The exclusivity of invitation-only access to this blog was no consolation for those of you who enjoyed regaling in the public disclosure of my misadventures. That's nothing compared to the demoralized readers who are just as anonymous to me as I am to them.
I had drinks with a group of girlfriends who are producers at various networks tonight. One of them asked for an invitation to read this blog drawing the exasperated sigh of another who called my decision to take the Love Pariah underground "self-censorship." I pleaded my case in vain. "You know that half the fun is putting yourself out there or why not just write it all in a journal?," she said. In fact, journal is just half of what I am. The "ist" comes from the combination of "exhibitionist" or, if you're prone to armchair therapy, "masochist." So here we are. Miss me?
The last entry alluded to an encounter with a despicable man worthy of a permanent anointment as Keith Olberman's "Worst Person In the World." Last Saturday, my friend Bourge, her cousin Denise and I were at a club in Vegas when a man approached us and chimed into the tail end of our conversation. "We should just have a good time," Bourge was advising me as she wrapped up a story about our stupid friend- a producer from Cleveland- who had taken leave of both her senses and manners during our "girl's weekend."
"Yeah," he slurred, "We should just have fun." We stopped and stared. He was a white guy in his late 30s. "The bartender gave me an extra shot. Do you want it?" he asked us. I was about to avail myself to the free alcohol when the street smart friend of mine demurred. "I don't do shots," she offered. He told us he had a table and within seconds, an executive decision to maneuver ourselves in the direction of complimentary liquor was made. He introduced us to his friends who all appeared to be corn-fed Midwesterners. There was another couple. The woman had big hair and a bigger body and her husband didn't even feign friendliness when introduced. There was a slender woman with blond hair sitting across the table. As Mr.Despicable made the introductions, I was the only one who heard him refer to the blond as his wife. Instantly repelled, I opted to stay on the perimeter of the table, looking like a snob and apathetic to what kind of an impression that might make. Meanwhile my friends chatted up our host if for no other reason than to kill time while downing one vodka cranberry and its impending refill.
"He's married," I said to Denise when she noticed my distant behavior and raised her eyebrows as if to say, "What's up?" I nodded in the direction of the blond. She gave a knowing look. "Yeah. She likes it," Denise said. I was perplexed and repulsed. Then he leaned over my friend and said to me, "You're stunning." Bourge laughed. "And she doesn't even know it." That's when I filled her in on our host. Moments later, he decided to come clean.
"I'm in the middle of a divorce and that's my soon-to-be ex-wife," he admitted. "This is our one last hurrah before we call it quits." We were stunned. What did that make us? At first I felt a tug of sympathy. Having been divorced, I know it's not easy. "Why Vegas?" I asked. "It's her 40th birthday and it's not mutual," he said. "But we planned it a while ago." Suddenly Bourge announced that she needed to go to the ladies room and since women do this in groups when out and about, Denise and I trailed behind her. "Now I've seen it ALL!" she yelled. Denise told us that she saw the blond wipe away a tear as her wayward husband was confessing their marital woes to three women he had just met in a Vegas nightclub.
So that's my first post back after a short hiatus. See? You weren't missing much.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Red Eyes and Surviving the Knight
I took the red eye flight back to New York from Las Vegas. I love that in an industry with rampant euphemisms (EconomyPlus, oversold), this one term for that brutal cross-country, overnight flight is on point.
Work hard, play hard. It's what so many unimaginative guys put on their online profiles be it myspace or the dating site du jour. But it perfectly describes the last 24 hours of my life. I was in Las Vegas for one last hurrah with a good friend who I met when we worked together at a local TV station. It was my last full-time on-air gig before moving to New York City. Now she's moving here, too, where she's rightfully earned her network stripes.
Friday night, I sat next to a strapping, young, real estate mogul on the flight from JFK to McCarran. When I realized that the seat between us was empty, I said, "I'm going to be stretching out and I hope you don't mind-" and as he said "no problem" he heard the last of my sentence,"if I put my feet in your lap." He laughed and we had a nice conversation before I fell asleep. He was en route to a buddy's bachelor party and I was planning my own weekend debauchery.
Saturday, my girlfriend whose nickname is "Bourge" short for bourgeois for reasons too obvious to delineate, had to go in to work. Her cousin, Denise, and I were invited by one of her boy toys to hang out at the Bare Pool at the Mirage Casino and Hotel. This pool has exclusive access and the female patrons are first screened then encouraged to go topless. Unlike some of my Mardi Gras appearances, this time I abstained from following suit. But the guys we met at the pool were HOT. At one point, Denise and I agreed that we were on the real life version of Entourage and needless to say, I felt fat. After our afternoon frolic, we took power naps. Denise was visiting from Atlanta and both of us were a tad bit jet lagged.
That night, we met Bourge at The Palms. The owner is her friend so we bypassed the proletariat line and were fast tracked upstairs and told by the "host" to go to Tommie Lee's table. But we never made it over there (that's another blog entry me thinks). However, Gwen Stefani was there as was Paris Hilton, a permanent fixture in the Vegas nightlife, along with Nicolette Sheridan, Luke Wilson and some guys from No Doubt. First the DJ asked us to give it up for Gwen Stefani in "da how-us" and played one of her singles. Then he did the same for Paris Hilton. Not to be out shined by her superior, Paris got up on a table and gave an impromptu, um, performance. I took pictures that were later offered to Life and Style Magazine. My friend, one of the editors, thought I was kidding. "We get Paris sightings every week." Apparently, the celebrity sex kitten's antics are often caught on film and even the tabloids are tired of them.
We had a few drinks at what we thought was the owner's table. But a few minutes later, I was asked to down my drink because we had inadvertantly ended up at the table reserved by Bruce Willis. After a peculiar encounter with a man vying for Keith Olberman's "Worst Person in the World" anointment (see next blog entry) we were ready to move on to another club. But in order to do this, we had to wait for the elevator and that was a formidable hurdle in itself. At one point, I was being pushed and I turned to look at this huge, bodyguard-type black guy behind me. "You can keep pushing me but I've got nowhere to go," I said indicating the mob ahead of me. "I ain't pushing you, baby," he said moving past me to another room. Denise looked at me with shock and awe, "You're one brave girl to talk to Tupac's killer that way," she said. "That was Suge Knight!" she pointed out. Gulp.
The highlight of the evening was Denise. Besides mortifying her cousin with inappropriate disclosures of how domestic bliss in Georgia is contingent on swinging with other couples, she provided her own shock and awe with her post-marital flirtation techniques. As we dined at The Wynn at 5am, she casually mentioned how the guy she was dancing with was "really turned on." She said she told him as much when she grabbed his package and confirmed his state of arousal. Bourge and I choked on our fries. "What?" she protested. "It's no different from you slapping someone's ass," she said referring to Bourge's tendency to accost men in that manner and then point at me. Also, my friend has the charming quality of not disclosing this fact until after they've chatted me up. Then as my low self-esteem wonders aloud what ignited their interest, she fills me in. Nice. Anyway, back to Denise. "It is different!" Bourge and I exclaimed in unison. She simply shrugged and plowed into her hash browns.
I wrapped up my short visit with a charming dinner at Bouchon, a French restaurant in The Venetian. Afterwards the girls dropped me off at the airport where I boarded my uneventful overnight flight home. If you've been following some of my travel nightmares, you'll understand why uneventful is a blessing. At 7 am ET, I disembarked and boarded another flight from DC to New York. Two rows ahead of me was Senator Ted Kennedy. I was too tired to get really starstruck. I'm impressed for no other reason than his relation to JFK. And I was surprised that he was flying coach. But it's an election year and he's a Democrat. Plus, it was the shuttle from DC to New York, an hour in coach doesn't really count.
Now it's 3am ET and I'm awake because after a really hectic Monday at work, I came home at 6pm and slept until 10:30pm. I know. As usual, I opted for instant gratification over more strategic self-restraint.
Work hard, play hard. It's what so many unimaginative guys put on their online profiles be it myspace or the dating site du jour. But it perfectly describes the last 24 hours of my life. I was in Las Vegas for one last hurrah with a good friend who I met when we worked together at a local TV station. It was my last full-time on-air gig before moving to New York City. Now she's moving here, too, where she's rightfully earned her network stripes.
Friday night, I sat next to a strapping, young, real estate mogul on the flight from JFK to McCarran. When I realized that the seat between us was empty, I said, "I'm going to be stretching out and I hope you don't mind-" and as he said "no problem" he heard the last of my sentence,"if I put my feet in your lap." He laughed and we had a nice conversation before I fell asleep. He was en route to a buddy's bachelor party and I was planning my own weekend debauchery.
Saturday, my girlfriend whose nickname is "Bourge" short for bourgeois for reasons too obvious to delineate, had to go in to work. Her cousin, Denise, and I were invited by one of her boy toys to hang out at the Bare Pool at the Mirage Casino and Hotel. This pool has exclusive access and the female patrons are first screened then encouraged to go topless. Unlike some of my Mardi Gras appearances, this time I abstained from following suit. But the guys we met at the pool were HOT. At one point, Denise and I agreed that we were on the real life version of Entourage and needless to say, I felt fat. After our afternoon frolic, we took power naps. Denise was visiting from Atlanta and both of us were a tad bit jet lagged.
That night, we met Bourge at The Palms. The owner is her friend so we bypassed the proletariat line and were fast tracked upstairs and told by the "host" to go to Tommie Lee's table. But we never made it over there (that's another blog entry me thinks). However, Gwen Stefani was there as was Paris Hilton, a permanent fixture in the Vegas nightlife, along with Nicolette Sheridan, Luke Wilson and some guys from No Doubt. First the DJ asked us to give it up for Gwen Stefani in "da how-us" and played one of her singles. Then he did the same for Paris Hilton. Not to be out shined by her superior, Paris got up on a table and gave an impromptu, um, performance. I took pictures that were later offered to Life and Style Magazine. My friend, one of the editors, thought I was kidding. "We get Paris sightings every week." Apparently, the celebrity sex kitten's antics are often caught on film and even the tabloids are tired of them.We had a few drinks at what we thought was the owner's table. But a few minutes later, I was asked to down my drink because we had inadvertantly ended up at the table reserved by Bruce Willis. After a peculiar encounter with a man vying for Keith Olberman's "Worst Person in the World" anointment (see next blog entry) we were ready to move on to another club. But in order to do this, we had to wait for the elevator and that was a formidable hurdle in itself. At one point, I was being pushed and I turned to look at this huge, bodyguard-type black guy behind me. "You can keep pushing me but I've got nowhere to go," I said indicating the mob ahead of me. "I ain't pushing you, baby," he said moving past me to another room. Denise looked at me with shock and awe, "You're one brave girl to talk to Tupac's killer that way," she said. "That was Suge Knight!" she pointed out. Gulp.
The highlight of the evening was Denise. Besides mortifying her cousin with inappropriate disclosures of how domestic bliss in Georgia is contingent on swinging with other couples, she provided her own shock and awe with her post-marital flirtation techniques. As we dined at The Wynn at 5am, she casually mentioned how the guy she was dancing with was "really turned on." She said she told him as much when she grabbed his package and confirmed his state of arousal. Bourge and I choked on our fries. "What?" she protested. "It's no different from you slapping someone's ass," she said referring to Bourge's tendency to accost men in that manner and then point at me. Also, my friend has the charming quality of not disclosing this fact until after they've chatted me up. Then as my low self-esteem wonders aloud what ignited their interest, she fills me in. Nice. Anyway, back to Denise. "It is different!" Bourge and I exclaimed in unison. She simply shrugged and plowed into her hash browns.
I wrapped up my short visit with a charming dinner at Bouchon, a French restaurant in The Venetian. Afterwards the girls dropped me off at the airport where I boarded my uneventful overnight flight home. If you've been following some of my travel nightmares, you'll understand why uneventful is a blessing. At 7 am ET, I disembarked and boarded another flight from DC to New York. Two rows ahead of me was Senator Ted Kennedy. I was too tired to get really starstruck. I'm impressed for no other reason than his relation to JFK. And I was surprised that he was flying coach. But it's an election year and he's a Democrat. Plus, it was the shuttle from DC to New York, an hour in coach doesn't really count.
Now it's 3am ET and I'm awake because after a really hectic Monday at work, I came home at 6pm and slept until 10:30pm. I know. As usual, I opted for instant gratification over more strategic self-restraint.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Morbid Obesity Pays
Me! Below is the response I got from JetBlue. Below that is the letter I sent them. And underneath it all is a very happy LP :)
We deeply regret the uncomfortable situation you and were faced with on your flight from New York to Chicago.
We can not force a customer to purchase two seats. When morbidly obese people choose to travel with JetBlue they usually do choose to purchase an extra seat for their own comfort, and this is not an issue. If we denied customers passage due to their size the discrimination issues would be endless.
We make every attempt to seat our larger customers in a row that might allow them to have two seats. However, when a flight like yours is full, we do not always have that option.
As a gesture of goodwill, and an invitation for you to give us another try , we have issued you electronic vouchers which is equivalent to the fare you paid.
Although we know that travel vouchers can never compensate for your discomfort, and inconvenience you experienced, we hope you will accept it as a token of our appreciation for your understanding.
Original Message Follows:
------------------------
Comments submitted from Speak Up Forms
Departure City: JFK
Destination City: ORD
Flight Date: 3/29/07
Flight Number: 919
Last week I was on the 8pm JetBlue flight from JFK to Chicago O'Hare. I paid $250 for a oneway ticket due to a last minute business trip. Upon boarding, I saw that the woman sitting next to me was morbidly obese, taking up both her and my seat. I discreetly informed the flight attendant that I couldn't fit but due to the sold out flight, I was asked to await a gate agent's arrival to handle the situation.
When he arrived, he told the woman that she should move to the aisle seat from the window seat. She did so but even with that and much maneuvering on my part, she was still overflowing into my seat.
We managed and amicably because it's not my nature to humiliate people for the physical abnoramalities. However, upon disembarking, another flight attendant stopped the third passenger in my row, who was sitting on the other side of me. I saw this happen as I was getting off the plane and he found me in baggage claim and informed me that he was given a voucher for HIS inconvenience.
What about my discomfort and inconvenience?!
We deeply regret the uncomfortable situation you and were faced with on your flight from New York to Chicago.
We can not force a customer to purchase two seats. When morbidly obese people choose to travel with JetBlue they usually do choose to purchase an extra seat for their own comfort, and this is not an issue. If we denied customers passage due to their size the discrimination issues would be endless.
We make every attempt to seat our larger customers in a row that might allow them to have two seats. However, when a flight like yours is full, we do not always have that option.
As a gesture of goodwill, and an invitation for you to give us another try , we have issued you electronic vouchers which is equivalent to the fare you paid.
Although we know that travel vouchers can never compensate for your discomfort, and inconvenience you experienced, we hope you will accept it as a token of our appreciation for your understanding.
Original Message Follows:
------------------------
Comments submitted from Speak Up Forms
Departure City: JFK
Destination City: ORD
Flight Date: 3/29/07
Flight Number: 919
Last week I was on the 8pm JetBlue flight from JFK to Chicago O'Hare. I paid $250 for a oneway ticket due to a last minute business trip. Upon boarding, I saw that the woman sitting next to me was morbidly obese, taking up both her and my seat. I discreetly informed the flight attendant that I couldn't fit but due to the sold out flight, I was asked to await a gate agent's arrival to handle the situation.
When he arrived, he told the woman that she should move to the aisle seat from the window seat. She did so but even with that and much maneuvering on my part, she was still overflowing into my seat.
We managed and amicably because it's not my nature to humiliate people for the physical abnoramalities. However, upon disembarking, another flight attendant stopped the third passenger in my row, who was sitting on the other side of me. I saw this happen as I was getting off the plane and he found me in baggage claim and informed me that he was given a voucher for HIS inconvenience.
What about my discomfort and inconvenience?!
The Fallout From the Frugal Fight
The response from readers about the Cheap Skate has been mixed. Some said I should have split it three ways because an innocent was involved. Others simply told me to steer clear of dumbasses like DSG.
I felt bad for it, if only because I still clung to the hope of meeting Bono. So I sent an email apologizing.
Hey,
I know you're pissed at me but I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry for last night.
I should have been gracious and split it three ways.
You were right to be angry. Sorry for being a jerk.
He didn't respond. The reverie of rubbing elbows with my benevolent Bono appears to be a pipe dream and I will pursue my boss's contacts for Daily Show tickets. But the best response to that entry would have to be Janice's. Behold:
I felt bad for it, if only because I still clung to the hope of meeting Bono. So I sent an email apologizing.
Hey,
I know you're pissed at me but I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry for last night.
I should have been gracious and split it three ways.
You were right to be angry. Sorry for being a jerk.
He didn't respond. The reverie of rubbing elbows with my benevolent Bono appears to be a pipe dream and I will pursue my boss's contacts for Daily Show tickets. But the best response to that entry would have to be Janice's. Behold:
Monday, April 16, 2007
Oh, Stop your WHINING!
So the Love Pariah finally made good on her threat to go underground. And it's those of you who have exclusive access to the blog who are up in arms about this recent development. I'm not sure I understand all this whining. Please tell me why a secret window isn't as much fun as an open door.
The reason I chose to limit access to less than a dozen readers was quite simply motivated by fear. Fear of reprisal from those anonymously mentioned, fear of being outed by one of the dozens of indiscreet readers who couldn't keep a secret if their life depended on it. And then there were my fellow journos who questioned my quest for "anonymity." More than once an eye roll was accompanied by a comment such as, "Your blog is the worst kept secret since Clay Aiken's sexual preference." And, finally, fear that my outing would take a significant toll on something as intangible and invaluable as my credibility.
I suspect more than a few friendships have been damaged by this blog. HPG was mad at me for a while. Then I severed ties with a girlfriend I had known since my first reporting gig because she couldn't get it through her thick skull that I was serious about my secret identity, choosing to mock me for it and telling mutual friends and REFERENCES about it. I think the friend poacher read it before it went underground because I haven't heard a peep from her since. So if writing really is equivalent to blood-letting, I've spilled plenty. But again, if there's a compromise I've neglected, feel free to awaken me to new possibilities. If not, pipe down and read!
The reason I chose to limit access to less than a dozen readers was quite simply motivated by fear. Fear of reprisal from those anonymously mentioned, fear of being outed by one of the dozens of indiscreet readers who couldn't keep a secret if their life depended on it. And then there were my fellow journos who questioned my quest for "anonymity." More than once an eye roll was accompanied by a comment such as, "Your blog is the worst kept secret since Clay Aiken's sexual preference." And, finally, fear that my outing would take a significant toll on something as intangible and invaluable as my credibility.
I suspect more than a few friendships have been damaged by this blog. HPG was mad at me for a while. Then I severed ties with a girlfriend I had known since my first reporting gig because she couldn't get it through her thick skull that I was serious about my secret identity, choosing to mock me for it and telling mutual friends and REFERENCES about it. I think the friend poacher read it before it went underground because I haven't heard a peep from her since. So if writing really is equivalent to blood-letting, I've spilled plenty. But again, if there's a compromise I've neglected, feel free to awaken me to new possibilities. If not, pipe down and read!
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Friend Poacher
What is it with these people? Am I the only one who has encountered this problem? I have a lot of friends. Part of it is my engaging personality, part of it my ability to adapt to new environments quickly and make friends easily. And I think it's great that my friends, who meet through me, get along. I mean everyone wants their friends to get along, right?
But what I don't want are people who surreptitiously forge friendships through me. How can I explain this? It keeps happening and there's more than one poacher but one who's especially determined to make all my friends hers. Poaching may be the wrong word because it's not illegal but it is socially repugnant.. to me. Allow me to elaborate.
We'll call her Clare like the fake poster who annoyed me to no end. Clare has reached out to every single girl that she has met through me and invited them to socialize in my absence. And most of the friends she's done this with have been gracious even flattered by her extending her hand on the heels of a chance meeting through moi. However, a few of them have thought it a bit odd that she would exclude me. At first, I didn't think much of it. But it happens a lot and she never mentions it to me. I find out because the girls she's contacting tell me. She even emailed my roommate. Then she texts my friends when they're out with me inviting them to hang out. Is this weird or is it just me? It's made me suspicious and, well, annoyed.
I know I may sound petty but there's something to this. Were she upfront about her activities, I'd be less likely to be irked but under the circumstances, I am. I think there's a line between being social and being sneaky and I feel it's being repeatedly crossed here.
But what I don't want are people who surreptitiously forge friendships through me. How can I explain this? It keeps happening and there's more than one poacher but one who's especially determined to make all my friends hers. Poaching may be the wrong word because it's not illegal but it is socially repugnant.. to me. Allow me to elaborate.
We'll call her Clare like the fake poster who annoyed me to no end. Clare has reached out to every single girl that she has met through me and invited them to socialize in my absence. And most of the friends she's done this with have been gracious even flattered by her extending her hand on the heels of a chance meeting through moi. However, a few of them have thought it a bit odd that she would exclude me. At first, I didn't think much of it. But it happens a lot and she never mentions it to me. I find out because the girls she's contacting tell me. She even emailed my roommate. Then she texts my friends when they're out with me inviting them to hang out. Is this weird or is it just me? It's made me suspicious and, well, annoyed.
I know I may sound petty but there's something to this. Were she upfront about her activities, I'd be less likely to be irked but under the circumstances, I am. I think there's a line between being social and being sneaky and I feel it's being repeatedly crossed here.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Frost smitten
I just saw a fantastic play tonight. It's called "Frost/Nixon" and chronicles the series of interviews by British talk show host David Frost of disgraced President Richard Nixon. The playwright is the incomparable Peter Morgan ("The Queen" and "The Last King of Scotland"). Michael Sheen who channeled Tony Blair in "The Queen" stars opposite Frank Langella who morphs into Nixon for an amazing performance.No, this blog hasn't suddenly turned into a theater critic's column but I'm just so friggin' psyched to be moved by theater! I should disclose that my senior thesis was on Watergate and my all-time favorite movie is "All The President's Men" so I have an uncommon affinity for this subject matter. I thought "The Vertical Hour" was good but it pales in comparison to the writing, pacing, and execution of this moment in history when a reluctant subject bore his soul to an unlikely "reporter." I hope they take this to the big screen because it's really powerful.
Speaking of the big screen, I ran into Glenn Close as we were leaving the theater. I reminded her that we met at a soup kitchen on Christmas Eve and of course she remembered me. I think we're destined to be brunch pals although I can't actually confirm that without appearing as though I'm stalking her. Hmm, conundrum.
Friday, April 06, 2007
It's Raining Men
There has been a slew of gentlemen callers this past week. Correction: male suitors. And I use the latter half of that term loosely. In addition to a steady stream of texts from Dallas, I've had three other boys unexpectedly surface with the intent of dating or at least bedding me. One of them is actually a friend of Dallas. When he sent me a text message identifying himself, I asked Dallas if he had passed the LP baton to his boy. "No," he said, "you gave him your card, too. Apparently, you gave all of us your card." Classy. I told the friend that Dallas has beat him to the punch. He bowed out. Bachelor Number three is a lawyer I met online months ago who is now motivated to meet and soon but our schedules aren't aligning.
Next on deck was a real estate agent I dated last summer. But business travel had me crisscrossing the country at a frenetic and relentless pace so I let that fizzle out. When I gave him a referral recently, he thanked me and invited me out for a drink. But my shoot for CNN went pretty late last night and we ended up meeting at my place while I packed for my trip to Mexico. We ordered in, familiarity and other factors intervened, yada, yada, yada... But before things got out of hand, I stopped him. This guy hadn't earned that kind of lovin'. His response solidified the wisdom of my decision. "What do I do with THIS?" he asked referring to his package. I had to look away because I knew he would just get more agitated if I laughed in his face.
Today he sent me an email asking if we could just be friends and while I responded in the affirmative I was a bit irked that this hapless Romeo would have the nerve to put ME in the friend zone. In an effort to regain my perception of the upper hand, I relayed the story to two male coworkers/friends and barely glossed over the details including his last comment. They were horrified and amused to no end. "He said WHAT?" one of them asked. "I don't even say shit like that to my girlfriend," said the other. It got me thinking and, due to both a lack of discretion and anything better to do, talking about other equally offensive things crass Casanovas had said to me in the past.
Exhibit A: "Can I feel some fur?" No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to erase this crude comment from my memory. By the way, the answer was no.
Exhibit B: "Kiss it." A command from the man who had shown so much promise, whisking me away in a private plane he chartered and piloted for a romantic dinner in a nearby city. After our third date, I emerged from the bathroom to find him wearing nothing, armed with an erection and the two words every woman longs to hear: "kiss it."
Exhibit C: Once when I fell asleep while watching a movie, another misguided man whore woke me up to inquire, "Would you mind if I jacked off next to you?" Again, the answer was no.
These memories had my coworkers wiping away tears of unbridled joy at my sad love life and the dork magnet I so clearly am. And it got me ruminating about something I'm often accused of lacking: restraint. But what about these losers? Where was their dignity and restraint? Or is it OK to abdicate those qualities when the prospect of lifting cars seems imminent?
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Oh my Gad!
That's what my baby cousin said to me several years ago as I descended the long winding staircase at my grandparent's house. I was all dolled up for a wedding we were going to. She was three. It's not uncommon for my relatives to declare, "Oh my GOD!" when someone is all dressed up. It's a tad disingenuous but intended to make the object of their feigned awe-struck expression feel special. It's embarrassing but sweet.
In fact, that sums up my family: embarrassing but sweet. Once my parents recovered from the fact that I wasn't headed straight for an arranged marriage post-college, they consoled themselves with the idea of their eldest daughter being a "TV star." This is perhaps the greatest set-up for failure anyone can imagine. My arrogance proved a dubious asset because while it contributed to my delusions of grandeur it also enabled me to distance myself from the reality of my status. In reality, I was a lowly paid news reporter at a TV station that was the laughing stock of a small town. Our anchor was narcoleptic and would fall asleep while our stories were airing. His co-anchor often had to kick him awake to read the story's tag. I remember treating myself to a chilito at Taco Bell and the employees stared in awe and confusion as they saw me on the restaurant's TV while I was placing my order. I wanted to tell them that we were on the same pay scale, in fact, theirs was possibly higher given the fact that I had no health benefits.
But if you asked my folks, I was a TV star. My dad would introduce me to friends and business associates by saying, "She's an anchorwoman for CBS." This was such a blatant exaggeration/lie that I didn't know how to react. "Actually, I'm a reporter for a CBS affiliate," I would point out only to be silenced by my dad's fire and brimstone glare. Out of earshot, he would exclaim, "Why don't you shut your mouths when I'm speaking? What I said that's wrong?!" I attempted to explain the difference between the network and an affiliate only to be cut off with, "You don't think big. To be big, you must think big." Maybe he was right but even years later when I funded my own foreign assignments, I was still stonewalled by unimaginative network execs who wanted to know why I left local news without the security of full time employment. I wanted to freelance, I said. I was tired of office politics and enjoyed the freedom of picking my own assignments.
And once I did get my mug on CNN, the barrage of accusations from my father about me selling myself short continued. "Why don't you work for CNN?" he would ask, clearly agitated that I was encroaching on his bragging rights. I told him that they didn't have positions available that I wanted. "Tell them I'll adwertize on their channel and then they'll hire you. I'll call my friend the mayor and tell him he should make them hire you." Is it any wonder it took years of therapy for me to come down to planet earth?
In fact, that sums up my family: embarrassing but sweet. Once my parents recovered from the fact that I wasn't headed straight for an arranged marriage post-college, they consoled themselves with the idea of their eldest daughter being a "TV star." This is perhaps the greatest set-up for failure anyone can imagine. My arrogance proved a dubious asset because while it contributed to my delusions of grandeur it also enabled me to distance myself from the reality of my status. In reality, I was a lowly paid news reporter at a TV station that was the laughing stock of a small town. Our anchor was narcoleptic and would fall asleep while our stories were airing. His co-anchor often had to kick him awake to read the story's tag. I remember treating myself to a chilito at Taco Bell and the employees stared in awe and confusion as they saw me on the restaurant's TV while I was placing my order. I wanted to tell them that we were on the same pay scale, in fact, theirs was possibly higher given the fact that I had no health benefits.
But if you asked my folks, I was a TV star. My dad would introduce me to friends and business associates by saying, "She's an anchorwoman for CBS." This was such a blatant exaggeration/lie that I didn't know how to react. "Actually, I'm a reporter for a CBS affiliate," I would point out only to be silenced by my dad's fire and brimstone glare. Out of earshot, he would exclaim, "Why don't you shut your mouths when I'm speaking? What I said that's wrong?!" I attempted to explain the difference between the network and an affiliate only to be cut off with, "You don't think big. To be big, you must think big." Maybe he was right but even years later when I funded my own foreign assignments, I was still stonewalled by unimaginative network execs who wanted to know why I left local news without the security of full time employment. I wanted to freelance, I said. I was tired of office politics and enjoyed the freedom of picking my own assignments.
And once I did get my mug on CNN, the barrage of accusations from my father about me selling myself short continued. "Why don't you work for CNN?" he would ask, clearly agitated that I was encroaching on his bragging rights. I told him that they didn't have positions available that I wanted. "Tell them I'll adwertize on their channel and then they'll hire you. I'll call my friend the mayor and tell him he should make them hire you." Is it any wonder it took years of therapy for me to come down to planet earth?
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
The Self-Aware Sadist
Masochist: someone who obtains pleasure from receiving punishment
Sadist: someone who obtains pleasure from inflicting punishment
If you've ever been really mean to someone and enjoyed it, you have donned the hat of a sadist. I remember the first time I saw the word. I was in grade school and thought it meant someone who was sad. As an adult with a love of the vernacular, I don't think I was too far off the mark. Unless you have some sexual fetish, most people behave in sadistic ways subconsciously. The ones who don't are psychopaths and either locked up or government leaders (see Rumsfeld, Cheney, Bush).
But what if you met someone and for whatever reason decided to cultivate a friendship with them only to learn, fairly early on that they inexplicably derived some sick pleasure from berating you? It's perplexing. And it's one thing if this person was simply insensitive which is what I chalked it up to at first. But it's another thing altogether if they admit that they like being verbally and emotionally abusive to you in particular.
For all my talk about self-love and loathing, I honestly didn't believe I was a masochist. However, a series of recent encounters have proven otherwise. But this new friend, one whose opinion I valued kept telling me that the reason he was dismissive, dogmatic and, well just plain mean was because I enjoyed the abuse. I found this absolutely maddening. I vacillated between completely ignoring this person and trying to be genuinely nice to them in an effort to reverse this abusive “dynamic” we had established.
Don’t get me wrong. I love a good debate and certainly don’t mind being challenged. But I was accused of being a self-loathing human being on a constant basis and on a couple of occasions told I was an alcoholic. I found the former disturbing and the latter ludicrous. All of my friends disagreed with the assessment and encouraged me to cut off the friendship or fulfill my abuser’s desire to have a pathetic punching bag available at whim.
So I did. I stood up for myself for the umpteenth time but with the resolve of burying this bully once and for all. And now that I have, I feel so hurt and resentful which is actually the same as I felt when we were friends. If there’s any truth to his accusations about me being a masochist they probably stem from the fact that having “been there, done that” in all sorts of relationships, my threshold for bad behavior is pretty high. But what I can’t wrap my head around is what kind of a person knowingly inflicts pain and then proudly stands behind his handiwork. My sister put it best when she said, “You need to distance yourself from this guy who is sending you to a very bad place where the monsters live.”
She’s right. We all have monsters or the ability to become them. In this case, I allowed self-doubt to stand in the way of self-preservation. And what I’ve learned is this: friends don’t make friends feel like shit and mean people suck.
Sadist: someone who obtains pleasure from inflicting punishment
If you've ever been really mean to someone and enjoyed it, you have donned the hat of a sadist. I remember the first time I saw the word. I was in grade school and thought it meant someone who was sad. As an adult with a love of the vernacular, I don't think I was too far off the mark. Unless you have some sexual fetish, most people behave in sadistic ways subconsciously. The ones who don't are psychopaths and either locked up or government leaders (see Rumsfeld, Cheney, Bush).
But what if you met someone and for whatever reason decided to cultivate a friendship with them only to learn, fairly early on that they inexplicably derived some sick pleasure from berating you? It's perplexing. And it's one thing if this person was simply insensitive which is what I chalked it up to at first. But it's another thing altogether if they admit that they like being verbally and emotionally abusive to you in particular.
For all my talk about self-love and loathing, I honestly didn't believe I was a masochist. However, a series of recent encounters have proven otherwise. But this new friend, one whose opinion I valued kept telling me that the reason he was dismissive, dogmatic and, well just plain mean was because I enjoyed the abuse. I found this absolutely maddening. I vacillated between completely ignoring this person and trying to be genuinely nice to them in an effort to reverse this abusive “dynamic” we had established.
Don’t get me wrong. I love a good debate and certainly don’t mind being challenged. But I was accused of being a self-loathing human being on a constant basis and on a couple of occasions told I was an alcoholic. I found the former disturbing and the latter ludicrous. All of my friends disagreed with the assessment and encouraged me to cut off the friendship or fulfill my abuser’s desire to have a pathetic punching bag available at whim.
So I did. I stood up for myself for the umpteenth time but with the resolve of burying this bully once and for all. And now that I have, I feel so hurt and resentful which is actually the same as I felt when we were friends. If there’s any truth to his accusations about me being a masochist they probably stem from the fact that having “been there, done that” in all sorts of relationships, my threshold for bad behavior is pretty high. But what I can’t wrap my head around is what kind of a person knowingly inflicts pain and then proudly stands behind his handiwork. My sister put it best when she said, “You need to distance yourself from this guy who is sending you to a very bad place where the monsters live.”
She’s right. We all have monsters or the ability to become them. In this case, I allowed self-doubt to stand in the way of self-preservation. And what I’ve learned is this: friends don’t make friends feel like shit and mean people suck.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Typhoid Mary
As you may have read, my trip to Chicago was pretty eventful. Friday night I opted to stay with my dad's side of the family, the crazy side, before heading back to New York. I took the train from Chicago to the burbs and was entertained by a squirrely stock broker who claimed he was related to Jeremy Irons. He was funny and carried my suitcase so I gave him my email.
My cousin spent the night at her folk's house so we could catch up. We were up until 5am, this in addition to the sleep deprivation I had accumulated the night before. I got into New York only to hop into the smelly cab that reeked of curry. I sent my roommate a text telling her as much. "Be nice," she wrote back, "They're your people." Yes, my people. The night before I was actually eating curry on Devon Street- Chicago's hub of Indian and Pakistani restaurants. My cousin and I were delighted to see a sign advertising the menu of one establishment. In addition to the traditional fare, they offered "Gyros and Homos." "Look," my cousin exclaimed, "They serve homos, how progressive of them."
New York is the only city I've ever lived in where I'm excited to come home. However, this time around the anticipation was twofold because a couple of my best friends were in town. We made plans to grab dinner and head to the meatpacking district for some debauchery. Typically, when I have grand plans of painting the town red, I end up staying at home and painting my nails instead. But this time, mission accomplished.
DSG met us at the corner near our respective apartments to go downtown for dinner. However, we had no reservations at any restaurant. Not for lack of trying. But every maitre d'from Buddakkan to Kittichai gave me the finger when I asked for a table at the last minute on a Saturday night. We ended up at a Vietnamese restaurant near Union Square. I ate little and had an espresso martini. Then DSG was off to a party on the Lower East Side and we headed to the meatpacking district. We were at a rooftop bar when our friend sent us a text telling us the Sopranos were having a cast party across the street. My friends were instantly game, anxious to see Big Pussy in real life.
The thing I hate about the velvet rope is the people behind it. In daylight, they're losers who think a 401K is a computer part and tight black tees are a wardrobe staple. At night, they're suddenly anointed the gatekeepers of clubs with fleeting popularity. This time, however, the man in charge didn't fit the mold. In fact, his gender was a mystery. If Conan were to morph the pictures of Mick Jagger and Scarlet Johanssen in his "If they made it" segment, this hermaphrodite would be the offspring. His name was Kenny and even though the line was relatively short, he was barring entrance in order to make it longer and lend to the perception of exclusivity. He suggested we buy a bottle for $300. We declined. Then a group of people in front of us approached us with a merger. They were 20-somethings, cute Asian girls and guys with a couple of frat boys sprinkled in the mix.
We agreed and I was chosen as the group leader. I told Kenny we wanted to buy a bottle. "OK," it said, "How many people?" Ten, I replied. "All of you weren't together," he protested to which I retorted, "We're all Asian!" It rolled its eyes and lifted the rope, "Fine," it sighed, "They'll need your credit card and license at the door." Once inside, we collected the money and ordered a bottle of Absolut Citron. That's right. It wasn't even Belvedere or Grey Goose. Rip-off.
And, the Sopranos people were gone. However, infamous Typhoid Mary made an appearance. I'm referring to a certain person who just discovered last week that she had a contagious cold sore on her mouth. The sore had taken exactly 8 days to heal and had just crusted over an fallen off in time for our Saturday soiree. One of the Asian guys, tall and attractive asked me to dance. I'm a really good dancer when I've been drinking and by now I had two martinis and a vodka cranberry in my system. Then another guy in the group asked me out. "How's Wednesday work for you?" I was suspicious. I asked my friend what was going on. "If you were a whale and you were perplexed by the attention, I could help you solve this riddle," he said. OK, so I'm not fat but I haven't been hit on in a while so it was a bit disconcerting.
Then DSG texted to find out if our party was any better than his dud. I said yes and he asked where I was, "Upstairs," I wrote back. "Address, dumbass." Oh, yeah. Just as he showed up, one of the frat boys from the group I had finagled into the club surfaced. We'll call him Dallas since he was named after a city in my home state. He asked if DSG was my boyfriend. I denied the vicious allegation and DSG confirmed my denial. Then we went to "talk." I think I'm pretty clever when I want to be but my disappearing act didn't fool anyone. The next day my friend made a comment that proved my drunken antics didn't go unnoticed. "While LP was off playing Typhoid Mary.." I don't remember what the rest of the sentence was because I pulled the covers over my head and curled into the fetal position.
The rest of the day was spent nursing my hangover and attempting to sleep. Why is it that when you try to take an afternoon nap, everyone decides to call? My fucking cell phone was on vibrate and I felt like I was in one of those coin-operated "massage" beds. I awoke just in time to meet some friends for a groundbreaking new show. But I slept through the last act of "The Road to Al Qaeda," a play I had paid good money to see prompting them to ask what the hell my problem was. I was ready for bed at 7:30 when my phone buzzed. It was a text message from Dallas. "Hey, it's Dallas from last night. Just wanted to say hi. I had a good time last night. Hope you did too." Boy, did I. Now if I could just get some freakin' sleep!
My cousin spent the night at her folk's house so we could catch up. We were up until 5am, this in addition to the sleep deprivation I had accumulated the night before. I got into New York only to hop into the smelly cab that reeked of curry. I sent my roommate a text telling her as much. "Be nice," she wrote back, "They're your people." Yes, my people. The night before I was actually eating curry on Devon Street- Chicago's hub of Indian and Pakistani restaurants. My cousin and I were delighted to see a sign advertising the menu of one establishment. In addition to the traditional fare, they offered "Gyros and Homos." "Look," my cousin exclaimed, "They serve homos, how progressive of them."
New York is the only city I've ever lived in where I'm excited to come home. However, this time around the anticipation was twofold because a couple of my best friends were in town. We made plans to grab dinner and head to the meatpacking district for some debauchery. Typically, when I have grand plans of painting the town red, I end up staying at home and painting my nails instead. But this time, mission accomplished.
DSG met us at the corner near our respective apartments to go downtown for dinner. However, we had no reservations at any restaurant. Not for lack of trying. But every maitre d'from Buddakkan to Kittichai gave me the finger when I asked for a table at the last minute on a Saturday night. We ended up at a Vietnamese restaurant near Union Square. I ate little and had an espresso martini. Then DSG was off to a party on the Lower East Side and we headed to the meatpacking district. We were at a rooftop bar when our friend sent us a text telling us the Sopranos were having a cast party across the street. My friends were instantly game, anxious to see Big Pussy in real life.
The thing I hate about the velvet rope is the people behind it. In daylight, they're losers who think a 401K is a computer part and tight black tees are a wardrobe staple. At night, they're suddenly anointed the gatekeepers of clubs with fleeting popularity. This time, however, the man in charge didn't fit the mold. In fact, his gender was a mystery. If Conan were to morph the pictures of Mick Jagger and Scarlet Johanssen in his "If they made it" segment, this hermaphrodite would be the offspring. His name was Kenny and even though the line was relatively short, he was barring entrance in order to make it longer and lend to the perception of exclusivity. He suggested we buy a bottle for $300. We declined. Then a group of people in front of us approached us with a merger. They were 20-somethings, cute Asian girls and guys with a couple of frat boys sprinkled in the mix.
We agreed and I was chosen as the group leader. I told Kenny we wanted to buy a bottle. "OK," it said, "How many people?" Ten, I replied. "All of you weren't together," he protested to which I retorted, "We're all Asian!" It rolled its eyes and lifted the rope, "Fine," it sighed, "They'll need your credit card and license at the door." Once inside, we collected the money and ordered a bottle of Absolut Citron. That's right. It wasn't even Belvedere or Grey Goose. Rip-off.
And, the Sopranos people were gone. However, infamous Typhoid Mary made an appearance. I'm referring to a certain person who just discovered last week that she had a contagious cold sore on her mouth. The sore had taken exactly 8 days to heal and had just crusted over an fallen off in time for our Saturday soiree. One of the Asian guys, tall and attractive asked me to dance. I'm a really good dancer when I've been drinking and by now I had two martinis and a vodka cranberry in my system. Then another guy in the group asked me out. "How's Wednesday work for you?" I was suspicious. I asked my friend what was going on. "If you were a whale and you were perplexed by the attention, I could help you solve this riddle," he said. OK, so I'm not fat but I haven't been hit on in a while so it was a bit disconcerting.
Then DSG texted to find out if our party was any better than his dud. I said yes and he asked where I was, "Upstairs," I wrote back. "Address, dumbass." Oh, yeah. Just as he showed up, one of the frat boys from the group I had finagled into the club surfaced. We'll call him Dallas since he was named after a city in my home state. He asked if DSG was my boyfriend. I denied the vicious allegation and DSG confirmed my denial. Then we went to "talk." I think I'm pretty clever when I want to be but my disappearing act didn't fool anyone. The next day my friend made a comment that proved my drunken antics didn't go unnoticed. "While LP was off playing Typhoid Mary.." I don't remember what the rest of the sentence was because I pulled the covers over my head and curled into the fetal position.
The rest of the day was spent nursing my hangover and attempting to sleep. Why is it that when you try to take an afternoon nap, everyone decides to call? My fucking cell phone was on vibrate and I felt like I was in one of those coin-operated "massage" beds. I awoke just in time to meet some friends for a groundbreaking new show. But I slept through the last act of "The Road to Al Qaeda," a play I had paid good money to see prompting them to ask what the hell my problem was. I was ready for bed at 7:30 when my phone buzzed. It was a text message from Dallas. "Hey, it's Dallas from last night. Just wanted to say hi. I had a good time last night. Hope you did too." Boy, did I. Now if I could just get some freakin' sleep!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Payback for Bad Karma
I didn't think I would blog about this. It was simply too harrowing to relive even in memory. But my ill-fated trip to Chicago got worse after I made the pact to leave it in the rear view mirror. So now, even though I have about five hours to sleep, even though I've endured a chain of events so traumatic they're comical, I must chronicle this evening or risk losing the details to sleep deprivation and PTSD.
Let me start by agreeing that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Today, I opted to stay calm and maintain an air of dignified graciousness even though the universe conspired to bring me to my knees and beg for mercy. My wonderful boss whom I adore really wanted me to work as long as I could before leaving for a shoot in Chicago. Because my shoot was 7:30am on Friday, I was flying out the night before. I booked my flight for 5:30pm out of JFK. "Good," she said, "so you can leave by 4:00 pm?" This was a rhetorical question. And who am I to argue, I'm perpetually late. People don't recognize me when I'm on time. Anyhoo.
3:45 pm the Chinese car service picks me up. At 4:15, we're still stuck in traffic. I don't panic, I don't quiz the driver about his chosen route or ask him how long. I am the picture of Zen. At 4:45pm he tells me, "Five more minutes. What time your flight?" 5:30 I say. It's gridlock. At 5:00 pm we pull into the Delta Terminal which resembles a zoo in full-blown mutiny. The gate agent literally laughs in my face when I ask if I can still proceed towards boarding. Our company's travel agent tells me all flights to Chicago both tonight and tomorrow morning are sold out. But he's a moron so I inform my office. My other boss, boss junior if you will, who I will refrain from naming "BJ" because I like her, too, frantically starts searching for alternate routes on the Internet.
Meanwhile, another gate agent tells me she'll put me on stand-by for the 7:20 flight. This is going to get really detailed if I take you through it play by play. I'll try not to be so self-indulgent. Bottom line, Boss Jr. says take the "known quantity" which is a confirmed seat on a JetBlue flight leaving at 8pm. But when I inquire about my return ticket, the Delta rep. tells me to roll the dice and see if I can get on their flight. Sometimes, I just don't know how to cut my losses.
Now I've moved from the surly gate agent to the security screening. What happened next was clear evidence that I must have raped and pillaged a village of innocents in another lifetime and today was the day of reckoning.
I travel about once a week for work so I know the security drill. Laptops out in separate bin, ziplock bag with liquids less than 3 oz., shoes off, etc. As I attempt to pass through the metal detector, someone bum rushes it from the adjacent line and it beeps. The TSA agent tells me to remove my earrings. But I didn't make it go off and I travel with these earrings on all the time. I start to tell her but she cuts me off, "OFF!" Nobody likes getting yelled at but it triggers the transformation of moi into the Incredible Hulk.
I start to take off an earring and the back falls off so I start looking for it creating a pile-up of passengers anxious to put their clothes back on and resume what dignity TSA has allowed them to maintain. "Go stand over there," the agent demands pointing at a glass cage in the middle of the security checkpoint. Why? I want to know. She yells at me again. "Don't YELL at me!" I yell.
Now I'm the center of every one's attention except for TSA. They act as if I'm invisible and I'm wishing I was as people stream past me and stare. A few minutes pass by and I ask her if someone's going to screen me. She ignores me. I ask again. Again, no response. Then I yell, "Is someone going to fucking screen me?!" She turns and looks, "Can't you see I'm busy?" she asks. "Well, I'm sorry to disturb but I do have a flight to catch.. on second thought, why don't you just let me take my stuff and leave? I'd prefer to go home than deal with this," I say. This surprises her. She clicks her tongue and calls for her supervisor. He is a huge black man who ends up being more callous and unprofessional, adding to my growing suspicion that every person who works at the airport hates me. Why are you yelling, he wants to know. I explain that my "indoor voice" wasn't getting me anywhere and I'd like to leave the terminal. I'm thinking, I've got a confirmed ticket on another airline and don't need to put up with anymore bullshit for the sake of standing by for a flight I'm unlikely to make. "You will stand here until we're good and ready," he says. "But I'm not flying," I protest. "I'm leaving the terminal, I don't want to be a passenger." He shakes his head. "I don't give a damn what you want. You're not going anywhere until you've been screened," he says and starts to roll away. "You can't detain me if I'm not even flying!" He doesn't care.
They make me stand in the glass cage while everyone stares at the crazy lady. Another woman is asked to come in for additional screening and is quickly screened and sent on her way. I wait. And I wait. Then I start to cry, hot angry tears of humiliation. Sometimes when I get really mad and I can't scream, my fury melts into tears. And now I'm mad at myself for crying. I finally get screened and the guy who goes through my stuff asks where the nail file is. What nail file? I tug at my earring and tell him this was the reason for my detainment. His expression registers surprise. Meanwhile the supervisor sees my CNN bag and gets nervous. When I ask someone else for his name he waves me over and asks for my boarding card. "If you're going to write a little story about me, I'm going to write one about you," he says glaring at my tear-stained face. I make a silent prayer that he dies a painful and humiliating death, perhaps of the Mama Cass nature, choking on a tuna sandwich while watching Jerry Springer at home alone.
I call boss junior and give her the full story and she's stunned. Instead of finding the airtrain, I ask permission to jump in a cab to go to the Jetblue terminal, too shell shocked to suffer through the stares of anymore passengers who wonder why the girl with the CNN bag is crying. I get to the JetBlue terminal and go to security again. As I take my laptop out of my bag and remove my shoes, I see a 20-something girl waiting patiently behind with only a purse. "You can go ahead of me," I offer and she smiles and thanks me. Behind her, a disheveled woman with three kids announces, "I'm going around you, too." And she does, throwing their backpacks on the conveyor belt before my stuff. I'm speechless. "I didn't say you," I say. "Whatever. I'll be quick," she says pushing her children past me. I'm beyond pissed. I tell the security agent who tells her she can't cut but her stuff's already moving through the x-ray machine. Then there's a problem and the belt pauses, "Yeah, you're whizzing right through," I say. "You're all class," I add without a hint of irony. She turns and yells, "That's enough out of you!" As if I'm one of her unfortunate kids. When I finally get through, the TSA agent apologizes for any inconvenience and a hot guy a few people in line behind me offers, "I'm glad you told her off. I would have said something too," he smiles. I'm feeling better. I decide that I deserve to indulge in a carb craving and head to Dunkin Doughnuts. They're out of everything except creme-filled and cake doughnuts. Not my day. I opt for the cake doughnut which is as hard as a rock. Par for the course.
When I board my delayed flight I know I have a middle seat and it's the last one that was available. I see a friendly face in the row but as I approach it I see that it's attached to a morbidly obese woman and she's in my seat...and hers. I don't know what to say so I put some of my things down and go to the lavatory. I tell the flight attendant who nods sympathetically and says she saw it coming and has alerted a gate agent. I feel terrible because I know they're going to make her get off the plane, or worse.. me. I call my boss who starts laughing hysterically at my unbelievably bad luck. I laugh, too, but I'm kind of freaking out because I have a 7 am call time and it's the last flight to Chicago.
Long story short, they have to remove the arm rests so she and I can both fit. She's so huge that neither one of us can lower our tray tables and she's still taking up at least a third of my seat, sweating, and making me sweat. The guy sitting next to me who's unaffected by this is pretty nice. He tells me I'm nice, too, for not being bitchy. Ironic, I know. When I finally get off the plane and am waiting for my ride, he approaches me and says, "You're not going to believe this." Try me, I say. He tells me that as he was deplaning, a flight attendant stopped him and gave him a $25 voucher for his trouble. "YOUR trouble?!" I explode, "I'm the one who was sat on!!" It really wasn't my day.
Let me start by agreeing that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Today, I opted to stay calm and maintain an air of dignified graciousness even though the universe conspired to bring me to my knees and beg for mercy. My wonderful boss whom I adore really wanted me to work as long as I could before leaving for a shoot in Chicago. Because my shoot was 7:30am on Friday, I was flying out the night before. I booked my flight for 5:30pm out of JFK. "Good," she said, "so you can leave by 4:00 pm?" This was a rhetorical question. And who am I to argue, I'm perpetually late. People don't recognize me when I'm on time. Anyhoo.
3:45 pm the Chinese car service picks me up. At 4:15, we're still stuck in traffic. I don't panic, I don't quiz the driver about his chosen route or ask him how long. I am the picture of Zen. At 4:45pm he tells me, "Five more minutes. What time your flight?" 5:30 I say. It's gridlock. At 5:00 pm we pull into the Delta Terminal which resembles a zoo in full-blown mutiny. The gate agent literally laughs in my face when I ask if I can still proceed towards boarding. Our company's travel agent tells me all flights to Chicago both tonight and tomorrow morning are sold out. But he's a moron so I inform my office. My other boss, boss junior if you will, who I will refrain from naming "BJ" because I like her, too, frantically starts searching for alternate routes on the Internet.
Meanwhile, another gate agent tells me she'll put me on stand-by for the 7:20 flight. This is going to get really detailed if I take you through it play by play. I'll try not to be so self-indulgent. Bottom line, Boss Jr. says take the "known quantity" which is a confirmed seat on a JetBlue flight leaving at 8pm. But when I inquire about my return ticket, the Delta rep. tells me to roll the dice and see if I can get on their flight. Sometimes, I just don't know how to cut my losses.
Now I've moved from the surly gate agent to the security screening. What happened next was clear evidence that I must have raped and pillaged a village of innocents in another lifetime and today was the day of reckoning.I travel about once a week for work so I know the security drill. Laptops out in separate bin, ziplock bag with liquids less than 3 oz., shoes off, etc. As I attempt to pass through the metal detector, someone bum rushes it from the adjacent line and it beeps. The TSA agent tells me to remove my earrings. But I didn't make it go off and I travel with these earrings on all the time. I start to tell her but she cuts me off, "OFF!" Nobody likes getting yelled at but it triggers the transformation of moi into the Incredible Hulk.
I start to take off an earring and the back falls off so I start looking for it creating a pile-up of passengers anxious to put their clothes back on and resume what dignity TSA has allowed them to maintain. "Go stand over there," the agent demands pointing at a glass cage in the middle of the security checkpoint. Why? I want to know. She yells at me again. "Don't YELL at me!" I yell.
Now I'm the center of every one's attention except for TSA. They act as if I'm invisible and I'm wishing I was as people stream past me and stare. A few minutes pass by and I ask her if someone's going to screen me. She ignores me. I ask again. Again, no response. Then I yell, "Is someone going to fucking screen me?!" She turns and looks, "Can't you see I'm busy?" she asks. "Well, I'm sorry to disturb but I do have a flight to catch.. on second thought, why don't you just let me take my stuff and leave? I'd prefer to go home than deal with this," I say. This surprises her. She clicks her tongue and calls for her supervisor. He is a huge black man who ends up being more callous and unprofessional, adding to my growing suspicion that every person who works at the airport hates me. Why are you yelling, he wants to know. I explain that my "indoor voice" wasn't getting me anywhere and I'd like to leave the terminal. I'm thinking, I've got a confirmed ticket on another airline and don't need to put up with anymore bullshit for the sake of standing by for a flight I'm unlikely to make. "You will stand here until we're good and ready," he says. "But I'm not flying," I protest. "I'm leaving the terminal, I don't want to be a passenger." He shakes his head. "I don't give a damn what you want. You're not going anywhere until you've been screened," he says and starts to roll away. "You can't detain me if I'm not even flying!" He doesn't care.
They make me stand in the glass cage while everyone stares at the crazy lady. Another woman is asked to come in for additional screening and is quickly screened and sent on her way. I wait. And I wait. Then I start to cry, hot angry tears of humiliation. Sometimes when I get really mad and I can't scream, my fury melts into tears. And now I'm mad at myself for crying. I finally get screened and the guy who goes through my stuff asks where the nail file is. What nail file? I tug at my earring and tell him this was the reason for my detainment. His expression registers surprise. Meanwhile the supervisor sees my CNN bag and gets nervous. When I ask someone else for his name he waves me over and asks for my boarding card. "If you're going to write a little story about me, I'm going to write one about you," he says glaring at my tear-stained face. I make a silent prayer that he dies a painful and humiliating death, perhaps of the Mama Cass nature, choking on a tuna sandwich while watching Jerry Springer at home alone.
I call boss junior and give her the full story and she's stunned. Instead of finding the airtrain, I ask permission to jump in a cab to go to the Jetblue terminal, too shell shocked to suffer through the stares of anymore passengers who wonder why the girl with the CNN bag is crying. I get to the JetBlue terminal and go to security again. As I take my laptop out of my bag and remove my shoes, I see a 20-something girl waiting patiently behind with only a purse. "You can go ahead of me," I offer and she smiles and thanks me. Behind her, a disheveled woman with three kids announces, "I'm going around you, too." And she does, throwing their backpacks on the conveyor belt before my stuff. I'm speechless. "I didn't say you," I say. "Whatever. I'll be quick," she says pushing her children past me. I'm beyond pissed. I tell the security agent who tells her she can't cut but her stuff's already moving through the x-ray machine. Then there's a problem and the belt pauses, "Yeah, you're whizzing right through," I say. "You're all class," I add without a hint of irony. She turns and yells, "That's enough out of you!" As if I'm one of her unfortunate kids. When I finally get through, the TSA agent apologizes for any inconvenience and a hot guy a few people in line behind me offers, "I'm glad you told her off. I would have said something too," he smiles. I'm feeling better. I decide that I deserve to indulge in a carb craving and head to Dunkin Doughnuts. They're out of everything except creme-filled and cake doughnuts. Not my day. I opt for the cake doughnut which is as hard as a rock. Par for the course.
When I board my delayed flight I know I have a middle seat and it's the last one that was available. I see a friendly face in the row but as I approach it I see that it's attached to a morbidly obese woman and she's in my seat...and hers. I don't know what to say so I put some of my things down and go to the lavatory. I tell the flight attendant who nods sympathetically and says she saw it coming and has alerted a gate agent. I feel terrible because I know they're going to make her get off the plane, or worse.. me. I call my boss who starts laughing hysterically at my unbelievably bad luck. I laugh, too, but I'm kind of freaking out because I have a 7 am call time and it's the last flight to Chicago.
Long story short, they have to remove the arm rests so she and I can both fit. She's so huge that neither one of us can lower our tray tables and she's still taking up at least a third of my seat, sweating, and making me sweat. The guy sitting next to me who's unaffected by this is pretty nice. He tells me I'm nice, too, for not being bitchy. Ironic, I know. When I finally get off the plane and am waiting for my ride, he approaches me and says, "You're not going to believe this." Try me, I say. He tells me that as he was deplaning, a flight attendant stopped him and gave him a $25 voucher for his trouble. "YOUR trouble?!" I explode, "I'm the one who was sat on!!" It really wasn't my day.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Too Much Information?
If you were married and your spouse died, does a stranger have the right to that information? What if you were married and it simply didn't work out? I think these are pretty personal details but if you check "widowed" or "divorced" on your online profile, that information is made instantly available to anyone who sees it.
There's something not quite right about that. It's intrusive. It doesn't put you on a level playing field with the rest of the world. I mean I've had makeup that lasted longer than my marriage. When everything started to unravel, one of my girlfriends remarked that my impending divorce was more like a casual break-up with lots of paper work rather than the demise of a significant union. She was right. But why does a bored man on the internet surfing for prospects get to know that right off the bat? I mean how many people are serial daters? Girlfriend, break-up, rebound relationship, break-up, girlfriend,you get the picture. But they check "single" and all those skeletons are neatly tucked away. The poor sap who lost his wife after three years of marriage to cancer is put in a category where he seems tragic at best, pathetic at worst.
So tonight I changed one of my profiles to say "single." I mean, technically that's what I am. And the only reason I can't check the "never married" box on my next marriage license, should that fateful day ever come... again, is because my ex-husband wouldn't let me put impotency as grounds for an anullment. Why should I be stigmatized by judgmental people who think I'm attractive but wonder why I'm divorced?
On the other hand, there are a lot of crazy women out there who have remarked, "At least you were married. Someone wanted to marry you." There's an inherent irony there that I'm loathe to point out because of its obvious nature. But some men who have the nerve to ask, "So how is it possible that you've never been married?" are appeased to learn that I was. I guess that means someone thought I was marriage material even if they eventually came to their senses. Anyway, personal details about my past relationships are just that- personal. Yes, I'm aware they're being chronicled on a public blog, however, it's an anonymous blog, remember?
There's something not quite right about that. It's intrusive. It doesn't put you on a level playing field with the rest of the world. I mean I've had makeup that lasted longer than my marriage. When everything started to unravel, one of my girlfriends remarked that my impending divorce was more like a casual break-up with lots of paper work rather than the demise of a significant union. She was right. But why does a bored man on the internet surfing for prospects get to know that right off the bat? I mean how many people are serial daters? Girlfriend, break-up, rebound relationship, break-up, girlfriend,you get the picture. But they check "single" and all those skeletons are neatly tucked away. The poor sap who lost his wife after three years of marriage to cancer is put in a category where he seems tragic at best, pathetic at worst.
So tonight I changed one of my profiles to say "single." I mean, technically that's what I am. And the only reason I can't check the "never married" box on my next marriage license, should that fateful day ever come... again, is because my ex-husband wouldn't let me put impotency as grounds for an anullment. Why should I be stigmatized by judgmental people who think I'm attractive but wonder why I'm divorced?
On the other hand, there are a lot of crazy women out there who have remarked, "At least you were married. Someone wanted to marry you." There's an inherent irony there that I'm loathe to point out because of its obvious nature. But some men who have the nerve to ask, "So how is it possible that you've never been married?" are appeased to learn that I was. I guess that means someone thought I was marriage material even if they eventually came to their senses. Anyway, personal details about my past relationships are just that- personal. Yes, I'm aware they're being chronicled on a public blog, however, it's an anonymous blog, remember?
Monday, March 26, 2007
Birthday Celebrations
My roommate took me out to dinner tonight for my birthday. She even had the waiter bring a candle on my caramelized apple tart. As I was leaving work tonight, my friend Steve asked if I had any plans. "My roommate's taking me out to dinner for my birthday," I said. He was shocked that I didn't mention it earlier. He said as much. "I don't like making a big deal out of my birthday," I said. "But I would have gotten you a card or.. something," he said clearly dismayed at this oversight. He looked so sad that I didn't have time to continue the charade. "My birthday was last year. It's a seriously overdue gift," I confessed. But I did enjoy being that girl for at least five minutes. No, not the one who lies, the one who is indifferent about turning another year older or at the very least unaffected by the hoopla that often surrounds the annual marker.But I'm not. My birthday celebration typically spans more than one day. It's usually more than one dinner, a brunch and lots of cards from friends around the country too frightened to forget the day God graced the earth with my presence. How's that for self love? Truthfully, it's an unabashed quest for the attention I feel deprived of the rest of the year. But you already knew that.
And so does everyone else who knows me. In fact, when we were throwing my friend a surprise birthday party a week after my actual birthday, we told him it was a continuation of MY celebration and he never doubted the ruse for a second even though he came to the first party. In my defense, I make a big deal out of other people's birthdays, too. It's not like I breaak out into song when my doorman tells me it's his birthday but if I like you, you'll be the victim of a random act of kindness. I'm also big on sending flowers to my close friends. Now I sound like I'm making a case for how nice I am. But you already knew that.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The Namesake
This book had such a profound impact on me that I didn't want to diminish its value by seeing a movie that many claimed didn't do it justice. Before I delve into that, let me briefly elaborate on the book and why it resonated with me.
I was reading this book during my trip to Niger and Mali in West Africa. I was suffering from Malaria, staying in places without air conditioning where I slept under a mosquito net. The heat was stifling, the symptoms of my malaria coupled with my foreign surroundings conspired to create an altered state of reality. But every night, I would lose myself in this book. When I read of Moushimi's affair, I was angry at her. How could she? But envisioning the interaction she had with her husband Gogol, the frustration that's born when familiarity breeds contempt.. all of that reminded me of Mo. I had given him a bit of an ultimatum before my African adventure- marry me or set me free.
But as I read of her angst and the appeal of another lover who excited her in ways her perfect on paper husband was no longer capable of doing, I realized that my anger against her stemmed more from the recognition of something in myself than any self-righteous quest for fairness. As someone who had already married once for the wrong reasons to the wrong person, I saw myself headed for a partnership in complacency and I was suddenly aware of my capitulation. Even in that fog of malaria, I remember that moment of clarity. I prayed Mo wouldn't propose.
He didn't. Not then anyway. And when he did it was more out of a quiet desperation for something he coveted than anything really authentic. We looked so good on paper but were a match made for mayhem.
When I saw this movie today, I was unprepared for the effect it would have on me. Friends had said they were underwhelmed by Kal Penn's performance and the director focused less on the first generation characters than the book. But I was so moved by the parents' journey. This is something I doubt anyone who isn't the child of immigrants can understand.
I can't imagine moving to a new country, oceans away from the family and friends I knew. Worlds away from anything familiar where even the term "melting pot" was a foreign concept. But that's what my parents did. My mom has told me the stories of carrying groceries while pushing a stroller through the snow in Jamaica, Queens during the dead of winter but I never pictured it until I saw this movie. I remember the jubilation when literally dozens of relatives would greet us at the airport during summer vacations and how my mom cried almost nonstop during the long journey back to the States. We went every other year because making the trip annually wasn't financially feasible.
The parallels between my mom and Gogol's mother were so poignant and accurately depicted that I wept for the plight I never understood or cared enough to examine. Many first generation Americans often lament the difficulty of reconciling two cultures, of assimilating without forgetting their roots. But at least those two worlds are familiar to us. For all their missteps, I have a new found appreciation for the pioneers who were my parents.
I was reading this book during my trip to Niger and Mali in West Africa. I was suffering from Malaria, staying in places without air conditioning where I slept under a mosquito net. The heat was stifling, the symptoms of my malaria coupled with my foreign surroundings conspired to create an altered state of reality. But every night, I would lose myself in this book. When I read of Moushimi's affair, I was angry at her. How could she? But envisioning the interaction she had with her husband Gogol, the frustration that's born when familiarity breeds contempt.. all of that reminded me of Mo. I had given him a bit of an ultimatum before my African adventure- marry me or set me free.
But as I read of her angst and the appeal of another lover who excited her in ways her perfect on paper husband was no longer capable of doing, I realized that my anger against her stemmed more from the recognition of something in myself than any self-righteous quest for fairness. As someone who had already married once for the wrong reasons to the wrong person, I saw myself headed for a partnership in complacency and I was suddenly aware of my capitulation. Even in that fog of malaria, I remember that moment of clarity. I prayed Mo wouldn't propose.
He didn't. Not then anyway. And when he did it was more out of a quiet desperation for something he coveted than anything really authentic. We looked so good on paper but were a match made for mayhem.
When I saw this movie today, I was unprepared for the effect it would have on me. Friends had said they were underwhelmed by Kal Penn's performance and the director focused less on the first generation characters than the book. But I was so moved by the parents' journey. This is something I doubt anyone who isn't the child of immigrants can understand.
I can't imagine moving to a new country, oceans away from the family and friends I knew. Worlds away from anything familiar where even the term "melting pot" was a foreign concept. But that's what my parents did. My mom has told me the stories of carrying groceries while pushing a stroller through the snow in Jamaica, Queens during the dead of winter but I never pictured it until I saw this movie. I remember the jubilation when literally dozens of relatives would greet us at the airport during summer vacations and how my mom cried almost nonstop during the long journey back to the States. We went every other year because making the trip annually wasn't financially feasible. The parallels between my mom and Gogol's mother were so poignant and accurately depicted that I wept for the plight I never understood or cared enough to examine. Many first generation Americans often lament the difficulty of reconciling two cultures, of assimilating without forgetting their roots. But at least those two worlds are familiar to us. For all their missteps, I have a new found appreciation for the pioneers who were my parents.
Take it Easy
My previous post drew some gasps and insinuations that perhaps my candor was reckless. But I don't have genital herpes. I had hoped that the description of my cold sore which is technically a form of the herpes simplex virus would alleviate any misconceptions about its source.
According to webmd.com, a common type of this virus is most seen in children ages 1 to 3. Last time I checked, toddlers weren't prone to risky behaviors, i.e. unprotected sex. So while I'm taking care of this outbreak on my face, I'm going to need you to take a chill pill on the panic. Geez.
According to webmd.com, a common type of this virus is most seen in children ages 1 to 3. Last time I checked, toddlers weren't prone to risky behaviors, i.e. unprotected sex. So while I'm taking care of this outbreak on my face, I'm going to need you to take a chill pill on the panic. Geez.
Stupid San Diego was COLD
I was in San Diego for the last couple of days. I found out about this assignment last week as I was dodging freezing rain in D.C. so needless to say, I was thrilled at the prospect of trading slushy snow for sunshine.
Upon arrival, I was dismayed to discover what locals were calling a "weather anomaly." The driest winter on record was disrupted with thunder and rain followed by cool temperatures. Ironically, New York experienced a reprieve from winter's last brisk breath effectively creating an unlikely scenario where the two cities shared the same highs and lows. Lucky me.
The trip out west was uneventful sans the visitor that took up residence... on my FACE! As I've come to expect, there were no first class upgrades available. Mercifully, sleep was not elusive and I was knocked out the whole 5.5 hour flight. Just before we landed, I woke up and felt a small bump below my bottom lip that tingled slightly. Strange, I thought, I'm past my adult acne phase. The next morning the slight bump had multiplied to FIVE! The only thing working in my favor was that I was scheduled to interview a doctor for a new FDA approval and I could hit him up for free medical advice.
While the doctor was with some PR reps going over "message points" before our interview, the woman I hired to run the teleprompter suggested we go downstairs to the dermatologist she knew. The doctor was busy but her assistant looked at my cluster of crusty bumps and said, "It's herpes." Nice. I felt like a class act. Adding insult to injury was the knowledge that I hadn't even participated in any suspect canoodling that might result in the transmission of such a virus. "Sometimes it's dormant and the virus gets triggered by stress or fatigue." Better. Further evidence that I am not a skank.
When the endocrinologist I was set to interview sat down, I quizzed him about my lip. "No, you don't need Valtrex," he said,"But I'll have my Physician's assistant take a look at it when we're done. It's a cold sore that just needs to run its course," he reassured me.
Fifteen minutes into our interview, the doctor paused and took a swig of water. Then he froze and stared at me in horror. "Was that your water?" he asked. I nodded. "I'm gonna die," he whispered and fled the room. Everyone else from my crew to the PR clients started laughing. Everyone except for me. I, too, was horrified. Then the doctor returned wiping his mouth with an alcohol swab. "That should do it," he said smiling, "I hope you didn't give me something to remember you by." That makes two of us.
Upon arrival, I was dismayed to discover what locals were calling a "weather anomaly." The driest winter on record was disrupted with thunder and rain followed by cool temperatures. Ironically, New York experienced a reprieve from winter's last brisk breath effectively creating an unlikely scenario where the two cities shared the same highs and lows. Lucky me.
The trip out west was uneventful sans the visitor that took up residence... on my FACE! As I've come to expect, there were no first class upgrades available. Mercifully, sleep was not elusive and I was knocked out the whole 5.5 hour flight. Just before we landed, I woke up and felt a small bump below my bottom lip that tingled slightly. Strange, I thought, I'm past my adult acne phase. The next morning the slight bump had multiplied to FIVE! The only thing working in my favor was that I was scheduled to interview a doctor for a new FDA approval and I could hit him up for free medical advice.
While the doctor was with some PR reps going over "message points" before our interview, the woman I hired to run the teleprompter suggested we go downstairs to the dermatologist she knew. The doctor was busy but her assistant looked at my cluster of crusty bumps and said, "It's herpes." Nice. I felt like a class act. Adding insult to injury was the knowledge that I hadn't even participated in any suspect canoodling that might result in the transmission of such a virus. "Sometimes it's dormant and the virus gets triggered by stress or fatigue." Better. Further evidence that I am not a skank.
When the endocrinologist I was set to interview sat down, I quizzed him about my lip. "No, you don't need Valtrex," he said,"But I'll have my Physician's assistant take a look at it when we're done. It's a cold sore that just needs to run its course," he reassured me.
Fifteen minutes into our interview, the doctor paused and took a swig of water. Then he froze and stared at me in horror. "Was that your water?" he asked. I nodded. "I'm gonna die," he whispered and fled the room. Everyone else from my crew to the PR clients started laughing. Everyone except for me. I, too, was horrified. Then the doctor returned wiping his mouth with an alcohol swab. "That should do it," he said smiling, "I hope you didn't give me something to remember you by." That makes two of us.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The Other Janice
My friend Janice responded to my last blog entry with this inspirational feat of photoshop. It's poetry in motion.
Desperate times...
The opportunity to meet with a professional matchmaker was something myself and the girlfriends I recruited approached with cautious optimism. On one hand, we were excited by the prospect of having a woman so savvy in the dating department give us her precious time. On the other, we found the whole idea tantamount to accepting defeat. By the way, this was NOT my idea. Here's the email that ignited my interest:
Fabulous, single ladies:
Did you happen to catch a segment about Janis Spindel on a recent Nightlight episode? I just had my TV on in the background and stumbled upon it and found it rather intriguing. So, Janis Spindel is a “matchmaker” in NYC who has a niche clientele of smart, attractive, successful women and smart, attractive, successful men (her words, not mine). The way it works is that one of her staff does an initial phone screen screen and then she meets with you one-on-one (and charges $1000 for a 30 minute meeting!!!). She then gets to work and introduces you to possible matches and invites you to “networking” events where you can meet people on your own. HOWEVER, if there is a group of 4-5, she can meet with all of us as a group and waive the charge.
The funny thing is that I went on her website and looked at some event pictures and saw a picture of one of my classmates from business school who is a great catch!!! So, I felt less like a loser and better about exploring this further.
I have to give my girlfriend props for going out on a limb. After all, aren't we all looking at alternative means by which to find a mate? Especially since most of us have exhausted the traditional route (whatever that is)? All of us were intrigued. In fact, so many of my single gal pals were that I had to splinter off into another group altogether to accomodate the demand for a meeting with Janis.
I arrived late, as usual, to her Upper East side apartment. I knocked on the door and could hear her butchering one friend's name. Everyone was dressed impeccably as my girls typically are with their make-up and nails done. I had pulled my hair up into a clip and was just cursing the fact that I needed a manicure. After asking how long I was married, she said abruptly, "Do you always wear your hair up like that? Is your hair long?" I pulled my clip out and laughed self-consciously trying to remember if I made it a point to wear my hair down on dates. "She wears it down," my roommate interjected.
Let's take a moment to talk about the appearance of our dating sensei. Clearly, she was a fan of botox and judging by the way her skin had been pulled taut across her face, I'd venture to say she's had some work done. And she herself was a real piece of work. As my friend Liza pointed out, how could you trust a woman who thought leopard print jersey and lace was a good look? And for a successful spinster slayer, she had one shitty apartment. But what we found most horrifying was how she spoke to her 20 something assistant. I mean here we had schlepped to her place for her to ascertain the viability of our candidacy in a mere 30 minutes and she kept stopping to scream at this poor girl. "Get off that site! That is NOT where you need to be looking. Go to the database. I don't want you to look at those pictures, I want you to focus on the dinner party!" In retrospect, her assistant was kind of dense because apparently she never did do what her slave driver demanded, continuing to draw her ire.
The only thing more annoying than this display of distraction during what had been billed an "important meeting" was the fact that she made us purchase her fucking book: Get Serious About Getting Married: 365 Proven Ways to Find Love in Less Than a Year. She made us pay $25 each for this even though it sells on Amazon for half that price. "Fill out the 25 page questionnaire in my book and get it back to me ASAP! But don't you dare, rip the pages out, make copies then fill them out!" she demanded. Since none of us have a copy machine in our apartments, we quickly did the math and realized we would be carrying this book to our respective offices where someone might see it in our possession. This didn't set well with my friends. When we were finally dismissed, we walked out in somewhat of a daze.
As we compared notes, my friend Liza cut to the chase and declared, "I'm sorry, you guys, but she's a whack job!" I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. Sure, she was eccentric but maybe that in your face technique is what shook men out of their, "I'm going to marry a model who wants to cook and clean all day then give me a blow job at night" reverie. But this inclination towards her faded once I made the mistake of actually reading parts of her book.
There's a section devoted to cosmetics and outpatient treatments to "look your best." Not to mention, she had the nerve to pontificate on fashion. According to this Bible for Brides-to-be, every woman should own a nice black turtleneck and a pair of "sexy mules" in case their suitor comes over for dinner. The only mules in my future are likely the men I'd meet through this marriage broker. No, you get serious, lady, if we were really on the market for the caliber of men your exquisite tast indicates, we'd hit the Carnegie Club in a pair of Jimmy Choos- slingbacks not mules.
Fabulous, single ladies:
Did you happen to catch a segment about Janis Spindel on a recent Nightlight episode? I just had my TV on in the background and stumbled upon it and found it rather intriguing. So, Janis Spindel is a “matchmaker” in NYC who has a niche clientele of smart, attractive, successful women and smart, attractive, successful men (her words, not mine). The way it works is that one of her staff does an initial phone screen screen and then she meets with you one-on-one (and charges $1000 for a 30 minute meeting!!!). She then gets to work and introduces you to possible matches and invites you to “networking” events where you can meet people on your own. HOWEVER, if there is a group of 4-5, she can meet with all of us as a group and waive the charge.
The funny thing is that I went on her website and looked at some event pictures and saw a picture of one of my classmates from business school who is a great catch!!! So, I felt less like a loser and better about exploring this further.
I have to give my girlfriend props for going out on a limb. After all, aren't we all looking at alternative means by which to find a mate? Especially since most of us have exhausted the traditional route (whatever that is)? All of us were intrigued. In fact, so many of my single gal pals were that I had to splinter off into another group altogether to accomodate the demand for a meeting with Janis.
I arrived late, as usual, to her Upper East side apartment. I knocked on the door and could hear her butchering one friend's name. Everyone was dressed impeccably as my girls typically are with their make-up and nails done. I had pulled my hair up into a clip and was just cursing the fact that I needed a manicure. After asking how long I was married, she said abruptly, "Do you always wear your hair up like that? Is your hair long?" I pulled my clip out and laughed self-consciously trying to remember if I made it a point to wear my hair down on dates. "She wears it down," my roommate interjected.
Let's take a moment to talk about the appearance of our dating sensei. Clearly, she was a fan of botox and judging by the way her skin had been pulled taut across her face, I'd venture to say she's had some work done. And she herself was a real piece of work. As my friend Liza pointed out, how could you trust a woman who thought leopard print jersey and lace was a good look? And for a successful spinster slayer, she had one shitty apartment. But what we found most horrifying was how she spoke to her 20 something assistant. I mean here we had schlepped to her place for her to ascertain the viability of our candidacy in a mere 30 minutes and she kept stopping to scream at this poor girl. "Get off that site! That is NOT where you need to be looking. Go to the database. I don't want you to look at those pictures, I want you to focus on the dinner party!" In retrospect, her assistant was kind of dense because apparently she never did do what her slave driver demanded, continuing to draw her ire.
The only thing more annoying than this display of distraction during what had been billed an "important meeting" was the fact that she made us purchase her fucking book: Get Serious About Getting Married: 365 Proven Ways to Find Love in Less Than a Year. She made us pay $25 each for this even though it sells on Amazon for half that price. "Fill out the 25 page questionnaire in my book and get it back to me ASAP! But don't you dare, rip the pages out, make copies then fill them out!" she demanded. Since none of us have a copy machine in our apartments, we quickly did the math and realized we would be carrying this book to our respective offices where someone might see it in our possession. This didn't set well with my friends. When we were finally dismissed, we walked out in somewhat of a daze. As we compared notes, my friend Liza cut to the chase and declared, "I'm sorry, you guys, but she's a whack job!" I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. Sure, she was eccentric but maybe that in your face technique is what shook men out of their, "I'm going to marry a model who wants to cook and clean all day then give me a blow job at night" reverie. But this inclination towards her faded once I made the mistake of actually reading parts of her book.
There's a section devoted to cosmetics and outpatient treatments to "look your best." Not to mention, she had the nerve to pontificate on fashion. According to this Bible for Brides-to-be, every woman should own a nice black turtleneck and a pair of "sexy mules" in case their suitor comes over for dinner. The only mules in my future are likely the men I'd meet through this marriage broker. No, you get serious, lady, if we were really on the market for the caliber of men your exquisite tast indicates, we'd hit the Carnegie Club in a pair of Jimmy Choos- slingbacks not mules.
I'm with Lou Dobbs...
Seriously. Fucking bring an end to outsourcing. I just spent fifteen minutes on the phone with the dumbest girl in India. I know she's got some stiff competition but for Pete's sake, she couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the directions were written on the heel. All I wanted to know is if I could get the late payment fee on my AmEx waived. She kept telling me that I should call back after I had made a payment. "I just made a payment online." She told me to hold then came back and said I had just posted a payment so there would be no additional late fees. Umm, thanks, why don't you go back to surfing Indian matrimonial websites?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)