mother Earth!!! Abundance is my birthright, and you have shown me the way.

80s Night

2007-08-22T12:48:00.000-04:00

Dressed from head to toe in sequins and tafetta, I hurredly made my way down the street. It was one of those rare occassions where I bumped in to numerous people I knew. One man in particular got out of his seat at a cafe, and came to kiss me hello. I think it was the first time he had ever seen me in anything other than moisterizer, lip gloss and black cotton clothing. The tingling in my mind from the excitement was enough to take my breath away. I raised the hem of my skirt and rushed away, feeling a little like a prom queen.

High school was a foible I rarely think about. Many students, aeons older and more cultured, barely looked my way when making plans. I had always thought it was a cultural divide or perhaps a blue-blood "you weren't on the boat/had to be there" sort of thing. It always left me with the stain of disappointment. Here, however, was a way to revisit that in another decade, at another place, with different people. What was different?

For starters, I was happy to be taking part of this exciting evening. My girlfriend is getting married in a castle, and for fun, her bachelorette party was held at an interactive show in the old Webster Hall. That alone was a receipe for disaster, I thought. When I arrived, they were all gathered on the stage with images of Billy Idol, the B-52's and other classics on the jumbo-tron video screen. Instantly, I was brought up to the stage and a party ensued. The circular, tribal mandala of young souls screaming their faces off and letting loose was the closest carnage of souls exchanging joy, that I'd experienced since sweat lodge.

When playing dress up, surrounded by actors and great friends, it's even greater to do it in the context of what might have been. Ain't sobriety grand?

Fringe, newbie style

2007-08-20T12:35:00.001-04:00

I walked out of the theater. Barely able to remember why I'd gone. "Oh, yea," I thought duly, I owed the guy a favor. It was one of those storylines that I really can't stand. Apocalyptic propaganda. Between the over acting on behalf of the leads, and the rambling script, I could think of another exciting way to spend my evening...namely, in bed watching the paint from my ceiling curl forward.

I wish I'd discovered this blog in advance, http://newbienyc.blogspot.com. It actually gives a really comprehensive run down of the fringe festival, and actually, everything high culture. Alas, I was left to my own discoveries, and really, I was doing a favor for my friend. He was actually stellar, and I really wished he had more dialogue. The endless rambling of the monologue-driven piece was mind numbing.

I ambled about like a blinded deer. Seeing other dazed and confused theatre goers crowding around a plume of smoke, I walked over to see if anyone was willing to share their cancer with me. In typical smoker's camaraderie, numerous packed were extended to me. Variety is, after all, the spice of life. I chose a peppermint patty flavored smoke, and found a bench to sit on and wonder if it was worse to kill myself SLOWLY with a cigarette, or put a gun to my pounding temples.

"That bad, huh?" said a fellow smoker. I smiled, weakly, and looked at him and said, "I guess I've seen worse. When I was high." We both laughed. "At least we have the huddle of misery to gravitate to after, I suppose," I added. "It would be nice to have a peace pipe, I guess. Or peyote," he said.

It was the magic word. I heard myself tell him that he should try out a sweat lodge then. "Sweat lodge?" he asked, bewildered by that phrase. "Oh! I didn't make up the word. It's a real thing. A Native American ritual that takes place every Fall." Before I knew it, I spent the next 10 minutes talking to him about sweat lodge. The leather tee-pee on the side of the hill in the Catskills, surrounded by wildlife and white-tailed deer, the smudging ceremony before entering, the intention given to the head honcho, the four directions, the camaraderie. He looked at me as if I had suddenly shown him a magic doorway to an emerald city. It is possible to find a silver lining in everything. Magic doors and ‘what can I learn and give today’ thinking. I walked away from the smoky theater, having bid adieu to the fascinated stranger, and off I went, like some type of satirical highlander, to spread knowledge of parallel realities. Gosh I’m full of it.

Bloggermouth

2007-08-17T10:43:00.000-04:00

The New York Times prints all the news that's fit to print, and myspace/Facebookers type all the gossip that's fit for consumption.

Cue the Disneyland, "It's a small world after all" music.

In an office setting where there was little chance of ever seeing this person again, I spewed venom on my page about an impropriety on this person’s part. Simply put, I set a boundary about revealing my personal information, and this person continued to pry. I blogged about it.

I remember a conversation I had with one of my friends. She had been dating a man who blogged about all of his sexcapades on-line. As life would have it, this woman read his blogs. He blogged about her. He had bloggerhea, it seemed, because all of their news was front page business for all of his internet-nerd friends. He was macking himself out on this page at her expense.

Now, don’t get me started on my castigations or aspersions on social networking sites and their identical tapestry to petty high school cliques, however…time came for me to be bit by the very same bloggerhea bug. I BLOGGED about this person. I blogged about this person in the pettiest of ways. “Look what they’re wearing” “I don’t want this person to be…” insert self-important ideas and beliefs about my superiority over this person. So petty, so small, so not going to get back to this person, I thought. There it was though, the obvious distance the next time I saw them. This person read my nasty blog and was offended. Another person read my blog, thought it was about them, and were also offended. In this anonymous world of ‘he said/she said’ it is always safer to remember it’s a small world, after all.

Chick Support on the Side

2007-08-15T12:17:00.000-04:00

Curiouser and curiouser...
A few posts back, I was smack-talking about women recently. 'Why don't they have your back like men have for one another?' 'Is it really a chest-smacking caveman support, or are women really more of the quiet steady types?' Then it happened.

I was sitting in a meeting, baring my soul. It was one of those gut-wrenching, 'here is my heart and all of the blackness it contains' soul-ripping/gut wrenching/purging-type of shares that was laden with fear, tinged with self-pity and aching with vulnerability. Who IS this, and where did you put my social mask? The verbal diaherrea poured out with little control:

"I had a show last night and it was great. I feel so empty though. I made mistakes. I promoted another show at this one, and the club owner warned that I would be cut from that club. He looked at me like I was a calculating parasite. Oh my God! I wasn't even trying to do that. I didn't KNOW!!! And then, the famous comic from the long running and popular t.v. show(anonymity intended) came up to me and was hugging and kissing me. It made other comics come up to me and treat me as if I were somehow able to give them something. The booker asked me how I knew him, and I think thought we were sleeping together. And thennnn...I inadvertantly insulted an executive at HBO, thinking he was a comic and making fun of his moustache (my way of flirting), only later to find out that not only was he married, but he was an executive at a television station I've been courting all summer!" On and on this rambling fear spewed. Down, down, down the rabbitt hole of despair.

It was during this display of demons that my power possee of pretties took me out for some tea and sympathy. We gathered around the table and after our orders were secured, bared our souls to one another, collecting the consciousness of love, as only spiritual beings are capable. It was during that time that something magic appeared. The inner glow that had drawn me to these beings began to beam like a bright star on a dark winter's night. All of our lights shone as one.

I mentioned it again. "Sweat lodge is coming up this Fall." There was another woman at the table who shared her excitement and encouraged her participation this season. As I looked around, self-consciously hoping I didn't sound like a Geico commercial-with some gimmicky attempt at slickness for sales for personal gain, I couldn't help but to remember that this is what life was like before t.v. Human connection. Looking at my life from this perspective, their souls shone like a campfire, and mixed opinions were shared and polished like precious gems. "This is what it must have been like before Starbucks!" I thought. Sitting around, enjoying one another's company, sharing new passions and building additional ones, the activity of new plans bubbled up. “Count me in!” “Yea, give me more info!” “I’d love to do sweat lodge.” “Wait. Didn’t you lose your mind last year doing that, and haven’t shut up about it? I think I’ll go.”

When the night drew to a close, I took a deep satisfying breath and gathered my things. As I walked past the Carlye, I remembered the numerous evenings of pretense. A child in an adult world, really, observing cultural norms of a world that I once would have raped and pillaged to be a part of. As I contemplated my satisfaction at exposing the Queen card and all of the Queen's men, as it were, I thought about the relief that comes from playing it straight. No games, no control, no struggle to maintain order in any court or any form of beheading...just satisfaction at knowing that women really do have your back on the sideline. Acceptance, progress not perfection and girlfriends!

i heart all of ny

2007-08-13T10:52:00.000-04:00

Last week, the unthinkable happened. Was it the begining of Sodom and Gamora? Would we really have to gather the creatures two by two? Or was some level of cosmic consciousness involved when they released Bruce Almighty that caused city-wide flooding, causing the subway system to come to a screeching halt?
Unless you were living under a rock, or your very own biodome, you knew there was a problem with mass transit caused by flooding in the Financial District. However, while it seemed the world was drowning and canoe seemed the only logical form of transit, I saw, yet again, human spirit alive and well in this city.
The morning breeze gently blew in soggy whispers in the wee hours of dawn, and I sleepily shut the window closed as I resignedly slipped under the crisp Egyptian cotton sheets. It was roasting just the night before, but there was some comfort in hearing the pitter of rain. Back to bed I went, lazily thinking, “I’ll run tomorrow”. Never in my consciousness did I think that there was trouble brewing beneath the streets.
I walked out of my home in the morning, ready to begin my routine. I bumped in to a handsome man, who came right up to me and told me that I should know, that if I am thinking of using the subway, not to bother. It took him ½ an hour to get out of the subway. There was no chance that the subways were running. They were all under water.
It seemed too strange to be a made up story, and I as I took his word for it, I almost floated by the chaotic line to get IN to the subway. Most people were in a robotic fog, and where forcing their way down jammed staircases while others were screaming “the subway is OUT OF SERVICE! Don’t bother!” It was then that I began to see my city, as if it were for the first time.
Quaint tree-lined sidewalks, ordinarily barren at this time, were filled with pedestrians. Door men walked out of their towers, to see and interact with people who were walking south. Many pedestrians called out in neighborly ways, making sure that others knew that they were aware of the subway problems. This walk, as pleasant as could be, had the best of New York. The best park in the world, fountains in honor of Venus de Milo, production crews assembling to film SEX IN THE CITY-THE MOVIE, joggers and designer dogs, joggers, Horse-drawn carriages, coffee trucks and smoothies to go, mobile creperies making their way to prime real estate, all seemed to flow in a rhythm that was silently trudging ahead.
Was it my perception of a silent and friendly City which had colored my view, ever so slightly with a rose hue, or is this really New York, and the reason why I love it so?

Woman's man?

2007-08-06T11:37:00.001-04:00

I've always been the type of person who enjoys real conversations. I am not all that interested in hearing who has a sale at what store or at what price. I believe I have a limited time on this planet, and my goal is to maximize all I can in this lifetime to create the greatest good involved...and yes, pardon me, but I do NOT believe that the greatest good could be found at the Barney's end of the season sale. No offense, I just don't.
I have considered producing, as a way to make the voices that I enjoy, be heard more often. This has put me in an interesting power position. I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd think I was a man. What I mean by this is that suddenly, men in my field who were so cutting and rude, are suddenly more willing to listen, be curteous and helpful. In many more instances though, their agenda to be promoted by me are as flimsy as their excuses for not helping before.
This got me to thinking about male/female dynamics in the work place (because that’s what I do when things don’t go my way, and I feel like I could do better), I ask: “How this would be different if I were a man?”. Well, for one thing, I imagine if I had to pee, I could just whip it out and go in a phone booth…which was ONE in a series of things my mind was bitching about the night of the show, while I was blind from rage with all that went wrong, and needed to go to the bathroom besides.
This actually just made me think about a male comic I know. A male-comic was promoting his show, and I even received an email from one of his friends, another man, forwarding the message on and plugging the show: 'you should go, he’s really funny'. Meanwhile, that comics’ jokes are all about shitting in a Jacuzzi. Now, I don’t mean to cast aspersions on other people’s pleasures, but...really?
I’m not sure what this is all about. Is this about a preference for scatological humor, or does it have to do with the fact that there is power in numbers, specifically, men’s numbers? I have seen it so many times. Men back each other up. Women will SAY that they do, but statistically, mean are more loyal to one another than women are. Don't get me wrong, I have wonderful girlfriends who are there for me, but there is a different type of bonding when men are involved.
I know: I've fallen into the trap. I pair up with a guy, thinking that their friendship is going to be more uncomplicated than one with a woman, only find out, with bitter disappointment, that at the end of the day, a guy is always going to back up his buddy. Always. A woman: she checks out as soon as she gets married. This isn't your run-of-the-mill bitterness: this comes with tested data.
I just wonder: when are we, collectively as women going to stop listening to the serpent in our garden of Eden and help one another?

Why hugging and laughing go together

2007-08-03T12:00:00.000-04:00

The road to enlightenment is paved with good intentions. I find that on this lonely road of happiness, there are two things that seem glaringly obvious to me: everyone seems to be looking outside of themselves for happiness, happiness is an endangered species.

That may seem like a bold and sweeping statement, so please allow me to explain. It has been quite a number of months that I have dedicated my life's work to making people happy. Specifically, through laughter. Now, this is no small task, considering that my natural default is set on 'death and destruction" mode. It is very simple, really, we live in a culture where all of our major holiday's are glorifying death, our news (and news' worthy items) are bent on displaying human suffering, and I know from experience that if you are happy, there are always a pack of people talking behind your back, calling you phoney or ripping down your efforts.

I will not bore you with details, but I will say this: after I received my hug from the hugging saint, I went about to share that energy with others. I took on the daunting task of spreading that energy in to my career. I found ways to incorporate hugs and laughter in to everything I do. In this journey, I found two things: first, if you click on the picture, you will be redirected to the clip on youtube "free hugs". The simplest way to describe this is one man's wish to get and give hugs all over the world, because he just wanted to be greeted with a hug at the airport. There was acutally OPPOSITION to this effort! The second thing I discovered was: when I set about to rise to the occasion and step on to a higher platform, I had direct attacks on my person, venomous rumors spread behind my back, and a very dark ignoring energy. I guess it should not surprise me, but it is a little perplexing.

Why wouldn't people want to join together in something that binds...that doesn't have to be about tearing others' down or perpetuating negativity? I can only guess it is because gravity sets the default at the lowest bar. Happiness is a work out, and maintaining that happiness regardless of the circumstances, requires great spiritual work.

That's enough from me. This little rant is for those who believe in the power of love, and unabashedly spread it around. We are all little bits of a whole that make us one. One human, one love, one hope, one peace. So here it is....my wholehearted hug...just for you. It is all around us...we must just open our hearts to receive and spread our arms to give...and when all else fails, go to a comedy club!

I hugged the sun yesterday

2007-07-12T15:23:00.000-04:00

I got derailed on blogging on account of a hug.
Let me explain. Three years ago, as I was glowing at a Spa downtown when a man who looked like Jesus (only sexy and in a speedo. Ok. Imagine speedos were sexy…then J.C. with more muscle mass…then…roll!)

So, he told me that he loved the beads I was wearing. I looked at him, and thought him to be as wholesome as an apple beggin to be taken a bite out of. I listened some more to what he had to say. He told me that if I enjoyed yoga, then I would have to see Amma Chi. Who IS this? He said, ‘the hugging saint.’ Thus began a quest to see her.

I’m not going to get in to the dirty details, just suffice it to say that I finally FINALLY saw her yesterday. Here are the points I wanted to outline:

1. I remembered my intention to honor the mother, and Amma is doing Mother Earth’s work. I honored the memory of that and all of the women who occupy this Earth, taking on causes greater than themselves, finding the courage somehow to forge through and bringing joy to the world in some form.

2. it was a really long day (2 hours sleep the night before-BIG MISTAKE) getting all sorts of miscommunication and FINALLY getting my hug 13 hours later.)

3. the build up to the hug reached mythic proportions...but ultimately, I think it was a sound idea NOT to film the actual hug (that private moment was bliss!)

4. I was probably the biggest freak show on the way up to see her because I couldn't stop crying and I was having heart palpitations

5. One of the ushers gave me reiki, and I chillaxed a bit

6. When I was one person away from her, I swear it felt like I was Icarus approaching the sun

7. I gave her the headband I designed that day (as people typically give offerings)

8. She was stunned (as evidenced in her eyes). She looked to her ushers, and the ushers looked it over (as it was not the usual offering)

meanwhile...

9. I entered her embrace, and it felt like I felt just before I entered that tee-pee, just before sweat lodge (which I did after my 5th step)...like she was channeling EARTH MOTHER and I was channeling CHILD

10. My heart will never be the same again.

Treasure in the Park

2007-06-13T13:31:00.000-04:00

Sorry I've been so quiet lately. The frenetic pace of the City when the sun comes out is almost viral. As we speak, I can barely hear myself think because of the noises competing to make their own symphony. Yet, there it is. Like an oasis in the City. Bryant Park.
It may seem rather plebeian of me to mention something so basic. The Park. Not THE park (as in the Central one) but the one between Grand Central and Port Authority. Next to the New York Public Library, across from Nat Sherman. That one. Did you know there were treasures hidden within?
As I was filming a pilot, reviewing scripts for ideas with my sketch comedy group, working on new material to perform for my stand-up act and looking for locations for a show I’m producing, I suggested to take a meeting in the Park. Off in the distance, I could see well dressed couples drinking clear glasses of Chablis. Laughter tinkling like the best polished crystal. The symphony of birds chirping like Texan lavender. As my footsteps neared the granite walkway, the crescendo of the orchestra reached new heights. There they were, the participants of an elegant opera, in grand New York City style.
As I made my way to a new found slice of serenity, I caught a glimpse of my old thinking like a hiccup, or a faint echo. It wasn’t such a long time ago when I would not have even known that every Thursday one can go to the concerto in the park. The sense of community and peace is like nothing I can describe, and tastes sweeter than any glass of anything I’ve ever put my lips to.

“Single Anxious Females”

2007-05-24T22:49:00.000-04:00

Our last presidential election recognized the power of the internet, will this election harness the power to pinpoint a specific demographic?

An interesting piece in New York magazine today identifies the ’08 election power demographic as “Single Anxious Females”.

“She’s youngish (between 18 and 44), white (64%), unanchored (36% move every two years), unaffluent (earning $30,000 or less a year), relatively uneducated (only 14% are college grads), and thoroughly pissed off about the direction of America (Iraq, health care, equal pay, and education are top issues).”

Well look at that! This demographic description draws a similarity to the most frequent readers of “She” blogs. You know, blogs written by women for women that have been growing in numbers and intensity in the last few years. Not the typical political blogs like Wonkette, but the personal Chick Lit blogs like This Fish Needs a Bicycle or Belle in the Big Apple. These are the new battlegrounds for politics. So how long will it take for these “She” blogs to be exploited in the upcoming race for the White House?”

Infiltrating blogs with paid marketing messages is the next wave of subliminal advertising. What started with Reese’s Pieces in the movie ET led to a major product placement industry in Hollywood. It followed naturally for marketers to begin their assault on the blogoshpere by getting away from paid advertising in exchange for strategically placed puff pieces and more obvious hawking of products and clients on blogs such as Perezhilton.com.

And who does Perezhilton.com appeal to with his five million hits a day?

She’s youngish (between 18 and 44), white (64%), unanchored (36% move every two years), unaffluent (earning $30,000 or less a year), relatively uneducated (only 14% are college grads), and thoroughly pissed off about the direction of America (fashion, the ever-fluctuating weight of Nicole Ritchie, the latest sale at Barneys, which Hollywood hunk is Lindsay Lohan hooking up with and what happened last night on the American Idol finale are top issues).

If only Hilary Clinton, the Economist pick for the Democratic nomination, could be sexed up and packaged in a YouTube video link, pre-HTML coded for wide blog release, then perhaps the SAF demographic could be motivated to vote in the next election.

Hey, I’m just glad that young single women will finally be courted to get out and vote. And I can’t wait to see what kind of tricks those marketing geniuses are hiding up their sleeves to capture the attention of SAF’s everywhere.

Horoscope or horse-schiite

2007-05-18T14:41:00.000-04:00

Often, it's necessary to dig in a different direction...especially in New York...and most especially after you have had your ass handed to you on numerous occasions.

Cut to: reading a newspaper and fixing your gaze on something that tells you "Associate only with those who are positive thinkers and who want to advance their lives". Seems simple enough, eh?

Add to that: burned out New Yorker, looking for a balm to cure that sun starved itch. Enter: new 'hot spot' complete with swim up bar.
I was invited by a dancer friend who told me that this was a party that could not be missed. So, off I went, with bikini in tow, and had a really lovely evening hanging out with beautiful people....drunk and not.

I had it in my mind to have a great time, and so it was. What I found most valuable, though, was not the smoking-hot boys, or the ultra cool women but the absolute vacation in midtown vibe. Transported for a few hours, I found a type of bonding that I had been missing. There were other people who actually parroted what I was thinking: it's nice to make a human connection, isn't it?

Indeed 'tis, indeed 'tis....

Here Comes the Sun

2007-05-15T14:41:00.000-04:00

My mind races. I have many things I have to accomplish, but I am living in yesterday right now. Looking absentmindedly at the river, I recall the past couple of days.

I had a show last night at the number one comedy club in America. It was a show that I was promoting for one month. For all intents and purposes, this was going to be a great slot, a wonderful opportunity, and the best show ever.

Here's what actually happened: no one showed up for me. I was not able to perform. This was the first time I had been benched at a show. Any other time I had promoted a show and not enough people showed, my time was merely cut. I was still able to play.

How it works: when there are shows at a comedy club, you can either have a spot, be a regular, be featured, be an m.c. or it could be a bringer show (where you have to bring people). This was a bringer show, but it was also a showcase of new/up and coming comidiennes. The owner of the club was watching to see which comidienne he would 'pass' next. This means that he was looking for someone to add to his regular team of comics. This is also the third show that I have heavily promoted in the hopes that I could submit a tape that Comedy Central has been expecting since February.

How the night unfolded: Receiving numerous cancellations, I frantically got on my computer, sent messages, texts and talked on the phone for what seemed like hours, trying to get people to come. The only calls I recieved where from other comics calling to tell me to give messages to the booker. Never mind. I would face my fear. My people would come.
Arriving at the club 45 minutes before the show, I watched everyone arrive. Ten minutes before the show, I watched one comic down a couple of beers, another smoke 4 cigarettes, and yet another drink copious amounts of Robotussin and then chase it with a white wine spritzer. Five minutes before the show, I watched my colleagues' loved ones wish them well, as they took their seats. One hour in to the show, I watched many other newer comidiennes, take their shot and perform to a warm and lovely crowd. One and one half hours in, I watched my comedy idol perform. One hour and forty five minutes later, I grabbed my things and bolted towards the door. The hot tears that had been welling up all night could no longer be held back.

As I tried to make my elegant exit, my best friend in the business grabbed my arm, pulled me in to her arms and comforted me. The repressed tears rolled down rapidly with an intensity that almost made me wonder if steam was going to emit from them. As I was reduced to a second grader, she asked me what was wrong and I croaked out "I feel like I have no friends". The booker then saw me, and made a couple of light hearted attempts to make me feel better. They both said they knew that I was one of the hardest working comics there. Sympathy has a strange way of actually making me cry harder.

Gathering the last bit of my pride, I made a few weak jokes, grabbed my jacket and walked out the door. The sun had set and the air had a Spring chill to it. More comediennes tried to stop and chat, but I told them I had to run. Then, it happened. A comic who has a special and various t.v. shows under his belt grabbed me by the arm and began to talk to me. Apologizing for being rude, I made a comment that I was rushing home to work on my suicide plan.

"Some women masturbate to release the pressure, I cry and work out the details on how I'm going to kill myself". While he laughed, he handed me his card and told me that he wanted me on one of his shows. Tucking it in my pocket, I made a couple more jokes and said my final good byes.

Two days before: Mother's Day. Making my way out of town, I was off on my timing for the entire day. My family gave up in frustration (as they wanted me to visit the cementary with them). This was the first Mother's Day without my grandparents or favorite uncle. They talked about a family vacation, and offered me a 'discount' on it. I reminded them that I had no set income and that it would be tough to come up with the deposit right now. My sister snickered under her breath, "what else is new"? After a full day of activities, I had to leave right after dessert was served. "I have a show tonight," was all I could say when the disappointed looks were accompanied reproaches of "do you have to leave so soon?" I did.

Mother's Day, evening: Chris Rock dropped in to perform...yet again. This time, he patted me on my arm! I felt like I had arrived as a comidienne.

RIGHT NOW: The Hudson River lops before me at its languid pace. The sun shines brightly. There is not a cloud in the sky. I have several phone calls from friends who called to apologize about not making it last night.

HERE COMES THE SUN, I say. It's all right. It's all right. Little darlin, the smiles will return to the faces now...

Revolution

2007-05-13T11:05:00.000-04:00

I wish I could tell you that I went to the former Soviet Republic of Georgia in that winter of 2003 because I wanted to help make the world safe for democracy, but that would have only been one third of the story. I went to escape the boredom of a serious relationship, and I went because I needed to be bad. I managed to accomplish all three.

That winter, I wanted to be Laura Croft, Tomb Raider. I wanted to leap out of buildings and shoot automatic weapons. I wanted to smoke cigarettes one right after the other, lighting one with the next. I wanted to have an excuse to not shower, stay up late, curse and be politically incorrect. In a boring existence where I was always striving to be good and do the right thing, I wanted-no needed-an excuse to feel naughty. And naughty I was.

This is the BBC and these are today's top headlines... polling stations open today in Georgia... could this be the end for Shevarnaze?

The vintage car radio carried the broken British accent of a BBC reporter through the one functioning speaker of a rusty red Peugeot speeding East through the snow dusted hills of Turkey towards Adjara. I focused on the crackle of the voice to deter the vomit rising in the back of my throat caused by the sort of driving one would experience on a Disneyland attraction. But at Disneyland, because of an ever rising litigious nation I can pretty much assume I wont die. But there is no such knowledge of safety on the backroads of a nation fighting for their freedom and poised on the edge of revolution. Little Ms. Adventurous gripped the door and prayed.

I wanted to save my accidental over seas death for something exciting, like being shot admidst a rush on Parliament. I would rather not die lying in a ditch, gripping my recently amputated left leg, waiting for another driver to happen by and stop to help. My efforts to slow the driver resulted in a 30 second reprieve of the foot against the gas. But as soon as my grip on the car door loosened and the blood returned to my fingers, the assault on the gas continued. I closed my eyes. I could hear my driver change the radio station and I could make out the local dialect reporting on the election.

Polling station number 168 has been.... masked gunmen…. Ballot Boxes have been removed….

Without turning my head, I addressed Henrik in the seat next to me.

“Did you hear that?”

The aging Austrian diplomat was silent. I risked an eye and looked over to see Henrik’s head dipping into his chest and then bolting upright with every turn of the cars wheel.

How the hell could Henrik sleep with this driving? He was pretty old, perhaps he was closing his eyes to concentrate on maintaining his breath. A retired member of the Austrian Parliament, Henrik had signed on to this mission to do some Baltic sightseeing. He preferred lunches and tours of the botanical gardens to primary school buildings filled with smoke, turned into make shift local polling stations.

This sucks! While the other observers are getting action, all we get is closed polling stations and people voting twice. The others are being overtaken by masked gunmen and my greatest thrill is watching Henrik try not to fall asleep in a position undignified to a National Diplomat.

I sulked in the back of the car.

But before long, I had a plan. I pushed myself up into the front seat, between my driver and my translator and used a little broken Georgian.

“Any suspect polling stations where we might find a little corruption?”

My driver looked sideways at the pretty young translator and then back at me through the rearview mirror. He turned down the radio.

"We are instructed to take you to station no. 34."

"Where would you like to take me?"

He paused and continued to stare at the road.

"Down in no.13 they stuff the ballot box. You can find a staff in the back office just checking off names and stamping ballots valid.”

“Ooh, that’s good. Let’s go there.”

My driver snuck a smile and traded a look with the translator. She flashed a grin back and our driver pressed his foot down on the gas sending me abruptly back into my seat, jostling the arm of poor Henrik and causing him to wake from his peaceful slumber.

"Is it time to eat? Or is it the faster we drive, the faster we arrive in the next town, and the faster our driver gets to smoke another cigarette?"

Henrik wrinkles his brow. "Please Tell him that I would rather he break the rules and smoke a cigarette in the front seat then kill us en route to his certain lung cancer."

But instead, I used my limited grasp of the Georgian language to ask the driver who sings the song playing on the radio.

Henrik turned his body and tried to rest his head against the window. And I got ready to uncover a little corruption. But had I known what I know now, about the sort of corruption I would discover at polling station 13, I would have asked the driver to keep on going until we got to Adjara.

The Stuff That Makes You Cringe

2007-05-11T23:20:00.000-04:00

Hi, remember me? I know, I know, it's been a while. Love can be very distracting. But I'm back. So many newsworthy moment, so many world events that merited a snarky remark, so many Britney Spears debacles that passed without my commentary. You know you have been away a while, when Brangelina adopts a new baby and Paris is sentenced to prison in your absence. I want you to know that I thought about all these historic passings, and I even tried to write about them. But something totally out of my control happened. The keyboard just lay there under my fingers unwilling to take the notes being dictated in their direction.

It's true! I suffered from three months of finger paralysis. I thought at first that my fingers were just cold. But rigorously rubbing the hands together did nothing for my troubles. Hot baths only made me sleepy. And you can't wear gloves while you type. I wept over the computer, refusing to believe my predicament. I dropped to my knees and prayed to my HP, "God, why have you forsaken my blog." Nothing. Just more useless thinking. And we bloggers know - our thinking means nothing without the sound of fingers furiously tapping across our keyboards.

I went to the doctor and begged for a prescription to give me back even the use of my thumb on the space bar. He told me to drink a cup of coffee every four hours until 6:00 in the evening. I rushed to my URL every morning to see if it worked, but nothing new would be posted.

I was ready to give up, throw in the towel, accept my fate as a nobody corporate zombie and then, a miracle.

Last night Chuck Palahniuk read a story to me as I sat sweetly smiling in the front row of the Philly Free Library auditorium. I twirled my pearls and straightened my skirt and thought about how lovely my life was in every way. But then he looked me in the eye, staring down from a podium carved out of an old Maple tree and everything changed.

"Everybody has a story to tell. Other writers tell stories about the every day man, but what about the other guy. Who is going to tell his story? Who is going to shed the light on the dark parts of mankind. Even the sickest and most twisted stories have a message for us. And it's our mission to gather up our guts and go out and tell those sick and twisted stories."

He said a lot of other good stuff and he told a lot of really cool stories too. Then he tied it all together and the 500 strong crowd felt as if the three hour wait in the rain to hear him speak was all worth it.

That's right, 500 people waited in line for him to read some fan mail, tell a few short stories and answer questions about his craft. 500 people! To hear an author!! He ended the event by dispersing a large box of fake severed body parts through the crowd. Sitting in the front row, I had my pick of appendages but decided I needed none of the bloody limbs to remind me of the experience.

Now I'm not sure if it was Chuck, the warmth of an auditorium filled with 500 twisted readers, or that the coffee was finally kicking in, but when I got home I could feel my fingers starting to tingle a little. I laid them out over some blank pages in my journal this morning and they were able to grip a pen. I wrote a short piece about how much work I had waiting for me in the office and how I needed to get my ass to work and stop pussy footing around at the kitchen table. Miraculous! Amazing!! Chuck heals! Coffee cures!

I decided right then and there, that one day, I wanted to be one of those writers to inspire 500 people to wear wedding dresses and veils through the crowded streets of a bustling city in the hopes I would autograph their book. I have too many nasty stories to tell, too many dating horror tales to lament, too many pop culture casualties to report, to be letting my pen have a rest.

So, I better get cracking. Oh yeah, and today on CBSnews.com, I got a little reminder that it is the most painful stuff to write about that makes the biggest impression on others. Check it out (printed below).

The year was 1987, the boy's name was Rob, and 13-year-old Ingrid Wiese had some pressing concerns.

"He kisses weird," she wrote in her diary. "I just hope it doesn't stick and I don't end up kissing like that forever."

Twenty years later, Wiese hauled the diary out of storage and read it to a bar full of strangers just for laughs.

"Cringe readings," these exercises are called, and they are growing in popularity around the country.

Groups in New York and elsewhere convene to relive what most would rather forget: the depths of their teenage angst. Participants get up on stage with their ragged, old diaries and are instructed to read only material embarrassing enough to make them cringe.

It turns out that embarrassing is also funny. When Wiese appeared at the reading, held monthly at a Brooklyn bar, the room was packed beyond capacity. The 33-year-old fundraiser may have been cringing, but her audience was cheering.

"When most people hear about it they think, 'Oh, God, that would be just absolutely humiliating, I would never do that,' " said Blaise Kearsley, another reader. "But I think there's something so universal about your adolescent diaries and your poems and your school assignments. It's just stuff that everyone can relate to."

Indeed, as readers spoke about zits and boys, sex and death, they heard plenty of knowing laughter.

Perhaps only teenagers or former teenagers could follow this diary entry, written by a 14-year-old Kearsley in 1987:

"When we got to the dance, Erin was depressed because she likes John and he spent the whole night dancing with Ada. But Ada was upset because at the end of the dance John frenched her. And number one: she likes him but she doesn't know if she likes him in THAT WAY. And number two: John is good friends with Dan, her ex, and she knows that Dan will have something to say to John about this."

Ah, young love.

The Brooklyn event was started by a local administrative assistant, Sarah Brown, who in a momentary, drunken lapse started reading her old diaries to friends — and discovered they had finally become more funny than painful.

The monthly cringe reading has since landed Brown a book deal and a pilot for cable television's TLC, allowing the 29-year-old to quit her day job. Similar events are happening around the country in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Milwaukee and Seattle.

"When you're a teenager, everything is the same level of intensity," Brown said. "They read about boys, or girls, or their parents, or their friends, or school, or something serious like, you know, a divorce — but ... there's no change of tone."

While the readers try to keep it light, plenty of the material in their diaries is dark, heart-wrenching stuff.

"Why? Why do you think someone could really love you?" a now-grown Ingrid Wiese reads to the crowd.

"You're fat, out of shape, covered with zits. You can just feel how your body is GOING. Your arms, your wrists, your calves. You're insecure, immature, and" — she lowers her voice to a whisper — "your grades reflect your intelligence."

The 33-year-old Wiese says it's enough to make her wish she could somehow give that insecure girl a hug.

"I just want to go back and tell that kid so many things, but mostly that 'you're just all right the way you are,' " Wiese said after the reading.

These days, Wiese's emotions are less heightened, and she carries herself confidently as she walks from the stage. Still, some things never change.

"Of course!" she says when asked if she still obsesses over boys. "And I write all about it on my blog."

Men looking for wives and babies?

2007-05-09T03:18:00.000-04:00

His eyes flirted with the sun like pinwheels of color and soul. It helped that they also undressed you fully with their intensity. Those LIPS, though...Ay! He had the kind of lips that begged to be smooched. Actually-they were like a fruit pop in the summer: sweet, luscious and ripe for the sucking.

I spent a full afternoon downloading his pictures, forwarding them to my friend, with a 'what do you think' note attached, as well as obsessively reading his blogs. All the while, I was looking for clues for compatibility. He had a couple of really deep blogs, but they were lyrics or poems written by someone else. A hack, eh?

He blogged, in one, about how he just couldn't have sex without love anymore. The IDEA that a man his age would even be THINKING about that, well, it was shocking! I'm so used to oversexed, sex-starved, shallow New Yorkers, that this anomaly was as refreshing as an Arctic breeze in the Spring. He was ripe, though, for this kind of blog as he had just come back from a wedding. The last of his friends got married. He wrote how he played with his god-child and thought that he could get used to this. That's what he wrote. Aw, right? Wants to get married...annnnd have babies? Alert the presses!

I melted when he told me that he wanted to have a child who looked just like him. That's not my button, either. It was the juxtaposition of this seemingly stoic caveman-slash-athlete with a tender need for procreation...it was, well...confusing.

I had put my privates in a proverbial mason jar when I got sober. "Concentrate on yourself" many elders told me. This was something that took some getting used to, but once I learned how to transmute my sexual energy into creative energy and saw how much I was getting accomplished, well...I didn't want to give it up all that quickly. It has been over a year, though, and my born-again virgin status was vibrating like a kitchen timer. Boys seemed to be coming out of the wood works.

My contemplation of my ever growing hymen gave out to the tug of war that came with persistence on his part, just as I was looking at his lips with drunken lust. THIS is worth tossing away months of self control: drunken lust! While we kissed like horny teens, my mind judged with stern reprobation. "Is this someone you are serious about? Is this someone you can REALLY build a family with?" and just like that, I shut my mind up by saying, "But I'm not looking for that right now. I just want a little sample. Is that so wrong?" Who WAS this new person? Kids, marriage, serious relationship??? Ugh. I was losing my edge.

Wherever those doubtful thoughts bubbled up from within me, were mirrored in him, for he broached the topic of a 'serious conversation' with me. We actually had a mature chat about the goals we had. That's when he told me that HE was celibate, before I even told him that I was! He said he was 'working on himself'. That he was looking for the REAL thing. He actually said, "I can't have sex. I'll get too hurt." I stared at him in amazement. Mostly, because not a stitch of my clothing had fallen by any waist, shoulder or even collar-side.

"Now, is he just TRYING to get me to fall in love with him?" I cynically thought. Before I could judge it any further though, I just thought it interesting. There was a time when I could only find shallow men in hot pursuit of animal gratification.

Now, I can only find guys who can't commit to having sex because they aren't "ready." They exist, these strange relationship types. Here, here to the attraction factor!!!

Drums along the Hudson

2007-05-07T10:56:00.000-04:00

It was a simple Sunday, like most others. I awoke with the streams of the morning sun dappled along my face. Would I carpe diem, or carpe sleepum? That was the question.

In a fit of adrenaline-slash-guilt from pissing away the week, I quickly put together a coordinated designer outfit. If I was going to schlep around the tip of Manhattan, I was going to do it in style. Without even second-guessing, I hailed a cab. It was only after the driver pointed out that it was kind of ironic to take a cab to go hiking, that I even dared look at the impropriety of it all.

I was going to hike at Inwood Park, and then check out Drums Along the Hudson.

What followed once I arrived can only be described as magical. The sun was just making it above the ridge of clouds, and the dew was magically placed along the moss-yes, folks, moss along the granite boulders. Hiking shoes leading the way, I melted as I saw a brook make its way along the rocks and roots. Many trees were falling from the attachment of poison oak vines that were sapping its vitality. My goal was to make it up the mountain, along the terrain and back down before my coffee was digested.

I had a black out. That's the only way I could describe it. Miles away from any car or exhaust, hearing only the sweet chirping of chickadees, woodpeckers and bluebirds, as only a natural symphony could be composed, I found myself seduced by the sounds of this elegant bird score. I looked in wonder, as I heard the whistling of baby hawks, making their way to their nests. I sat on a collapsed tree trunk, with gruel in my hands, in utter amazement. This was still Manhattan. I was deep in nature, surrounded by oaks, cherry blossoms and white birch. My jaw dropped and I was humbled as a cardinal swooped down and took a kernel from my hand.

Hours later, I made my way out of the forest, and yes--I could see the trees--and just as I went to leave this paradise, the scent hit me. It was the smell of sweet sage which I had discovered during sweat lodge. My nose followed the murky sweet smell. This was a renaissance. The rebirth of connection.

Making my way to the origin of the sage, there were a line of women singing tribal songs with melodic drums beating in union. The songs were familiar from that day in sweat lodge that changed my life. Upon halting, I looked around and it was a greater circle than I had ever imagined. My feet were firmly planted on the ground as I watched Native American children playing with Aryan families, dogs rushing under alpaca wool, and glimpses of feathers and fur peaking beneath headdresses’. The familiarity of the music and the large circle took me back.

Transported to the tee-pee once again, I remembered my vow, "I have come to honor the mother" I said. As we faced the North door of the journey, I ran out of the tee-pee in a full sweat. Everything had become light. The thoughts and visions of my colleagues played out in their chakras like cartoons. Kneeling and panting before the burning oak, I knelt carefully and purged my inner demons, "Bring us back to nature! Remind us of our connection to the divine source!" I uttered, as the tears flowed from my sweaty face.

Picking myself up off of the ground, I wearily made my way back in. Seeing the shining faces in the dark, I knew my prayer had been for them all. It had also been for my home.

Although this event may not be repeated in this area, it jump-started a reminder: there are many events like this that celebrate nature and Native Americans. The realization of this, the serendipity of being at this event without warning and the smell of sweet sage, cleansing my aura yet again, played out like a distant dream, trying to find a voice. Our little island is jam-packed with surprises, isn't it?

Celebrity, celosia and celibacy at Tribeca Film Festival '07

2007-05-05T12:24:00.000-04:00

I was at the Tribeca Film Festival opening night. A launch party for a little film that a friend of mine was in. It was not as glamorous as certain high level movies by casa de Weinstein, but it was enough to make me want to cry out in anxiety all night. This ‘small scale’ event attracted big names in Mexican cinema and some actors that I haven’t met, but have seen and respect. They were all there, all swarmed by people, all being adored. I stood behind, watching in utter fascination. How much longer would it be before that was me? Is that what I even wanted? I saw the caterers go by, with their trays of delectable treats. One by one, the treats were turned down, in exchange for the smiles and looks of unending adoration and phrases filled with praise.

The event was supposed to celebrate a friend of mine who was in the film. I was dressed to the nines, as they say, and should have been glowing from the excitement of being in the ‘inner circle’…or closer to it, anyway, but all I could think about was what I was not getting. Even yesterday when asked what the name of the film was, or where we went after, I drew a blank, because all I was focused on was my inadequacies and how far away I was from where I wanted to be, and how my date was getting more attention than I was. With all of these self-hating thoughts floating through my head, I turned to other thoughts.

It is amazing how much money goes in to these events. This was not even the A-list party, and the wait staff alone tipped the bill over in to the thousands. Each person must have spent, I don’t know, $200 at least, just to walk out of their door.

That took about two seconds. I went back to analyzing the events of the night. Cute boy. Check. That feels good. Film festival. Check. That feels good, too. Jealousy over actors in the lime light. Um, not-so-good. Feeling sorry for myself for having to take the back seat on this one, instead of being the guest of honor. Um, danger? Bad territory in the head. The amount of parties I must have missed in a life time due to bad decisions from my past life. Ugh. Get off this train of thought. The amount of tall blonder white women at that event and how badly I feel about my body when I compare it to people who have had plastic surgery and designer work-outs/meals. Danger, danger!!!! Approaching dangerous ground…will implode in 5, 4, 3, 2…!!!

How often do I go for the things that destroy me? The minute I began to obsess about the things that I did NOT have, the tapestry of my inner happiness began to unravel. By remembering that I can get off that run away train and be in the moment…I can approach terra firma and live. I chose to obsess over my date’s perfect lips and how they would meet mine by the end of the night. Celibacy be damned, celibacy be damned!

Four Directions...never lost

2007-04-18T11:26:00.000-04:00

I had exactly 20 minutes to get to the Warehouse in Jersey. It would be a feat in and of itself to get there and be able to put on the show of my life. I ran through Times Square, seeing flashing lights off in the distance and breathing hard to catch my breath after many start and stop again sprints. It was time to make a good impression, but I knew I was cutting it close. In my frenzy, though, I had a yogic chant blaring in my ear.

ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha; ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha

It felt like the first time I had ever really seen Times Square. Off in the distance, the blaring horns of the cabs, the homeless men begging for cigarettes, the bright lights and excitement of the Madam Tussad's, Olive Garden and Cold Stone all in a row waiting for tourist patronage. Feeling beads of perspiration, I tried to ignore the fact that my coat was too heavy for this time of year. It was a gorgeous, yet chilly Spring day. Then, it happened, the combination of the chanting, my racing heart and a tree that I had never noticed before, slowed the shutter of my mind down to simple photos. The bloom of the tree took me back somewhere magical. It was as if I had taken a quantum tranquilizer, and everything progressed like slow moving images. There, plain as day, were the inner lights of humanity on display. Some where dim, some were brightly light with excitement and hope and still others were extinguishing at a rapid rate. Auras on display. The sadness of the human condition was extinguished by the popcorn blossoms in the distance. How long had it been since I watched a tree bloom?

ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha!

The chant promised the removal of obstacles, and here was this bright sun and life, as I had never noticed it before, coming towards me. The sadness in the face of some was too much to bear. As I slowly turned, internally, there was a compass that was leading me to the gate I would have to go out of. Everything seemed slower. Even now, the cursor and my typing seem to crash down at an almost stopped rate. I had to hurry, I had to make my bus, I had to run!!!

In the corners of my mind, I remembered how often I would laugh at people who had travel anxiety. This was not an anxiety to leave the City, although I do admit to suffer from separation anxiety when I pack my bags and watch my loved City disappear in the distance. No, this was a community. This was my family, as I had seen them on display in the streets, so asleep, yet so much a part of my experience. I stood in the Port Authority, with the chain stores each beckoning my attention, and the stress of so many faces on parade. That is when it appeared. The knowledge of the four directions that I had brought with me from sweat lodge.

The chief had sprinkled bear claw shavings in the hearth, and said, "Migwich" to the buff, scantily clad farmer boy who carried the molten rocks in. I surpressed my sexual urges and tuned in. She began the ceremony by making a cross with her hand. She began to chant in a native language, which strangely seemed familiar to me. She spoke to us in the darkness of the tent, and all that was seen was burning embers of the bear claw residue. "There was a time when this motion meant the four directions. It was not what was taken from us. It was not symbolic of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. It was the four directions. Mental, physical, spiritual and emotional compasses that provide inner guidance. You can never be lost again, for this will be your compass." Yet, here I was, in the middle of Port Authority with no clue as to where I would go next.

The sweat began to pour down my face. Asking numerous "authorities", I was sent in four directions. Each door I went out of, I would feel the steamy stench of asbestos hit my senses like a truck. Retreating back in the depressed artificial lighting, I remembered that day, that spiritual experience, and the reason that even this 'stress' did not penetrate the way it once would have. "I have to get to Jersey in 20 minutes. I have no idea where I'm going. I will be okay, though," I soothingly said to myself. Mothers with babies ran by, everyone, it seemed expereriencing the confusion I felt. Then it happenened...an opening in the middle of the floor, like a compass. I could hear the explanations, North: giving it away; South: compassion and healing; East: the door to the direction you are headed; West: the door of intention. Intention...I looked at the rushing people, and felt a little less like a New York in that instant. Something greater than myself, spun my heel in a semi circle and I almost went skipping across the high gloss tile, down the escalator, gliding miraculously to my gate.

When my ticket was collected, the chant slowed down to a halt. Breathing heavily, I took a deep breath. Not sure of what had transpired, and lost in thought, the bus slowly pulled out of the gate. We were in the sunlight once again, and I could see the stadium off in the distance. "How long had I had this compass?" I wondered, as the last beads of sweat formed on my brow. Time. The human construct, yet necessary barometer of measurement, had been on my side this time. Perhaps I was leaving the tribal beats of the City drum, but for a brief moment, I was connected by something greater than myself, and I found the direction within. The one that is infinitely connected to Source. For the first time in a long time, I felt lucky. I did.

13 going on 30

2007-04-15T20:25:00.000-04:00

I was at a bar mitzvah this weekend. Excuse me, I was at an ostentatious display of wealth, posing as a bar mitzvah this weekend. I was there, not as a guest, but as entertainment: singing for my supper, as it were.

Hired to dance, I found myself spending more time doing mental push-ups: fielding questions from horny 13 year olds, and having my teen-pop culture trivia challenged. Due to my perpetual struggle with a Rip Van Winkle-esque quest for enlightenment and media fasts, I was sorely lacking in my relatable topics. Since when, I asked myself, had the quality of conversation been contingent merely on consumerism? The pattern of these conversations were painfully traceable and remarkably similar to boarding school.

Approach. Introduction. Some interest in what I have to say. Try to impress them with my career. Ok. I got their attention. They ask for proof. “Tell me a joke” they say, one after another. The pattern is always the same. The answers change. As the night goes on, it gets better. My teen culture answers.

What the hell am I doing? If I show that I’m up on the trivia, I will be “accepted”, which means ‘ka-ching!’ at the end of the night and more events where I’m booked. At what price, though? Will I have to now go back and listen to the hideous music, watch the denigrating shows and learn the limited dialogue? This was the reason I went to sweat lodge to begin with. To purge myself of all of these illusions.

Something is different and wrong with the new generation, I thought. Children fed on the milk of instant gratification grow in to spoiled and materialistic adults. Housed in the gentrified neighborhoods of privilege, are nary concerned about ground water issues. Clothed with the sweat of third-world country children, they can never be truly be concerned about the world around them. Supplemented with a stream of gossip posed as news, have no choice but to be obsessed with celebrity. This is my generation.

The hostess is wearing a designer gown. She is a social x-ray. Painfully thin and over tanned, she runs around with a Di Vinci porcelain veneer smile, coordinating with the MC to hand out party favors, which are PSP’s. One child is complaining, “Can I change this for an ipod, I already have one of these?”

There is a mocktail hour. Mini alcoholics in training. Out of a sea of blue blazers and khakis, one child with an impish grin and flat Asian features and spikey hair, stands out. One of the children says, “Well, this one has no opinion on this subject. He’s poor.” All of the children laugh cruelly and say, “It’s true. He’s poor. Aren’t you?” He nods, dutifully, and answers the same. Immediately, I’m reminded of Kenny, the impoverished character in the SOUTH PARK cartoon. They have no idea what that is.

After a DREAM GIRLS show, the time approaches, again, to face off with these little turds. One brags of a party he went to in absentia of parental supervision. “The house was trashed and the parents arrived to a child peeing on the wall in the living room!” Another one whines, “I didn’t appreciate Devon taking a picture of my butt.” Yet another is in the bathroom, crying, because she defended her friend and the boy called her a tattle telling ‘douche’. She does not know what that word means, but bawls, “I’m so embarrassed. I feel as if I ruined your party and you are going to be mad at me.”

Recommitting to my conversational agenda, I realize that I am being paid to talk to children who are 13 going on 30. They emulate their parents by conversing about yachting this summer in the Riviera and Hillary Duff. Very close to giving up, I look around the room. I see the “poor” Asian child looking as sad as I feel. I approach him and whisper in his ear, “You may be poor in material wealth, but you are rich in the experience of being a survivor. Don’t ever forget that!” I walk away, and I see a group of children surround him. Later, he is on the dance floor and they are chanting his name while he raps an Eminem song. I may have to take my own advice.

Losing my religion

2007-04-11T04:14:00.000-04:00

I apologize for being so quiet lately. Life takes on the beat of the drum and before you know it, you are swept away like a feather in the wind. Today was different, however, in that I felt the shell that I had encased myself in long ago begin to collapse. It started innocently enough. I had a project that I was working on. It is not for profit, in the monetary sense (right now) but the profits that I have gained thus far are immeasurable. With every golden opportunity comes a flurry of activity. Creation attracts positivist that brings life and vigor and passion as equally as it attracts negativity. Today, I choose a lense of positivity. I lost my religion of negativity and am slowly changing the tape to a positive one.

I had been working on material that would unite my audiences. This was quite an undertaking. I tried to set up the audience as a sweat lodge. I can almost hear someone chastising, “would you lay off the sweat lodge already?” In this fictitious argument, I would say, “How else may I serve you?” Who IS this person? And what did they do with my RUMI?

This is where the path of enlightenment becomes challenging. When doors begin to open, where there were only brick walls, light floods in, as do parasites. Meaning, I had a fight with someone who I opened my heart to. I worked to co-collaborate on a project that was incredibly important to me. This idea came to me in October of last year. I wanted it to change the world. This is where it gets interesting…I had a novice ask me for help in getting started in the comedy business. He was so negative and toxic, I thought this might be a way to help him find something that he loved enough to open up his heart a bit. This is a heart project, and I opened the floodgates to those who were hungry with heart. In a nutshell, the scorpion does what it knows best, it stings. It is in their nature. (scoff) I remember telling a very famous comedian once that I was in the market to make dreams happen. He said, “Don’t quit your day job.” I thought it was just a cliché. I realized that I choose to cast pearls before swine.

Why? Why would someone that before sweat lodge I would have seen as a psychic vampire, who was ugly (inside and out), slothful, and a spiritual rapist…do that? It hurt so much, because had it not been for me, my subject, my storyline, my title…well. I didn’t have the energy to analyze it anymore. “When the student is ready, the Master will appear” the Buddhist quote that had rung in my head for three months. I was working so hard at finding my voice, and making a difference and showing love and service to my fellows, that I forgot to be. All the while, getting caught up in the illusion of time. This had to happen now. I had to hurry. Like the bunny in ALICE IN WONDERLAND, I hurriedly rushed from place to place looking to find an answer.

I got a nasty phone call from the person that I had been working on this project with. I heard nasty rumors that this person had spread. There I was, knee deep in telephone calls at the most important and pivotal point in my life. It was time to breathe. More importantly, though, it was time to be real. Yes, mediocrity always attacks excellence…but what could I learn from this experience? How could I transmute that pain?

I reached out; something that has been like kryptonite to me. I showed my heart to the people who had been there all along. The beautiful girlfriends, who listened, nurtured and encouraged. No matter how many maybe’s and failed attempts to make something happen, these women picked me up. My expectations plummeted, yet, I received incredible love. That love helped me to be a little more honest in my life. I had a show that was chock full of professionals. I stood before the crowd, resigned to let my palms drip into a pond. I let go, got on stage, and finally, LET GOD. This was a different type of God, though, the one I had always been looking for. I stood on stage, and love fed me to the point where I could say,

‘I was raised Catholic. I gave it up for lent one year though. I don’t believe in organized religion. Comedy and what we have here right now, THAT is my religion. The ability to laugh and unite, despite color divisions…that’s religion!”

It may not have been the funniest line I ever said, but it was the most loving and honest one.

Every whisper Of every waking hour I'm Choosing my confessions Trying to keep an eye on you Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool Oh no, I've said too much I set it up Consider this Consider this The hint of the century Consider this The slip that brought me To my knees failed What if all these fantasies Come flailing around Now I've said too much I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try THANKS TO THE WOMEN IN MY TRIBE, WHO PROVIDE SHELTER AND LOVE IN TIMES OF RAIN.

April showers bring crushes and flowers

2007-04-07T00:32:00.000-04:00

Spring, believe it or not...is here. Here are a couple of rantings that went on in my head for three different men: He is soooo cute! I love the way he wears his hair slicked back. He looks so debonair. Just the fact that I’m using a pseudo French word to describe him hints at the desperation with which I try to be sophisticated for him.

This one has a smile that would melt Tibetan ice caps. He has dimples that twinkle and match his sunny personality and bright periwinkle eyes. He is just the right height. He has a great body and obviously takes good care of himself. He is also an older man. I feel a mixed sense of exhilaration and taboo just having this sort of connection. My friend sees the way that we talk to one another, and later whispers, “you guys have this weird thing” and I nod while giggling uncontrollably, because SHE sees what I am feeling!

Wait! I am not sure if I remember that guy from long ago. I feel as if we somehow met a while back. He has movie-star good looks. It is hard not to dive in his arms and ask him to make out with me behind the coffee machine. I could be reduced to a sniveling child around him. It is not just the fact that he can wear a muslin shirt with khakis with equal grace and ease as he can a tuxedo, or the fact that he is well-traveled and elegantly gentle. He is enigmatic, and I’ve always been a sucker for a riddle.

[I am grossed out with myself for even wanting so many men in such an animalistic way. I try to be ‘breezy’.] Oooo, no this is the one! I feign indifference when he tells me that he wants to talk to me, or asks me where his hug is. It is the fact that even men stop still when they see him. That when he takes me in his arms, even THEY catch their breath. Like, my stock goes up just being around him! I see the looks. The other men will look at me in a way that says, “wait?! Did you just KISS him? Is there something else I should know about you?” I SEE it. The times when it is most obvious is when I am wearing my warm up pants and mismatched jacket. When my tussled hair is wrestled back with a single band, and I wear moisturizer and lip gloss. I think, “He gets me. He knows that the exterior is not important.” THAT is when I feel inspired to take it up a couple of notches’ and let him know that I’m capable of looking sooo much better. That sounds so cheesy, but I keep it in to remind myself of what happens to me when I am around him. All of my reason goes out the door, and I find myself saying, “Are you REALLY coming to my next show? Oh my g! I just got butterflies. Wait, no, my phone is just on vibrate!” I feel like we are 3 inches away from kissing every time.

I breathe. I remember the feeling of overwhelming love that I had in the sweatlodge. It is normal, it is lust, this time. I can have something deeper and more beautiful...like I experienced feeling so many distinct energies meeting in the matrix of love in that sweaty tee-pee last spring. As I step back, that old familiar lust gnaws at me. I try to remember how good it feels to maintain my focus on enlightenment, but I just imagine my scent rubbed on the last one's linen sheets as I unabashedly run around how God made me in his Flatiron District loft. Maybe he’s really dim-witted, I hope, as I briskly walk away, attempting to shake it off.

Difference between stars and sycophants

2007-04-04T17:29:00.000-04:00

At 5 hours of sleep, my alarm clock rings and my heart is racing. When my feet hit the floor, there are already numerous things I must accomplish in order to obtain my long term goal. Immediately, I am in a New York state of mind. I rush up the hill, and try not to step in dog poo or run over osteoporosis-ridden biddies or strollers. I swiftly go in to the deli, as if my rhythm were a dance. I grab my cup of coffee (as if I were doing so from my pantry), and neatly grab the stack of coins (pre-counted for the precise amount) and drop it on the counter. “Thank you werry much!” she says, as she is used to this routine and is actually grateful I’m not taking up more of her time.

I walk past the couple who hand out Metro and AMNY. Sometimes, if it is placed in front of me just so, and there’s no one in front of me, nor a politician waiting to shake my hand that I need to avoid, I’ll grab one to read on the subway. I run down the stairs, out of breath after the 5 block sprint, and slip my metrocard out of my pocket. In hand, I swipe it with the adequate wrist action, so that I don’t have see those condescending green letters blinking “Please swipe again”. I swiftly make my way to the part of the platform that I need to get to, in order to avoid the inevitable wait that it will take if I’m in a different car and have to make my way through the crowd. I enjoy the violin playing the theme from the GODFATHER on the platform. I drop money in the case, just as my door opens.

When the door opens, I step in and jockey my position in front of the door. The race has begun. I adjust my hair and make-up in the reflection of the windows, and manage to stand clear of the closing doors, and try not to take the “move Bitch!” comment from an angry passenger that is just entering the train, personally. I look at the digitally displayed time. “Shoot!” There’s never enough time, it seems. The doors open and I run, like a scene out of CHARIOTS OF FIRE, up the stairs, then down the stairs, then up the escalator and out the door. I find the number of the building I am looking for. “Breathe. Stay focused.” I walk through the door, and grab the sides on the table. “Nice to see you again,” the cute receptionist chirps. I walk into the main room when called. “Hi! Please stand on the X. Slate your name”, the casting director says.

Today, I’m reading for a feature film. I try not to care who is staring in it, or if I will be surprised and meet the producer today. I stay in the moment and breathe. “Can we see you do something different?” I smile and then rip out a scream and collapse to the ground. “That’s great!” she says. I give back the sides, grab my jacket and run out the door. I run from appointment to store, to appointment to meeting to fellowship, to a café where I have coffee with someone who is counting days. I breathe.

I run to the opposite side of town, as I am making edits to a script I am writing which I will discuss later with my co-writer. I go to the comedy club, ready to perform. Chris Rock is performing new material. 45 minutes of hilarious stuff. I remind myself that he has been working at this for a really long time, and I am well on my way. “Don’t compare, don’t despair!” I breathe. The show is great. The crowd goes wild. Joy and laughter are the pervading consciousness of the room. I meet up with producers and developers after the show, and I pitch ideas. There is interest and an opportunity to pursue these contacts further.

I thank them, run out the door and meet up with my co-writer. He is 45 minutes late. He does not call. He told me he has written a script, but upon examination, I realize it is just 3 sketch ideas scrawled on a scrap of paper. I breathe. There is a manila envelope I grab out of my bag and I pull out 8 typed pages that I just stapled on my way out of a casting director’s office. I hand him the script, and I launch in to my schpiel. I am dealing with someone with the intellectual capacity of a squirrel. This is the second meeting we have had, third serious discussion about this project and 14th hour of my life that has decayed on this project. He criticizes the ideas, and offers no solutions. He has done none of the preparation he has promised. He asks me to introduce him to my agent.

With this, I conclude this portion of my day, and hastily put my notes back in my bag and politely walk away. I breathe. As I push the doors open of the café, I wearily walk to the corner and hail a cab. The temperature has dropped, my left shoe has gouged a blister on my Achilles heel. My back is throbbing, and as I try to adjust my posture, hot tears roll down my face. Internally, I am a seething caldron of rage. Instinctively, I know that this is another dead-end. I throw my head back, and exhale. The cabby asks, “Miss, is this your stop?” I nod, swing my legs out of the opened door, hand him the crisp bills and say, “Keep the change.” I shut the door, look for my keys and go inside. When I open my door, I prepare for bed, and the rage has subsided. I transmute that pain and shrug, saying to myself, “fodder for my art.”

See, there are some people who pick up fashion magazines, read gossip columns and watch gossip t.v. shows in order to reach “fame”. Then there are others who are just really trying to do a great job, who so passionately are trying to change the way people think about the world, that every minute of their lives is dedicated to making this happen. Those are the people everyone else follows.

Good vibrations

2007-04-01T22:01:00.000-04:00

What do you get when you combine two of the hottest guys in Soho (my opinion, of course) turning 30, with another smokin’ 28 year-old-guy telling you about it and yet annnnother hard-bodied Euro hottie with a KILLER bachelor pad in the East Village? Why, the greatest sober party EVVVER! In a luxury condominium building in the East Village, on a blustery Spring evening this weekend, no less than 300 attractive/hormone racing alcoholics gathered in a spacious 3,000 sq. foot space with one of Manhattan’s best dj’s and cases of Red Bull and Poland Spring. There were people of all ages, shapes, colors and sizes throwing down to some of the hottest beats I’ve jammed to in a while. Around the room, there were chaises, a large flat-screen t.v. showing sports, a fully stocked fridge with non alcoholic beverages and a pool table with a bevy of beauties and beaus in tow.

As the base pumped, I felt a throbbing in my heart. I looked above me, and the majestic chandelier streamed light, which at my dancing vibration, seemed to emit prisms of light. I spun around and felt my wild locks swirl like an oscillating fan. The still shots that my mind’s eye focused in on, captured an awkward 16 year-old in faded low rise Diesel’s shaking what her mama gave her. A 20 year-old who was a dead ringer for Brad Pitt’s lost younger twin (circa Kalifornia, 1993). An East Village celebrity (lead singer for a popular band), a recognizable model and Lindsay Lohan look-a-like circling around a graceful African dancer and far-out Bohemian. Light surrounded the dance floor. Votives were carefully placed around the room. Beads of perspiration made their way from my scalp to my forehead, to cascades down my back. I took a sharp breath in and felt as if I had come home for the first time ever. I exhaled so much love, that I felt dizzy after. This was no dream. This was the heightened state that I first experienced in the circumference of the leather tee-pee this Fall…

I was directed to sit in the back…behind the elder. The smell of bear claw and sweet sage filled my senses. An athletic, chiseled Aryan man wearing Levi’s 501’s and a smile, carried large, heated boulders in to the center, where a circle had been dug in the Earth. He gently placed the scalding granite in the hole, and sparks flew. The elder calmly said, “Migwich” and gave him tobacco. He bowed in appreciation and retreated beyond the light. The woman sitting to my left let out a sigh after the steam filled the room. The woman to my right began to tremble beneath her wool blanket. A strange light warmed my spine, and I reached my hand out in the darkness and held it 8” from her neck and cooed, “The light will heal you, let it in”.

The pulsating base from the speakers seemed to lift the room to a new level, and everything became alive again. Light streamed from each body before me. I felt a large palm touch the base of my spine. I turned to the left and there, in the room full of light, stood the man I had seen from afar as I had counted days a year ago. He said, “Do you feel the vibration?” and smiled his broad, caring grin. I felt myself melt for a minute, and reminded myself that he was just singing the refrain from the song. In that instant, my girls came racing towards me like the teammates do to a quarterback, and as I was taken away in a jumping screaming frenzy…I could honestly say, “It’s such a…good vib-ra-tion-huh, it’s such a-sweee-eet sen-sa-tion-huh!” Feel it, feel it!

Dumbo isn't just an elephant

2007-03-30T15:24:00.000-04:00

This has been the week of elephants. It started on March 27, 2007 when the elephants marched through the city, as part of the yearly ritual put forth by Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey circus. I’m not going to get in to the debate about cruelty to animals, or particularly my interpretation of the elephants walking in the dark, clinging in a troupe, trunk to tail, avoiding the sting of a tazer gun. It is interesting food for thought to consider that women have the following in common with elephants:

We are the most intelligent species, have complex emotions and vary individually in temperament. We can be trained to work and to perform-if you’re Catholic, this REALLY applies. We are not truly domesticated because we don’t breed well in captivity-and as long as we don’t have the right to choose, aren’t we in captivity??? Finally,we have been extensively hunted –as are hot women everywhere annnd they’re endangered, (but they are now afforded protection in certain areas-hence, the meatpacking district and velvet rope situations all over the City).

Well, imagine my resistance when I was invited to LEAVE the City and go to DUMBO. Now, for those of you who DON’T know, DUMBO is NOT the cute little elephant portrayed in Disney movies, but an acronym for "Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass". Now, how down under would I need to feel to make the trek on the most coveted evening of the week? Thursday nights are for the City. Simple as that.

How did I get roped in? I’ll tell you how. A friend of mine is hosting a new entertainment night out there, and since he’s from Wisconsin, I felt it would be cheesy NOT to go. (I’m really cracking myself up over that joke). It actually turned out to be a GREAT night. [if you're interested in getting a visual, click on the elephants]. There were really cute guys.
The first ones I saw were “artists” slash hipsters. They were deep in a discussion about the lameness of heavy metal these days. I took a long drag off of the cigarette I’d just bummed from the hot blonde one with the Iron Maiden decal ironed on to his thrift store blazer and too tight courderoys and I said, “Whoa! Didn’t realize I’d "happenstanced" upon a hipster convention” They both said, “I’m NOT a hipster!” -like that response shocked me. To be fair, they weren’t classic hipsters in that one of the criteria is to be able to wear the same size pants you did when you were 12. So, the "chubsters" (chubby hipsters, for you slow readers) went back in but before they did, they told me “You’re going to love it here, they have really strong beer.” Great! I thought. Something to look forward to. Double teamed by chubsters and smelly beer grungers in an elephant graveyard.

I made my way up the wide staircase and felt like I had crashed an old set of the t.v. show “Friends”. It was one coffee mug shy of having Joey, Phoebe, Jen and the gang scream, “Norm!” (oops 2 sitcoms there, folks!) The sofas were an assortment of pastel and brightly colored velvet couches of the Louis the XIV variety. There were a TON of cute boys. I was really surprised. "So THIS is where they've all been hiding!" They were neither desperate nor gay. There were even Euro trash. Shit! This was Manhattan--under the bridge!

The night was for a monthly comedy show that my friend is putting on called 80 minute abs, and the headline comic has been featured on Comedy Central AND VH1! I ordered my coffee, and kicked back. There,along the bar, amid the row of votives was a community. As the jokes turned into acoustic guitar strums and then jazz, I felt that I had found a beautifully nuanced night of fun with my girls and flirtation with cute boys and sensual music. Almost paradise!

My experience in sweat lodge was brought back in full force. We sat in a semi circle as the elders of entertainment for the evening provided laughs, cohesion and community. Food was shared, and the design of the loft was airy and open enough to accept all talking, laughing and soul searching with room to spare. Sometimes, I thought, it's not about getting laid...it's about opening yourself up to new expereinces and connecting on a human level.

I stayed four hours longer than I thought I would. Light bridged with laughter and jazz. It was better than any glass of Merlot I’d ever sipped and closer to the tee-pee than I'd felt in a while.

“In a relationship”

2007-03-29T01:59:00.000-04:00

Pumping my bike tires at the 6th Avenue Bike Shop this Sunday, a man leaned over my handlebars to ask if he could assist. While he aligned my tires and adjusted my breaks, he pushed a baby and stroller up against the nearest wall. “It’s not my kid. I’m watching him for my friend inside. My buddy. He’s a guy.” After he corrected my seat, he asked me out. And as I heard myself giving out my number, I suddenly realized that I probably should not. That I was now "in a relationship".

Last week, before Cole and I had ‘the talk’, an attractive man gripping the leather of my seat would have been rewarded with a number and possible coffee date. But now that I have changed my MySpace status to “in a relationship” I need to gather some research on what that means.

It’s been awhile since a man called me his girlfriend in public. It’s been since 2003. A lot has changed in the past four years. What has not changed, is the fantastic feeling of acceptance and appreciation when a man introduces me for the first time as his girlfriend.

“Hey Juan, this is my girlfriend Jane.” Tingles. Really. But a moment of short lived jubilance barely had time to register before being replaced by a creeping fear.

Oh shit. Wait. What did I just accept? Have I been labelled. Do I really like that? And it’s been so long, what does it even mean to be someone's girlfriend?

So far, it means regular phenomenal sex, an assured date on Saturday night, someone to talk to on the way home from dinner parties, an excuse to order three entrees and two desserts, an increase in text messaging charges, not having to shave my legs, a regular receptacle for tales of my daily resentments, and a reason to lay in bed on Saturday until noon. But in my joy of all the things you get from being "in a relationship", I had completely forgotten about the things you lose.

My friend Max has sworn off sex for the last year in order to avoid an accidental relationship. He despises the thought of being tied to someone, a label or his own lust. Max thinks a relationship is being denied access to an independent life, the punishment of copious amounts of restriction. He reminds me every time we get together that if he were in a relationship then we could probably not be friends.

“Does that mean that when you are in a relationship you can no longer be friends with the opposite sex?” I ask him over Panini at Vesuvio’s on a Saturday afternoon stroll through Soho.

“Unfortunately, I think the answer to that is, only if they are grandfathered in.” He continues, “The social rule seems to allow you to maintain your current opposite sex friends, but limit your ability to make new ones.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. If your partner is worried that your friendships will tempt you to cheat, then wouldn’t your partner be more concerned about your long standing opposite sex friendships.”

Max sips from the small Espresso cup in front of him.

“Listen Jane, it doesn’t make any sense. It merely reveals the human frailty of insecurity. Two confident individuals should be able to make and maintain true friendships with others as well as each other. To be quite frank, it is exactly these types of ridiculous rules that drive me to abhor sexual relationships.”

A few weeks ago, Cole and I went to see a friends band at Iriving Plaza and afterwards my friend introduced me to the bass player. Cole and I cracked jokes and traded stories with Mr. Bass, but the next day, the married bass player sent me a MySpace message.

“You and I should get coffee some time.”

The single Jane wondered what his wife would think of the request, but then the “in a relationship” Jane thought maybe he just enjoyed my company and wanted to be friends. We do have common interests and he is really hot. Does being married mean he can no longer make friends with the opposite sex? Am I allowed to pursue new friendships with hot bass players?

When I told Cole the story he just sort of shrugged his shoulders. Was that the protocol? Am I supposed to tell the boyfriend? Won't that hurt his pride? Does being "in a relationship" means I have to think about these solicitations with more care?

My Souther artist friend Bella has a boyfriend that lives in Upstate New York and she was recently asked to a gallery opening by a gorgeous male model/art collector.

“I love my boyfriend, but it would be so wonderful to go out to dinner with this guy.”

Bella and I are catching a late Sunday brunch at Cafeteria in Chelsea.

“Well, why don’t you just tell him that you have a boyfriend and see if he wants to be friends?”

She leans in and lowers her voice, because our waiter has sat someone directly next to us and Bella's southern sensibility makes her cognizant that the table next to us can hear just about everything we are saying. “But what if he does just want to be friends? Then I’ve insulted him by insinuating that he has romantic interests in me."

I lean into her, “That’s crap Bee. You don’t want to tell him you have a boyfriend because you are afraid he will cancel.”

She falls back into the chocolate booth and sighs. “Oh God, you are right. It’s just that this guy is so great. He’s interesting and funny and talented. And Jack is so far away and I’m starting to wonder if he will ever propose. I really want to be this guy’s friend Jane.”

Bella has demonstrated what the boyfriend label does not mean. It does not mean security. It does not mean that your girlfriend will stop dating other men. It does not mean that your boyfriend is ready to get married. And I am right back to questioning what it means to be "in a relationship".

I’m not going to over think it. I’m not going to let my OCD brain develop a list of bullet points, format it into a power point and present it to Cole over our next dinner date. Now I wouldn't do that, right? But one has to wonder, why I, an independent and self-professed professional single, was so eager for the false security of this clearly bogus label. Is it too late to take it away? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy being "in a relationship". But, if we just take away the label, can I go out with the bicycle guy?

Why was I in such a rush to get here? And while honestly, there is simply no other man with whom I want to spend my time, perhaps Cole was right and we don't need a label. You see, like most benchmarks in a relationship, once you pass them there is no going back. There is no such thing as a second first kiss.

The truth is, I really don't want to go backward. I'm just scared of going forward. Scared and confused. I haven't been here in a while.

I am Rumi: Sober Woman in New York in search of Enlightenment or Celebrity

2007-03-28T00:12:00.000-04:00

I am Rumi. As free as windblown pussy willows. In my innocence, I aspired to find a place, beyond right doing and wrong doing, where I could enjoy a camaraderie and sense of union only thought to be experienced with family, or a rite of passage that one is born in to. I am waking up to the discovery that life is all around me. There is a field of infinite possibilities and joy. I live this and make it my mission to bring this forward. There is a gentle portion of my heart that is reserved for humanity. I am waking up to the discovery of love in my surroundings. I feel powerful and strong, because I am humble enough to see where I was once proud. I feel loved and accepted, because I am awake enough to give more than I take. I am experiencing a renaissance, because I no longer fear the embrace of the universal light that is all around me... penetrating my existence and availing me to my connection to you. Thank you for being here and sharing in my human experience. I love you, my reader, I love my friends in this blog spot, and most of all... I fu%*ng lovvve New York!!!

This Fall, I enjoyed a spiritual awakening brought on by partaking in a sweat lodge. Have you ever experienced this type of connection? A sweat lodge is a Native American practice whereupon your body is purified and your soul is ascended to new spiritual heights. My experience took place on a yoga ranch in Upstate New York. The New York snob in me held haughty reprobations of what this would entail. The sober part of me was desperate for an awakening. To me, an awakening is a spiritual connection that is not contingent on a person, place or thing to fulfill me.

I took the 3 plus hour trip to the deep country. The Catskills were brimming with the peak of autumnal promises. As I looked on the horizon, the hues filled me with a hope I had submerged in the recesses of my childhood. As a white tailed deer scampered by, I decided I would do this, without judging it. Upon sun rise, I was the first in line to experience the smudging. This is a ritual performed by an elder, where one's aura (or 18" of personal energy field surrounding your body) is cleansed with sweet sage and prayer. Refraining further from judgment, with my clothing neatly tucked in a pile by the pond, I quickly made my way in to the tee-pee. Upon entering, the elder asked me what my intention was for the ceremony. I honestly responded, "I have come to honor mother earth." Right there, I knew that any New Yorker in me had jumped the shark back in Chelsea. I sat behind the elder and let the smell of bear paw shavings and wood soothe me. It felt as if I had traveled back in to a womb. Not my mother's womb, or a time travel womb, but A womb of origin.

The rest of the details are something I will have to release as time goes on in this blog. I hope that you are interested enough to relish in the time-released discovery of what made that experience color my activities from then on and what made me sustain the teachings of that life-altering experience.

Fourteen

2007-03-15T00:43:00.000-04:00

Today, I am fourteen years sober.

And I feel fourteen.

Many changes since last year, but there is one that makes me the most grateful.

Acceptance.

The Decorum of Vestibules

2007-03-03T10:18:00.000-05:00

On my impatient way to a friend’s apartment, carrying wine and unprepared Brie, I spotted that bizarre antechamber up ahead—the room called the vestibule. It has always made me squirm. There is perhaps no room in existence—not upper class dining rooms, tea sunrooms, public unisexual restrooms, lesbian-gym locker rooms, communal fitting rooms, or even my ex-boyfriend’s rubber sex room—whose proper etiquette confuses me more; and I would bet, the general public.

Pray tell, when an unfortunate subject walks up to the apartment building of a friend—and, therefore, an apartment building to which she has no key—and rings the relative room buzzer in order for said friend to let her in, what is the appropriate action to take when a stranger from outside enters the vestibule at that exact instant the friend greets and buzzes her guest in?

You know the moment: you don’t know the person who’s just walked in, and so the thought enters your mind that, using your better judgment, you shouldn’t let him in the secured edifice (that is, after all, why these greet-and-buzz procedures have been set into place). So suppose, just as he reaches for the door handle as your hand leaves it, you grab it again and slam the door shut in his now perplexed face?

But suppose things aren’t this easy. Suppose as you “slam” the door shut, a small tug-of-doorknob ensues, creating a most awkward moment between you and the most probable tenant.

Eventually I won the struggle and closed the door.

But seconds later he let himself in and jaunted up the hall, waiting with me for the elevator (currently visiting floor 37, ugh). Oh yes, this was awkward. I had just forcefully shut a door—a door to his own apartment building—in this man’s face, after a near turf war, and now I had to wait next to him, speechless, for four dreadfully silent minutes. I could feel him holding back the laughter.

He never said a word, but the air between us was palpable. I didn’t care. I was on my way to a wine and cheese gathering with my New York friends. I seized my BlackBerry, the only companion I had at the time, and feigned engagement, knowing that only moments later I would be telling a story about an inconsiderate man in the hall who tried to force his way into the building, and how I (fortunate tenants) subdued his attempt.

As the slowest elevator in Manhattan alighted from its clearly creaky shaft, we stepped on. The ride up to the 27th was just as uncomfortable. Surprisingly, we both stepped out on the same floor; I stopped at my friend’s door, and the tenant continued on, to 27-J.

When I entered, all was forgotten. I was greeted by my fellow socialites, one of whom, already enjoying the festivities, took it upon herself after examining my tensed forehead to bring me my first glass of grigio.

After about fifteen minutes of salutations, and after telling several versions of my lobby experience to the guests, the host quieted us for a lovely toast—after which she made the following, horrifying, announcement: “And I can’t wait for all of you to meet my new boyfriend, Jake. He’s already late and he only lives in 27-J!”

If I hadn’t forgotten to pack my emergency Manhattan-skyscraper parachute, that balcony would have looked mighty tempting.

Oh, if I’d only let him in….

Cringe

2007-03-01T01:15:00.000-05:00

. . . Come here me read stories from my 10 year old diary . . .

What: March Cringefest

When: Wednesday, March 07, 2007 at 8:30 PM.

Where: Freddy’s Bar & Backroom, located at Dean Street & 6th Avenue in Brooklyn.

Subway: 2/3 to Bergen, any train to Atlantic/Pacific

Why: Because humility is a stunning spectacle.

Cringe is a monthly reading series hosted by Sarah Brown at Freddy’s Bar & Backroom in Brooklyn. On the first Wednesday of each month, brave souls come forward and read aloud from their teenage diaries, journals, notes, letters, poems, abandoned rock operas, and other general representations of the crushing misery of their embarrassing adolescence. It’s better and cheaper than therapy.

My Breasts

2007-02-28T02:15:00.000-05:00

In the dressing room of the breast imaging center today, I looked carefully at what had become of my once legendary breasts. Back when they were young, when they were mere blooms of there current saggy status, they brought me more attention than any other girl at Charles Wright Academy. It was there, that they made their debut on the first day of seventh grade. I wore a navy blue tank top, no idea yet what a bra was, and a pair of jeans I had probably outgrown in fourth grade. I wasn’t known for my style, but from that day forward I was known for ‘my girls’. The boys of CWA kept me abreast of their ever changing size, shape and propensity to perkiness. Periodically they would post growth reports on random blackboards, lockers or bathroom mirrors.

Jane's tatas are bigger than watermelons

Janey Parton = Poster butt and melon boobs

The locker for Jane’s Boobies

The boys liked to rub their hand down my back to verify that I wasn't wearing a bra and then cheer to one another in victory at their discovery. But I had no idea about bras. I only began to wear one because Kyra Mahoney did, and she was the most popular girl in school

Bertha and Louise were so cute back then. They were my little pointy oilwells. When I finally began to wear a bra, it really wasn’t necessary. But it was probably good training for the upcoming lifetime of breast restraint.

Throughout high school, the little volcanoes erupted into majestic mountains the like of Kilamanjaro. By Senior year, the talk on campus was that I had gone somewhere to get them done. Unable to keep up with the growth, my breasts quadrupled over bras that didn't fit, and squeezed under sweaters no longer meant for certain shaped women. Whenever I tried to wear what was fashionable, it just ended up making me look like a straight up slut. V-neck Lacoste sweaters never looked so dirty.

Yes, the awkward years were confusing. Why so many boys eyes widened with delight while staring below my line of vision was as confusing as why so many men suddenly seemed interested in taking me out on Friday night.

"Once you let a boy touch them, they will be coming for miles around." I still recall my father telling my sister Kirsten in the car one day while we waited for mother to emerge from Safeway.

And he was right.

By the time I was twenty, I had learned the power of The Breast and was well on my way to using it to my advantage. They were mightier than your average chest. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bounce. Capable of reducing men to boys with a few twists of the hip. Once there power was mastered they were wicked weapons. Yes, the girls served me well in my twenties. They brought me through five years as a Budweiser girl and made a decade of cocktail waitressing tremendously lucrative.

But then, something happened. Staring at them today in the mirror, it is clear they have seen their glory days. Nipples decidedly larger than in their youth, girth gone like the air slowly draining from a balloon, and length. Well, should breasts really ever be discussed by their length?

I still recall mom showing Kay the pencil test in the bedroom mirror one night. "Cosmo says, stick a pencil under your breast and if in one hop it doesn't fall..." Well back then you didn't want it to fall. Now six hops and I'm wondering if I'm going to need see a doctor to go in and extricate the pencil from the cavernous underside of my magnanimous mammary glands.

They seem to have the sag. I'm not quite sure when it happened. But they no longer stick up under my chin like the old days. Yes, they fall against my skin and into my armpits when I lie on my back.

When they call my name in the lobby, I decide it's time to stop analyzing the sag and get ready to say goodbye to all the adventures they have afforded me. I look one last time and decide that if they discover something wrong with my tests today - it will be a brilliant excuse to get a lift.

As I pass through the lobby in my wrap gown, I think about how cute they will look when I have them reconstructed into cute little ski jump B's with dime size nipples.

Inside the pink room with the vanilla scented air spray, I let the nice woman with the ice cold fingers put stickers with metal pin tips over my nipples and over the lump. I stand up and raise my right hand in the air while she adjusts a glass shelve so that my right breast comes to rest on it. She brings another glass plate down on top that flatten me out like a pancake. Once she has me situated, she steps behind a wall and takes a picture. Thanks to advancements in digital technology, I can see the inside of my right breast immediately. It looks like little round air pockets.

She does the other breast and then she goes in for the lump. We do a few special angles of the lump area. I have to hold my arms over my head and this time she spreads me out over the glass with a smaller piece of top glass. We look at the picture together and she points to something totally undistinguishable to the untrained eye.

"Right there. I can see something."

I breathe in and hold it.

"Probably just dense tissue. But that must be your lump. Let's see what the doctor says."

I try to breathe out. I sit in the waiting room and wait for the lady who does the ultrasound.

She calls my name, and before I can take another breath, they have me lying on my side with my arm up over my head, cold jelly smeared across my breast and a roller going over my skin in small movements.

"Just a second." The technician says. And she leaves me there in the dark and cold room. I sit in silence. A silent gap that widens with every minute it takes her to return.

But she doesn’t. Instead, another woman has entered and taken her place at the machine. I can see she is a doctor by her white lab coat, but I can tell by her confident bedside manner.

"I'm Dr. Chow, I'm going to just do a few more swipes here. Yes. Just as I thought."

And I swallow hard, suddenly deciding that breast cancer is not worth the reconstructive surgery. A montage of precious moments provided by my breasts passes through my revelry like love story snippets woven together in a movie.

First bra, first boy, first tight sweater- First suck, first nibble, first turtleneck- First boyfriend, first silhouette, first balcony bra, first strapless gown - First time I saw a photo of my shape, first weight loss when everything but their size shrunk, first bikini, first tank top, first-and-last halfsie top.

First sag, first push-up bra, first realization that no matter the outfit I wore I could never really hide them - First wish they were smaller, first Wacoal old lady bra, first time I wore a one piece with support to the beach - First time I looked in the mirror and wanted them to look different - First consideration of a reduction.

All these moments blended together over the murmur of the machine and the pause in Dr. Chow’s sentence.

"Yes, I want you to see this. Can you turn? You see this?" And she points at a mound of light yellow flesh on the screen.

"This is just dense breast tissue. It's nothing. Nothing to worry about now. Studies show that breast cancer risk is higher in women with dense breast tissue. But for today, you are fine."

'Nothing?" I say, leaping up from the table. I feel a little giddy and a little light.

"Nothing."

"That's great.'

“Well of course, you want to keep on top of these things, you will want to come in every year and make it a routine. Likely, yada yada. Yada yada yada, yada. Yada. Appointment. Yada, yada. Front desk. Yada yada. Next time."

But I can't hear her anymore. I'm too busy tightly hugging my beautiful, wonderful, delightful breasts. Like old friends, they may have lost the charms of their newness, but they bring the comfort of an old pair of worn in jeans, softened from several cycles in the dryer. They are my cultured and experienced breasts and I'm just so pleased that for now, we have a lifetime left together.

My breasts and I dress quickly, in case the Doctor changes her mind and calls me back into the room with the discovery of something new. We stand 'em up tall and sashay together out into the lobby. I’m careful to avoid the glances of all the women in the waiting room. Those women and their breasts still don’t know how much more time they will have together and I don’t want to interrupt the possibility of their last words.

Discerning Morning

2007-02-25T09:18:00.000-05:00

It was clear to me this morning that something had died.

I awoke to pelting snow; still saturated day-old coffee grounds in the maker; a caged Chihuahua whose histrionics smacked of my mother’s heroin withdrawal when I was twelve; a sleeping boyfriend hung over from the previous evening’s dissipation; a screaming headache of my own whose dome-pummeling reminded me of the frantic lightning bug I once insensitively jarred over summer break—his panicky leaps and distraught wing-flapping, trying desperately to escape the glass container, unaware all along that this would be his final, dissection spot; an out-of-tune piano, keys sticking and creaking, throwing my masterpiece into discordant bedlam; and, not least, another day of lost faith in God, of a realized withdrawal from that ancient and dizzying doctrine.

It was clear to me this morning that something had died.

And as I stood in my bedroom and overlooked 10th avenue, about to pour another day’s dish for the dog, I realized, resurrected, it was me.

Gorbachev? Who's Gorbachev?

2007-02-22T02:42:00.000-05:00

Walking home from our favorite Chinese restaurant in Manhattan last night, my boyfriend and I happened on a large crowd gathered outside West 49th street, between Broadway and 8th avenue. The horde, an interesting body of mostly tall, bony models and exuberant-looking, overweight tourists, was assembled underneath the Chicago marquee. The play was letting out, and the actors were filing out sporadically, one-by-one.

I knew what the fuss was about—I ran into this crowd about a month earlier, when on my way home from seeing Hal Sparks perform at Caroline’s Comedy Club. They were waiting on the star of Chicago, Rita Wilson, to come out and sign autographs before being briskly whisked away by her bodyguard and her black, protective SUV. But, as I would find out, tonight would be even more special—well, by American standards, anyway.

It seemed, among the anxious chatter and nonstop camera clicking, that something was abuzz in the air that made this event too good to miss. I asked one in the multitude just what everyone was waiting for, and he told me that Tom Hanks would be escorting his wife (Rita Wilson) to her car after signing autographs for the crowd. And, as if this weren’t enough, apparently Steven Spielberg was seated across the street in his own mystical-looking SUV, waiting for the couple. Wow, I thought; this is going to be an interesting social phenomenon that should not be missed.

I begged my partner to stay—a partner prone to disgorging at the mere mention of a celebrity event—and pleaded my case that tonight we would be witnesses to a most interesting social occurrence: celebrity culture in action. And, as a not-too-poor byproduct, we would get to see Hanks, Wilson, and Spielberg. Not too bad for a walk home from dinner. But, then, that’s Manhattan.

As we were standing and patiently awaiting what one would have thought was a premier of the resurrected Christ, my partner snidely remarked that “these people are so stupid.” “Stupid?” I asked. “Why stupid?” He proceeded to tell me what most college professors and cultural and political elitists would—that “these people,” standing breathless for hours, in the biggest heat wave to hit New York in some time, were perfect examples of the idiocy of the typical American; that is, that he will wait in scorching and humid weather for hours to see the star of The Da Vinci Code, but that he would probably not vote in the next presidential election (not to mention any other election—yes, they exist); that he would most likely not even know the issues at hand in any election (except, of course, the most divisive: abortion and gay marriage—duh); that he could name the most recent eliminations on shows such as American Idol and America’s Got Talent, and that he could, from this latter show, probably tell you the most recent pithy PR catchphrases from David Hasselhoff (you know, like “Don’t Hassel the Hoff,” “Look at this hot Hoffie,” etc.), but that, in all likelihood, he could not tell you why he is a Democrat or Republican—just that he is a Democrat or Republican; that he probably could not tell you what the theoretical benefits of communism and capitalism are, but that he could, of course, tell you that “all communists suck.”

My partner had a point. So he put it to the test. As we were still standing in the stickiness of a New York summer, he asked a fellow bystander if he was excited about seeing the dignitary about to come forth. Luckily for us, the bystander was unaware of why the mass had assembled in the first place and responded to us by asking whom we were waiting for. “Gorbachev,” my partner said. “Gorbachev? Who’s Gorbachev?” the passerby asked. Needless to say, within minutes this at-first-excited participant simply walked away. But there was more. Another pedestrian strolled up to us and asked what was going on. “We’re waiting for Gorbachev to come out of the building.” This stunned onlooker seemed to have a difficult time even repeating the name, “Gor-ba-what?”

There was no need to wait hours in a drenching sweat for Gorbachev, a man responsible for some of the most important reforms in the then Soviet Union, a man responsible for so many decisions in the Cold War. No, this day, like others, was won by the stars of Hollywood. Nobody cared if a political heavyweight like Gorbachev or Charles Schumer or Rudolph Giuliani was waiting inside. They wanted the Hollywood whipped cream: Hanks, Spielberg, and Wilson. I imagine this same crowd probably lauded the representation of Che Guevara in The Motorcycle Diaries, extolling his rebellious virtue and his refusal to accept the status quo; yet I would be shocked if they still commended his “humanitarianism” if they knew that he was one of many responsible for savagely murdering thousands of civilians and putting Fidel Castro into power.

Exactly what this means to me is unclear. Perhaps this is just another experience of the richest country in the world doing what it does best: celebrating those who have more wealth and fame than the common man will ever have, simultaneously decrying “big business” and “the corporation-run country,” whatever that means, all while concomitantly enjoying the byproduct benefits of celebrity-obsessed culture, free-market capitalism, and democracy: namely, wealth and the freedom to be shallow.

The worst part? Probably the fact that right after I joined my partner in scoffing at “these stupid people” I whipped out my cell, called my parents in Ohio and bragged that I had just seen Tom Hanks.

How funny and obnoxious is “The Sarah Silverman Show?”

2007-02-19T19:09:00.000-05:00

I find her selfish comments amusing, like when she took in a homeless man out of jealousy toward the cop who won a humanitarian award. When she’s singing, and the homeless man chimes in, she cuts him off by whispering, “This isn’t a duet.”

"School For Scoundrels" with "Napoleon Dynamite" star Jon Heder

2007-02-18T19:10:00.000-05:00

"Napoleon Dynamite" is back - Jon Heder stars in the role of Roger, who takes over a class for losers. The concept of a class that turns weak men into "lions" who can conquer women and achieve their dreams reminds me of "The Game," the controversial book by Neil Strauss that is packaged to resemble the Bible with a black leather cover with pages trimmed in gold. Whether or not this film is a parody of "The Game," the comedic timing of "School For Scoundrels" was successful due to good acting and physcial humor, including the scene when Jon Heder removed his clothes at the pool and revealed a ghost-white body. His look makes him perfect for the part of the nerd, which he hams up just like he did in "Napoleon Dynamite."

It's a book-turned-movie-deal that rivals "Bridget Jones' Diary."

2007-02-17T09:52:00.000-05:00

"The Devil Wears Prada" is an even closer approximation. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, authors Helen Fielding and Lauren Weisberger can pat themselves on the backs as first the novel "Because She Can" by Bridie Clark is released and now "Devil In The Junior League" signs Jennifer Garner to produce the film version and possibly star in it.

There are great characters to play:

*a spoiled, selfish debutante who invests her father's money in shoes and sweater sets (and, to be fair, runs an art gallery, even if it's losing money) but is robbed and abandoned by her husband

*a rough-around-the-edges divorce lawyer who takes her case in exchange for making his trashy wife Nikki a member of the Junior League, a charity group that is still invitation-only in this fictional Texas town (In actuality, the Junior League is no longer the closed netwoek of ladies who lunch. Females who want to do volunteer work and fundraise are welcome to join and give back to the community. Today, many are career women)

*Nikki, the poor girl who married new money, still wears leopard print and thinks it's a good idea to spike people's drinks

Jennifer Garner Joins 'Devil In The Junior League'

Jennifer Garner will produce and possibly star in the film "Devil In The Junior League." The movie, based on a novel by Linda Francis Lee, will revolve around a stuffy Southern socialite whose husband disappears with another woman and her fortune.

The woman turns to a lawyer who agrees to take on her case in exchange for helping his gaudy, less-than appropriate wife become a society lady who can gain entry into the Junior League, a women's educational and charitable organization.

It is not known whether Garner is likely to play the socialite or the woman in need of a makeover.

Today on the bus...

2007-02-14T21:11:00.000-05:00

It's cold outside, snow is falling and Bus 33 pumps up the heat as it rolls down Market Street towards Love Park. The bus stops at the Courthouse and picks up an old man waving his cane. He is slow. There is shaking from the change in temperature and from the fact he is old. It takes him three minutes to ascend the stairs and slide gently into the first seat. As he flashes his senior citizen pass, the unusually patient driver finally jerks away from the curb.

I watch him from my side of the bus. His eyes are watering from the cold, his chest is pounding from the exertion of his climb. He can barely see me through the folds around his eyes, but he manages to look vacantly across the bus at where I'm sitting. His hands, covering the cane are covered with age spots, bulging veins and cartilage build up.

When the bus driver pulls right onto 20th street, another aged man rises up in the back of the bus. He bumbles towards the front and taps the driver on the shoulder.

"We missed my stop."

"Oh man. You gotta move fast mistah. I can't wait around all day for you to make your way to the front of the bus."

She steps on the breaks and opens the door. We aren't anywhere near the curb when the old man carefully steps down the stairs of the bus and onto the fresh snow. He takes a step, and he falls.

"Aw man. Damn. He fell, " she says to those of us remaining in the bus. I try to avoid eye contact with the old man with the cane.

She opens the door of the bus.

"Can you get up?"

The bus leans West as everyone peers out their windows to see the man lying in the snow. He's flat on his back, as if he is about to make a snow angel. He's flapping his arms but not making any progress. I start to get up towards the door to help the man up, but someone beats me. A middle aged man wearing a puffy jacket that is unzipped to reveal a Philly's sweatshirt, reaches an un-gloved hand down to help the old man up. He takes the aging hand in his, and then he slips and comes to lie next to the old man. There they lie, like two frozen gingerbread men waiting to go into the oven.

Again, I rise. But someone else has already stepped out of the bus and he's helping both men to their feet.

"Take the old guy to the curb," yells the bus driver.

"Damn" The bus driver looks over her shoulder to a woman wearing a ski hat sitting next to me.

"What are these people doing out on a day like this?"

I wince.

The two helpers get back on the bus, laughing and patting each other on the back. The bus driver closes the door and continues her chat with the woman on my left.

"I mean, don't they have someone to take care of them? Really, they shouldn't let these people out alone. Look at him just out there alone."

"Well, I guess they gotta get out. They gotta get groceries."

And the woman and the driver share a laugh.

I wonder if the driver can see that behind her sits "one of them". I close my eyes from embarrassment and hope that the old man with the cane can't hear the chatter. But when I open them, I see that he has. He stares at me, with soft eyes that seem to be pleading for me to understand him.

The bus pulls to a stop in front of my work. I stand up to leave.

"Thanks so much. Have a good day. Happy Valentines Day."

And I step down out of the bus. The doors shut, and the bus moves on, up the hill, towards the next stop.

Happy Valentines Day!

2007-02-13T22:29:00.000-05:00

For as long as I can recall, I have hated Valentines day.

I hate the pink. I hate the hearts. I hate the obscene feeling of obligation, the stench of rotten Valentines past lingering in the air, the sound of broken hearts crunching beneath my tepid sensitivities. I hate watching the cash register continue to tally the cost of $7.50 cards that will arrive late, be opened in haste and passed over in anticipation of the one from ‘him’. Since I was twelve years old comparing the number of M'n'M's that Lucy glued on Bethy's card versus mine, I have been shaking my box of valentines, unappreciative of what I've received and mourning what I’m missing.

I've ended 80% of my relationships before the impending doom of Valentines Day as a pre-emptive strike against inevitable disappointment. And the other 20% were miserable. My first love took me to the Keg restaurant for bottomless cokes and all-you-can-eat Caesar salads. My last love gave me a card. You see, Valentines Day celebrates all the things I hate about relationships. He reads a magazine that tells him he should take me to dinner, pick out a card, and buy chocolates. But I hate chocolate, the card isn’t his words, and this isn't his idea of a fun night. The truth is that if he had it his way, we would be watching football at home in front of the TV eating pizza from the box. I hate Valentines day.

Out of a relationship, the pressure is removed but Valentines still sucks. It’s a reminder to singles everywhere that, according to society, we have failed. I have failed. I, who have always striven for perfection..., I, who have always pushed for the A+... I, who will only play if I can win... I, have failed at love.

Not all love. Just the kind that involves an intimate partner. I've always capitalized on the holiday, by focusing on making my friends and family feel noticed and appreciated. But this year, something is different.

This year, I have a Valentine.

And he is the kind of Valentine that doesn't need a special day to be utterly romantic. He is thoughtful and kind, makes dramatic gestures, likes art, writes poetry, plans dates, always walks between me and traffic, is humble and sincere, pays for my meals, instead of meeting me at restaurants he picks me up for dinner, notices little things about me and makes me feel like there is no need to race because he isn't going anywhere, anytime soon. Yes, something is really different about this one. Suddenly I want to read poetry and listen to R & B.

Now, I'm a realist and who knows how long this infatuation will last or how much longer my Valentine and I will hold one another’s attention. By this time next week I may be hating John Mayer tunes and cursing at happy couples on the street. But for today, on Valentines Day, I have a Valentine. And just maybe, this year, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day.

V is for VALENTINE'S DAY

2007-02-13T13:48:00.000-05:00

My friend hosted a Cookie Baking Party on Sunday with a Valentine's Day theme. To get in the spirit, we discussed love in the Big Apple. A couple of girls asked if I thought living in NY makes people neurotic. As we all know, neurotic is not a good quality when dating. Plenty of females think that Manhattan men are neurotic. Others will say that the women become neurotic too. Neurotic about body image (Why do some people still care about being the thinnest in the room?), neurotic about fashion (Why do people care about having the most expensive clothes in the room?), neurotic about career (Why do some think their paycheck defines their personal worth?), neurotic about marriage/kids (Why do some people care who gets married 1st, who has kids 1st, or who has kids in the best pre-K program?)

I said it yesterday and I'll say it again. NY does not make you neurotic unless you let it. It IS possible to have a healthy relationship there. Not easy, but possible. There are endless temptations in The City That Never Sleeps Yet Somehow Sleeps With Your Boyfriend. If you refuse to buy into all the advertising lies ("What? I won't become perfect from drinking cans of Red Bull and bottles of Stoli Vanilla?? What about the new Bailey's Caramel Irish Cream?"), then it is possible to live happily ever after in New York. Unless you re-kindle a penchant for the suburbs.

Out of the hustle and bustle, many of you are probably enjoying a quiet Valentine's Day.
For those of us paying $200 for a $70 dinner because it is February 14, well, consider it a small price to pay for timely and romantic atmosphere. Plus there's all the people-watching and free entertainment that occurs every day on the cold, windy sidewalks where millions of footsteps make their marks.

This is a warning to New Yorkers (neurotic or not): Start making reservations soon - next year's Valentine's Day is around the corner, so secure some seats before every restaurant books up.
And if you make a heart shaped cookie, don't forget to check on it and err on the side of caution. You wouldn't want your own heart to get burned, would you?

Overheard

2007-02-13T06:18:00.000-05:00

"If you were going to drive all that way, wouldn't you have to stop for gas? And couldn't you just use the bathroom when you stopped for gas?"

-- clearly, a man

Miss America and What Miss America was Missing

2007-02-12T14:52:00.000-05:00

Photo above: Miss New York and Miss New York City titleholders Jessica Lynch, Alice Bugman and Andrea Miller in black evening gowns with contestant Noelle Ashley
Photo below: Noelle Ashley competing on stage in 2002; New York City

This year’s MISS AMERICA broadcast was the 1st time I’ve seen the behind-closed-doors panel interviews featured on TV, even if only in short clips. The most important part of the competition occurs off the air, when each lady faces a long table of judges. The judges (including political commentator and journalist Chris Matthews) fire questions on topics from politics to personal goals to issues such as health care.

Questions asked this year: Who is the most important woman in America today?
Should Roe Vs. Wade be overturned?
How will you modernize Miss America?
What do you think about rap music?

If you could be a character in any fairy tale, who would you be and why?
Have you ever eaten a cow you know personally?
How come Faulkner never used commas?

Q & A with the 3 finalists: What gives you confidence in America?
Miss Texas: What gives me confidence in America is that I had to pull myself up by my own boot straps. This is America and we can get education if we want it. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich. It doesn’t matter if you’re poor. It doesn’t matter if you have to take out a student loan. Education is one of the best things that we have in America and it’s an entitlement to every American.

Question: If you became President of the U.S., what is the first thing you’d do?
Miss Georgia: First, I’d invite Miss America to dinner…(audience laughter) and then make sure no child is left behind. Even if I’m not Miss America, I’ll always be a teacher.…I want to help the kids be the best they can be…and not test the kids so much.

Question: Women make up more than 50% of the population but, compared to men, only earn 76 cents on the dollar. What would you do to change that?
Miss Oklahoma: By being a role model, a Miss America, shows that women are strong and can succeed in our society. I think that by being a good role model, we can change that.

More Q & A: If you had to take a long plane trip, who would you rather sit next to: George Bush or Bill Clinton and why?
Miss Georgia: Bill Clinton. I think I’ve seen enough of George for now.
Q: Who is the most powerful woman in the world to you today?
Miss Georgia: Besides my mother, I’m going to go cliché and say Oprah. She’s getting so much slack for helping women in Africa, and she doesn’t care.
Q: How does Oprah cross all the historic problems and go the heart of people?
Miss Georgia: I think she’s real. She’s not trying to put on a façade.

Q: If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Miss Oklahoma - Lauren Nelson: I’d probably be three inches taller. I wish I had a little bit longer legs for swimsuit competition, especially. I’m 5’6.
Q: Do you ever pray to be taller?
Miss Oklahoma - Lauren Nelson: (after repeating the question in surprise) That’s not one of the things I pray for.
Q: What do you pray for?
Miss Oklahoma - Lauren Nelson: I pray for peach within myself, I pray for my family, I thank God for all the Blessings he’s given me, I thank God for putting me in a position where I can make a difference and for putting me here for a reason because this year more than ever, I think my faith has helped me. I use it to keep me in the right mindset.

(The above quotes are accurate according to the trancript of Miss America. If you see an error, please post a comment below.)

Since its first appearance on TV, what was missing from Miss America was an emphasis on the interview portion, the part that shows how informed and well-spoken each woman is. This part reveals her character as she speaks about what makes her passionate. If the public only sees close-up of bikinis and smiles, it is easy for people to mischaracterize what is actually an empowering scholarship program. I used to compete in the often-misunderstood, controversial pageant that is Miss America. It is not the same as Miss USA, which is judged on looks alone. Miss America is judged on her public speaking, talent, commitment to charity and commitment to fitness. (For more information, here is an editorial I published during my experience as a contestant.)

From reading the above Q&As, which contestant earned YOUR vote?

What do you think are the qualities that a Miss America should represent?

One lump? or two?

2007-02-07T00:07:00.000-05:00

"You have a lump."

"A what?"

"A lump."

The Gynecologist has a toy poodle that she has dressed in plum colored scrubs and is cradling in one arm so the pooch can lick the outer rim of her gold wire frame glasses while she tells me this potentially life-altering news.

She places the dog on the floor next to her, pulls back my mocking paisley paper gown worn only for the veil of modesty, looks down her nose, and begins poking her fingers along the outside of my right breast .

"It's here, on the outer part of the breast."

She takes my left hand, still cold from the chill of the February morning, and guides my fingers until I feel something like a small pebble.

“It's rather pronounced. Could be a fibroid. But I'm going to ask you to get it looked at right away. Considering the family history.”

She sits down on a stool facing me, tells me to “scootch your bum to the end of the chair” and lean back.

I would be lost in useless thought about the cost of prosthetic bras, if precious wasn’t awkwardly licking at my toes while he rests on the Doctors shoulder.

“Oh my little precious. Oh my little sweetie. No Precious. Precious, no!”

Dear Lord, what was that dog doing while I lay with my feet in the air, my genitals exposed to the world, my heart racing at the thought of a life alone with my one boob in some nursing home for the constitutionally incapable of long term relationships.

“There is a good little baby.” And her words are muffled with wet doggy kisses and the remnants of my toe jam.

“All done here.”

She releases me from the prison of the metal foot clamps, pulls the rubber gloves off her bony fingers, opens the garbage lid with one clog and drops the gloves with little precision.

“So, about the lump. My Mom and my Grandma, they both had breast cancer.”

"Yes, you had mentioned that already. Another reason to not wait too long.”

For a minute, I wished I wasn’t single. I wished there was someone waiting for me at home that would take care of me, wouldn’t leave when I lost my hair and knew how beautiful my breasts were before the mastectomy.

My reckless revelry was banished by the Doctor’s high pitched shriek. “Precious. Put that down precious. Precious. I said no.”

Precious had found a finger of the wayward glove that only moments before had gone where no man had gone before. Or at least in a very long time. And precious was now cavorting around the exam room with Dr. Bony hands in quick pursuit.

I just want to put my clothes on, escape and find a place to cry. A bad week, bad news and now a bad headache coming on – but instead I am laughing.

The Doctor catches Precious and a charade ensues where precious pretends to limp to gain the Doctor’s sympathy.

“She is so dramatic. She just wants constant attention.”

The doctor sighs, rolls Precious onto her back and scratches her belly.

“I keep telling her that someday she will really be hurting and I wont be able to tell. Isn't that right my little faker. Oh yes Princess Dramatic, my 'lil Ms. Oscar worthy, Mommy doesn't have enough sympathy to fill your pity pot.”

I clear my throat. I really want to take off the paper smock and put back on my wool tights.

“Okay then. I’ll see you when your results come back. Good day.”

And she swoops up Precious and backs out of the room, firmly shutting the door behind her.

I decide not to cry.

I’ll go back to work. I’ll call a few friends. I’ll go on my date tonight. I’ll wait for the results before I determine the poetry I would like read at my funeral.

For now, it is just a lump.

Beirut

2007-02-06T23:27:00.000-05:00

This is the blaze that has left me living on a street that vaguely resembles Beirut.

Green

2007-02-02T05:37:00.000-05:00

“You know, you are adopted.”

My brother took wicked delight in taunting me as we watched television in the basement of my parents house on Edgewater drive.

“Why would you say that?”

He was seventeen to my my seven years old, and age is how he explained that he had rights to the entire corduroy couch to stretch out upon and I should sit quietly on the floor.

“Well, you are the only one with green eyes in the entire family. So that means you are adopted.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. And you know that means that you will always be less loved. You know, because you aren’t really part of the family.”

My green eyes narrowed.

“That’s mean Gunther. You are just trying to be mean.”

“Okay. You can think that. But until you are sure, you should be extra nice to me and I’ll try to include you a little more.”

“Gee. Thanks Gunther.”

“And you could start by giving me all the candy you have sitting there in your Easter Basket.”

“The candy that the Easter Bunny left for me?”

Gunther used the remote to flick through the channels on the TV.

“Yeah. About that. There really isn’t an Easter Bunny. It’s candy from Mom and Dad. Well, from my Mom and Dad.”

“Oh.”

“And I only want the black jelly beans, so pick those out for me. No green ones. The green ones are gross. The color green is gross. Gross.”

"I like Green"

"Well, you are weird. Nobody likes green."

"I guess I'm different."

"Well, I think we have established that."

Internet Dating Audio Blog

2007-01-30T06:10:00.000-05:00

Want to hear my groggy, early morning responses to internet dating questions posed by Sara Goo, from the Washington Post?

Try here, here and here.?

And did I mention how much I love my Washington Post friends?

Christmas Memories

2007-01-25T01:42:00.000-05:00

With each passing year, the memory of those magical Christmas morning of my childhood, dims like the slowly flickering flame of a once magnificent fire. What was magical, has slowly burned to the mere light of glowing embers of sensory recall.

It has become increasingly more difficult to paste together the memories of sleepless Christmas Eves anticipating the arrival of Santa Clause, eyes full of wonder when a friend opens the gift I bought at the 99 cent imports store, and the pure joy on Christmas day of playing with my newest Strawberry Shortcake doll.

Bittersweet is the realization that on Christmas morning, I am no longer a little girl.

Instead, Christmas has evolved into something entirely foreign to the eyes of a seven-year old child. Christmas has faded from a burst of color, to the blend of a new pastel thread in an already rich tapestry.

Wrapping paper and crumbs from a batch of Christmas cookies still litter my floor, but now the smell of pine evokes an image of last minute Christmas shopping down 5th Avenue, girlfriends in short dresses navigating the bite of a New York winter, clutching scarves and skipping through ice puddles on their way to a cocktail and gift exchange at Pastis.

This year, Christmas Eve’s warmth was provided by the vision of my mother reading a book by the light of the Christmas tree, my father preparing Honeybaked ham on the good plates, and my brother whistling Christmas carols in the shower.

On Christmas day, Mom put on all her diamonds and pulled a velvet coat over her satin nightie, sat down at the dining room table, drank a bottle of wine, and assembled a puzzle. Dad buzzed around her with a rag in one hand, clutching a can of Endust in the other. As he worked his way through all the various rooms in the house, I heard him rouse Georg from a deep sleep in front of the television. Low muffles gave away to exchanged laughter. I just hovered in the moment, capturing the sounds, sights and nasal singe of lemon Endust in my memory. I wanted to preserve it for a day I hoped was long off. A day when I wouldn't have them anymore.

Christmas to this maturing woman has become girlfriends calling when I have the time to listen, heavy wool sweaters pulled over rounding belly’s, pajamas at 2:00 in the afternoon on a weekday, dusty board games seeing the light of day, reasons for old friends to see one another, an abundance of activities to bring you closer to one another. And the gifts of new, brilliant, blazing memories.

Still warm. Still cozy. Just different.

2007

2007-01-23T23:01:00.000-05:00

The year I write my novel.
The year I run a mini-marathon.
The year I pay off my AMEX.
The year I spend less, and save more.
The year I fall in love.
The year I finish all my steps.
The year I find a job where all my talents are appreciated.
The year I listen more, speak less.
The year I go to Cuba.
The year I celebrate my birthday by throwing a party for myself.
The year I keep the same core group of friends.
The year I give more than I take.
The year I learn to accept my path.
The year I let go of the dream
that things would be better,
if only I were a little different.

"Posh," a novel by Lucy Jackson

2007-01-11T10:25:00.000-05:00

Do you ever read a book where each chapter is from a different character’s point of view and you find yourself only reading the chapters about the 2 characters that interest you?

Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this. I did it with “Posh,” a well-crafted book about an elite high school in Manhattan. There’s a glamorous mother who is self-admittedly “cold.” When her son Michael gets accepted at Harvard, she thinks of hugging him, but she doesn’t move and neither does he and what could have been a special moment becomes nothing.

Julianne has the perfect boyfriend in Michael: he’s handsome, Harvard-bound and…manic-depressive (not so perfect after all). Her friends stop envying her as Michael’s mood swings get ugly. He has breakdowns when he doesn’t take his medicine. He cries and tells her, “You can’t leave me. I need you,” effectively blackmailing her emotions and manipulating her into staying. Even when she sees him as nothing more than a problem, she’d feel guilty if she left him. So she lies to her mom and dutifully supports Michael. Her friends have an intervention to tell her she’s not his wife and doesn’t owe him such loyalty. But her youth also makes her destructive behavior believable, and it’s beautifully written by Lucy Jackson (listed in the back of the book as a pseudonymous for an acclaimed short story writer and novelist).

But I skipped every chapter devoted to the character that rubbed me the wrong way, in this case, the school's headmistress who is cheating on her husband. Please tell me I'm not alone in playing favorites like this.

rejection

2007-01-03T18:29:00.000-05:00

I have this theory that whatever happens in the first few moments of the new year sets a tone for the rest. So imagine my disappointment when the first few moments of 2007 were spent feeling the barbs of rejection. Rejection, followed by the childish desire to pout. Pouting that pushed away my friends and made me look like a ten year old child throwing a tantrum at the grocery store when Mom wouldn't buy me a pack of Bubblicious.

Sometimes I feel like Veruca Salt. I want what I want, when I want it. And I want it now.

What does that say about 2007?

Happy New Year!

2007-01-01T00:59:00.000-05:00

Film Review: “The Good Shepherd” with Matt Damon, Angelina Jolie and Robert DeNiro

2006-12-29T23:02:00.000-05:00

“The Good Shepherd” is a powerful film with a strong cast, secrets, twists and historical background on the rise of the CIA. Reminiscent of “Ocean’s Eleven” and “The Departed,” it featured Matt Damon surrounded by an array of Oscar winners. Robert DeNiro, Alec Baldwin, William Hurt and Joe Pesci gave smooth performances as did Damon’s CIA-agent character, a quiet workaholic forced to marry Angelina Jolie. Surely it took all of Damon’s skills to convince us that living with her equaled torture.

One striking element in this film is the eye contact between Damon and the boy who plays his son. Damon chooses country over family and the neglect of his young boy creates heartbreaking tension as his son gazes at him with hatred, his questions unanswered, his chin trembling, and his eyes on the brink of tears, as mine also were several times during the 160 minutes in the theatre.

Jolie did a marvelous job of biting her tongue as the role of unwanted wife required. No doubt her reputation will improve with this sympathetic portrayal of a neglected beauty who devotes her life to being a mother. Secret societies abound in the plot, from the Skull & Crossbones to the CIA to Yale University (which, these days, is just as hard to get in).

Twists and turns take the storyline in unexpected directions and I sat on the edge of my seat for the entire film. The question of patriotism comes into play along with sacrifice. What values supersede family?

Set mainly around war (World War II and the Bay of Pigs fiasco), the film offers a behind-the-scenes look at history unfolding. By the time Jolie asks, “What are you going to do? Save the world?” the audience is confident that Damon’s character will do just that. But at what price?

“The Good Shepherd” is a universally entertaining film about espionage that appeals to both genders. It made me laugh, wipe my eyes, close my eyes (when an enemy was tortured) and bite my nails. The genre is drama; the rating is R.

Gifts From My Mother's Friends

2006-12-24T13:16:00.000-05:00

The Packaging:

"Sober! Oh sweetie how are you? So what are you doing now? Still working for the same firm? That's nice. Where are you living? Same place. That's nice. Are you seeing anyone? No one? Oh. Well that's nice. Well you remember my little Jimmy? You were his favorite babysitter. Well he's married now. He's having a baby. Can you believe it? That makes all the little kids you once babysat now married with kids of their own. Well if things don't work out in New York, you could babysit their kids now. Wouldn't that be fun? Good to see you. Best of luck in the New Year."

Directions for use:

Rinse. Lather. Repeat. About 300 times between December 20th and January 1.

If swallowed:

Remind self that while Jimmy works a job he hates to support the same woman he has to have sex with for the rest of his life while a baby screams in the next room, you are likely lying on a beach in the Caribbean, sipping virgin 'tinis with your girlies whilst reviewing the previous evenings debauchery and scanning the beach for tonight's conquest.

The Annual Christmas Card

2006-12-19T05:08:00.000-05:00

"Merry Christmas from Sober In the City!"

The past year has gone by in a blur. I started the year with a boyfriend, basking in the sun in the Dominican Republic, sipping Diet Cokes with Robert DeNiro and Angelina Jolie. I'm ending it alone in my apartment, writing blogs, addressing Christmas cards, dreading the opening of the Good Shepherd and hoarding Diet Root Beers. But it's been a good year for personal discovery!

In the last twelve months I have worked in Washington DC and Philadelphia. I've finally broken down and obtained a temporary flat in Philly to make the work week comfortable. Frequent trips to NYC allow me to stay current with my sis and my New York girlfriends like Carpe, Lexicon, Mex-goes-NY and Little Lion.

Notable events include: my DC exploits, Z's birthday, a Hampton's Memorial Day, Vegas adventures, weekend at the shore with my two bald parents, weekend at the shore with my wild and crazy girlies, my Seattle BFF's wedding, me and Gloria, two billion dollar babes sales, A Philly Halloween, a new sister-in-law, a new nephew, San Fran with half the fam, quitting smoking, the girl's Fall Hampton's retreat, the AA prom, Belle in the backyard and a day as a tourist in NYC with my sis.

No Mom, no boys. No mom, no girls either. Just me, my relationships, my writing, a promising career and wide-eyed optimism about the possibilities of the future. I've grown up a bit in the past year. This last year I wore more dresses. I saved money. I showed my friends how much they are loved. I said I was sorry when I made mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. But I also did a few things right. And at the end of 2006, I can say that I'm comfortable in my own skin. I only can hope that 2007 will bring the same.

A warm embrace from my writers desk on this unseasonably warm New York morning. May this time of year fill my friends, my family and my loyal readers with the love and affection given me throughout the year. I'm truly grateful for those of you who have blessed and challenged my last year. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Congratulations on making it through another year!

For Writers

2006-12-16T19:20:00.000-05:00

"Miss Snark" is the New York literary agent who blogs anonymously to prevent more writers from wasting her time and embarassing themselves by being ignorant of the publishing world. Check out the above link for her entertaining contest. She is now publicly tearing apart book ideas from the 700 people who emailed her yesterday. See what the average day is like for a literary agent. Out of 700, maybe 30 writers will be asked to submit the first page of their book. Out of those 30, maybe 5 will be asked to send the rest of the first chapter. Out of those 30, maybe 4 will be asked to send the whole book. Out of those 4, I expect that between 0 and 4 will get representation. Not that getting published is competitive or anything.

Funny Holiday Letters

2006-12-15T19:14:00.000-05:00

I hope the following satires make you laugh:

Dear Friend,

It is that time of year again to share with you our adventures in this journey we call life. 2000 has been another year of magic and wonder... Lori almost 3, is quite a talker. She continues to amaze the professors at the University with her intuition in foreign languages. It was fun for her to serve as Official Translator for Warren Christopher at the Bosnian-Serbian Peace Talks. She intends to spend this Holiday transcribing War and Peace into Arabic and Cantonese.

Chris, now 5, is growing in leaps and bounds. When he got his first set of building blocks he seemed quite interested in large buildings. This year he designed his first skyscraper and ground was broken in Hong Kong for the new "Little Man" Towers. It is great to have a budding architect at home as he made a new addition to the house and a wonderful gazebo for our garden. Martha Stewart will be filming her next show here in April.

Betsy had a very busy year. In between her work as President of the American Cancer Society and Senior Partner of Goldman Sachs, she introduced a line of children's novels and hand made active-wear. She remains occupied with the children and has introduced them to Yoga and power walking this year.

We are particularly proud of Mom as a starting forward representing the United States in the World Cup. Dave was immersed with his Graduate School studies, and managed to co-author a paper on Multidimensional Customer Attribute Analysis by Conjoint Survey and accept a Nobel Prize for his discoveries in Quantum Physics. Along the way Dave took three startups through their IPO. We are proud of his work serving on the Board of Directors of IBM, Coca-Cola, and Walt Disney. Dad was also active with the kids teaching Lauren Ballet and helping to lower Chris' handicap to 5.

We were able to squeeze a little traveling in this year. We started in Aspen, went to Belarus, the Congo, Denmark, Ethiopia, the Falklands, Greenland, Holland, Italy, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, New Zealand, Venezuela, and Zaire. Our trip sailing our new boat around the world was a great experience for the kids, we learned to communicate with Dolphins and discovered a new region of deep water volcanoes. And Sergeant, our German shepherd, learned to speak. Latin. Other than that, it was a very quiet year. So from our household to yours, all the Blessings of the Season and may your New Year be prosperous. We found out yesterday that we won the $150 Million Powerball Lottery.
The Wannabes,Betsy, Dave, Chris & Lori

Hi Erma,
This perfectly delightful note is being sent on paper I made myself to tell you what I have been up to.Since it snowed last night, I got up early and made a sled with old barn wood and a glue gun. I hand painted it in gold leaf, got out my loom, and made a blanket in peaches and mauves. Then to make the sled complete, I made a white horse to pull it, from DNA that I had just sitting around in my craft room.By then, it was time to start making the place mats and napkins for my 20 breakfast guests. I'm serving the old standard Stewart twelve- course breakfast, but I'll let you in on a little secret: I didn't have time to make the tables and chairs this morning, so I used the ones I had on hand. Before I moved the table into the dining room, I decided to add just a touch of the holidays. So I repainted the room in pinks and stenciled gold stars on the ceiling. Then, while the homemade bread was rising, I took antique candle molds and made the dishes (exactly the same shade of pink) to use for breakfast. These were made from Hungarian clay, which you can get at almost any Hungarian craft store.Well, I must run. I need to finish the buttonholes on the dress I'm wearing for breakfast. I'll get out the sled and drive this note to the post office as soon as the glue dries on the envelope I'll be making. Hope my breakfast guests don't stay too long, I have 40,000 cranberries to string with bay leaves before my speaking engagement at noon. It's a good thing.

Love, Martha Stewart
P.S. When I made the ribbon for this typewriter, I used 1/8-inch gold gauze. I soaked the gauze in a mixture of white grapes and blackberries, which I grew, picked, and crushed last week just for fun.

Dear Martha,
I'm writing this on the back of an old shopping list, pay no attention to the coffee and jelly stains. I'm 20 minutes late getting my daughter up for school, packing a lunch with one hand, on the phone with the dog pound, seems old Ruff needs bailing out, again.Burnt my arm on the curling iron when I was trying to make those cute curly fries, how DO they do that?Still can't find the scissors to cut out some snowflakes, tried using an old disposable razor ... trashed the tablecloth. Tried that cranberry thing, frozen cranberries mushed up after I defrosted them in the microwave.Oh, and don't use Fruity Pebbles as a substitute in that Rice Krispie snowball recipe, unless you happen to like a disgusting shade that resembles puke!The smoke alarm is going off, talk to ya later.
Love, Erma

Holiday Letters

2006-12-14T18:57:00.000-05:00

The above holiday letters made me laugh. However, as a writer and avid reader, I enjoy reading holiday letters and I appreciate the fact that people wrote more than "Dear Noelle" and "From ___". Some letters do brag, but some are just from people who are proud of their families. If they're your friends, they deserve the benefit of the doubt! I am always happy for my friends when they travel, do volunteer work, earn awards or have children working hard and earning honors. Some recipients of holiday letters complain too much. Friends who send holiday letters are easy targets of gossip, but didn't we already graduate from 6th grade?

Wouldn't you complain even more if friends sent you negative notes about how life is grim and 2007 is bound to be even worse and anyone who thinks the year will be joyful is a fool?

Just making a point. The tone of a letter can be misinterpreted as bragging since you can't hear the person's voice or see his or her expression. Maybe your friends ARE egotistical jerks, but then what does that say about YOU? Is it possible that the complainers are overly-judgmental? Maybe the letter writers are just excited to share a few good things that happened to them. In a whole year, there's bound to be something to be grateful for. If complainers took a minute to reflect upon their lives, they might find things to be grateful for too. They might -gasp!- even be inspired to share their thoughts in the form of a holiday letter.

BEFORE YOU SEAL THE HOLIDAY LETTER:
Watch whom you send it to - some "friends" do NOT have the ability to be proud of you or happy for you. They may criticize your letter in conversation...or on the Internet! Needless to say, these are not friends, they are disloyal, possibly jealous, probably insecure acquaintances you should remove from your list and if possible, your life.

Does anyone agree that we can support the people around us rather than attack them?

That said, the satire letters above are still worth reading. They gave me a good laugh.

A Double Standard of Democracy

2006-12-13T07:40:00.000-05:00

An article ran in the Metro this morning that criticized Iran for hosting a gathering of "Holocaust deniers".

The EU's top justice official yesterday condemned the conference as 'an unacceptable affront' to victims of the World War II genocide. British Prime Minister Tony Blair denounced it as "shocking beyond belief" and proof of Iranian President Mahmous Admadinejad's extremism....

Although organizers touted it as a scholarly gathering, the meeting angered many in countries such as Austria, Germany and France, where it is illegal to deny aspects of the Nazis' '"Final Solution".

In Washington, the White House condemned Iran for convening a conference it called "an affront to the entire civilized world."

Any one who reads this blog knows that I do not support the beliefs presented at these gatherings. But this latest controversy targeting an Islam country has me slightly confused.

Isn't the 'right to gather' protected under the tenets of freedom? Does the government really have the ability to make laws about what people are allowed to believe? We are willing to risk the lives of Americans to bring freedom and democracy to the citizens of the Middle East, but isn't the freedom of speech - no matter the horrors of its subject manner - protected in those rights?

The idea of legalizing a march of the KKK through the streets of Alabama disturbs me, but I also know that the laws that give them these rights are the same laws that allow me to gather at the foot of the Washington Monument in the name of women's emancipation.

Isn't anyone else afraid that extending the arm of the international moral police may swing back to hit us in the face?

Bad Gifts for an Alcoholic

2006-12-12T23:54:00.002-05:00

It's that time again. Christmas. And that means gifts!

Based on Christmas pasts, I have compiled a list of gifts that I would not recommend for your alcoholic friends.

Bottle of Scotch
Bottle of Champagne
Selection of Liqueur Filled Chocolates
Tiramisu
A Flask
Bottle of Wine
Maple Wine Rack
Shark Shaped Wine Screw
Wine Charms
Wine Stops
Captain Morgan's Christmas Tree Ornament
Jug of Home-Made Eggnog
Shot Glasses from Paris
Beer Steins from Germany
A baggie of Pot

Lil' Aiden

2006-12-12T23:54:00.001-05:00

Funny Beach Reads

2006-12-12T11:55:00.000-05:00

Has anyone read books by Augusten Burroughs? The film “Running With Scissors” got mixed reviews but I haven't seen it and thus can't comment. What I WILL suggest you check out is “Magical Thinking,” his book of non-fiction stories. In it, Burroughs also says he wrote his first book, Sellevision, in 14 days, and found a literary agent almost as fast. And then a publisher. While it’s possible, this claim reminded me of the title…Magical Thinking.

One chapter that was so hysterically FUNNY I have to tell you about it. It’s on HIRING A MAID IN MANHATTAN. Crazy things happen when your maid is so short she only cleans the lower half of the window, and you can’t fire her because she’s psychotic and you’re terrified of her.

A great beach read which I enjoyed while on the hammock at the Hamanasi resort in Belize...

Have you seen this man?

2006-12-11T23:04:00.000-05:00

M I S S I N G

Have you seen this man?

HEIGHT: 6'3"
HAIR: Dirty Dishwater Blonde
EYES: Blue, both

Sometimes shaggy...

Sometimes sweaty...

He may be in disguise.

Last seen on November 5th in San Francisco, CA.

We have received tips that he has been abducted by a raven hair beauty known to chain her victims to a desk and force them to study for the GMAT.

We also have reason to believe that he may be suffering from amnesia, for he seems to have no recognition of the season or his family.

If presented with this individual, please call our missing persons hot-line immediately. Whatever you do, do not try to approach this individual alone. He is known to panic when under pressure.

Alert authorities. And please post sightings below. We just want him home for the holidays!!

Belize Trip and Books to Bring

2006-12-09T14:08:00.000-05:00

New Yorkers seem to need vacations more than anyone. In midtown, for example, stress escalates just from walking down the street and ordering coffee amidst a long line of impatient caffeine addicts. So I’m proud to be on a trip right now. Southern Belize is a nice change from the East Coast of America in December.

I sit on the beach at Hamanasi, a scuba-diving resort. I want something funny to read. If you ever find yourself in this situation, I whole-heartedly recommend Jane Green’s “The Other Woman,” a laugh out loud tale of the mother-in-law from hell. We’re talking about a woman who crosses all the boundaries you don’t want crossed. The term “Control Freak” is hereby redefined. Enjoy it. For once, a story about the “other woman” refers to the guy’s flesh and blood, his manipulative mother. If you’re like me, you’ll be shocked and entertained.

A Simple Life

2006-12-01T05:53:00.000-05:00

Some times I just wish I could go back to being a cocktail waitress. Life was so much easier as a cocktail waitress. Every night was a party and my biggest concerns were where to get brunch later, how many of the boys I gave my number to tonight would call me tomorrow, and was Molly Jean going to cover my shift next Saturday.

When I was a cocktail waitress, I was part of the hip crowd, I knew what music was 'out' and which hairstyles were 'in'. I wore trendy clothes, slept until noon, went to the gym every day and had glamorous friends that thought I was so funny.

When I was a cocktail waitress, I always had cash in my pocket. If I wanted a new pair of shoes, I worked hard that night and bought the shoes the next morning. I didn't need a fancy apartment or a fancy car or a new coffee machine because I was never at home. I went out every night with friends or a date.

When I was a cocktail waitress, I had all the time off I needed. I could take a few weeks and go to Europe. I travelled the world. When I ran out of money in Greece, I could pick up a tray and wait tables on the Agean.

When I was a cocktail waitress, I wasn't lonely. I got 'Club Courtesy' to all the hottest spots in town, bartenders knew my name and gave me free Diet Pepsi, I hung out behind the bar with the DJ and knew the name of all the bouncers. People in the industry knew who I was.

When I was a cocktail waitress, I was good at my job. I was always smiling, customers adored me, and my boss thought I was perfect. I knew people's drinks, I was fast, I made everyone in my section feel special. I made more tips than anyone else at the bar. I trained new staff and people enjoyed working with me.

When I was a cocktail waitress, I never had to deal with my character defects. No matter how screwed up my life was, someone else's life was always worse. Problems were discussed over the dishwasher and few stale cigarettes in the back kitchen. My co-workers were like a family and they always knew exactly what Led Zeppelin mix would make me drop my tray, dance on the table and instantly change my mood.

When I was a cocktail waitress, I went to school in the morning and attended lectures and book readings in the middle of the afternoon. I had time to sit in coffee shops reading Nietzsche and Plato. I believed that some day my work was going to change the world. Then I would smooth on my fishnets, step into a push-up bra, slide into a sexy cocktail dress, grab my tray and apron and join my friends at the club.

When I was a cocktail waitress, I didn't know how great I had it. I longed to be important. I dreamt about meetings, conference calls, and secretarys that got me coffee. Some day I would hand out business cards, write memos, wear a business suit, and have a higher purpose.

Life was just so much simpler as a cocktail waitress.

Hey, Look - No Wires!

2006-11-26T18:56:00.000-05:00

by Noelle Ashley

Tech support is INCREDIBLE for the Wireless-G Broadband Router. When I couldn’t get online (a USB adapter I plugged into my laptop disconnected my Wireless Router) I called Linksys and found the most knowledgeable person who was patient, nice and effective in getting me online. I’m thrilled to report I’m online right now – and it’s wireless. Nothing beats the 800 help lines that have short waits and amazing service. Thank you, Cisco Linksys! And Happy Holidays to all. Hope you enjoyed some turkey and pumpkin pie.

The AA Prom

2006-11-20T23:32:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday was the annual Bill W. dinner dance, better known as the AA prom. A thousand or so alcoholics gathered in an anonymous midtown hotel wearing heels, jewels and tuxes to toast water and dance to wedding tunes.

I began the evening bitter and uncomfortable. Nothing could go right. My dress was too revealing. I forgot my fishnets. My pedicure was chipped. I didn't have time to shower so my hair clung flat to the side of a face that looked smeared in Vaseline. I was late. My table was filled with women who didn't like me. No one at my table smiled. The guest to my right leaned over my dinner plate spitting out her words as she eagerly discussed the weather with my BFF. The dried up chicken and fingerling potatoes were practically thrown from greasy trays by clearly underpaid and overworked wait staff. I cringed to think of the effect of this insensitive treatment of the food in a room filled with addicts and control freaks. Worst of all, I was growing increasingly defensive at every word that came out of any one's mouth.

But before my mind could mentally masturbate to self analysis, the lights lowered and a series of speakers began to tell their AA stories on center stage. It was then that the AA miracle happened.

Serenity slowly filled the room like a slow haze of smoke that lowers with the light of each new cigarette. The first speaker reminded me that it is my primary purpose in life to not drink and help another alcoholic. I looked down at my crossed arms and defensive posture when she explained the importance of asking the 'God in her' to see 'the God in you'. Speaker number two was similarly filled with gratitude. AA and the people in that room had allowed him to be a father to his daughter and saved him from certain death.

Speaker three told my story. He was a people pleaser that took his first drink to fit in and be cool. He continued to drink to please those around him, until he was no longer making a choice. He crossed the threshold. And he couldn't stop despite the pain and loss. "I didn't get in trouble every time I drank. But every time I got in trouble, alcohol was involved." Drunk, he always had excuses. But once he found AA, he began to be the solution.

When all of the speakers had finished, I looked down to see my arms had loosened from the vice grip of my arm pits. Their words had taken me out of my head. My worries had dissolved in the clarity of their own superficiality. I no longer wanted to glare at the women around me. I decided to try and make them feel comfortable, rather than expecting them to ease my discomfort. The speakers had left me with an overwhelming gratitude. My friends, the relationship with my family, my career, my self esteem, were all gifts of sobriety. I shook off the selfish child from earlier in the evening and replaced her with the confident loving woman I knew I had become.

It was as if I had come back from the ladies room and entered a completely different party.

I learned that in AA. You can always start a day over. You can always come back.

As my mood lightened, tables were moved out of the room and a DJ began spinning Saturday Night Fever. An odd assortment of young and old, blind and deaf, black and white, rich and poor, healthy and sick, all danced to the beats of a 70's grind. Girls popped out of their tops, men did the splits while imitating Michael Jackson, a girl fainted on the dance floor, another swayed to her iPod headphones, my sober friends and I danced until our clothes were soaked through with sweat.

There are good dancers. There are suave and sophisticated men and women that turn dance clubs into cat walks. But the kind of dancing that has no boundaries will always be my favorite. And that is the kind of dancing that this group of drunks performed last Saturday night. Our sweaty bodies and potent BO filled the room with the stench of freedom reserved for the kind of people who had once balanced precariously on the edge of hell, but for some unknown reason, had not been swallowed. Being spared, they savored this uncensored moment of stolen time as if it could very well be their last.

Not everyone in that room will be back next year. Odds tell me that 200 of the thousand will die or pick up the drink again before we meet back here next year. So for now, I feel privileged to have shared their company. I feel priveleged to have shared the moment.

Theodore Aiden Wiese

2006-11-16T23:21:00.000-05:00

Thursday, November 16 @ 4:30 AM
19.5 inches long
7 pounds 9 ounces

Dear Aiden,

Welcome to the world. And welcome to the family. What a wonderful Thanksgiving surprise. I was hoping to decorate the Christmas tree this year, but dressing you up in holiday themed outfits will be much more fun. Please note the love that is waiting for you when you become old enough to embrace it. Before you get old enough to hate us, let me tell you that your Aunties and Uncles have been waiting for you for a very long time.

Grandpa hopes you are quiet, like him. Grandma hopes you like charades and learn to talk soon. Uncle Erik can't wait to talk politics. Aunt B is dying to take you shopping. Uncle George promises to teach you to fish. Aunt Katryn has already planned your first hike. Auntie Maiken is the only Wiese you will ever want to sing you a lullaby. Aunt Kirsten can make the plants come to life. And me, I can't wait to hold your tiny little fingers and kiss your tiny little toes, make those gynormous Wiese lips laugh and rock you back and forth until you fall asleep in the nook of my arm, your head gently resting on my chest.

How blessed and grateful we are to have a new little Wiese among us. There are not words to express my joy at welcoming you into this lovely family.

All the love in my heart-

Auntie Ing

She was 21.

2006-11-16T20:50:00.000-05:00

Brazilian model Ana Carolina Reston weighed 85 lbs when she died today in Sao Paulo from a generalized infection brought on by anorexia.

"Take care of your children ... no fashion house is worth the life of your child."

The words of a grieving mother.

Crime and Punishment

2006-11-16T08:19:00.000-05:00

The gossip blogs were buzzing yesterday that OJ Simpson has secretly written a book called “If I Did it”. In this alleged book, Simpson is said to gruesomely describe graphic details about the hypothetical murder of his former wife and her friend Ron Goldman. Because of the laws forbidding a man to be tried twice for the same crime, Simpson could completely confess to the murders with no legal ramifications. The publishers are selling this book as Simpson’s Confession.

Exactly who are the jurors that acquitted this man, and are they the same people that voted for Bush?

Simpson’s alleged confession to a crime for which he was acquitted puzzles me. What drives this man to tell his side of the story? Is it ego, or is it peace of mind?

The case of OJ offers us a window into the humanity of a criminal. A similar window was opened last Friday night after viewing the play adaptation of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment at the Arden Theatre Company in Philadelphia.

Three actors brilliantly bring Dostoyevsky’s classic to life in a mysterious, exciting and always thought provoking story about the search for a man who took an axe to a pawnbroker and her sister in 1866. The set is built backwards, divided by hazy clear screens that remarkably create the illusion of time. The adaptation does not reveal the identity of the killer until the audience has questioned and analyzed the morality of each character. The banter between the police chief Porfiry and the protagonist Raskolnikov is written with such wit and delivered with such natural flow that you are transported behind the curtain of an 1866 police precint. The adaptation, the writing, the set, the actors, it was all simply fantastic.

But the best part of any good theatre is that it makes you think and question. In combination with Simpson’s recent confession, I’m left pondering the following:

Can a person ever really get away with committing a crime? For if not caught and punished and a prisoner of the state, aren’t you but a prisoner of your own guilt, rationalization and internal sickness? Is confessing to a crime the only way to free yourself from it? Are there those among us who are seemingly normal individuals that one day snap, push aside all social boundaries and commit a heinous crime, only to just fall back into normalcy with the calm and cool of a 007 spy and no feelings of remorse? Do people without a conscious really exist?

The twelve-steps of Alcoholics Anonymous includes a step that forces accountability for every significant harm of your past. Skipping this step could mean a return to drinking, using and addictive behavior. Inherent in this step is the idea that there are mental ramifications for crimes gone un-noticed. As I’ve learned first hand, we are only as sick as out secrets.

What has brought about Simpson’s recent confession? Is it an attempt to find inner peace? Or is it ego run riot? And how does society respond appropriately?

Does this mean I can’t buy the book until it hits the 99 cent bargain bin?

Now that I Interview for College Admissions

2006-11-13T11:25:00.001-05:00

by Noelle Ashley

Exactly 10 years since my college interview for Columbia and almost 6 years since I graduated, it’s time for me to fill a different pair of shoes. Now I will be the one interviewing high school students. At that age, I was hopeful and hard-working, but today we hear about the dark side of ambition: overzealous parents compromising their children into lying and cheating their way to the increasingly competitive top tier. Newly published books reflect a world gone mad, with Alexandra Robbins’ “Overachievers: The Secret Lives of Driven Kids” and Madeline Levine’s “The Price of Privilege: How Parental Pressure and Material Advantage Are Creating a Generation of Disconnected and Deeply Unhappy Kids,” both which document a physical, psychological, and emotional toll on teenagers today. Novels like "Glamorous Disasters" by Harvard 2001 graduate Eliot Shrefer show the potential for impropriety: Park Avenue parents bribing an Ivy-League-educated tutor to take the SATs for their party boy son for $100,000. News stories on cheating suggest that morals are fading.

But not all applicants will make eye contact and list false achievements to make the cut. Teenagers are surprisingly honest and down-to-earth when face-to-face. There have been cases of young plagiarists admitting that a parent forged this or that to give their application an edge. Perhaps the child knows that it's wrong, fears getting caught, doesn't really want to attend the college or wants to punish a controlling mother/father. Students who confess such a truth would lose points for performance, but ironically, the same person may gain points for character.

The character of the interviewer is another story. Now that Congressional leaders, teachers and priests have been inappropriate with teens, there is a suspicion toward college interviewers as well. The elderly man who interviewed me in 1996 invited me into his living room. He questioned me intellectually and made no physical advances, but my mother was not allowed in the room. Due to concerned parents, the Admissions Office now wants all interviews held in "neutral places," like offices, coffee shops or diners. I don't blame parents for protecting their kids. I applaud their request to guarantee safety by having college interviews outside of a stranger's home. You just never know.

There are other rules as well. You can't interview students in your child's grade, for the obvious reasons. You can't ask anything that is out of line. Future contact must remain professional.

It's that time of year: interview season. So why not call your alma mater, tell them when you graduated and ask to take part in this year's College Admissions process? You'll be glad you did.

Tiny Little Girl Legs

2006-11-10T07:10:00.000-05:00

She was ten. Her tiny little girl legs dangled from the kitchen chair, occasionally kicking me under her mom’s Formica table. She rested her elbows on the table, a spoon in one hand and the other hovering over her Lucky Charms. She picked out the Marshmallows and popped them into the air so she could catch them in her mouth.

She was twelve. We swam together on the swim team. Her body was rounding through the belly and she was already taller than the rest of us. Despite her changing body she was the quickest swimmer. And the quickest to make me laugh. She swirled around me in the cool blue water, her blonde curls bobbing, her head falling back when she laughed. She dripped with sarcasm, bundled in her towel, licking her fingers and dipping them into a box of dry lime jell-o, waiting for our next event. We swam the relay together. We passed the time wagging our green tongues talking about the boys we thought were cute and what we would wear on the first day of school.

She was sixteen. Mom told me she had seen her out jogging along Gravelly Lake Drive. Mom said she had lost weight, that she wasn’t a chubby little girl anymore, that she looked great.

“I don’t remember her ever being chubby mom.”

“Well, she was fuller. Chunky. She had big cheeks. She was 'rounded'. But she has really slimmed down. She runs a lot you know. She looks fantastic.”

She was seventeen. Her sister and I worked together at The Taco Shop. Her sister told me that she dominated the track team and set new records for Cross Country. Her sister said that she was training for the Olympics and making their mother quite proud. Her sister also confided to me that their was concern about how thin she was getting.

She was twenty. Mom told me she had heard that she was sent away to a clinic because she wasn’t gaining weight. She said she saw her out running along Gravelly Lake Drive and she had looked like a ghost. She couldn’t believe those little legs were able to carry her frail frame.

“It was like seeing a corpse run. You could see all her veins, the blood pumping through her thin skin. She’s really sick Sober.”

She was twenty-three. I saw her for a moment. She was walking behind her mother in a crowd. My boyfriend squeezed my leg under the table and raised his eyes towards the sickly figure. I didn’t recognize her. She wasn’t smiling. She looked 100 years old with her skin caved in around her cheeks. She looked tired. Her skin was pale, her once bouncy blond curls were thinning and pulled back in a small pony tail. She didn’t see me. She didn’t see my look of horror and sadness. She just walked by quietly with her head lowered. It was only an instant.

She was twenty-nine. It was in passing that Mom mentioned she had died.

“Oh yes. Did you hear? She died. It’s so sad really. With all of us watching what we eat and worried about getting fat, can you believe someone could starve themselves to death? How dreadful for her mother. I can’t imagine standing by and watching my daughter die that way. I know she tried everything to help her.”

She would have been thirty. I try not to comment on the way my friends look, their weight or their appearance. Not when they look good, not when they look thin. I try to tell them how happy I am to see them. I try to get them away, from the clubs and the gym and the pressured existence of Manhattan ambition. I try to laugh at their jokes, tell them how funny they are, engage their souls, connect. I don’t allow the gym clothes to hide the reality that my friend is becoming too thin. So thin that I need to reinforce through my actions that boys, and party dresses and the pursuit of glamour, adoration and the thinnes reserved for the naturally petite is not what will make us feel full. I try not to read those magazines. I try not to stand in front of the mirror too long.

I am thirty-three. When I pass by the news stand on the corner of 14th and 6th Ave, I see the little girls in their knee high socks on their way to school, standing on their tippy toes to catch a glimpse of the fashion magazines behind the counter. I see the glossy covers brandishing Hollywood starlets “dying to be thin”. I see their tiny wrists. I see their thinning hair. I see their sunken cheeks and protruding clavicles. I see her tiny, little girl legs, dangling off the chair in her mother’s kitchen.

Don't Call it a Comeback

2006-11-08T22:10:00.000-05:00

I can't think of a better day to return to blogging then the day of Britney Spears emancipation. Where were you when you heard the news?

"I was at work when my mother called to tell me," said Philly Fashionista. "I fell over my desk and cried tears of joy."

Girl-Next-Door tells me, "I got the message on my Blackberry. I was walking through Bryant Park on my way to the subway when CNN released a breaking news bulletin. I read it and literally jumped up in the air yelping and pumping my fist. I'm not sure why. But somehow, it just made me feel hopeful."

I heard the news when The-Philly-Mrs. spontaneously erupted from her desk with the proud announcement, "Britney is getting a divorce." Ever since, my Gmail inbox has been jammed with family members, friends, ex-boyfriends, and fellow bloggers, all wanting to be the bearer of the good news.

No one seems to be able to contain themselves.

Outside the dry safety of my umbrella today, I could hear the business men chatter about the explosive news as I walked to work.

"That lawyer of hers really knew what he was doing. Great timing. The elections overshadowed the worst of it. I wonder how much money he will get."

"Dude. Britney Spears is single again?"

"Yeah. A single mom with two kids."

"Maybe she will get back together with JT. That would free up Cameron."

Yes, this news suddenly made the impossible seem reasonable, the intangible seem within our grasp.

I must admit that when I saw Britney on Letterman the other night, I received the sort of satisfaction reserved for studio audience make-over's. It was like seeing Liza Doolittle finally learn to spit her gum out and properly pronounce "the rain in Spain". I vicariously felt the relief of her transformation as if I had just rolled around in the wet mud and finally emerged clean from a lemon scented shower.

It was not too long ago that I was certain you were hopeless. But see Britney... Underneath all that dirt and sleaze, their really is a nice gumless girl hiding.

In times of war and fear of right wing world domination, even the tiniest pieces of good news offer hope. Hope that no matter how far you stray, you can always come back, pick up the pieces, and start again.

Wait. What's this? Rummy has resigned. Am I asleep? Well don't wake me up just yet. I want to roll around in this bliss a little longer.

Oh Happy Day!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN - Thanksgiving's around the bend

2006-10-30T13:12:00.000-05:00

Forget pumpkin smashing and shaving cream this year. Watch out for PIE THROWING.

Bad news for Americans

2006-10-30T13:11:00.000-05:00

By Noelle Ashley

What if your next job search comes up with “VP Wanted – Name your lowest possible salary” and people posted online their minimum salaries and someone desperate for health insurance got the job for $20,000/year? Is that where we’re headed?

This struck me after I saw such a website. It posts jobs like “I need a 40 page report on the steel industry,” and writers compete to do it for the least amount money. So far it’s down to $10. That’s $2.40 a page. What if the next bidder offers to work for a penny a page?

The site is http://www.ifreelance.com/. What a terrible concept for writers and readers alike. Talk about victims of cheaper labor.

Going South for the Winter

2006-10-26T21:50:00.000-04:00

You are moving to Philly?

I'm not moving. Don't say moving. I am 're-locating'.

For how long?

I'm not sure.

That sounds like you are moving.

No - moving would mean taking all my things.

But you have totally cleared out your closet.

Yes. But I left the hangers. And all my furniture.

For your subletter.

For me. When I come back.

It better be soon.

It will be. I promise. I just have somewhere else I need to explore right now. Somewhere kinda cool. With good music.

And a pull out sofa.

And an air mattress.

And a bullet train to take you right back to New York City whenever I have a bad day.

And a $15 bus. Ok?

Okay.

Okay.

Replacements

2006-10-23T10:49:00.000-04:00

by Noelle Ashley

The iconic NY bar CBGBs has closed. It got me thinking about my favorite places that are gone and what I can do to replace them. I am a NYer who cherishes all the places that make the city feel like home.
Le Cirque…the French restaurant where I celebrated my graduation from Columbia - delicious dinner and then a chocolate place of varied chocolate desserts.
Alain Ducasse offers a magnifique alternative. While Le Cirque was in the NY Palace Hotel which still has its hip 2nd floor bar, but Alain Ducasse is in the Essex House, the hotel on Central Park with a piano lounge.
Pangaea…the celeb-filled nightclub where I drank huge glass bottles of Voss water in between mixed drinks. I hate vodka and champagne, which my friends would order by the bottle. We’d walk right in, despite the line, after dinner at Butter (next door), Baraonda (upper east side Brazilian spot) or the celeb-owned ManRay, after drinks at Lotus, Bungalow 8 or Suite 16 (8th Ave/16th St.) Joonbug.com and other party photographers took our pictures. Once I posed by wrapping myself up in the curtains hanging from the ceiling and peeking out. Sometimes we danced on the padded bench of seats around our table, our backs against the wall and the antlers protruding from the wall – does anyone else remember the antlers? (I do because there’s a photo where the antlers are right over my head.)
Marquee filled that void. I went there with my friend Carolina and the bouncer almost made us pay. I think he said $30 and we should be grateful since most people don’t get in. We hadn’t used any of our connections to get on a guest list that night, and we weren’t dressed to kill, but we sure were dressed to get in for free. Our sophisticated selves had skipped the line, and the cover charge, at every exclusive place in NY – and then some. We stood there in shock until a guy stepped out to use his phone…on his way back in, he said we were with his party so the bouncer ended up letting us in for free anyway. Has anyone else had this happen? Does Marquee make females pay the cover charge?
Windows on the World… I miss this restaurant where I had one dinner, one lunch and many nights in its bar, Top of the World. Superlative views.
After Sept. 11 closed Windows on the World, I sought out height in other skyscrapers. The Rainbow Room is very special, displaying the city skyline through thick glass. When I organized a cocktail party there, I lost my voice by the end of the night but enjoyed every second in the fancy ballroom.
What will replace CBGBs (http://www.newyorkcool.com/archives/2006/October/music-Patti-Smith-CBGB.htm)? I’ll take suggestions. Please write in your guesses. I never really went to this Lower East side bar, but I know I would if it hadn’t disappeared. Does anyone have memories of it you can post under Comments?
I am reassured by the parts of NY that will never close. The Metropolitan Opera, for example. It’s essential to enough people to last forever. The last performance I saw there was The Barber of Seville.
Another NY staple where I’ve seen the Met perform is Central Park, which holds free Opera Nights every summer. I saw Madame Butterfly while picnicking in Central Park with friends from my screenwriting class at Columbia.
At least I can sleep tonight knowing Central Park will never cease to exist.

What are some of your favorite places?
Ones that are gone and ones that would really upset you if they closed?

A Mighty Mouse

2006-10-06T00:02:00.000-04:00

So picture this… A City Mouse (a.k.a. open-minded educated Lexicon), a true bred and born native New Yorker, takes an adventurous excursion to the Southern State of Tennessee. Why? To meet her best friend’s soon to be husband.

Now prior to embarking on this wonderfully eclectic journey, City Mouse (a.k.a. still Lexicon) reads a Myspace bulletin posted by future husband of best friend. In the nasty bulletin, Mr. Country Singer Mouse (a.k.a. future husband of City Mouse’s best friend) rants about politics, Immigration, and other controversial stuff. City Mouse gets a little whiff of the “Gee do I really want to meet this guy in person?” scent.

Now City Mouse does not necessarily agree with Country Mouse’s political views specifically his thoughts on the usage of derogatory words that are even too inappropriate to mention, but she decides to try and reserve judgment before meeting him.

So City Mouse, being a true optimist at heart (despite popular opinion), fends off her desire to become Mighty Mouse and defend her friend from the man who she thinks will ultimately be the wrong guy. Instead, City Mouse flies down to the home of one of her favorite singers, the Late and wonderful Mr. Johnny Cash, to meet the Country Singer Mouse (a.k.a. future husband of best friend), in all his glory.

On the plane City Mouse becomes a nervous mouse. But ultimately she realizes that sometimes she can also be a too quick to judge mouse, and even a WRONG mouse. Yet this gal mouse is a firm believer that if you brace yourself for the worst, the worst almost never happens. So not true in this instance!

The Country Singer Field Mouse turns out to be a living, breathing creature that embodies every word included in his Myspace rant about right wing politics. However, Little Miss Savvy City Mouse is never one to judge someone based on his or her political standings.

“I mean after all its just politics right?”

“Wrong”-Says Country Singer Mouse “(shouting) These are not my political beliefs they are the truth, and if you don’t like it then get the fuck out of America you fucking Anti-American Communist.”

Mind you all this was shared with the other guests at the couple’s engagement party over the the cheese table platter.

So now what is City Mouse to do? She decides that everyone is entitled to their opinion. After all, that is what it means to have freedom of speech. Yet City Mouse cannot truly survive in this hostile negative environment. She shuts down, clams up, and remains absolutely silent. Why? Because she’s a smart mouse, and (through the wonderful love, and guidance of her great group of friends) she knows her opinion would be spoken through wasted breath.

Eventually City Mouse needs a time out to call Planet Earth. Planet Earth says, “Remember this is not your problem City Mouse because you cannot change their problem with the world nor do you need to fix their problem.”

From the Earth’s profound words of wisdom, little, fluffy, squeaky City Mouse realizes a point.

She says to helpful Earth Planet “Wow. So I don’t mind opinionated people, just people that don’t let me have my opinions.”

Earth responds- “You go girl! Now all you have to do is get home in one piece.”

WWGD

2006-10-04T00:38:00.000-04:00

Now it is just the two of us. Me and Gloria.

"You see, as I creep closer to my mid-thirties, I feel even less capable of a serious long-term relationship. It's not that I think relationships make me half a person, but rather, I believe that I make the choice to become half a person in a relationship. The only way I know how to have a relationship is to lose myself completely. You know?"

And the reality of this statement fills me with an overwhelming sorrow.

"Gloria, you must have some perspective on this. Look at how your feelings about marriage have changed over the years. How did you personally reconcile your needs for independence with your desires for partnership?"

"Ingrid, that’s a brilliant summing up. 'It's not that I think relationships make me half a person, but rather, I believe that I make the choice to become half a person in a relationship.' We’ve been encouraged to be half people, so we look for our other half in a man – but of course, no one can supply our other half because we’re unique. Romance is two half people looking for completion. That’s why it’s so intense, and also why it can’t last. Love is two whole people -- trying to help each other to become their unique self."

"The guy who wrote The Little Prince said "Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction. What advice would you offer women today about rebelling against societal assumptions that marriage and partnership complete you?"

"Because I grew up in the era when you were literally supposed to marry your identity, marriage always seemed to me a little like death; the end of all choice. Gradually, I realized that no one way of living is right for everybody -- and that I was truly happy not being married. The laws were also lousy; you gave up almost all your civil rights by marrying. Now, we’ve spent thirty years equalizing the laws, and there is the idea of marriage as a partnership of equals. That made it seem possible for the first time. "

"However, as long as we’re not whole in ourselves, we keep looking for the impossible – someone to complete us – and we may keep being man junkies."

"In Revolution from Within, I wrote a chapter on love versus romance, and field-tested it on a lot of women. See if that helps. (For example, if you make a list of everything you want in a man, it may be the list of everything you need to develop in yourself.) But I think you’ve already done the hardest part, which is to brilliantly diagnose the problem that lies within yourself – and that gives you the power to gradually change. (I think we make progress in a spiral, repeating similar circumstances, but in smaller ways – until one day we realize after the fact that an old pattern has just gone.)"

"Thanks Gloria."

And I'm reminded again that it's progress, not perfection.

Joes Coffee

2006-10-02T15:59:00.000-04:00

Sitting today at Joe's on 13th between 5th and University. Sitting and wondering how anyone could live in any other place but New York City.

Their is an energy in this town that is as real as the city air and you breathe it in the moment you step off the subway or out of the car.

Today, I'm taking lots of deep breaths. Because you never know which one will be your last.

Making Life more Meaningful

2006-09-22T00:11:00.000-04:00

This post by Penelop Trunk on her blog Brazen Careerist, touched me in a way i can't really find words to explain.

Here is an excerpt...

"I was at the World Trade Center when it fell .... Like many New Yorkers, I went to a World Trade Center recovery group. The groups were divided into the kind of trauma you experienced. People who watched the scene on TV were not in the same group as people whose spouse died. I was in a group with people who were there the ten minutes or so before the Tower fell. Some of the people in my group felt the impact of the plane while sitting at their desk. Some of the people ran from their building and were splattered by body parts from jumpers. All of us felt lucky to be alive.

All of us vowed to make life more meaningful after 9/11. Almost all of us changed jobs to do something that gave us more personal time. The few of us who could, had a baby.

Now I know that if I die tomorrow, what I'll regret is not getting to watch my life unfold. So I have been changing my life, a little at a time, to give myself more time to watch life go by. I made a career change from Wall St.-based business development to home-based writer, I had two kids, and I encouraged my husband to reject jobs with long hours. We vowed to cut back our spending 70% to create a more simple life.

But cutting spending is not so easy, especially in New York City. It required making a lot of difficult choices. Finally we decided we could not reach our goals without moving. So this year, on the fifth anniversary of 9/11, I am making a new home in Madison.

Sure, I'm still competitive and ambitious when it comes to my career, but what 9/11 gave me the strength to make the scary decision to slow things down. Slowing down means missing opportunities, missing a chance to shine or a serendipitous meeting. It's hard to simplify life because a complicated life is so stimulating. But nearly suffocating in the rubble showed me that what I want most is to be present: Consciously watching while my life unfolds."

Lately, my mind has been in a similar spot. Especially when I think about my career. Can you relate?

You can take a girl out of the city, but you can’t take New York City out of a girl.

2006-09-21T18:30:00.000-04:00

My Love,

I don't know how to tell you this, but my career has offered me an opportunity that threatens to keep us apart for upwards of another year.

Please don't hate me.

And please don't tell me it will never work.

After all, despite the difficulty of these past six months apart we made it. Didn't we? A month apart, a week together - we made it work. And the fact we surmounted these challenges is a testimony to the fact we can survive despite the odds.

Didn't the time pass quickly between visits? A year from now will come and go in the blink of an eye and it will feel as if I never left.

The truth is, we needed this break.

When I met you two years ago, I was afraid of the feelings that your stirred. I was afraid that I would lose myself in loving you. And in many ways, I did.

I allowed myself to get caught up in the thrill and the frenzy of this relationship that so transcended anything I had ever known before. As long as we were together, life was in constant exciting motion. So much motion, that I had no time to look at myself. You kept me distracted from the misery of my own failed ambitions.

But in the past six months of our long distance relationship, I have had more quiet time. I've had time to think. I've had time to feel. I've had no distractions from thinking about myself and my purpose. And I needed it.

I've appreciated our time apart. It makes the time we are together that much sweeter. It makes me a stronger woman, and isn't that what you want? Don't you want to know that you are exactly what I was looking for, rather than the latest mask to hide my fears of being alone, bored and useless to the world?

I feel like I have been here before with others. In fact, if you say you just can't do it for another year you wont be the first relationship I’ve lost over career and personal ambitions. But you would be the greatest loss incurred thus far.

There are some loves that just can't be replaced.

Please say we can make it. I can honestly say that I’ve never known a love like this before, or loved another like I love you.

If ever there was an ideal match for me and all my idiosyncrasies, you are it. So don't give up on me just yet.

Will you hold on for just a little longer? I don't want to lose you. Because while others may come and go, the truth is ... I will never love another Manhattan.

-Jane

I'm not a New York Woman anymore

2006-09-18T17:34:00.000-04:00

Sorry, I disappeared for a long time. I was really busy trying to think of ways to stay in New York forever. Unfortunately, none of my plans worked out. The summer ended, and I had to leave. But! Here are the bright sides!

I had the most wonderful summer ever. (Ok, it could have been slightly better if a certain scary experience hadn't happened. But the net summer experience was still overwhelmingly positive.) I met wonderful people, I liked my internship, my editors liked me, I learned so much about myself, and I figured out that New York is most definitely my home.
I only have three months left of school, and then I can come to New York forever.
I made a new blog, so I can continue to document my adventures. And, I promise I will very soon write parts 2 and 3 of Lion in the Jungle.
Innovations such as cell phones and the Internet mean I can stay in touch with the people I miss. I can also satisfy my Manhattan cravings with daily Friends reruns and my Sex and the City DVD collection
I'm still only 21. That means I have a lot of life left ahead of me.

Not a super impressive list, I know. But I tried really hard to think of positives, and this is what I was able to come up with. My new blog is www.lioninchicago.blogspot.com. I am not technically savvy, so it's not technically pretty right now.

Goodbye foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

(No, just kidding. This homesickness is making me melodramatic, sorry. Goodbye for three months.)

Gloria Steinem’s Living Room Floor.

2006-09-17T00:26:00.000-04:00

Last Tuesday night, I met Gloria Steinem, Jane Fonda and some of the most powerful female voices in America at the launch party for Greenstone Media. Carpe, Black Sheepish and I strode down the green carpet ready to get inside and pump our fists whilst shouting feminist slogans into the air. But once inside we air kissed, gossiped, giggled and shoe shopped vicariously through our new blogger girlfriends. I left, wrapped up in the soft warm bond of female community.

Soft and warm was the theme of the night, from the little green quiches served on silver platters by smiling waitstaff to the message of light and fun programming designed to bring back slowly dwindling female audiences to radio. Soft and warm is also how I felt when Gloria Steinem stood up to speak to the cast of famous women assembled in the room and tell a story about Jane Fonda.

Gloria tells the room that Jane is her friend. She tells us that Greenstone Media was born from a few nights of female fellowship enjoyed while sitting on her living room floor. I imagined navajo blankets, overstuffed pillows, framed photos of Christian Bale, and half empty cartons of Indian take-out. Gloria looked over her shoulder at Jane and told the audience that even though at 73, she is much older than her friend Jane Fonda, Jane’s wisdom and strength make Gloria feel like she has finally found a big sister.

This story and Jane’s teary eyes warmed my heart like I’d just eaten Szechwan Chicken and forgot to tell the waiter to hold the chili’s. I expected to be wowed by the presence of these two legendary women, but mostly I was moved by their extreme normalcy.

When Gloria finished speaking, Jane brought her a over a glass of green champagne and said something in Gloria’s ear that made them both start giggling like school girls. I mean school women. I mean women. And that was the real story on Tuesday night. It was women supporting women. It was laughter. It was friends. It was women acting like women.

You see, I have long assumed that when I want to be taken seriously in the world, it is best to display as few stereotypical feminine characteristics as possible. Wear a suit, display no emotion, be ruthless, and act as much like a man as possible. Therefore, I was surprised to see this collection of powerful women wearing party dresses and tight jeans, giggling over cocktails, talking about babies and husbands and rallying behind the cry for non-hostile radio programming. These women were embracing pink, wearing heels and exchanging emotional banter. They represented all I love about being a woman. They were living examples that you can cry during a movie, giggle with girlfriends on their living room floors and still ask for equality in the workplace. You can be a feminist and not have to sacrifice your femininity.

In that room, surrounded by those women, I felt like I belonged to something much bigger than me. I felt like part of a community. A community of women, all trying to make a difference. All trying to create a world, that could be a little softer and a little warmer.

See party pics here.
Read other bloggers perspectives here, here, here, and here.
A heated blog debate spurred by the event can be found here.

Like Sand Through the Hourglass

2006-09-15T01:35:00.000-04:00

“When you are young there is so much ahead of you that you feel you have all the time in the world. You can have fifteen hobbies and time to dabble in them all. But now I only have so much time left and I don’t want to split it between ten or fifteen acitivites. I have to focus. The time to dabble a little here and a little there is gone. My time is a zero sum game. If I choose to spend it here with you in the park, that means I’m not spending it with my grandchildren.”

He put his seventy-three year old hand over mine to emphasize what he is about to say.

“As you get older, life begins to take the shape of an hourglass. I'm on the bottom, counting the last few grains of sand yet to fall. And there are only so many left.”

And I get what he is trying to tell me.

Connecting the Blog to the Axe

2006-09-08T21:08:00.000-04:00

Gloria Steinem has the sort of voice you recognize, even if you have never heard it before. It is deep and poignant and focused. Just hearing it makes me feel proud to be a woman and want to sit up a little taller in my chair. Her voice evokes the strength and the wisdom of a woman that has changed history and changed herself over the past ten decades. Her voice once rallied thousands of women to make the changes that have given me the choices I have today. Today, Ms. Steinem’s voice is rallying the key boards of nine women bloggers making waves in the blogsphere.

I have been invited to participate in a conference call with the talented writers of Her Bad Mother, Motherhood Uncensored, Mommy Needs Coffee, Mom 101, Leah Peah, Escape from Cubicle Nation, Que Sera Sera, Escape from Cubicle Nation, Brazen Careerist and Almost Literary. We have each been told we can ask Ms. Steinem a question about anything we so desire. While we wait for the call to begin, I can hear them all breathing heavily into their receivers, hoping the sound of their nervous pounding hearts won't be transmitted over the telephone.

Ms. Steinem begins the call by thanking each of us for giving her the platform to talk about Green Stone Media. Green Stone Media is a privately funded “for-profit company dedicated to meeting the unserved need on radio for innovative, topical, relevant and entertaining programming of particular interest to women.” The company creates female-inspired radio programming and is currently attempting a launch in new markets.

Her introduction coincides with remarks made from Conclave on July 16, 2006.

"It seems to me that commercial talk radio has become less about community and more about conflict. Less about information and more about repetition. Less about improving ourselves and more about being angry at the world. At the same time, new technology -- from the Ipod to Satellite -- has challenged mainstream radio as a delivery system for music, and music was the refuge of many women from the yelling and lecturing of talk radio."

She goes on to say that while audiences in general are leaving radio, even fewer women are listening to the radio. Amongst many reasons for this decline she claims hostility on the airwaves is one factor. And what she and the other board members of Greenstone Media (Including Jane Fonda and Wallis Annenberg) hope to do is lighten programming and give women less confrontational radio programs.

This instantly piques my curiosity.

But I only get to ask one question. And I'm not going to waste it on pointing out the hypocrisy of asking a group of women bloggers to embrace conflict-less dialogue with their community. Or how even the idea of 'light programming' juxtaposes the kind of media assault that once made feminism possible.

So what do you ask a woman that has already been asked everything. A quick Google search brings up full transcripts of her most famous speeches and interviews. If you want to know her feelings on marriage you can find lively debate amongst some of my favorite journalists and women’s advocates. Indeed it was pretty difficult finding a question to ask Ms. Steinem that hadn’t already been asked, documented and heavily debated in the past. So I turned to my readers.

"Ms. Steinem, I have followed your journalism career and read many of your addresses and essays written during the early women's movement. You and the work and writings of your colleagues have truly inspired me and my generation. So my question for you is what do you expect from us, this new generation of women writers with a new platform for approaching and influencing other women? What can we do to continue to carry on some of the work of you and your colleagues began forty years ago?”

Crickets.

“My job is to support you in what you are doing. Because you are living a unique personal experience and a different historical experience. And as long as we keep on supporting each other in what we are doing, I think we will be okay.”

Great. That's it? She has nothing else to tell me. My question is a dud and I’m a complete idiot.

"But wait, just to follow up on that, this 'softer, gentler' non-hostile type of communication you are promoting on your radio programming, how is this about action? How can we do this on our blogs?"

"Look..."

And from the sternness that has invaded her voice I am afraid that she has found us bloggers out. Everyone on this call knows that the hostile radio environment to which Ms. Steinem refers is the proverbial voice to our blogger rants. Bloggers bitch and whine and complain. We do in writing what Howard Stern does on the radio. That is what we bloggers do best.

"If I had any cautionary words it would just be to always connect the blog to the axe. To make sure that we don’t blog or talk or find community instead of action, but as support for action. We have five sense and we are supposed to use them all. We can get frustrated and bitter if we use words but aren’t acting on them.”

"We need to make sure we don't think we have acted because we have passed around emails, written, blogged, but have not yet demonstrated, voted refused to buy whatever is offensive. We need to make sure we don’t cocoon."

"I'm too old to get involved with any project that is not about action."

She says this graciously. Everyone laughs. She takes a few more questions from the other bloggers. She tells us all we should keep in touch. And the call ends.

I'm left thinking about how many axes I've raised in the last few years. Not nearly as many as blogs I've written.

When Gloria Steinem addressed millions of women struggling for equality in the late sixties and early seventies, she called for action. When Gloria Steinem speaks to me and nine other 'bloghers' this cool September evening, she asks us to put action behind our angst.

Hear the call for yourself here.

Justice will be served... barfy

2006-09-08T15:38:00.000-04:00

Walking to work today (as you know I love to do), I passed an advertisement for a new “Judge Judy”-type show on the CW, featuring one Maria Lopez. Above a picture of the very attractive- and startlingly young-looking for 52 - Judge Lopez, was the following copy:

JUSTICE

Will Be Served

Spicy

I hope Judge Lopez had a long, hard struggle over that one. I like to think she stared at that ad and thought to herself, “Smith. Boston University. Seven years as an Assistant Attorney General in Massachusetts in the Civil Rights Division. Counsel to the Office for Immigrants and Refugees. First Latina on the bench in that state; first to be appointed to the Massachusetts Superior Court. Spent years of my career working for the underprivileged and invisible in our society. Resigned from the bench rather than compromise my principles in one highly-publicized case.

And now it sounds like I’m going to be delivering justice through hair-pulling fights and samba contests.”

To be fair – I wouldn’t have known that Judge Lopez had such an admirable career if I hadn’t seen that ad, and been intrigued/horrified enough to look her up. I’m not sure if now that I know it, I feel better… or worse. Does no one care for their dignity anymore?? Jeez.

This is blacksheepish, shaking her head in bewilderment.

PS- Missed you guys. Promise not to stay away so long again.

PPS- Nothing to report with the Viking. He met someone else while he was away. At least he had the stones to tell me so. Ah well. You rolls the dice and you takes your chances.

Ms. Steinem

2006-09-07T00:40:00.000-04:00

If you had the chance to ask Gloria Steinem one question, what would it be?

Because I get this chance today.

One question.

And I've been thinking about it since 1985. The year my by big sister Kay rallied me and Polly around the TV to watch A Bunny's Tale. We ate microwave popcorn and I imagined that I was a journalist with really long hair working undercover at the Playboy club. Ten years later, I wrote my first paper for women's studies class citing the Gloria Steinem papers.

When you have a chance to ask someone you have admired most of your life, just one question. What do you ask?

The Devil wrote this screenplay...

2006-09-06T06:40:00.000-04:00

Is it still true that a woman can not have a successful career and a successful relationship?

The movie The Devil Wears Prada would certainly like us to think so. When I heard about this movie, I was looking forward to seeing all my favorite hot spots in New York, seeing the latest fashion trends and seeing a triumphant nod to powerful women and the choices they make to be successful. For that was the buzz this film was garnering.

Unable to patiently await the film, I read the book by Lauren Weisberger one afternoon on a train ride back to Philly. I was stunned.

For those of you who have not read the book or seen the film, allow me to summarize: A young writer arrives in New York with a graduate degree and limited journalism experience. She scores a job as an assistant to the editor of one of the top fashion magazines in the business. However, our main character thinks fashion is stupid. So although she name drops every designer on a New York fashion week runway, she is somehow way too good for this business. And to make matters worse, her boss wants her to act like a personal assistant. Oh yes, but did I mention that this is her job title? Anyways, it totally sucks being on-call 24/7 and having to answer the phone and run errands in a private car service. Her boss is cold, invalidating, and grey. If your young like our main character then you know how gross grey hair is!

You might wonder how someone this cruel rose up so high in her field. But why bother trying to learn from this obviously neurotic demon devoid of emotions. Our heroine gets fed up after being dragged to fashion week in Paris. In the book, our poor little worker bee tells her boss off and flies home to the comfort of her boyfriend and rent free dwellings of mommy and daddy. In the movie, our heroine becomes disgusted with her boss. Not only is her boss unable to hold together her marriage, but when threatened with being replaced by someone younger and prettier she makes a business savvy decision to save her career. Our heroine walks away from the job without two weeks notice.

For starter, this is a poorly written novel. The first few chapters are filled with clichés and amateur writing mistakes. Further pain is felt in the writers attempt to convince readers she is way too cool for this shallow world, while making the mistake of painting a vision of enviable glamour, and sophistication. On the positive side, the book moved. I could look past the horrendous writing style for an inside glimpse at the world of fashion. I found myself relating to the feeling I was too smart for my industry and daily humbled by bureaucracy. But what was difficult to overlook was the naiveté of the author about her career. Her sense of entitlement and her outrage with the elements of having a job that the majority of the working force endures daily, made her an unattractive heroine. I found myself cringing at the end of the book, when she tells her boss to "Fuck Off" at a runway show. Hopefully this pathetic ending that was wisely not incorporated into the movie, did not really happen to Lauren Weisberger. Because the 'Princess and the Pea” sensitivities of this spoiled little sheltered girl will not serve her well if she wants to carve out a career anytime in her future. Especially if she continues to reside in New York.

Work is hard. You have to do things that sometimes feel demeaning. When you start out, you are not the boss. In New York especially, you are often underpaid for your efforts. You have to be at the bottom before you can be at the top. And this was a reality that seemed lost on the main character of the book, The Devil Wears Prada.

Although discouraged by reading the book, my NYC friends told me the flick was still a must see. I set out to see the film version and escape the Philly heat in an air conditioned movie theater on a warm and sticky Wednesday afternoon. I reveled in the comfort of the NYC street scenes and hit my friend in the arm every time the characters ate at one of my favorite coffee shops. I hoped the film version of this book would exploit the obvious message of this poorly written novel. But instead, the film added insult to injury and ended with the firm message that pursuing your career and success in your field will only leave you alone. Alone and grey.

In the final moments of the film version, rather than risk losing her college boyfriends affection again, our heroine gives up her burgeoning career to move to Boston where her boyfriend will be cooking food at the local Applebee's. See ladies, there are only so many men out there willing to love us and we don’t want to risk screwing that up so hold onto them and throw away whatever you must to assure he stays present in your life.

A double punch to this females gut. First, the book tries to tell me that this work stuff is demeaning and degrading and I'm just so wronged by being asked to get coffee for the boss or meet her unreasonable demands. Then, the movie tells me that it's okay to be complacent about my career choices because people who dedicate themselves to career fulfillment are destined to live a life of solitude paved by the sharp reminders of broken relationships. If we don’t get too distracted by career or too grey, we might find some boy still willing to save us from the harsh realities of the corporate world. Why don’t we ladies just go back to focusing on being good wives and mothers and leave the career stuff to the boys. What do you say?

Is this the 21st century version of the double standard? Because this story seems to be recycling the pre-Gloria Steinem concept that women are not meant to pursue fulfillment through career and should stick to rearing family and nurturing friends. It shuts the doors opened by the women that came before us. It doesn’t simply tell me to seek a sense of purpose outside of my career, it tells me that the only place I will find that is in the arms of a man. In Karl Marx’s book Estranged Labor, he talks about mans ability to create and control his destiny in the workplace as transformative. Why should I have to be cut off from that source of self fulfillment? Why should I have to make a choice between two worlds that men have been encouraged to infuse.

Well, I have news for the men that adapted this screenplay, and the characters of this breezy summer film. I can have both a job and love. I can have it all. I can have a successful career, friends and family that love me and not a single grey hair in my head.

Just watch me!!

Seen in a Manhattan Starbucks:

2006-09-05T10:50:00.000-04:00

Somewhere west of Union Square, outside a public (Starbucks) restroom, a line begins to form. As is so common among the full-bladdered, the queuers are irritable and impatient. Breaking from accepted New York code, the strangers converse (a little too loudly) amongst themselves. This split from convention is partly because they are close to Union Square and half the people in line are tourists, and partly because even Real New Yorkers get a little antsy when they have to pee.

And the new friends wait.

With the camaraderie that comes only from the shared agony of a common crisis, they muse about what's going on behind the bathroom door. They talk about backing future legislation that will establish toilets on every corner. They cross their legs. One attempts to transform the mocking red 'occupied' sign above the knob into a green 'vacant' sign using the power behind her eyes. Another fantasizes about poking the constipated bastard in the eye once he emerges. At this, the heretofore silent member of the line finally speaks. (Beautiful and urbane, this mysterious queuer had been gripped in a battle between her two most primal urges: acting like a Real New Yorker and making a Clever Comment. At the aforementioned provocation, the latter claims triumph. This time.)

"If a paraplegic with one eye and eight fingers rolls out of that bathroom, you're going to feel pretty shitty."

The line falls silent, struck by the wisdom and truth behind the Enigmatic Stranger's Clever Comment. Considering their options, the group decides on a Soft Knock. No response. Good at it by now, they continue to wait. Another Soft(ish) Knock. And finally- 12 minutes (have they really only known each other for 12 minutes?) since the line began to form- a paper towel slides out under the door. Clever Real New Yorker (despite her youth and diminuitive side, the others sense her innate acumen and have wordlessly appointed her as their leader) delicately picks it up, and reads aloud:

'Washing My Feet.'

Like Stacey McGill's dad would say... OINY. The group scatters, each in a different direction, each in the direction of another Starbucks. The Bewitching Guru of Bathroom-Line Etiquette, if you are interested, finds her way to Wendy's (continuing her practice of deviating from the norm) and soon feels a lot better. And that's exactly how it happened.

Shudder

2006-08-31T11:01:00.000-04:00

Over here in men's magazine world, we're working on a story about sexual lubricants. The initial research is, of course, a job left to innocent little (and, apparently, somewhat squeamish) FEMALE intern.

Yes, this is the same Lion of the recently documented editor-induced horniness. But I meant in the normal way! Hugs and cuddles and kisses! And maybe- maybe- missionary! None of this lubery.com-sweeten'd blow-pussy licker-anal ease business!

If I were just calling in product requests, it might be manageable. But no, I've had to fully entrench myself in the world of vaginal dryness and penile chafing. Your basic lubricant manufacturer's website is a far cry from, say, the Wall Street Journal. Lots of visual clarification and colorful language, and a few unexpected and unwelcome audio supplements. (A loud and quite humiliating reminder to quiet my computer's volume.)

Then my mother called. Part of me wanted to shield her from this crude world I've entered. But a bigger part wanted a mommy's comfort. I explained my research to her, and she was appropriately kind and sympathetic.

Then she called me back.

"Lion darling, let me know what your research turns up. Might as well get some practical use out of it."

Mommy?

The Beauty Brawl

2006-08-29T17:41:00.000-04:00

I wrote this on Thursday, February 5, 1998. Oh how time changes some things. But not others...

I sat in the library yesterday and this beautiful woman walked by my table. After she passed, the two girls sitting next to me began to comment, “Doesn't she know she shouldn't wear white after Labor Day?”

I felt the corners of my lips rise to smile until I saw the poor woman emerge from behind a stack of books, red-faced and embarrassed. The girls next to me suppressed giggles and I once again faced the cruelty of women.

There exists a fierce competition between women: a beauty competition that comes from a long history of reinforcement. If we continue to compete with one another, we strengthen the habits passed down to us by women throughout time who all competed for husbands to “complete themselves.”

How can women change in order to support and build one another rather than degrade?

When they dare, my male friends ask me why women compete amongst one another. Why will women constantly complain about men not being supportive, yet at the first opportunity to raise another woman's self-esteem dissolve into cattiness and snicker to their boyfriends or friends about the size of her breasts or the number of hours she may have logged at the electric beach?

This insensitive streak comes from within every woman, planted in the form of habit and springing forth as an obsession with beauty. Being held to a beauty standard that is unattainable breeds competition. Women compete over beauty because it is often society's only measure of a woman's success.

The “Beauty Competition” evolved from an ancient female role model raised on Marilyn Monroe movies. She went to college for her “M.R.S.” and strove for excellent domestic skills, grace, poise and marrying well. This era of woman unknowingly raised her little girls to be “ladies,” not speak until spoken to, groom well and not plan to ever have to take care of herself or be alone.

When I was a little girl, I watched my mother suffer through endless diets, a myriad of cosmetic surgeries and six different hair colors in an attempt to recapture my father's love for her. By the time I was 16, my mom had had her chin done, her tummy tucked and her breasts augmented. My mom watched all the other doctors leave their wives for thinner, younger and prettier women.

With society's obsession with a woman's beauty, it is no wonder that every woman is consumed by it. As a woman, I have always been aware of beauty. Obtaining it often defines me. I remember when I was 10 years old and my best friend, Bethy, and I were on diets and would wake up every morning at 6 a.m. to do the 20-minute workout.

Bethy and I watched my dad carry Playboys into the house wrapped in a thin layer of white plastic and brown construction paper. The secrecy provoked us to seek them out and hide under the bed with flashlights, giggling at the perfect naked bodies that littered the pages. The bodies were much like the Barbies we played with every day.

Even those homes uninfluenced by brainwashed parental figures were still subjected to society's expectations. As I walked home from elementary school, I often stopped at the newsstand on the corner of 84th and Cherry. The only women staring back were women famous for the men they married or the beauty they possessed. Jackie O., Princess Di, Barbara Bush, Hillary Clinton, Cindy Crawford, Brooke Shields. When my light went out at night, I would dream of becoming a princess, a bride, a model or the wife of a successful man.

I was 12 when I walked in on my sister over a toilet bowl pushing her finger down her throat until she coughed up blood and permanently scarred her knuckles. My other sister starved herself until she had to be institutionalized and forced to eat.

Society dictates that women simply have one arena for competition: beauty. Women define themselves primarily on aesthetics. Of course, society defines a woman's value on the same superficial standard.

Men compete on similarly trivial issues, but in far less visible arenas. Society superficially judges men by many trivial things - their job, car, girlfriend and money - invisible things.

Men share some of the blame for perpetuating women's beauty addictions. Men enable women to obsess by continuing to give respect and attention to women who define themselves by the way their hair curls or their dress fits.

They complain about how much money their girlfriends spend in the ultimate quest for affection, yet place pictures of their girlfriends' untouchable competitors on their walls and encourage them to go to the gym or dress more like the women on the pages of Cosmopolitan.

The saddest part of a woman's struggle for beauty is that most women don't realize their predecessors competed for husbands. If women knew where their obsession originated, would their humiliation drive them to change?

If women prize attention or affection from men, then I competed with my sisters - invoked their jealousy and risked prolonging their poor self-esteem so a man would pick me over them.

Once society establishes a pattern, it takes work to disassemble it. Regardless of the specifics of a woman's background, she has seen what I have - she is a creature of habit. Unless she stops herself and takes notice, she will follow the examples of the women before her.

I understand that a generation raised on ancient beliefs of proper upbringing, dating etiquette and “marrying well” could fail to recognize that the women they were raising needed to learn to treasure independence and self-sufficiency. We don't have to continue subscribing to this thought process.

We can start by ridding ourselves of the notion that we need men to complete ourselves. Perhaps we can accept the challenge to befriend other women. Most importantly, we need to make a conscious choice to stop degrading each other.

So, next time I find myself in a crowded room tempted to sum up, survey and judge the other women, I will remember my responsibility to break the old patterns. I will fight the urge to point out that her red lipstick does not match her orange dress. Instead, I will cross the room, extend my hand and offer my support.

Rescue Me!

2006-08-29T05:45:00.000-04:00

I published the following piece in my college paper nearly ten years ago, Tuesday, December 2,1997. It really made me think about how much my life has changed. If I only knew then what I would be like now.

RESCUE ME!!

By Staff Writer Jane Schmo

Being an independent woman is essential today. Women can no longer rely on marriage to save them from the hardships of the workplace. The alternative is dependence upon a man to make our dreams come true: a destiny of miserable waiting, an overwhelming waste of energy preparing ourselves to become “perfect mates,” promises of anger and dissatisfaction when these poor souls can't grant our every wish, and being robbed of the confidence and freedom that comes from making our own decisions.

Women seek, but rarely achieve, independence. Even women who call themselves independent exhibit signs of dependence on men and relationships. Are you really an independent woman? Do you fancy yourself a feminist, march in “Take Back the Night,” carry a subscription to Gloria Steinem's book-of-the-month club, consider yourself cast free from the binding chains of relationships — yet still exhibit the following behavior?

You hear a prowler outside. Rather than call the police, you call the cute neighbor next door to come stay with you because you don't feel safe.

You found out your ex-boyfriend just won the million-dollar Lotto and is getting married. Rather than call an emergency all-women conference, you seek out that guy from last quarter's biology class, whose calls you never returned, and decide to take him up on dinner.

When on a date, you dissolve into silly giggles and weak handshakes. You avoid talk that exhibits your intellectual capacity and confine yourself to discussion that will elicit the necessary response from the man buying your dinner.

If you can identify with these scenarios you still suffer from relationship/male dependence. Free yourself and discover your full potential.

For years I proudly declared my independence, yet still held on to my reliance on men and relationships. As a child, I rejected the color pink, swore off ear piercing and other “girlie” things, feigned interest in astronomy and model trains and pretended to enjoy hiking so that I could gain my father's affection. None of it was enough. I never reached a point where my father swooped me up in a hug and declared his undying love and admiration for me.

At the age of 18, I involved myself with a man whose idea of a great night was a carton of Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby ice cream, a Lazy Boy reclining sofa, home movies of his days as an All American Basketball Great and one spoon. I became domesticated and wasted four years of my life imagining what it would be like to be his wife and watch TV by his side every night.

I blamed him for my own stunted growth. As many women do, I became stagnant and stopped going to the gym, participating in community events, spending time with my women friends and pursuing my ambitions. I put all my time and effort into building our relationship and made it his personal job to build my self-confidence.

Even recently I've discovered I call my male friends to share my great or crummy news, I prefer the easily manipulated environment of male friendships over the honesty of other women. I know I'm not alone.

My women friends spend 60 percent of their time discussing the men they pursue, the men who broke their hearts and the men who won't leave them alone. When they feel depressed or lonely, they call those men before they call each other.

Women exhibit this behavior because the media portrays success and happiness contingent and implicit in finding a mate! Could Disney survive without exploiting children's fantasies about love and the quest for a perfect partner?

Would The Little Mermaid have been as profitable if Ariel left the boring Prince Arik so she could walk freely through her life as a newfound two-legged woman?

Would “90210” be as much fun to watch if any of the women were able to live through a single catastrophe without having to run to Brandon for comfort? The media and society tells me I need to be with someone to succeed.

Societal roles also say a woman needs a man in order to feel complete. Historically, men have always enjoyed independence often accompanied with increased self-esteem. While women learned to groom themselves, raise children, keep house and select a mate, men learned to believe they didn't need women for anything but spreading their seed. Society taught them to make money and decisions — no one else would save them.

The man was the rescuer and the provider. Society did not allow men to fail in juggling all the balls of success. If a man dropped the balls he picked them up and started over.

How can women learn the lesson of independence? I've chosen to ignore the media and society's overwhelming pressure to find a “better half.” I have exhausted myself trying to win men's love and adoration and I've decided to stop trying. We are not destined to rely on relationships to provide our self-confidence.

I've pledged to take responsibility for myself and grow up. I will not give my choices away or succumb to societal pressure to gain a mate and settle down. I will stop renting Disney movies. I will change light bulbs myself, buy my jeans without having to bring my boyfriend to tell me if my butt looks big, and go to the gym for overall health and strength benefits rather than to achieve the look of an emaciated Vogue model in time for my date tomorrow.

In this way I free myself from male dependency. Can women promise not to sit around waiting for men to save them? When we meet men, can we retain the things that built our self-confidence?

Achieving such success will make us confident and no longer afraid to take on the next challenge. Instead of fearing a decision we will be eager to take a larger role in controlling our futures. We must feel the horrors of the real world in order to gain the rewards of confidence and immense pleasures that come from making the decisions society previously denied us.

I read somewhere — I think it was a Promise Keepers brochure — that women's newfound independence has left men feeling emasculated, lost and without purpose. Society no longer needs men and men no longer feel needed. This lack of need creates insecurity. The brochure advises men to cling to the old rules of the game, taking back the decisions for their families and reclaiming the dominant role in a reliant household.

I will not give up my decisions in order to restore confidence in the male gender. We need to accept that we are a new generation of women, capable of taking care of ourselves.

The Disappointment

2006-08-28T02:48:00.000-04:00

“I believe I have contracted either Chlamydia or Gonorrhea.”

I choke on the cereal that I am standing over the sink eating.

Frenchie is sitting on a stool in front of the breakfast he has just prepared that includes poached eggs, wheat toast and freshly sliced tomatoes.

“You have what?”

I can feel the milk dripping down the side of my face and I’m afraid it will stain the collar of the blouse I just picked up from the cleaners. But I can't move.

The Frenchman cuts through his wheat toast and soaks it in runny egg yolk. He holds the bite near his mouth, pauses, cocks his head to the side and addresses me as if we are discussing football stats and who he thinks will win the Superbowl this year.

“I can’t be certain. I have only accumulated research from the internet, but I have pain while urinating and a white sticky substance at the tip of my penis. This seems to be indicative of Chlamydia or Gonorrhea.”

He pops the bite in his mouth and beams with pride. It's unclear if he’s proud of the delicious fucking brunch he just made or his Encyclopedia Brown Google diagnosis.

I must look like Jessica Simpson being asked a math question, my body paralyzed, staring at him with my mouth gaping open, holding my cereal bowl, my briefcase resting against my leg. I can feel heat running down the back of my suit.

“Great.”

I put the half empty cereal bowl in the sink and pick up my briefcase.

“So I will therefore be needing a ride to the hospital.”

I try to compose myself and respond in a healthy manner. “Okay. Well I’m going into work right now.”

His mouth is still savoring his breakfast. But after he swallows he speaks.

“Just wait. I’ll be done in a moment.”

No, fuck off. You can walk your infected ass to the hospital.

“Ok. I’ll pull the car around.”

And I do. Because driving Frenchie to the hospital is the right thing. And I have no right to be angry. He's not my boyfriend. We haven't slept together. He's just a house guest. So why am I so angry?

I grumble my way out to the car, refusing to smile at my neighbor standing outside waiting for her dog to relieve himself on my sidewalk. I'm so pissed I don't even notice that it is a gorgeous sunny day with a cool Philly breeze carrying the scent of lilacs up the street from the community garden on the corner. No, I'm not feeling the schmoozy neighbor, lilac scenty thing. I'm feeling the judgemental, irritable, selfish thing.

I met the Frenchman a year ago. We spent the evening of my 32nd birthday exploring the streets of New Orleans. Half way through the night of near hand touches and the kind of conversation that feels like someone is touching every part of your personhood, he leaned over for what I thought would be our first kiss and tells me, "I have a girlfriend."

The words every woman longs to hear. I wanted to slap him immediately. But after throwing a few more rocks into the Mississippi it occurred to me that this might be the first man that didn't want to sleep with me, but rather, talk to me all night until the sun came up. How very different. How very interesting. How very peculiar.

When the sun came up, we promised to stay friends. But their was more than friendship to our connection. And over the past year, we periodically fed that connection with long and heavy phone conversations over payphones from Saigon to Nicaragua. I told myself I was building a friendship. I pretended that I wasn't just his validation that he was still wanted even when his girlfriend wasn't giving him enough attention.

When he phoned in June to say he recently broke up with his girlfriend, wanted to travel through the states and could he stop over in Philly a few days and spend my birthday with me, was I wrong to think something might be there?

Granted, we had met but once. So the majority of our late night phone conversations were mostly about him. Okay, so he was unhealthy, reactive, narcissistic and insecure. I was willing to ignore it all. I mean the stage was set for a dramatic love story. One where patience perseveres, friendship melts into romance, from an innocent beginning springs a balanced and loving relationship... cue music, dim lights.

Yes, in my fantasy he was confident and moral and a man of strong character. In my fantasy, he spoke five languages and wanted to partner with me in our mutual quest to end violence and bring about world peace. We were supposed to make friends with the locals in Kosovo and speak Swahili by years end. I was going to write books, take cooking classes, spend my weekends doing food drops into war zones and my nights cuddled up next to him discussing the increase of terrorist measures as a weapon of the weak against the strong. We were going to take eco-tour vacations.

Nowhere in my fairy tale was he coming out of a break up and screwing his way across Central America to punish his ex. Funny, shacking up on my pull-out sofa while he healed up from his latest STD was not in my edition.

Frenchie ducks his beautiful 6’3” frame into the passenger seat of my Hertz rental car. Where I once thought of him driving a Jaguar, I now found him outclassed by the Mazda. His lazy smile reveals that he is ignorant to the fact he’s just shattered my whimsical dream. He pulls a bottle of Evian out of his bag, takes a sip and hands it to me.

“Would you like some water?”

I glance down at the bottle and back at him.

“No.”

“You aren’t going to get Chlamydia from a water bottle.”

I try not to judge. I try not to roll my eyes. I try not to wonder if you can get Chlamydia from a passenger seat. I try not to be jealous that he wanted someone else. I try not to be angry at allowing myself to be lead on. I try not to hold on to the lost possibilities. I try not blame him for not being the man I created in my fantasty. I try not to be disappointed.

Billion Dollar Babes

2006-08-26T16:12:00.000-04:00

Kate Nobelius Flipped her hair over her shoulders, sat her size two ass down in the Cutter Hair products chair and demanded a touch up.

“Touch up, touch up. There are cameras everywhere. People.”

When billion dollar babes touched down in New York this weekend there were definitely lots of cameras and lots of people. What there was not, is a lot of new designers and clothing.

I’ve been a slave to this sample sale for the past two years of New York living. And most of the time I am pleased with the offering and spend lots and lots of money. But this show was a sad recycling of fashions and prices from the last two seasons, now on clearance at Century City. In fact, I saw a Petro Zillia jacket from spring 2004 that I bought a year ago and is still going for the same price. And an Eva Franco dress that I just bought at Loehmann’s for $50 was selling for $90 at BDB.

Billion Dollar Babes is a traveling sample sale that features designers from LA, New York and London. It’s invitation only and was once a chance to get great deals on current season merchandise. It was also once a great place to get a kick ass gift bag, but this year I walked away with a pile of out-of-stock Armani cosmetics in colors better suited for a woman of African decent.

On the bright side, I got a butler this year to walk around holding my clothes and chiming in to tell me if something was overpriced. If they would have allowed him in the fitting room, I could have used his expertise in telling me which outfits made my ass look big. Without his assistance however, I did find a vintagey looking Tocca dress that I will be able to get away with wearing once a year. And okay, okay I bought some other great pieces.

But perhaps if Ms. Nobelius spent less time getting her hair fashioned and more time taking care of the customers and bringing in fresh merchandise, then I would have walked away from the Billion Dollar Babes sale with more shwag, more merchandise, and even less money in my bank account.

Full

2006-08-22T20:13:00.000-04:00

Well I'm back.

Often when someone disappears it means a failed romance, a family tragedy or getting fired. For most New Yorkers it simply means no time. No time to breathe, barely enough time to enjoy the moment, no sustaining energy to put out the effort to stay present.

But for this New York woman, an extended absence means life is full.

So much has happened in the last month that I can not seem to possibly tell all the stories. A little time passes and it seems like so much work to sit down and write it all out.

I've left the city a few times with trips to Seattle, Vegas, and down the Jersey Shore.

I took in a moving art exhibit, read an enlightening book and saw a movie that made me angry.

I've weathered disappointment, betrayal and truth.

I've aged a year.

I've discovered that the less I blog, the more friends actually call and send me e-mails.

A friend was married. A friend was lost. An old friend was found.

A city was discovered, and another city went on without me. Outside cafes, summer dresses, sunburnt noses, and warm rain.

There just seems so much to share that I can't imagine getting it all out from inside my spinning brain.

But I will try.

Suffice to say, it's been a good month.

And I'm back.

Lion (inadvertently) Enters The Jungle. Part One

2006-08-22T16:15:00.000-04:00

Long and complicated story coming, and it starts at the beginning of the summer. That’s when I met The Editor. Some high-powered veteran magazine guy, between jobs and temporarily consulting at my publication. I talked to him a few times, offering to help in the eager (annoying) intern way. One day he wandered over to my beautiful corner cubicle, and we spent a few minutes enjoying the view together. (I really love my windows because they provide clear visual access into a whole variety of other offices, apartments and rooftop lounge areas, but that’s a different long and complicated story.) Pretty much the extent of our relationship.

One day about two weeks into my internship, the newspaper vendor was out of the Times and The Wall Street Journal, so I picked up the Post. Turning to the media news section, I was startled to see The Editor’s name in bold. According to the article, though, he wasn’t just An Editor. He was A Star Of The Magazine Industry. A real Star, and we’d stared out my window together! The article told me all about the fabulous wonderful exciting new job he was about to start. And a little bit about how fabulous wonderful exciting The Editor himself was. (Something he’d later confirm for me, in his own words.) Annoying eager ambitious intern I am, I quickly realized that the next two days- The Editor’s last at my magazine- would be very important.

(I made up that thing about the Times and the Wall Street Journal. I like the Post. I bought it because I wanted to. Pretending to be a journalistic snob comes so naturally to me now that I have trouble turning it off, even as I write in relative anonymity. I blame it on my school.)

Those two days didn’t quite go as planned. His goodbye toast on Friday did not conclude as I’d anticipated, with him shocking the entire staff by announcing that he’d decided to bring me on his new endeavor, and that despite my lack of a college degree I’d hold the title of Little Executive. You know, because experience and education are no match for the energy, excitement and untainted imagination of the young ones. Now, while I clearly sensed him thinking those things, he managed to contain himself- to avoid sparking jealousy in the others, I’m sure- and part with a simple goodbye. Crushed, I was.

He did, however, send an e-mail. Just a few sentences, asking me to stay in touch. I am of course aware that ‘stay in touch’ is code for ‘I’d like to offer you a job, the contract is drawn up and your office furniture has been ordered, but before we sign I must convince you to accept a higher salary,’ but I played along and replied in a mature and professional manner. And then he told me he ‘liked my mind.’ (I like my mind, too. Coincidence? Perhaps not.) And then he mentioned that he was looking for ‘young talent.’

And then I fell off my chair. My imagination is highly developed. I’m quite skilled at believing whatever I want to. But influencing an outcome through my own mental powers? Or, alternatively, actually maybe being that intelligent and creative person I like to think I am? Unheard of, either one.

But I pretended. He asked for writing samples, and I sent them. He told me to write with more attitude, and I tried. I engaged in witty banter via e-mail. He asked for a link to my blog, and (against all better judgment! I know!) I gave it to him. He told me my writing was ‘sweet but harmless.’ I bristled. And then I wrote an entry about editors and how they make me horny. And he liked it. And then things got complicated…

**One may assume that, being a professed lover of editors and admittedly quite horny, I was as much interested in The Editor’s penis as I was in his potential career assistance. Not true. Perhaps, if I’d thought about it a little more, I’d have realized how that blog entry might come across to him. But I didn’t. And, if I’d thought even harder, I may have remembered that I like older men. Intelligent, funny, successful, powerful older men. Or, The Editor. And then I might have predicted where things were headed. Again… I didn’t.

Here is where I write with wisdom

2006-08-17T13:18:00.000-04:00

(kidding)

So this story is getting old for me… trying to move from ‘it’s happening’ to ‘this happened,’ you know? But for the sake of updating, here’s where things are now: I went before the grand jury for the indictment hearing last Wednesday, and it wasn’t so bad. The assistant district attorney was really nice, and seemed to love the case… little Midwestern intern with big blue eyes comes to New York for the summer and gets attacked outside her Upper East Side building. Almost as cliché as I was two years ago- the sad little Big Ten cheerleader addicted to pills and alcohol, on top of the pyramid with her hair in a bow. Lifetime Movie Network, here I come.

I finally found out what happened to the other girl. She is fine, and he didn’t do anything worse to her, but he did pull a knife. That is apparently only a misdemeanor because he didn’t bring her anywhere, but the D.A. is trying the cases together to make a stronger case. He got charged with a few things including burglary (a felony) in my case, which just means entering a private dwelling place with the intent to commit a crime. (Don’t feel stupid, I didn’t know that either.) Opinions are split on whether he wanted to rob or rape, but we’re pretty confident he was planning to do something illegal. I didn’t get the feeling he wanted finger cakes and tea.

The jury did indict, so the next thing is whether it goes to trial or he pleads out. A trial wouldn’t be so much fun, but on the bright side, they’d fly me back and forth from school to New York for it. But I don’t need to worry about that until it happens.

The guy got out on bail last week, which is scary. But, the detective said there’s only a .1% chance he’ll come after me again. (He actually said that 99.9% of the time the bad guys stay away. I just heard it a little differently.) But I’m shaking less, and looking over my shoulder less. I’m still sitting in corners and I still keep thinking about my neck, but it’s getting better. It keeps getting better.

I have a new philosophy, and it came from the pouring rain last week.

Something I really love is control. I always want more. And after what happened- an overwhelming loss of control- the craving is even worse. When I’m not in control- when I can’t take action to affect an outcome- I worry. I play it over and over in my head, as if through my psychic powers I’ll be able to coax the forces of the universe towards the resolution I desire. Logic tells me this is futile, but I continue to try.

So I’m sitting on the bus last week, trying to read but distracted by my anxiety over the next day’s indictment hearing. (I won’t be in attendance and play no direct role in the outcome, so I am extremely busy ensuring his indictment through my worry.) I look outside for a moment, and see that the drizzle I walked through has turned into a full-blown downpour. I’m disturbed, suddenly, by the total lack of power I (or anyone else) have in relation to the weather. With our BlackBerries and Palm Pilots and stem cells, we’ve taken charge over almost everything. Yet, we still find ourselves entirely susceptible to the wind and rain and snow. It falls and blows however it pleases, and the best we can do is react.

As I ponder this further, though, it starts to seem more comforting than scary. With the weather, I have no responsibility. I’m not in charge of stopping it. I don’t bother trying to wish it away, because I understand the total futility of that endeavor. The rain comes down, so I open my umbrella. There seems to be some relief in releasing power- a feeling that someone else is taking care. And then I think, maybe I try out this technique on other things. The indictment, perhaps. I know by logic that I can’t control it. So maybe I remove the burden from myself. Maybe I let go. Maybe the indictment just falls like rain. And if it comes down too hard, I know there are people who love me. They’ll be my umbrella. And one way or another, I’ll be taken care of.

Aaaaand enough of that. Like I said, I’m moving to ‘it happened.’ More exciting things to tell next time. Including the editor I thought I might like to fuck.

Good News

2006-08-07T09:07:00.000-04:00

They caught the guy.

(This blog is super long. But writing it all down feels good.)

At work on Friday, my editor told me to 1. call 311, and 2. go home. Both good ideas. I went to the police station on the Upper East Side, and spent two hours looking at pictures of scary men with the detectives. Turns out there are 1,483 men in this city who resemble the guy. I looked at every one of them. On the bright side, the detectives were really cool. It was exactly how I pictured it on tv- thick New York accents, bad coffee with no milk, the one young blonde female detective who is apparently always at that time of month, and cigarettes and ashtrays everywhere. The best part was the sign that said Sexual Harrassment is Illegal*. Barry Bonds gets an asteriks in the hall of fame, and illegal gets one in the police station. At least when it refers to sexual harrassment. (Incidentally- and this is a whooooole other story- sexual harrassment is also illegal* in the media world, as I learned last week.)

Anyways, I looked at pictures for a long time, then sat in Barnes & Noble because it felt safe, and then went to a few AA meetings. My level of fear and general uneasiness continued to grow the whole day... it's funny, because I don't logically think I'm scared of the city, and I do know the likelihood of anything else happening is very low, but I still can't stop looking over my shoulder. A friend told me I should come stay at her apartment for a couple days, and I thought that sounded like a really good idea. I never though I'd ever be escaping the Upper East Side for the safety of Harlem. But, it did feel better there. Her two big male roommates made it really safe. Being gay helped even more than their muscles.

On Saturday, I went to more meetings and stayed around other people, and then in the evening the police called me to come back to the department and look at more pictures. They only showed me six this time, and I picked him right out. It turns out he'd done the same thing to another girl after me. When she called the police did show up, and they caught the guy. But, since they hadn't come for me, it took them a little while to realize the two incidents were related. The police were a little vague about what happened to the other girl... they kept saying it was "similar." I'm not sure if the vagueness is because of confidentiality, or because he did something worse to her and they don't want to scare me, or because he did something worse to her and they don't want me to feel guilty since maybe if I had called the police a third time, they would have come and found the guy before he got to her. All circular and useless thinking, I know. I'm trying hard not to let my head go there.

I went back to the police station again later that night to do a lineup. Luckily a friend was able to come with me this time... her dad is a police officer, and she was right when she told me their motto is "hurry up and wait." They put us in a random little hallway and we waited for a long time while they set it up. I didn't mind though, because I got to sit in the corner, and those have been my favorite thing these last few days. If you're in the corner, no one can sneak up behind you, and no one can get your neck, and you can see the whole rest of the room. Sounds a little crazy, I know, but that's just where I am right now.

It was funny, because at a meeting, some guy was talking about corners. His perspective, though, is that corners are where you get stuck. Maybe we are both right.

So I got the lineup right*. Things got tricky here, because I'd been planning to leave the next afternoon for a vacation with my extended family. They said that was probably not going to be a good idea, because if he was charged there'd be a grand jury within 72 hours, and I'd have to be there. I finally got a hold of my parents... I'd told them a little bit before about what happened, but not the whole thing because I didn't want to scare them. I kind of had to at this point though. My mom was fine, but my dad got mad because that's what he does when he is scared. He wanted to call the detective, and I felt bad that my dad was bugging him, but the detective said he understands because he has daughters too. Then on Sunday the detective called to tell me it is going to the grand jury, and he's been charged with burglary, robbery, false imprisonment (I think- whatever the one is where they won't let you go), and a few other things. Again, he was vague about the few other things, and again I wondered what he did to the other girl. Useless thinking. I guess he's an illegal alien, so they might deport him. I know I should be glad that he's getting off our streets, but it seems so silly to just toss him on someone else's. I started to think I felt a little bad for him, and my friend told me that was ridiculous, so I decided I'll feel bad about the system that created the whole situation instead.

Where I'm at right now: I'm still looking over my shoulder, and I'm still shaking a lot. It's still kind of hard for me to concentrate, and it's also hard to eat. I've always had a neck thing- I hate it when people touch it. It wasn't such a good thing that he was holding it the whole time. I've been wearing my hair down because it seems maybe a little less likely that someone else will grab my neck if it is covered. I stayed with a different friend last night, and I feel like I should go back to my apartment, but it's scary. We live on the first floor, and my room doesn't have doors- there are curtains to the rest of the apartment, and then big windows (without shades) in the back and a door to our backyard. My bed is right in the middle of the room which is also scary for me, because remember I like corners now. I have this urge to sleep on the floor next to my bed because then I'll be against something and not so out in the open, but it sounds so insane that I'm only writing it in a blog where I'm anonymous. A lot of times, people forget to lock the front door to the apartment. And more than that, when I walk in there my throat feels even tighter and I start to breath faster and the air is a little harder to get. A friend suggested just going back for a little while every day so I can start to feel more comfortable, and that seems like a good plan. My parents are in Canada, where they get horrible phone service. I'm thinking that is kind of a good thing. I love them, and I know they love me and want to help, but... they're parents.

And, while I was in the middle of writing this, the district attorney called. We're doing the indictment Wednesday morning. She said he wasn't going to be there, and that makes me feel good. And while I was talking to her, one of the fashion editors came over, and so she saw me kind of shaken as I hung up. I didn't feel like making up stories, so I told her the whole thing. It's a good thing I did, because it turns out she lives pretty close to me on the Upper East Side in a doorman building, and is leaving tomorrow morning to go out of town for the week. I wasn't even thinking in these terms, but she offered to let me stay there for the week. That will feel so safe. And alone is a little scary right now, but I think I can handle it. And also, I can sleep however I want and no one will say anything or think I'm crazy.

I'm actually feeling really blessed right now. Blessed for broken doorknobs, blessed for kind detectives, blessed that they found the guy, and blessed for my fashion editor and her doorman. I'm also feeling blessed because I think good is going to come out of this. When bad things happen, it kind of makes you wake up. It forces you to make changes and deal with the situation and take care of yourself. I'm scared and shaking and a little insane, but I'm taking action. I still don't think I'm a woman, but I also think I'm not a child. Acting like an adult feels good. (Oh and I also think I'm more of a Real New Yorker now. Real New Yorkers totally get attacked.)

And, thanks for all the comments. I'm taking a lot of the advice, and leaving work early to go talk to a therapist today. Because adults ask for help when they need it.

*According to the detectives, there is no right or wrong. It's just whether or not I recognized him. But it sure felt right to pick him out. And also, I loved all the detectives and I wanted to be cool like them and use an asteriks.

Highlights from Jane Schmo History Month

2006-08-06T23:15:00.000-04:00

Sleepless

2006-08-04T01:45:00.000-04:00

Another hazard of being 21, in Manhattan, and apparently very naive and stupid- sometimes, you get attacked.

I'm sitting in front of my Upper East Side apartment at about 11 pm, talking to Sober on the phone. I don't get service in the apartment, and I normally talk in the backyard, but one of my roommates was out there, so I went in front this time. My head is down in my knees, and some guy comes up and asks if I'm ok. I say, "yeah, I'm fine," he goes away, and I keep talking. Then, about five or ten minutes later, he comes at me. He's basically on top of me, holding my arms and my neck, and my phone hangs up and goes flying away. He tells me not to talk, not to scream, and pulls me with him. I resist at first, and kind of see if I can get away, but I suddenly can't remember if Oprah tells you to fight as hard as you can, or to just go along. I keep hearing her say "don't let him take you to the second location," but that's totally not helpful right now. Then I think maybe he has a knife or a gun, and then it's hard to breathe and my legs aren't working, and then he's dragging me with him.

I'm terrified he's going to bring me to a car, but he brings me to the door of my apartment and tells me to open it. Then we're inside the little tiny area in front between the two doors, and he tells me to open the second one. It's actually not locked, but I don't tell him that. He's still holding me around the neck, and I can barely breathe. I keep moving my chin down to my chest because I think maybe that will keep him from totally choking me. He keeps telling me to open the door, and I really am trying, but I can't. The knob is all messed up, and I thought the landlady just fixed it, but apparently not, because suddenly it's off the door and in my hand. He keeps screaming at me to put my keys in the door and unlock it, and I try to be really polite and keep telling him, "sir, I just can't do it. The door is messed up." He keeps telling me to shut up, and I have five seconds, and then he starts counting backwards. I don't know what happens when he gets to zero. I just keep telling him that I'm trying. I try to hold up the knob and show him, but he's holding me so tight that I can't move. My arms are shaking, and if he wasn't squeezing me so tight, my legs would certainly give out. He keeps counting backwards, and finally he gets really mad and pushes me down to the ground. He tells me to stay there and not move. I don't think I could if I wanted to. I can't feel my body at all. He tells me to count backwards from five, and runs out the door.

I can't move. I'm shaking and I'm screaming. I still can't get the second door open, but I'm terrified to go outside. I stay there in a heap, and finally, I think maybe he's gone. I push and push and finally the door opens- the knob is still in my hand- and I stumble down the hall and into my apartment. My poor roommate has no idea what to do, because I can't even talk- I'm just crying in a ball on the floor. I finally manage to tell her what happened, and she asks me if we should call the police. I don't know. What can they do? But it seems safe. Maybe they can tell me if I should be scared or not. So we do. I want to call back Sober, but we can't find my phone. He must have picked it up when he was running away. We wait and wait, but the police don't come. She calls again, and they say they came and left, but will come back. I want them to get here, because a uniform sounds safe. They never end up coming.

My other roommates come home, and rub my back and give me water. I take a shower, because I smell like him. I take my stuffed dog and my stuffed cat and lay in my bed, but the room seems too big and sleep seems too scary. I can still feel his arm around my neck and it's hard to breathe and I feel like I'm going to throw up. But I think I probably shouldn't be upset, because really, nothing happened. I only lost my phone. I'm alive. I'm fine. I should be fine. I honestly have no idea- am I being melodramatic right now? Is this no big deal? I don't want to be a baby, and I don't want to overreact. I figure it's ok to write a blog about it, because I'm anonymous, so it's not like I'm trying to get attention or anything. But I'm really really scared. And I can still feel his arm around my neck.

**And while nothing about this is funny... even I can admit that I'm pretty damn lucky that I'm such a fucking klutz. Who ever heard of someone foiling an attacker because she is just too inept to open a door? I would.