Resolution # 7 - Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word (But 'Excuse Me' Runs a Close Second)

Folks, this next one is a two-pronged resolution, but you can handle it.  You are tough.  You have stopped wearing clothing at home and don't wear yoga clothes when you leave home.  You push a stroller only when there is an actual baby in it and you don't address that baby with business jargon.  You even replace the toilet paper roll yourself with little to no assistance!  You have come this far and I am certain you are up to the related challenges of 'excuse me' and 'sorry.'


Excuse Me
"Excuse me" is a phrase to be used in anticipation of a potential collision. Because this concept seems to be so very difficult for many of the residents of my fair city to grasp, let me draw up a situation to help make my point.


You are in the Gap and you need to pass by a customer to get a closer look at something on the sale rack.  You:
a) Stand and wait until the person moves of her own accord
b) Say 'excuse me' and after the other customer has kindly moved out of your way, tear into the sale rack
c) Walk right into that customer, mumbling 'excuse me' as you do so

The correct answer here is b.  Let's analyze why.  If you chose answer a, how are you enjoying your visit to NYC from the Midwest? Here in New York, we never wait for anything unnecessarily, and certainly not patiently.  If you chose answer c, you are not saying 'excuse me' to avoid a collision, but are almost wielding it as a weapon.  Don't get me wrong, I love a good weapon, but that is not the function of 'excuse me'; it is the function of your two middle fingers, however.  Only in answer b do you properly use excuse me to alert the customer that she is where you need to be and ask her to please move.


Are you beginning to get it?  Here is a more challenging question for you to try your hand at.  You are in the Fairway, a local and always insanely crowded supermarket, and you need to pass by a customer to pick out some artisenal scones.  You:
a) Stand and wait until the person moves of her own accord
b) Say 'excuse me' and after the other customer has kindly moved out of your way, tear into the artisnal baked goods
c) Walk right into that customer, mumbling 'excuse me' as you do so
Trick question! Even in a very crowded situation, you must still say excuse me before you move into a space currently occupied by another person.  Sorry, that's that's just the way it goes. Which segues nicely to...


"Sorry"
Sometimes, despite all our best efforts to properly apply the phrase 'excuse me,' we make a mistake and bump into someone.  I did it myselfonce.  In such an instance, you are to say you are sorry and move on.  In the event that somebody should do the same to you, assuming that they have caused you no actual bodily injury, you are obligated to accept the 'sorry' you receive, also assuming the energy with which it was said matches the situation. 


If you spill a full cup of hot coffee down the back of a stranger because you pull up short at a light, while walking no less, you owe that poor woman (in the really cute pink top she is wearing for the first time ever) a full-on apology.  She is now wearing an entire cup of hot coffee on her back.  While that must be an inconvenience to you, what with your having to now return to Starbucks, she is in actual pain and you owe her a sincere apology.


If that same woman in the cute pink top should accidentally walk in front of you while you are pushing your baby in a stroller, causing no injury at all, and then apologize sincerely, you are obligated to accept this apology.  You should not continue to shoot mean looks at her and say nasty things about her under your breath to your friend, because she will in fact turn around and ask you just what the hell you want her to do or say to make up for the fact that she briefly stepped in your path.  She may even display the aforementioned weapons, even though her mother is with her.

Resolution #6 - Devil with the Blue Yoga Pants

Did you ever notice that everyone around you seems to be dressed for an activity in which they are not actually currently participating? Specifically, they are mostly dressed for workouts.  And more specifically, the 'they' is women and the 'workouts' are yoga.  This practice is wrong and it must stop and you must resolve to play your part.


"But yoga pants are so comfortable!" you whine.  Well, you know what is even more comfortable than yoga pants? Pajamas! But do you see me wearing pajamas? Well, you don't really see me at all, but let me assure you that I am wearing a striped top, a funky cardigan, a belt and corduroys. 


"But I  may do yoga in six or seven hours!" you continue whining.  But you are not in yoga right now. Here is one way you can be sure: Is there a woman at the front of the room saying 'namaste?' No? You are not in yoga class.  Did you have to swipe a card and pass through a turnstile before entering a metal cylinder that is hurtling through the dark? You are on a subway car.  And, to continue my analogy from the paragraph above, I will definitely be sleeping later (even if this seems to offend the dog I am currently dogsitting), and yet, I am wearing those cords and not my cozy pajamas (and let me assure you, I have the very coziest pjs, as they are another of "my things").


Dressing appropriately for the activity at hand is what separates us from the animals. As proof, I offer you Stella, our puppy.  She does downward dog about 50 times a day, and not once has she changed into a pair of lululemons first.

Resolution #5 - Dirty World

You resolve to wear no more than one outfit per week. Total. (This resolution is quite possibly inspired by my completion of ten loads of laundry tonight.  And that is not the only laundry I have done this week - I have done at least five more. That's fifteen loads, for those of you whose mind is numbed by the very thought of matching all those socks and sorting all those pjs.)

Out in the world you will fight off clothing stains like Wonder Women with her magic bracelets. WHAP!!  You will prevent that chocolate frozen yogurt from drizzling its way down a just washed winter jacket in an admittedly poorly chosen pale pink.  WHAP!! That white uniform cuff will lift itself up 3 inches, refusing to drag itself through a plate of ketchup as you reach for your drink.  WHAP!! Your navy pleated skirt will magically repel afterschool art class paint, of both the glitter and non-glitter variety. 

As you step over threshold into your home, you pledge to strip off  your clothes immediately and don a paper robe, hanging your clean clothing in the closet by the door.  You will wear that robe until you next dress in those same clean clothes in preparation to leave the apartment, at which point you will - pay attention now - ball up your paper robe and throw it not on the floor but in the garbage (the recycling bin if you are feeling especially ambitious).

Does this resolution seem too intense, too demanding? I do offer an alternative: do all your own laundry. I thought so.  Don't forget the robe's opening goes in the in back.

Resolution #4 - (Don't) Talk to Me Like Business Lovers Do

Having spent my entire work life in the world of huge professional services companies since graduating from college, sometimes it's hard for me to fully understand how different my work environment is from every other possible work environment.  For one thing, I am told that in the rest of the world, employees do not do endless numbers of evaluations and self-evaluations, at midyear and at year-end, two time periods that somewhat inexplicably seem to blend seamlessly into each other.  I guess that makes sense, although I am not certain life is worth living without the high one gets from completing HR forms in a mad scramble, constantly checking the clock as it ticks toward a midnight deadline.


Likewise, in the exciting world of business, we have our own language, and sometimes, like an actual bilingual person (which I am not), I may forget where I am and to whom I am speaking and launch right into that language. Your next resolution is to join me in fighting hard to keep your personal conversations and business jargon from colliding.  This pledge includes avoiding such offenses as:


Telling your significant other that he is stuck in analysis paralysis.  If you think he was stuck before, try introducing a piece of lingo like that one, and watch him spend 45 minutes dissecting it (and you, for using it).  While he may have just proven your point, was it really worth it?


Requesting that your daughter's speech therapist provide you with milestones and deliverables. First of all, it turns out that in the real world people don't typically address these items. What they do is look at you like you are entirely nuts and you can actually see them mentally work their way through a list of potential reasons they can use to excuse themselves from assisting the daughter of the crazy woman.  Luckily, in the end they come to feel sorry for the daughter of the crazy woman and possibly even redouble their efforts to assist.

Suggesting that your daughter has not done her due diligence in preparing her primary source research project  - also known as a fourth grade book report.  If you thought she was angry at you for making her read the book, even when she realized it was not as much fun as any of the Dear Dumb Diary series and had no pictures at all, multiply that a trillion-fold to get her reaction to this lingo-laden accusation.  Try phrasing it something like "Honey, it's a good idea to read your assignment before getting three paragraphs in.  No, not erasing it because it doing so will make the page look 'messy,' is not an option.  Given what your room likes like 99% of the time, it is hard to believe you think 'messy' is anything less than a compliment anyway."  Or some variation on that.

I should write more, but I just realized that spell check does not recognize 'deliverables' as a word and I must address that error immediately.  I dare not even look for 'incentivization,' not to mention the perrenial favorite, 'updation.'

Reslution #3 - It's Been a Long Time Since I Did the Stroll

I haven't used a stroller lately, but as I recall, the term 'stroller' is actually short for 'baby stroller.' You may think that is a point not worth making, and, believe me, I wish you were right.  But you are wrong.  And for that reason, we have resolution #3 - this year you resolve to push babies, and only babies, in strollers. 

Do you have a lot of paperwork you need to carry around from place to place? It happens to the best of us. What does not happen to the best of us is loading those papers into assorted supermarket plastic bags, plastic bags now disintegrating with age, and then stacking those bags into a stroller, which you then push through the city streets, pretending that you do not, in fact, look homeless.  Tell yourself that that well-dressed woman who just handed you a dollar mistook you for a friend of hers she borrowed that same amount from yesterday, but we both know she just checked off the "give charity" entry on her to-do list.  

Hmmmm, what solution is there to this situation? May I recommend a roller bag, a briefcase, or my personal favorite, a tote.  Totes are just perfect for toting stuff around - it's even right there in the name.  I don't care if you use a Marc Jacobs tote or a freebie one that, hypothetically says something about Dr. Phil needing to hold you (and, coincidentally comes from the supermarket, in case you are wed to the notion of procuring your paper transport needs there), a tote is the answer to your paper problem.

Similarly, while a stroller is intended for taking strolls with your baby or even your preschooler, it is not intended for making your way around the city with your 40-pound first grader.  I know, your first grader would prefer to be in a stroller, but so what? (Are we now taking direction from first graders? Because I dread the dinners of fluff, olives and goldfish crackers this approach is sure to result in.)  Also, clearly this is my opporutnity to mention that  many, many men I passed while pushing my stroller also claimed the stroller was their first choice when it came to transportation; they all thought it was simply hilarious to shout remarks like "Hey, would you push me around in a stroller?" or "That's the life."  Not surprisingly, I did not indulge them any more than I would indulge a first grader.  And, not surprisingly, somehow not a single woman ever voiced that desire.

Lastly, I cannot believe I have to say this, but it seems that I do. You may not push your pet in a stroller.  A baby stroller is not for pets.  In fact, a pet stroller is not for pets.  A pet stroller is simply a baby stroller manufactured for and purchased by a pet crazy.  You may not put a dog in it.  You may not put two dogs in it.  You may not put two dogs in it and then somehow get that stroller up onto the city bus and then give me an unprompted lecture about how you take your stroller of shih tzus to the movies with you and feed them popcorn.  (I got exactly what I deserved, of course, when I responded that popcorn is a choking hazard for dogs.  I learned that it is, in fact, perfectly safe if you pre-chew the popcorn for your dog.)

Piece of cake, then.  No baby = no stroller. It's as easy as that!  An exception is made, of course, for young children pushing dolls in strollers.  So cute! No exception is made, of course, for anyone else pushing dolls in strollers.  So creepy!

Resolution #2 - Walk this Way

"I resolve not to walk into other people when I can avoid it.  This means that when they are in my way, even if I am in a tremendous hurry to get on that subway car or I really want a grande caramel light frappuccino (with extra caramel and a dome lid), I will still not walk into others, as they, like me, are humans, and I must take it on their word that they, like me,  are sentient. 


'I' am defined in this resolution as including my physical being as well as anything I am wearing, carrying or pushing.  This means that I will not push my shopping cart into your rear end as you open an egg carton to check for cracked eggs, as you are, in fact, quite visible and collision is entirely preventable.  Also, I will not walk past you and hit you with my enormous backpack; that is to say, I will not act entirely oblivious to the fact that I am carrying around at least 6 weeks/35 pounds of clothing on my back and that turning suddenly and body-slamming you with same backpack could injure, or at least anger, you."


Walking is challenging.  Stay tuned for your resolution not to walk through a door ahead of the person for whom it has been opened!

Happy Holiday and an Angry New Year!

This year, being the efficient and generous soul that I am, I will celebrate the Winter-Holiday-of-Your-Choice and New Years both at once by giving you the gift of resolution.  Each day (or those days I remember to), up until New Years, I will offer you a new resolution. 

Resolution #1 - Rock the Roll
Sometimes, despite your best efforts to avoid it, you are the person who uses the last square of toilet paper. It happens to the best of us.   Now I know that usually you would undertake the following steps:

• Use tissues.  When tissues are gone -
• Use wipes, despite how old any wipes found in this baby-free household must be.  When wipes are all gone -
• Avoid toilet paperless bathroom at all costs, until the roll has been replaced.  If this means using only the bathroom at school or at the Starbucks two blocks away, so be it

This year will be different.  This year you pledge to do the following when you find yourself carefully peeling off that very last square:

• Select a roll from one of the 30 or so rolls under the sink (stacked in a not-at-all-OCD FIFO order)
• Remove the empty toilet paper tube from the dispenser
• Hand tube to the dog (she is right at hand to simplify this task for you)
• Place the new roll in the dispenser

Stand back and admire your work.  If you feel you have come up short, rest assured that within a day or so you will be given another opportunity to practice this new skill, unless you have already perfected your never-use-the-last-square avoidance maneuvers.

All Bought Forgotten

By now, if you have been paying attention, you know that I have a number of things that are "my thing" - boots, totes, (also "boots - totes!"), outerwear.  I tend to buy what a reasonable person would consider to be an unreasonable quantity of these items. But I make regular use of all of these "my things."   Yes, I may have, by conservative estimate, two dozen pair of boots (that is four dozen individual boots, for the non-mathlete readers out there), but they are in constant rotation.  I once took a two-week photographic boot diary, snapping a shot of my boot-shod feet each day, and did not repeat a single pair of boots for the entire duration.  And it's a given that a trip to Target or Costco includes Big Green (you haven't named your favorite tote? For shame!) filled with an assortment of smaller totes, for bringing home the goods.  As for outerwear, don't you match your outerwear to your outfit? Isn't that why they both start with 'out'?

Sadly, there are other items I tend to buy voraciously which see little, if any, use.  They are, in no particular order, nail polish, lipstick, and vests.  The blame for my nail polish gluttony can be placed squarely on the shoulders of my cousin Amanda.  She opened my eyes to the beautiful rainbow of colors manufactured and the joy of owning a small piece of that rainbow, not to mention the the quick high that purchasing a piece of the rainbow provides. I like to think that when it comes to nail polish, I embrace diversity.  It is entirely Amanda's fault that I have had to purchase a professional nail salon rack (or two) identical to hers to hold these little gems.  But here is where  we diverge: while Amanda's nails are always impeccably polished, mine never are.  Oh, sure, I intend to polish my nails.  I even intend to take a little piece of my rainbow to a salon and have someone else polish my nails.  But if you have ever met me, one glance at my fingertips will tell you that manicures, professional or at-home, are few and far between.

When it comes to lipstick and lip gloss I also over purchase, but for quite the opposite reason.  Far from wanting to own a rainbow of lip colors, I am instead on a quest for that single perfect lip color.  (So, if you are keeping track, while I embrace diversity with nail polish, with lipsticks I am more of a racist, always looking for that one perfect color.)  I want a lipstick that is at once different from my actual lip color, while being exactly the same as my actual lip color.  Enhancing without changing.  Does this make absolutely no sense to you? Then you can see why this search has been so challenging, has resulted in so many poor investments.  

Sadly, despite my dedication to the purchase of lipstick, my lipsticks have a lifetime wearing average (LWA) of about 3.25 (unless I return them to Sephora, of course).  Maybe I'll apply lipstick when I first put on my makeup, but more likely than not I'll delay because breakfast is fast approaching and I'll throw the lipstick in my bag for a later application that never happens.  Earlier tonight I had a conversation with my friend Emily who told me she had just learned that some lipsticks contain lead.  While that revelation engendered panic in Emily, it got no reaction at all out of me.  After all, I am in very little danger of contracting lead poisoning from the half dozen or so lipsticks I merely rotate from handbag to handbag without ever opening. 

Vests.  What can I say.  I like a vest.  I don't like to wear a vest.  But I like a vest.  Denim, corduroy, leather, suede with fringe, I love 'em all.  I will never be spotted wearing any of them, of course, but I love 'em all.  It has reached the point that when a new vest obsession lodges itself in my brain and can be banished only through the purchase of a vest, I just buy the cheapest one possible that meets the current obsession's criteria.  In much the same my grandmother selected her knitting projects, I don't bother to match the vest to my wardrobe or to concern myself with fit.  Those concerns are irrelevant to the purchase of an item you know will never spend any real time outside your closet.  Occasionally I'll try the vest on over an outfit, express dismay at how it looks on me, and put it back. The LWA of a vest hovers pretty close to 0.

As I read this back, I am not proud.  Surely there are people out there who could benefit from my lightly used items.  I am just not sure a store called "Lips, Tips and Vests" would draw that many customers. Of course, if one should open in my neighborhood, I'd be first in line at the grand opening.

Angry NYC Chick Gift Guide

In keeping with the intent of this blog, this entry is about the gifts you should not buy.  If you are looking for a cheerful approach to finding the perfect Marc Jacobs logo-emblazoned iPad stylus cover, look elsewhere...

It is the time of year when everything sold on god's green earth is promoted as making the perfect gift. I want to go on record as saying that, in fact, for most, even all of these items, it is simply not true.  I feel obligated to point out this deception, lest someone (one of you, perhaps) is searching for just the right gift for me, and he or she is swayed by one of these ads into purchasing the item being featured.  Do not be swayed! In particular, do not be swayed by ads for:

Car Mats
Yes, yes, I know that you know that I don't have a car, and I know that, for that reason alone, you may realize that car mats is not necessarily the perfect gift for me.  Recent commercials, however, may convince you that in fact they are.  Again, I say, they are not.  For one thing, these commercials tout the fact that these nifty car mats do not absorb any of the slush or water that people track into a car; all of that simply pools up.  These car mats are, in fact, like shallow dishes, ready to be filled with your passengers' street muck.  How is this a good thing, even assuming you have a car?  And, if you can come up with a reason that in fact it is a good thing to go riding around with your feet in a shallow dish of street muck, surely you will concede that those dishes are not what your loved one wants to receive on his or her winter holiday.

Kardashian Perfume(s)
There are people out there who watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians, Kim and Kourtney Take Miami, Kim and Kourtney Take New York, Khloe and Lamar. (OMG - are there that many? Those jokes about how busy Ryan Seacrest is are not really jokes, are they?) I may, in fact, be one of those people.  I may, in fact, have seen the Kim Kardashian E! special.  More than once.  And the wedding, that's a given. And yet, I know without smelling either Kim or Khloe's perfumes, that I want no part of any Kardashian perfume.  Now, the Avril Lavigne perfume, that's another story.  Except no, no it's not, it is the same story. Please do not run out to your nearest drugstore, or wherever these shameless (shameful?)  items are being sold. Which brings us to...

Drugstore Products
All throughout Duane Reade are signs pointing out the perfect gifts.  Pay no attention to the signs.  My gift should not come with a gift receipt from Duane Reade.  First of all, they do a horrible job with returns.  (You should really take my word on this one;  I am the queen of returns.  I recently returned a pair of girl's boots that consisted of two rights.  In different sizes.  So, if I say Duane Reade returns are hard to pull off, you can take it to the bank.) Second of all, with the exception of essie nail polish, there is really nothing there for me.  And that includes the itunes gift cards, because I am fairly certain that if you bought any gift card there, you would end up with a card with precisely $0 loaded on it, due to the utter lack of interest the cashiers there have in pretty much any activity that does not involve texting, and that is not much of a gift.  Although I imagine it would work fairly well as a coaster.  For narrow glasses.

Whatever you do decide to give me, just make sure you don't 'gift' it, and I'll be grateful.  And possibly not even return it.

A Blogger in the City: A Guide to Recognizing Me on the Streets of Manhattan

I know many of you are wondering how you would recognize me if you ran into me in the street.  I mean, what if you were in NYC and you passed me and didn't realize it was me? That would be a tragedy, and a preventable one at that.  With my recent frequent and dramatic changes in hair color, a physical description might be insufficient, so I have created a little guide to recognizing me through my behaviors:


Berating Strangers
Do you think you've just spotted me in a store, but you're just not sure? (OK, if you are in a store, there is already a pretty good chance it is me.) Stick around until I pay for my merchandise (again, if the woman you're watching is making a purchase, there is an even better chance it's me).  If that woman gets into some sort of altercation in line, I am that woman. Just today I had no choice but to scold the woman behind me in Filene's Basement/Syms/Chapter Eleven Wonderland.  As the cashier motioned for me to advance to the register, the customer behind me in line gave me two sharp jabs in the shoulder.  Was that really necessary? No.  Was it really necessary for me to pause before paying to growl at her, "You may not touch me. Ever!" Yes. Yes it was.  But you just know that woman is telling her friends about the bitch who scolded her for doing absolutely nothing except kindly alerting her that a register was now free.


Giving Directions
If you have ever been to NYC and asked a stranger for help finding your tourist destination (Dylan's Candy Bar, Macy's, the entire borough of Queens), that stranger was me.  I play a weird role out on the mean city streets: I give directions.  At least once a day somebody singles me out from the rest of the crowd to ask me "Which way is Amsterdam Avenue?" "Can I walk to Rockefeller Center from here?" or "Do you know the closest place I can buy an SD card?"  My husband and I have been aware of this phenomenon for years.  Even when we would be on vacation in Europe, people would approach me with maps, seeking my utterly uninformed assistance. Surely my jeans and odd American footwear should have been a tip-off, but no. And vacations in the US - it's a given that I will get even more questions about which route to take than I do at home in NYC.  You would think with the advent of GPS-enable smartphones, fewer people would need my services, but just the other day my daughter said, with a mixture of confusion and pride, "A lot of people like to ask you directions, huh?"

Taking a Seat
You know how often, even on a really crowded bus or subway, there is an open seat between two people, but no one takes it? Maybe a passenger's bag is on it, or a coat hem has strayed onto it, or maybe a (male, always male) passenger next to the empty seat has spread his legs as wide as humanly possible and that seat looks practically unsittable. Well, it's not - and I am the woman you just saw asking the passenger to move his bag or his coat, his legs or whatever else is making it nearly impossible for my little hiney to plop itself right down on that seat.  It's my "one ass one seat" policy, and if I am not going to enforce it, really, then who is? I consider it my ethical obligation.

Confirming a Price
Were you behind a customer (in a store again - see?) who is slowing down the checkout process by questioning the price at which an item was rung up? Then you are behind me! Much to the annoyance of cashiers across the city, I prefer to pay the actual price of the item, and not just whatever the register chooses for me. Lately it's several times a week that I lead a bored, unwilling cashier back to the shelf to confirm that, indeed, the price is at least 30% less than it rang up at.  I feel both triumphant and apologetic when I do that - and also very aware that this store worker is hating me more and more with each passing second. Tough.  I only dragged those two cases of Diet Pepsi across the store for the sale price and that's the price I'll be paying!  But also - I'm sorry. 

When you recognize me, stop and say hello!

Thankful, Angry NYC Chick Style

As Thanksgiving roars its wattled head, I list some items for which I am thankful. I am thankful that:

• We have not heard from Helen Hunt in a while. I liked her in Mad About You (we liked it at the time, remember? don't pretend we didn't), but then she transformed into a severely hawk-faced leading lady who proved that you can lose weight and actually look worse  (which gives me the opportunity to reference one of my favorite Friends quotes  "she's all bitter now that she lost the weight and it turns out she doesn't have a pretty face"). Once I had to watch her chase tornadoes or single mother the predictably ill child, I found her utterly insufferable. 

• It is too soon for Bridesmaids 2. The first one was so horrible, you just know a second one will follow.  First, of course, we'll get a half dozen or so knockoffs featuring women puking and worse.  These are the equal rights we fought for?

• I no longer live at 32nd street, around the corner from Macy's.  To begin with that whole area is nightmarishly crowded with both tourists and New Yorkers, about 4,000 of them packed into each sidewalk square.  But bring on the holidays, and you question your choice to live in New York versus, say, a space station that sees visitors once every six months (who bring you supplies! it's home delivery - in space!). As the days count down to the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the streets are filled with literally hundreds of cheerleaders.  In their matching uniforms.  And their jackets.  All wearing pontyails. And bright smiles. (I saved the worst part for last.) Following Thanksgiving, and the return of the cheerleaders to their home planet (around the corner from the space station), the population of the entire middle of the country flies in to walk as slowly as possible, arm in arm, down these same streets.

• I finally got that Friday song out of my mind.  Well, I had until it was satired in a Black Friday commercial for some store that I would surely avoid if I could even remember what it was.  I guess if you are going to create a commercial that pisses viewers off, at least design it in such away that they can't remember what you were advertising in the first place.  Also - way to remain topical.

• And, no mention of Thanksgiving is complete without identifying the holiday by its true name, Slapsgiving.  Not enough of you watch How I Met Your Mother, which is (was) one of the most awesome shows on TV.  You know, if you don't count Two and a Half Men or that show with Jim Belushi, whom I still can't believe anyone watches deliberately.

Goodnight - and remember to overindulge!

Lost in Translation

Here is something many of you may not know about me; I have some language processing issues.  There are certain phrases that I just can't process correctly, and I want to let you know so that you may avoid them.  I am told that because my condition was diagnosed in adulthood, there is no treatment available and the most I can do is warn you about how the symptoms present themselves. 

"Smile"
When you see me and say "Smile, it can't be that bad!" what I hear is "Please, punch me right here in the trachea."  Anyway, who are you to tell me it can't be that bad?  It can be.  There can be literally 10 loads of laundry patiently waiting for me on the living room sofa, visible apparently to only me, that I can't get to for the 40 other items on my to-do list.

"I forgot to eat - AGAIN!"
This statement just cannot be processed.  I think you may be saying something about missing a meal, is that right? I have heard that, like the spontaneous combustion that my high school friend Cindi swore happens frequently to people in Chicago (don't you love that little detail - she swore up and down that spontaneous combustion happens all the time, but only in Chicago), missing meals also happens to people. When I hear this statement, I kind of stand there dumbfounded.  Don't get me wrong, my reaction is merely delayed; as you exit the room later, I will accidentally extend a foot in your path.

"You look really tired."
When I hear "You look really tired," the neurons in my brain seem to misfire and it comes through as "Slap me wicked hard across the face. With your rings turned inward." Don't try to follow this statement with, as someone did recently, "but pretty - you still look pretty," because it will already be too late and you should really just focus your efforts on locating an icepack for your jaw. 

Shrill bike whistle while you almost smack into me in the crosswalk as you ride your bike against traffic and against the light
In this instance my brain interprets the input as "string as many variations on the word f*ck as you can into a single, very loudly voiced exclamation."  Note that, somewhat surprisingly, the number of permutations of the word f*ck is directly proportional to the number of children I am accompanying across the street as you nearly run us down while thinking that any activity you partake in is sanctioned as long as you blow that f*cking whistle. 

"Girl," when referencing an adult woman
Upon hearing an adult woman - a salesperson, a colleague, Secretary of State Clinton - referred to as a 'girl,' my brain is entirely bypassed and my mouth automatically exclaims "WOMAN!" I am sure this reaction is directly related to my reaction to my alma mater, Wellesley College, being referred to as a "girls' school" ("WOMEN'S COLLEGE!"). The brain works in mysterious ways.

I thank you for your understanding, but please, save your pity. For the guy on the bike (and the kids walking with me).

Puppies Don't Push - and Other True Stories

At the risk of making you think I am one of those people who loves animals more than people (I'm not) and revealing myself as a misanthrope (I am), here are some of the reasons I sometimes like my dog Stella better than people.  

1. After she has removed that plastic ring from around the neck of a milk container, Stella rarely just leaves it on the counter.  That thoughtfulness saves me the passively aggressive task of placing it inside a briefcase, serving it with dinner, placing it in the bottom of a sock which is then replaced in the sock drawer.
2. Not once has Stella left her homework in school, forcing me to call another parent and ask that she fax it to me my work fax number (that’s why I have a work fax, no?).  She's just good that way.
3. I have never, ever found my good Mason and Pearson brush entangled in the disproportionately long and unreasonably platinum locks of one of Stella's Barbies. She is so careful about this one, she even runs at the mere sight of a brush.
4. I have never seen Stella nearly shove a person down the steps of the Chambers Street subway station running to get a train that clearly she, and she alone, is the only one interested in boarding.  Yes, woman who refused to look me in the eye, having missed the train after all last night, I am talking to you.
5. When I ask Stella to take down the recycling, she has never answered with, “Why would I want to do that?! It’s not fun!” or “NOW?! But I was just about to watch that episode of iCarly I have seen only four other times,” or, a personal favorite from my very own childhood repertoire, “I bet you had me just so I could do your chores.”
6. When she is in a store and people ask her where to find the french fried onions, which are best eaten by the fistful directly from the iconic canister, it is extremely rare for Stella to shrug her shoulders, say "Dunno," and return to texting her friends.  Of course, her lack of thumbs may at least partially explain this one.
7. Stella has never been embarrassed when I call her a nickname in front of others.  Not even during her paper training days, when I regularly referred to her as ‘Smella.’

To be fair, I did just have to wrestle a brand new pair of ballet flats from her jaws.

Confessions of a Hemaholic

It started out innocently enough.  It always does.  I mentioned to my friend Jackie that my jeans needed hemming, designed seemingly for a 6’3” 107-pound fit model.  She recommended we take a trip to see her tailor.  At first I was fearful – hems in my neighborhood are expensive, the thread often doesn’t match, and the new hem sometimes ends up wider than the pants leg.  But the more Jackie pushed – talked, I mean talked – the more it made perfect sense.  So what if Pablo spoke only Spanish? Jackie was fluent. And, sure, it took 45 minutes and three trains to get there.  But that’s ok – Jackie eased me in, having her husband pick up my jeans and bring them to me.  It went pretty much as anyone who has ever seen an after school special in the late 70’s early 08’s would expect – a good friend offered me the product, cheap, and hand-delivered.  Soon I was even getting special service as a top customer.

My new habit grew, slowly at first.  Sure, the new jeans.  But what about my beloved, two-year old cords? Yes, they needed to come up a bit.  Both pair.  And what about those jeans with the artfully torn hem? Pablo could remove the hem, shorten the leg, and reattach the artisan rips.  And of course work pants, they needed to be adjusted to suit the height of my boots (always boots, remember?).

Soon I was seeing hems everywhere I looked.  Men with their pant legs flapping in the air, inches above their shoes.  Surely they just needed someone to introduce them to the secret of good quality hemming.  Women whose pants did not reach the bottom of their heel – or worse yet – women who walked around on their hems! Oh, I had to look away in horror.  These poor souls did not know what they were missing. 

And then Jackie moved to Florida.  Something about needing a fresh start, getting away from her old friends and their nasty habits, staying clean.  But where did that leave me? Hemming alone? I don’t think so.  I recruited a new partner in hemming.  A family member, no less.  

Had I hit rock bottom? Oh no, that was practically just the beginning . Soon I was bringing in anything in my closet, telling myself I was just heeding Clinton and Stacy’s advice (“Buy it for the biggest part of you and find a great tailor.”)  Sundresses needed to be taken up in the straps.  Skirts must be nipped in at the waist. Dresses must be flattened out across the back.  And you know that gap between your jeans waist and top of your bottom? I had that surgically removed.

I even brought in hand-me-down True Religion jeans that had already been hemmed so Pablo could re-do them (the thread was the wrong color! The stitching wasn’t perfectly straight! The hem did that jut-out thing!). I know you are thinking, “Well, those are expensive jeans.” OK -  but does it explain my trips down there with Target dresses and flannel shirts?

To you this blog entry may seem like a step toward recovery, but there is no doubt in my mind  that my next pickup trip to Pablo (cords, two kirts, camo pants), will include another drop off (two dresses, Target skirt).  But I tell myself it’s OK, I am a functional hemaholic, managing both a demanding career and a household.  For now.

Funk Busters

It has been a very long, very angry day, the workday part of which is wrapping up only now, at 12:30. AM. 12:30 PM would be fine with me, for the record. So to cheer myself up, and possibly you by extension, here are some items I can count on to lift me out of this long-workday funk.

1. Stella Layla, my dog.  She is awesome.  She has hopped up next to the keyboard to assuage my anger.  Dogs are awesome.  Of course, not other people's.  Just mine, my parents' and my neighbor Gail's.  Oh, and yours, I guess yours is awesome (if you say so). 
2. Brian Williams.  He really deserves an entire entry - nay, an entire blog.  Every day a bit more of his brilliance is revealed.  For evidence of said brilliance, just watch this video of Williams proposing that the number one news story of 2010 was the New York Times's discovery of Brooklyn. He uses the phrase "flash artisanal market," people! He compares Brooklyn to Marakesh. Somewhere I read that millennials are puzzled why this comedian hosts a straight news show.  I am too lazy to figure out where I read that and would you really click on the link anyway?
3. Tina Fey.  Thirty Rock in particular, which really is what pulled me out of my funk tonight, but pretty much the mere existence of Tina Fey (and her book that I have read at least 3 times and quoted a thousand times more, bringing my quotes to a total of 1003) is enough to make me think it is possible to get up tomorrow and complete yet another status report. Which brings me to...
4. Chandler's WENUS report.  Every day I work on another one of these urgent forecasts, giving up my evenings (in exchange for a fair dose of additional bitchiness), I am thinking in my head that I am Chandler, concerned that his WENUS is out of wack. That's Miss Chanandler Bong, to you.  And I guess I am just thankful for Friends in general. Monica's head in a turkey, in particular. 
5. Look at the list above and, with the exception of Stella, everything is TV.  I am not ashamed, though, of my great love of TV.  I am proud to love TV. Can I get that on a t-shirt? Or maybe just "TV Lover" or "TV is for Lovers."  Did I mention I am tired?  I am proud that I have named my tv and refer to it by its initials.  Proud that I have multiple dvrs, dvd players, and ipads on which I watch tv shows.  Proud that, as a mere toddler, my younger daughter could recognize Lorelai Gilmore at 20 paces.  Ok, maybe I should be embarrassed, but apparently I am proud. I am less proud of the time that same year she tightly gripped a picture of Jessica Simpson the entire trip from Dallas to NYC, lisping "Jethica" the whole time.

Funk is lifted.  Thank you TVLS and SLLS.

Ringer's Solution

I am an angry NYC chick.  How can my anger be prevented or at least assuaged, that is the question I know you are asking yourself.  All the time.  Every day.  Well, if you are a cashier in a store, here are some tips for you. You are very welcome.

• Don't drop a half dozen custom ordered donuts on the floor and then say, "I'll give you two plain donuts for free!" (What is a custom ordered donut? It is a donut shaped in a number, usually the birthday your child or an adult you wish to humiliate is celebrating, ordered in advance.)  If, for some unexplainable reason, you feel the need to open all the donut boxes to show your paid-in-advance customer every single donut, don't do it with jittery, over-caffeinated hands that cannot be trusted to open a box without dumping the contents all over your brown-tiled floors. Just because you have complete access to DD coffee does not mean you should over-fuel and then take it out on my daughter's donuts.  And then offer some boring old glazed donut in place of the ruined ones and act like this is a freebie I should be grateful for.

• If I come up to you, let's say in a newly renovated Duane Reade (they have produce now?!), and ask you where the flashlights are, do not give the following response: "Will you be here for a while? Because I was just going to the toilet. Maybe after that I can look and if I happen to find a flashlight downstairs I will come up and tell you." Several things here.  Don't tell me you are going to the bathroom.  Don't call it a toilet (unless you pronounce it like Archie Bunker, because that is hysterical and then you may only call it a toilet and you must tell me every time you go).  Don't tell me that maybe you will look and maybe you will come back up with it - or maybe not.  I, the customer, will not know for a good 10 minutes whether you are even returning to the sales floor, with or without my merchandise, and I don't like my odds.

• Let's say I am paying for some nail polish remover, again let's say at a Duane Reade.  It is a little odd if you, the cashier, take this opportunity to ask me if I think you can get yourself some Tom's shoes at Harry's Shoes.  Sure, you need to know this information, and probably even soon, so you can stroll down there on your break and pick up a pair of the primitively hideous, albeit altruistic shoes - but is asking the customer you are ringing up really the best way to determine the answer to your shopping question? OK, in this particular case your customer, me, is the best way to answer pretty much any shopping question, but the next customer would not be. Although, with the apparent frequency with which I visit Duane Reade, it is pretty likely that I will be your next customer, so perhaps this really is your best approach.(I recommended Tip Top Shoes, and held my tongue re the ugliness of Tom's.)

• Perhaps one day you are very tired, from staying up all night feeding the less fortunate, rescuing albino alligator babies and working out the kinks on your recipe for chocolate chip cookies that always stay warm.  It's possible that you will scan a loaf of bread twice by accident.  It happens.  Let's say your customer is surprised by the total on the receipt and questions it.  Don't just surreptitiously deduct that extra charge and pretend all is right.  Just say, "Oops, looks like that loaf rang up twice.  Sorry about that." See how I am not even asking for you to say, "I rang it up twice.  I am sorry," to posses the blame? I am asking for a culpa, not even a mea culpa. That is how generous I am.

Follow these tips, cashiers, and, while I may will continue being an angry nyc chick, I will direct my anger elsewhere.

The Great Tag Throwdown

There is something the other members of my household do that drives me insane.  Yes, yes, I know there are many things they do that drive me insane, but for purposes of this entry, let's say there is just one thing.  And let's not argue about whether or not I started out entirely sane.  It's a moo point.


When the younger members of my household put on a new item of clothing, in their haste and excitement to don the new plain white uniform top, they cannot trouble themselves to throw out the tags. They do remove the tags, but then, I assume, they just release those paper tags to flutter to the floor, possibly mesmerized by the unpredictable path the tag takes on its way down, but more likely not.  If there is an adhesive tag, these young people make a quick choice about whether to firmly adhere it to the bureau or leave it somewhere the puppy can get entangled in it.  I assume that decision is at least in part based on how recently the puppy has been groomed; the more recently the puppy has been groomed, the more imperative it is that this tag affix itself to her fur.


On to the spouse.  The spouse's specialty is dry cleaning tags.  His directive must read something like this: Open up the dry cleaned shirt and violently tug the sleeves until the clear plastic clip goes flying, the further the better.  It will be an unexpected treat to find the clip later (kind of like those picture perfect sea shells Candy Spelling would have her staff hide in the sand on the beach for her spoiled little Tori to uncover - it's true, I read it in a People magazine in sixth grade).  As for those little numbered paper strips that are threaded through the button holes, those are torn off and immediately abandoned in much the same way the young people do with their tags.  In fact, I am fairly certain that years of practice with clothing price tags during childhood has made the spouse the expert dry cleaning-paper-strip abandoner he is today.


In a future entry I will share my passive aggressive tips for dealing with this behavior. Hint - it sometimes involves retrieving the clips and strips and placing them in surprising spots (a shoe, a sock, a briefcase).

Early Snow - Finally a Voice for the True Victims

I frequently tell people "boots are my thing," and it's true, they are.  I have two dozen pair (plus or minus several more pair, but really plus).  Except, you know what? Tote bags are my thing.  I often say that if I was challenged to do so, for witness purposes of protection relocation or just sheer entertainment, I could pack all my belongings in my tote bags.  But also, jackets are my thing. 

Oh, jackets, fabulous jackets.  Leather (buttery soft! glazed! vintage! fringed! fringed vintage!), corduroy, denim.  Not to mention - a strange obsession with army green jackets.  You can't have too many of those... right? I mean, you need one made of surplus army duffel bags, one that reaches your knees, one with flowers embroidered on the back, one with a fur collar and fireman hardware, one with... wait, I am embarrassing myself.  I don't really have all those jackets.  That would be just nuts. Having so many jackets would mean that the hallway coat closet could house my jackets and only my jackets.  And that would be wrong. Very wrong.

So when the weather turns cold and snowy, as it did so suddenly this weekend, many of those purely hypothetical jackets described above do not get their time in the sun.  They wait patiently all summer to finally be summoned, only to weep in disbelief as my arm reaches into the closet and grabs one of the down jackets (or one of no more than three - well, no more than fourish - down vests).  I can only pray for an Indian summer, during which I will make as many wardrobe changes as Cher, just to give my little friends their fair share of screen time. 

Morning Gory

This morning put my blinc mascara's waterproof claims to the test.  And not because I was taking part of a oceanside photo shoot.  If only. It went something like this:


6:30 AM - Awakened by an 8-year old who needs (needs) a hot water bottle for her tummy.  Get it from her from the closet, but by that time she is back asleep.  But not me...


7:15 AM - Best described in a haiku:

Steaming out a new work top
Sleeve right in toilet
It will be fine - it's just silk 

7:25 AM - Same daughter in tears because, despite being given 15 minutes to eat, she has not taken one bite of breakfast and therefore cannot get dressed as I have commanded.  Suggestion that she take her breakfast with her to eat on the way to school is met with incredulity.  Probably because daughter is not sure that the ziploc will securely contain her Crispix in milk.


7:55 AM - Same daughter leaves her adorable purple lunch bag on bench on subway platform.  Watch it get smaller and smaller as train pulls out.


8:10 AM - Husband, who has been dispatched to retrieve adorable purple lunch bag from bench on subway platform, reports that bag has been taken.  Commuter thought purple plaid lunch bag would be just the accessory to complement suit and wingtips.


8:45 AM - Breakfast place is out of oatmeal, but why don't I wait until it's ready.  Sure I can be late for my 9 AM meeting because I am waiting for slow-cooking oatmeal. A tardiness excuse any manager would find reasonable.


9:00 AM - Faced with Outlook-free loaner laptop.  Curse laptop because I literally cannot work without Outlook.  Curse Bill Gates for selling a piece of software so indispensable .


9:05 AM - Spill diet pepsi all over desk, dangerously close to loaner laptop, possibly in a subconscious and misguided attempt to get back at Bill Gates.


Despite some moisture around the eyes, blinc mascara still in place. Dignity, sanity, equanimity - all suspiciously absent.

Don't Wait Wait - Tell Me!

True story. Once I got on an a crowded elevator on the 31st floor and took it down to the lobby at 5pm, the busiest time in an office building.  This exciting story does not end there.  Not one person I encountered chose to mention to me that my skirt was tucked neatly into my pantyhose.  I was not humiliated in the least; truly  I was just furious. How could all those people let me walk around like that?  It's not like I possess a strong enough sense of personal style that a bystander could believe I was making a unique fashion statement.

The same goes for the poppy seeds in the teeth (after any bagel), the flaked mascara under my eye (today).  (Wow, that is quite the picture of myself I have just painted, is it not?) If you see me or anyone else make any of these mistakes, you owe it to them as a fellow living, breathing, sentient being to let them in on the secret and give them the opportunity to correct it.  I will tell people if their fly is unzipped. In high school my friend Cindi regularly demanded a 'chunk check' after any food item was consumed and I gladly took part.

OK, there was that one time when I was on a project at MTV where we didn't tell our manager he had put an open highlighter in his shirt pocket when he was presenting at a meeting, but that was because it was just so much fun to watch the fluorescent yellow spread slowly across his chest.  Capillary action in action!

Sad But True

A dog is not a child.  There, I said it.  I have the best dog in the entire world (this has been proven through clinical trials), and Stella is still not a person.  What does this mean? A number of things.  For starters, it means I am not required to engage in long conversations at 6:30 AM with other dog owners about my dog - her likes, her dislikes, her hopes and dreams, her culinary preferences, which at one point included her own waste. I have contemplated buying a shirt for dog-walking purposes only that says "I have ACTUAL Children" to ward off these people who call their dogs "fur children," but I am concerned they will physically harm me.  Seriously (meaning both that I am being serious and that they will seriously harm me). 

Here's what else it means.  It means that Stella is much easier to take care of than a child.  When we first got Stella, we fielded a lot of knowing comments along the lines of, "It's like having another child, right?" I hope not.  Did you leave your child alone at 3 months old?  Do you serve him a bowl of the same kibble every day - on the floor? Did you have her trained to poop on the sidewalk at 5 months old? (Listen, please don't answer 'yes' to any of these questions in the comments section, because I am fairly certain I have a moral and legal obligation to report you to the proper authorities and I just can't spare the time.)  It also means that, unlike a child, a dog does not require daycare or play dates.  Really, she just doesn't, no matter how cute the name of the place is, or how many puns it contains.  She does, however, require cute vests and humiliating costumes.  That's just an irrefutable law of nature.

MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE

Way too often I feel like Myrna, in this beloved Sesame Street video from my youth.  Remember her? "My chair! (Myrna's chair.) My bookcase! (Myrna's bookcase.) My window curtains! (Myrna's window curtains.) My utterly 70's style wood burning stove like Janet Fossum had! (Myrna's utterly 70's style wood burning stove like Janet Fossum had.)"

I live in a crowded apartment in a crowded building in a crowded city, around which I commute on crowded transportation.  I choose to live this way.  And I get that as a result of this choice, I don't get a lot of personal space, space that is entirely, completely, and only mine.  But can I please have just a few of my own items? That is, things that belong to me and only me? Just a few little things. Please?


You want specifics? OK.  My concealer.  That's mine and only mine, no matter how little sleep you got or how red your your pimple is.  You never put it back, and if and when I do find it after hunting around for five minutes, it's got concealer fingerprints all over it. 


You do not need my Philosophy facial cleanser.  You just don't.  An argument could be made that I don't need it either, but that is a conversation for another blog entry.  At the very least, I bought it with my money, that I earned all by myself, so it is mine, mine, mine.


My socks, the gorgeous short white Costco ones with the designer "KB" logo, they are mine.  Do you realize you are not convincing when you profess not to realize the socks on your feet are not yours - an average of 4 times a week?

This does not even address everyone else's crippling inability to use rechargers.  The only time my iPad is put properly back in its place is when the power has been entirely drained. 

(In)hospitality Management

In the last week I have had to travel twice for work and doing so has made me cranky. I am now developing some thoughtware, and possibly an at-a-glance or a placemat, with instructions to the parties involved in making my trips miserable on how to make them less so in the future. Don’t worry, I will also produce a tri-fold and the requisite app. Let’s start with…

Hotel Proprietors

• Wifi should be wireless. And it should work. And it should not require me to talk to someone at some other location on some other continent for thirty minutes to get it to work. If I must resort to wired (shudder), at least let that wire be in a location that allows me to work with a good view of the TV and Gene Simmons Family Jewels.
• There should be cell phone service in your hotel. In this day and age, I should be calling home for free, not paying the $17 I paid to make sure that everyone has packed her snack for school tomorrow. Yes, now that we all bring our phones with us, you are losing out on those exorbitant phone fees, but you make up for it by charging us for the wifi. That doesn’t work. 
• The bedside clock should not be 5 hours off. Fixing this issue should not require you to send a member of your staff to my room to replace the clock. This happened, unbelievably enough, in both hotels I stayed at last week. Does no one else need to wake up at a specific time, or did the other guests just tell their colleagues, as they parted after dinner, “Meet you at 7 AM, plus or minus 5 hours?"
• The bed should not be situated right next to sliding glass doors that open onto the parking lot. Yes, sure, on the other side of the glass doors there is a dirty teeny tiny patio with a high cinder brick wall separating the room from the actual parking lot, but as far as I am concerned, that wall exists only to conceal a criminal as he slides the doors off their track and then slips into my room. Too much to ask, you say? At the very least, instruct your staff not to give these rooms to nervous New Yorkers; Ottumwa residents are less likely to be made anxious by this arrangement.  

Stay tuned for instructions to the airlines, including a request that klonopin be handed out at check-in for those flights on planes that seat fewer than 60 people.

Thank You, Harvard

Thank you, Harvard, for making me feel even worse about myself.  This HBR article says that if I don't smile after work, my early adolescent children's sense of well-being will be shattered.  So awesome!  It is not enough to work hard all day (and, let's face it, into most evening and every weekend) to support my kids, I better come home with a smile on my face.  If I don't smile each night while I juggle the kids' homework (and, honestly, just figuring out what has been assigned is an incredible stress-inducer), my own work, the kids' dinner (my gourmet meal of cheezits comes much later), and laundry, my kids will have a poor sense of well-being.  I couldn't even rephrase that term, because I don't really quite know what it means, but I do know it must mean that my inability to force a pageant-winningly manic smile across my face while saddled with all those responsibilities each and every night is doing my children irreparable harm.  And it's all my fault.

And where did I read this enlightening article, Harvard? Why on a plane to Phoenix for work.  Work that kept me away from my kids for three nights, three nights that I could not aim my pearly whites in their direction, three nights that no doubt eroded their sense of wellbeing yet further, if that is humanly possible. But when I finally arrived home at 3 am, you just know I ran right into their room, woke them up, and beamed madly at them both.  It's the least I can do for them.

Back to Life, Back to Reality

Well, that was a nice, if unnatural, foray into the positive. Luckily, I received this email from my friend Karen that slapped me right back into reality:

Hi, j. Here's a photo my hs friend posted. I thought of you.

Oh, thank you, Karen, you saw right through the silver lining to the angry thunderclouds underneath.

Happy Happy Blog Blog

So after a long, crappy week, that I only just realized is going to run straight on into another longer and more craptastic week, I have decided to try something completely new – relating positive experiences  Don’t worry, I’ll be dry and cynical and true to the spirit of this blog, and myself.  It’ll be a whole new trip for us! Ready? Vamanos!

Very Lovely Things People Have Done for Me

1.  A couple of months ago I had an extremely painful one-day meeting in Atlanta. Many things went wrong that day, including, but not limited to, the theft of the phone from the conference room in which I was hosting a meeting of partners. The meeting was arranged to allow the attendees to fly out and back the same day, leaving me no time to visit my sister and her family, who live in Atlanta. But, in a move that should really win her sister of the year, my sister took my Starbucks order and waited for me outside the downtown Atlanta office building. During a 5-minute bio break (can we stop saying that please, it’s not cute, it was never cute) I dashed out and retrieved my grande caramel light frappuccino (extra caramel)  through her open car window.  That same week I got a raise and bonus, but this still ranked as the best thing to happen to me all week.

2. Once, for no real reason at all, I decided the return flight on our family vacation was leaving at 2:30 pm.  It was leaving at 11:30 am.  When my husband, two small children and I arrived at the airport only 3 hours late, a kind agent named Lyn took great pity on me, hustled us out of line, and put us another flight ASAP and for free.  No doubt she did it to spare herself and the passengers on line the tantrum that was clearly imminent.  I mean, no one wants to see an adult woman screaming and crying in frustration on the floor of an airline terminal. (FYI – this would be the same trip during which my carefully packed clothing remained carefully packed in a carry –on on my bedroom floor, to be unpacked only upon my return.)

3.  When my older daughter was a wee baby, a friend of my cousin’s was moving and trying to place her nanny.  Although she hardly knew me, and although I already had a nanny, Marilyn insisted I meet her nanny.  She pursued me for literally months until I met beautiful, sunny, sweet, Nicole who has been our nanny and friend for more than 12 years. 

Fairly Awesome Gifts People Have Bought for Me

1. My Aunt Alicia always bought me the best gifts ever when I was a kid.  Every Chanukah we got lots of gifts, but hers were the ones my sister and I looked forward to the most (sorry, Aunt Yetta, who gave me a coloring book when I was 12, I know you tried your best).  More often than not, she got us something personalized, and as we are named Rani and Jayn, you can imagine that meant the world us.  No picking up a Jayn or Rani pen at the drugstore for us.  Also, this was not the age of internet instant personalization, my aunt no doubt had to fill out actual paperwork on paper and send away for these items 3 – 6 weeks ahead.  There was a bracelet, there was a tote bag and umbrella set, there was a book with a main character named Nyaj, and I loved them all.  None of them, though, could hold a candle to the personalized brass gum holder.  It was (and still is) a little brass box with “Jayn’s Gum” engraved on the front and you would slide the pack inside and flip down the lid.  If there is a classier way to dispense a stick of Juicy Fruit, I don’t want to know what it is.

2. When I got engaged my mother got me a Kitchenaid mixer as a surprise.  It’s actually pretty surprising that she held out that long, which really wasn’t long at all, since I got married at like 12.  Anyway, my mother needed to know what color I would like, so she got my friend Suzanne to call and pretend she was going to buy one for herself and ask me what color I recommended.  And, of course, I chose a color that would match Suzanne’s kitchen.  Still, my Kitchenaid is a treasure that regularly turns out yummy cookies and breads, and what is a better present than that?

3.  After an email exchange with my friend Alisa, that included my telling her both that I needed to drink more and that I had been accused of always wearing implied fringe, in a boho sort of way, she sent me a delightful surprise – a flask with the words “In my heart I’m wearing  fringe.”  Working late into the night on yet another iteration of a budget request for work is so much more bearable when I have that flask full of diet coke beside me.

And that’s it! Six cheerful happy thoughts from me, an angry NYC chick.  I’d bookmark this entry if I were you.