office ass politics

So, I'm sitting at work and this new guy, who we'll call Bob, walks by my desk on the way to his own desk. As he passes, I notice that Bob has a very bright piece of pink thread stuck to his ass. Because he is wearing dark brown pants, the pink thread really stands out.

Several minutes later, Bob walks by again, and the bright pink thread is still there. I feel a little bad for Bob, because I know that nobody is going to tell him that thread is there--including me. Why won't I tell him? Well, for one thing, he's fairly new and I don't know him so well. And for another, it would probably be quite embarrassing for him. Plus, there's the fact that in telling him, I am acknowledging that in some manner I have been looking at his ass, even though the reality is that the contrast of bright pink on brown has everything to do with it.

But when I thought about other people having bright pink ass thread, and whether or not I'd tell them and/or assist them in getting the thread off, my answers surprised me. For example:

• Female co-workers with whom I've consumed many margaritas: yes I'd tell, yes I'd assist.
• Male co-workers with whom I've consumed many margaritas: yes I'd tell, maybe I'd assist (depending on attractiveness of said ass).
• Co-workers with whom I have friendly office conversation but no out-of-office contact: no and no.
• My boss: Definitely no. (Due to laughability/humiliation factor)

So I ran an informal survey of one person (margin of error: 100%) to see what other people think of the thread-on-the-ass scenario. And it sounds like the real issue is comfort with the wearer of the ass thread and/or a desire for their laughability or humiliation. My respondent said he would not tell Bob either, but if it was me, he would tell me, because I'm "not new."

The point is, it's been almost 2 hours, and Bob is still walking around with bright pink thread on his ass. This is a good opportunity to reflect, and think about whose ass you'd want to save from a pink thread, and who would save yours. Also, you should consider lint rollers, because the ass you save could be your own.

a drunk guy named evan.

Last night after a particularly heinous Financial Analysis class which required me to give and listen to several 40-minute presentations on returns on investment and P/E ratios (SNOOZE!), my friend and I decided to get a drink.

As we strolled down 2nd ave at 9:30 on a wednesday, surveying our options for booze, we encountered a drunk guy smoking out on the street whose opening line to us, now forgotten, prompted a series of shouts to our back to the tune of "girls, you're dirty! you're nasty! nasty! nasty girls!" The Janet Jackson tribute was completely unwarranted, of course, but at least he didn't feel the need to show us his penis, like many other drunks would.

As his cheers faded behind us, we turned into this one bar and grabbed a seat. It was uncrowded, despite the yankees/sox game on all tvs. We sat at the end of the bar, pulled our lagging asses onto stools, and ordered drinks.

"Nasty girls!!"

Oh no.

In came the staggering, tobacco-stenched, bald white guy from the street. He beelined right for me, came about 8 inches from my face, and said "Hhhhi. I'm Evan." I backed away slightly from the last breath of smoke he just exhaled into my face, and smiled. "Hi Evan."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Stephanie."

"And you?" he said to my friend. She answered him.

"What's my name?" I asked Evan. He grinned at me.

"I don't remember. I'm kinda really drunk right now."

Tina, the bartendress, said "Evan, leave her alone," and then to me said "He's a close talker, but harmless."

"I am NOT a close talker!" Evan screamed. Then he looked at me. "Am I a close talker? I'm not a closer talker. THIS--" he moved 5 inches closer "--is a close talker. But I am HERE--" he backed up again "--and that's NOT a close talker. Right?"

"Actually," I told him, pushing him back further, "I think there's like a...12 inch radius and anything INSIDE it is a close talker. So...yes. You are."

"Am I? AM I?" Evan panicked. "Aww. I meant no offense ladies. No harm here. I didn't know I was a close talker. I'm sorta wasted." Evan backed onto his stool unsteadily. "Nasty girls!"

Evan then proceed to ask everyone in the bar--everyone except us--to go to a party with him in a few minutes, and told them all they sucked when they said no. I wondered how we'd get out without the invitation.

We turned back to our drinks, then our long-awaited burgers with tasty bar fries, and feasted on our 10:45pm dinner. For several minutes, we didn't speak, we just devoured our food. The baseball game ended, the music was on, and Evan released his inner DJ by repeatedly reaching over the bar to change the song.

"Evan, knock it off!" Tina warned from the other end of the bar. Evan didn't like the next song either, so he reached back over, essentially lying on the bar on his belly, feet flailing behind him, and changed it again.

"Evan, I'm warning you!" But he was undaunted, and reached again, this time with far more effort, and landed on the bar with a moan.

"I just crushed my cock," he said, mostly to himself. He stood up and winced, slumping back onto his stool like a little kid. "I hurt my cock." I turned away and laughed hysterically, trying not to choke on bar fries or spew ketchup out my nose. Evan was quiet after that.

Upon completion of our meal, and payment of the bill, and seeing Evan distracted by a bar buddy, my friend and I picked up our bags and bolted. But Evan noticed...

"Nasty girls! Wait! How was that burger??"

"Delicious!" I shouted as I walked away.

"Gonna burp now? Come on, let's hear a BIG BURP! Burp nasty girl!"

And then, despite my desire to blast a floor-shaking, foghorn-style, make-yo-daddy-proud type belch in his face--which I am VERY capable of doing on command--I simply adjusted my skirt and my little blue shoes and walked out the door.

And that is the story of a drunk guy named Evan.

for the love of god, nobody move.

Let's just get right to it.

On the subway this morning, I was thrilled to have the good fortune to get a seat. I forced myself, new yorker style, between two people who were enjoying their personal space but inhibiting my chance to park it. We made one stop, picking up a ton of people, then another. We were quite a full train. But at the second stop, everything went wrong.

Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." (pause) Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding! (pause) Ding!

Generally, you can expect 2-3 of these computerized warnings before the doors lock shut and the train begins to move. On less fortunate days, when some idiot is holding a door open, you may get 4 or 5 before the conductor, like yesterday, screams over the intercom "Sir! I can see you holding the door. Let GO of the door! And you wonder why you're late to your destination? Let GO of the DOOR sir!"

But today...we had many--way too many--of the Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." People looked up from their books and newspapers, over their shoulders to see what was going on. Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding! We looked at each other, confirming our fears in each others eyes. Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding!

Then silence...

We waited for the inevitable announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, we need to dispatch this train. This is the final stop. Please exit the train, there is another train outside the station waiting to pick you up." The community groan spread like a wave. People jumped up and made for the doors, but I thought I'd outsmart them all and get off last so I'd be in the best position to get on the next train first. Brilliant right?

Wrong. The platform was actually not big enough to hold ALL the passengers from the train, plus the people who had already been waiting there. There were about 15 people left on my car (5 at each door) when we all realized we were screwed. "GET OFF THE TRAIN!" the conductor yelled, failing to see our predicament. We looked at each other in panic, then at the sympathetic but territorial people already jammed on the platform. I tenderly stepped out, getting one foot on the utmost edge of the platform, but still couldn't turn around nor plant my second foot. People started yelling "Step back people! Let them off!" and the conductor continued to scream at us over the intercom.

With a little maneuvering, we all managed to get off the train, but I was NOT feeling good about it. The train doors closed, and it sat idle while the staff made a pass through to ensure all passengers had exited. I looked down, saw my shoulder bag touching the train, and realized how scary this was about to get. I couldn't see my feet because of my bag, but I knew I was much to close to the edge to be safe.

The train pulled away slowly, but even so my sense of balance was off from the blur of metal moving 5 inches from my face. I looked at the guy next to me, and said "Yah, this feels safe." He said "Nobody push." That was all I needed to hear to realize my time might be best spent not realizing that I'm about to die, but rather rehearsing what to do when I fell into the tracks. I decided that, assuming my ankles aren't broken from jumping 5 feet down in heels, and that I don't crack my head open, and don't land on the electric third rail, I would scramble to my feet and NOT try to climb back out. Instead, I would hop over the electric third rail while people screamed "HERE COMES THE TRAIN!" and victoriously wedge myself in the narrow "safe zone" between the two trains, let the train leave, then clamour out to where my concerned fellow passengers (all big strong hot men) would hoist me up to safety then fight for my hand in marriage.

My heart was pounding, my legs trembling. I was teetering on the edge, literally, afraid to shift weight to my other foot, or adjust my bag. I couldn't even tell if the train was coming, but I did my best to hold my bag as close to me as possible. I saw the light of the train on the tracks, and held my breath.

It FLEW into the over-crowded station, causing me to all but shit my pants. (Just for the record, I don't like fast-moving trains up-close to begin with. Talk about confronting your fears.) Car after car after car sped past, and every second I thought a) WHY is this driver going SO FAST when people are already dangling off the edge? and b) soon the train would snag my bag and send me flying down the platform, knocking other people into its path. But it started slowing...and slowing...and finally stopped, leaving a door right in front of my weak knees.

I got on, which was more than I can say for a lot of people. But there was no where to sit and I could barely hold myself up. My friend from the platform smiled at me in that "phew. we survived!" sort of way. I smiled back, and grabbed onto the handrail.

But is that the end? No. It gets better. Consider this your bonus chapter.

At the next station, a ton of people shoved on. I had comfortable but minimal space on both sides. Then suddenly the middle-aged man next to me was in full, unnecessary, arm-to-arm contact. I looked over, perplexed, to see he had PLENTY of room on the other side of him, so why was he crammed up against me? When I looked in the window reflection and saw the familiar but disgusting bulge of his erection, I knew why. Now, on top of all this, I'm being molested on the subway. AGAIN.

Granted, he was a passive molester, unlike my active molester buddy from last summer. But still, I felt bad for the women seated in front of him, who were so lucky to be asleep so they wouldn't get poked in the eye.

woman of the streets.

Yesterday I had a big PMS craving for a cheesesteak (provolone and onions), so I took a walk to go get one. The place is a hole in the wall joint about 2 blocks away, and it was a lovely day for a stroll.

I absent-mindedly walked the 2 blocks downhill (yes, new york has hills), darting across streets as lights turned green, and grinning slightly at the cat-calls I kept getting from the bruthas. (I credit my darling pink shoes.)

When I went into the cheesesteak place, I had one of those moments that, in the movie of my life, has the sound effect of a record player coming to a screeching stop while every head in the room turns to look at me. The place was FULL of men. I was the only female in a room of 15 men...and we all knew it. Undaunted and filled with the delicious aroma of cheesey goodness, I stepped up to the counter in my pink shoes and gave my order.

While waiting, I sang along to the blaring Stone Temple Pilots on the radio and watched the silent tennis match unfolding on the silent TV. I eventually got my sandwich, all wrapped up, steaming hot, and smelling delicious, and walked out the door.

This is where the trouble started. See, I had you thinking this blog was about a cheesesteak just to keep my male audience, but really its about the every day struggle of walking the sidewalks and streets of new york city in heels. It is NOT easy.

For starters, sidewalks, when not covered with dog shit, are usually not level and often have giant cracks. Some businesses fill the cracks in front of their buildings with this rubbery goo, which is fantastic for people like me whose heels often fall IN to the cracks. Rubbery goo means I just bounce right back out, never missing a stride. UNFILLED cracks mean if you hit the crack wrong and it swallows your heel, you may take your next step minus one shoe, OR try to take your next step and go crashing to the ground minus one shoe. Either way it's a bit embarrassing.

Then there's grates. As if storm drains and steaming manhole covers aren't hard enough, there's giant subway grates all over the city, stretching 8 or 10 feet long. Women all over the city scurry to the 6 inches of concrete alongside the grates, performing some sort of a balance-beam-in-training act so as not to fall in and damage their limbs, ankles, reputations, and SHOES.

Next, there's stairs. Just this morning on my way up from the subway, the woman in front of me misplaced her balance and came leaning back at me. I envisioned a whole domino affect of pissed off commuters tumbling down the stairs, so I put my hands up and sorta shoved her back into place. But I knew immediately her error: NEVER put any weight on your heels when going up stairs. TOES people. TOES! Never lean back.

However, the most risk, and the one that nearly broke me in half yesterday, was the surprise chunks of missing pavement on the streets. ESPECIALLY at the end of winter after the plows have destroyed any stability the streets once had. Yesterday, I stumbled stepping off the sidewalk into the street. I wobbled a bit but hoped no one saw. About 10 steps later, I looked up for a second and nailed a giant hole, doing that whole airborne-clumsy-chick-in-heels dance where one ankle all but snaps off my leg, I flail my arms to regain balance, then have the obligatory laugh-at-self episode followed by the walk-it-off moment, ending with me fighting back a yelp of pain from my now mangled, swollen ankle. But the real kicker (pun intended) is when it happens ONE more time before safely across the street. At this point, you KNOW people are laughing, thinking you don't know how to walk in heels or maybe are a little drunk, and you just want to yell out "IT'S THE POT HOLE DAMMIT!" to clear your name, but it's not worth it.

So yeah. I'm a woman of the streets of new york....cheesesteaks and broken ankles baby.

self-assessment

So, I'm sitting here waiting for a ride to Ikea that may come in 5 minutes, 20 minutes, 3 hours, or not at all. While waiting, I decided to do a few productive things--girlie things--such as pluck my eyebrows, put on makeup, fix my hair, paint my toes, peel off my skin...

See, I got sunburned pretty badly about 10 days ago. My skin has been peeling off in stages since about...6 days ago. It started on my forehead, followed by my chest, then stomach, then thighs, shins, upper arms, and now arms below the elbow including tops of hands. It's really disgusting, and I've been trying to disguise it by mixing up my outfits to turtlenecks to cover chest/neck, pants to cover shins, and lace madonna gloves circa 1985 to cover my scaley arms and hands. But I know it's all just "Borderline."

It's peeling off so bad that this morning I had to use a lint roller on my bed sheets before I made the bed. (I know, SO gross right?) I saw no point in changing the sheets until I'm done shedding like some scary sci-fi snake woman. It's bad enough that all day long I'm scratching all over like a 3-year-old with chicken pox. Ew. I'm gross.

So I also dried my hair and decided to send a picture of it (and me) to my grandparents, just for I'm-not-there-for-Easter laughs. And when I did, and uploaded the photo to my computer, I realized I had this hugely disfiguring hump on my arm just below the shoulder. I mean, seriously, I could give Kwaze Moto a run for his humpy money. I keep telling myself that disfigurement is probably just a strange lighting effect that made me look so disproportionate, but now I'm essentially afraid to go into public. Maybe I AM morphing into some sort of reptile. EW!

Then I started editing the picture and trying to shade that bulging upper arm to make it go away. As I trimmed off my hump, I realized this is probably how plastic surgeons get women to jump on that table to be trimmed and tightened. "See miss, this is the shoulder hump you have NOW. But if you elect to clean this up, your shoulder will look like THIS!" If someone had said that to me just now, I would have given myself the anesthesia and handed the good doctor my finest steak knife. Maybe he could laser off some of my dead snake skin while he's at it.

Ew.

(And, for the record, still no ride to Ikea.)

my new souvenir t-shirt.

I'm getting a t-shirt made for myself and the members of my last vacation. They're going to each be personalized variations of: "I went to Key West, got married, robbed, interrogated, sunburned, attacked by stray cats/roosters, endured a monsoon (and a singing transvestite), and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."

I live in Manhattan, land of muggings, pickpockets, and public urination. I manage to survive in fucking Manhattan, and within three hours of arriving in Key West for a mini break, I'm robbed. Some asshole broke into our house, went through our bags, came in my BEDROOM, stole some jewelry and cash, and left.

I was actually in Key West because my mother got married. I didn't actually see the wedding...except on video tape, which was thankfully not stolen. I think they married on a Tuesday. It reminds me of the opening line of The Stranger by Camus: "Maman died today. Maybe it was yesterday. I do not know." Except for me....."Mom married today. Maybe it was yesterday, I do not know."

After the robbery, I had my first official mooch off my new step-daddy-o for $5 for a beach chair, in which I laid facing the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States. I fell asleep for, as I'm told, nearly three hours, which when combined with being in the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States makes for a pretty hefty sunburn...the kind that 5 hours later, as you are on your way to watch a transvestite sing Madonna songs in a monsoon, causes blinding headaches and nausea and forces you to run home in the rain without slipping in your wet flip-flops when you stop suddenly to dodge a stray rooster or hurdle a stray cat, both of which are terrifyingly rampant in Key West. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After the burn, before the singing transvestite, there was a police interrogation. While my CSI agent wannabe sister phoned in the results of the fingerprint and DNA tests, Agents Mom, Joanie, and Jeff contributed plot-twisting enhancements, such as following around the police and snapping pictures/videotaping/offering advice from the pool while they collected evidence. (When I say "they" I actually mean "she," as in the sole police lady/detective chick sent to our scene. She said she would have called the real CSI team in if we hadn't totally screwed up the crime scene by touching everything in sight.)

Anyhow, after the interrogation, and during the monsoon, I slept off my third-degree burns while my counterparts watched some tranny man (who looks better in spandex and a pointy Madonna cone bra than I ever could) perform in some sort of Diva cabaret and make some derogatory comments about New Zealand and sheep. I, of course, missed it all, because I was back at the scene of the crime watching WWE Smackdown and reheating goldfish crackers on my bright red, radiating chest.

But don't be fooled--I had a blast. I mean really, it's not every day you wind up in the Key West Police Department files as Victim #3 of case CX-487Z. I went to Key West, and all I got was this lousy case number.

hip hip hooray for the MTA.

Today was one of those days when I should have followed my instincts.

My instinct was to not walk to the subway this morning, because perhaps something was messed up. Perhaps I should just go to the corner of my block and get on the bus that stops practically in front of my door.

But did I do that? No. I walked the two blocks (uphill) to the subway, went down the stairs, grabbed my free daily newspaper, and failed to notice that no one was going through the turnstiles until I myself approached them and saw not green for go, but red for stop. I ripped off my headphones to hear "No trains. NO TRAINS!" Fantastic.

So I banged a yooie (Boston talk for a u-turn), walked back down the hill, and ran for the LIMITED downtown bus. The normal downtown bus stops every 17 feet, but the Limited stops every 20, so it's much much faster. This is especially useful when there are NO trains on the east side whatsoever, and everyone is going for the same Limited bus downtown.

The thing is....the only thing harder than learning to keep your balance on a jerky subway train is learning to keep your balance on a jerkier MTA bus. Trains go forward and back, and may occasionally turn or sway left or right. Buses, however, have many motions: forward, quick stop, kneeling, unkneeling, left, right, sharp left, sharp right, and bump-up, bump-down. Plus, with the fancy caterpillar buses (Kevin, are you LOVING this bus talk? Is it getting you all hot?), there's the tricky pivotal hinge in the middle that a) must be carefully navigated and b) I ALWAYS end up on. So your right foot is stable, your left foot is sliding away on the hingey part, you barely have a grip on the pole for balance, and the busdriver is working the rush-hour traffic the way I used to in a little Honda Civic--inching, gas-brake-gas-brake--which is clearly some sort of busdriver humor used primarily when over 70% of your passengers are standing up and fighting for balance.

Anyhow, I eventually got to my stop. A 20 minute subway ride equates to a 75 minute bus ride--but I DID get there. And then I had to walk three long avenues to work, which initially made me crabby but was okay because I got flowers on the street from John Stamos. He's looking good these days. (Okay, really, it was just these guys who were hired to promote his new show, Jake Sexy City, Jake Single Hot, or something like that, by handing out flowers to women on the street. But I prefer to say the flowers were from John himself. Uncle Jesse's HOT.)

So really, thank you MTA. Thank you for making my morning a mess. Without you, I wouldn't have met John Stamos on the street, he wouldn't have given me flowers, and we wouldn't be eloping at lunchtime at city hall. (If the trains are running again by then.)

another day, another tequila hangover.

On the second day of my 26th year of life, I woke at 4:30am and looked around. The room was only spinning mildly, and I wasn't terribly thirsty. But a well-timed hiccup prooved that I was indeed still intoxicated from the several large, well-made margaritas I'd had a few hours earlier.

My margarita habit amuses me. When I was in college, I didn't drink much. In high school, I didn't drink at all. But at the ripe age of 15, I knew a margarita was tequila, lime juice, and triple-sec AND I knew how to measure, mix, salt the glass, and pour over rocks.

Now before you run off and call DSS, know this: it's too late. Many years have since passed and I think the statute of limitations has expired. (But if you have any luck, remember to bring up the parentally imposed beer-to-cure-hiccups trend of my youth.)

So anyhow, after years of exposure to margaritas, and not ever daring to try one because who could ever drink anything that smelled like that (tequila), I have taken quite a liking to them. I've also decided that my recent Margaritaism is genetic, and there's nothing I can do about the addiction except dedicate my life to finding the best margaritas in town.

Also, I am dedicating myself to finding the perfect offsetting hangover cure for tequila-based beverages, frozen or otherwise. Generally, that tends to be water. Lots and lots and LOTS of water. And some advil. And Bo says also a bagel. And Mom would say a bloody mary. And Anne Marie would say a mudslide. (Actually, Anne Marie wouldn't be near the tequila in the first place.) But I'm thinking I'll stick with the water. Then soon a Coke. And several more of these chocolate-frosted cupcakes I've got. And maybe some eggs, and cheese. You know what they say, starve a cold, feed a hangover. (Is that right?)

i need to talk to this webster guy.

So, I'm an editor. Many of you know this. However, I pride myself on being "an editor with personality." There are many in my company who are "editors sans personality," and take their job a little too seriously.

As an editor, it is my job to be, as my sister would put it, a "giant geek" when it comes to things like punctuation, verb-subject agreement, and even spelling. (Although, when she has a paper to hand in, who comes looking for the "giant geek"? That's right baby. Come to sister.)

Well, it was just brought to my attention by another editor, the "sans" type that is devoid of personality or sense of humor (and hopefully the type that does not read my blog), that I have misspelled a word in one of my books. I quote:

"In the penultimate paragraph, change 'supercede' to the preferable (according to Webster's) 'supersede.'"

Okay, first...who the hell uses words like "penultimate"??? LOSER. I had to look it up, at friggin' Webster's.

Second, hey Webster...WHO MADE YOU IN CHARGE? I have been using superCede for many years, and it's always been fine. Why, suddenly, am I WRONG?

Alarmingly, this brings back painful memories of a certain wrinkly bitch at my former place of employment whose clearly visually impaired boyfriend supposedly works as a dictionary editor. She was very proud of this, always. Whereas the rest of us just hoped her inappropriate leather pants would come to life as an angry cow and chomp, thrash, and press her into ironic wrinkly bitch pants.

But back to my point: Who, exactly, are these people who decide when words should be added, removed, or changed in a dictionary? And how do they get this authority? I am concerned that it is being abused. As a professional giant geek, it is my job to stay on top of these things--but this superCede business just really irritates me, much like these did:

• "irregardless" is now a word in the dictionary, despite the fact that its common usage is derived from people who don't know it WASN'T a word in the first place.
• "aks" is now an acceptable pronunciation of the word "ask," which apparently is part of the Adopt Improper Pronunciations Instead of Teaching the Right One program.
• "reenter" (or re-enter) no longer requires a hyphen. Ya think? Reenter sounds like something that probes someone's butt in an alien abduction.

So, I would really like to talk to this Webster character, except I can't because he's dead. But I'd really like to know exactly who thinks they can just walk around making these changes for the rest of us. Irregardless, all I'm aksing for is a little authority to supersede these stupid words, and have them reentered properly.

Idiots.

gone fishin'.

Yesterday I decided to get a haircut. I mean, I've wanted one for ages, but didn't know where to go that would be affordable AND do a decent job on the overly dense forest on my head that I call my hair. But I finally bit the bullet, picked a place, and called in for a haircut.

Voice (in vague european accent) : "Amour de Hair."
Me: "Hello, do you take walk-ins?"
Voice: "Yes we do."
Me: "And how much for just a wash and cut?"
Voice: "Twenty-five."
Me: "Okay, great. And, could you tell me...do you have availability this morning?"
Voice: "If I tell you, it's not a walk-in anymore."
Me: "Right you are. I guess I'll take my chances."

Two hours later, I walked into Amour de Hair and was directed to Richard, a middle-aged, presumably gay Japanese man in black leather pants. He spoke with what seemed, against all logic, to be a french accent.

Richard: "Oh, Step'anie, you are so young, so beautiful. Look at those eyes. You MUST have highlights done. You will be more young and more beautiful, and those eyes!"
Me: "Um. Okay."

So Richard did the whole foil-head thing, and the here's-a-magazine thing, and the tell-me-if-the giant-drier-that-is-crisping-your-ear-lobes-is-too-hot thing, and eventually I came out with a wonderful haircut AND highlights! Oooh la la! But I was happiest that the change wasn't drastic. The slightest trim, the subtlest of highlights...I felt great but would still recognize myself in the mirror.

So this morning at work, I waited to see how people reacted. Some didn't notice, others took a while. "Did you...do...something?? Oh your hair, you cut your hair." This one noticed, that one noticed, my boss's boss noticed, but no one saw the color. That is a job well done.

While I was digging through some books in the hallway library, Jose walked by and said "Oh Stephanie, como esta? You are looking so beautiful today, like every day. But today more beautiful. Bonita!" Coming from Jose, I find it sincere. And I realized that people didn't know WHY I looked different, just that I did. (And more tan too, thanks to the illusion of sun-streaked hair.)

However, the one guy in the office who I wanted to show my hair to hadn't surfaced all day. I couldn't wait until tomorrow, because by then I'll have washed it and gotten it to look NOTHING like what gay leather Japafrench Richard did. But I, playing hair-to-get, couldn't go looking for the compliment. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, I broke down and sent an instant message.

Me: "it's 3:30. time for you to come over here and tell me my haircut is both noticeable and nice. i'll act surprised."
Him: (little smiley emoticon thing for gasping dude)

When I told my friend Jen what I wrote, she asked "is the compliment still satisfying if you ask for it?"

Before I could answer, he appeared mid-nonsensical-sentence before stopping suddenly and saying "wait a--did you--hey, you cut your hair!" I smiled and act surprised (as promised).

"Oh, and you colored it too! It looks good! Oh and he angled it around your face? Nice! I like it. I do. And he did't cut much either. It looks good."

"Wow!" I said. "I'm impressed! I didn't tell you that all that, you got it on your own!"

He walked away proudly, while I turned back to Jen and said "Apparently, yes." Sometimes even when you have to fish for it, a compliment can still surprise you.

i bleed red and blue.

We knew we would lose Romeo, and probably Charlie.

Then Big 54 fell ill. Already, our hearts ached.

Then we cut Ty Law, and I gasped in horror.

Then we released Roman Phifer, and I stared in shock.

But today when we let go of Troy Brown, I mourned.

I'm afraid the slaughter isn't yet over. I'm afraid of where we will be cut next. I love my Patriots and the joy they have given me, but I tell you--I LOVE these guys. My team will not be MY team without #24, 95, and 80.

To my boys, all I can say is that in my heart, you'll always be Bingo baby. Bingo. You won for us again.

UPDATE: And now David Patten?!? Oh the humanity!!

i always wanted a big brother.

This morning as I was slothfully trudging out the door of my apartment, I delayed my departure by noticing the unopened pile of mail on the table from yesterday. I didn't open it at the time because the apocalypse had arrived outside, and I could neither open the mail with my mittened hands, nor see it through the hail, sleet, snow, and lightning bolts that were striking all around me. So, instead, I fanned through it this morning on my way out the door.

In the pile, an envelope from the Massachusetts Department of Revenue. My immediate reaction was "Weird. They're supposed to direct-deposit my refund. What did they fuck up this time?" Then I opened it. And my second reaction was "Why the FUCK do they want $197 from me!??!?" Having neither the time nor patience to deal with this, I slipped the letter into my bag and went out the door.

Now, hours later, and in a progressively shittier mood than I was hours ago, I decided to revisit the matter. The form states a few key details:

• Notice of Assessment
• February 18, 2005
• $197.01 ($165.32 + $31.69 in interest. INTEREST!)

However, the form also fails to state a few key details:

• Why.
• Why.
• WHY!!!

So after a little research on the web, I got nowhere. The only indication I could find of the existence of this Notice was that they've already docked my current refund the $197.01. (So much for disputing.) I realized my best and only option was to dial the phone number and spend 11 hours on hold until someone hopefully semi-intelligent picked up the phone. I would even settle for a computerized voice telling me I made a math error, or that the tax rate went up. Something, anything, to clarify this damn Notice.

So I dialed. And some machine picked up, and a female voice said "Welcome to the Massachusetts Depahtment of Revenue." (Ah, the sounds of home.) "Please listen cayefully to the following menu." I followed the sequence and was put on hold for the "next available opahratah." To my surprise, my hold time was a mere 6 seconds. A charming, non-disgruntled, helpful woman picked up the phone.

After I gave her my social security number, address, date of birth, a blood sample, a retinal scan, and DNA analysis, she asked "What can I help you with today?"

"I just want to know....WHY?" I asked.
"Oh, well, it says here you failed to report some income in 2001."
"2001?"
"Yes, for the amount of $1567."
"In 2001?"
"Yes."
"If I failed to report it, how do you have it?"
"The federal government sent it to us."
"Oh. From 2001?"
"Yes ma'am."

I dug through the saved online files on my H&R Block profile, to find a 1099 listing for $1567 on my 2001 federal return. Beside it, the description "prize winnings."

Ah, prize winnings. That would be the two Madonna concert tickets, weekend for two in Martha's Vineyard, and his and hers mountain bikes, a prize package totalling--you guessed it--$1567--all of which I won from a radio station. The thing is, I know, I KNOW, that this was a line on the Mass. Telefile book of 2001. I remember putting it in the wrong spot, then moving it... moving it TO the line that specifically asked for WINNINGS. Why would I screw that up??

But it doesn't matter. They already took my money. Now they're taking more. And really, I guess it's still a small price to pay for fulfilling my lifelong dream of seeing Madonna in concert (and with awesome seats, may I add), and for an "expenses paid" trip to the Vineyard on the most beautiful September weekend in 2001 before life as we know it changed, with a room overlooking the glistening ocean full of sailboats AND a fudge store. Plus, I believe I just sold the his and hers mountain bikes when I left Boston. Sold them for...$200. Go figure. I made a $3 profit.

But in the end, I am a little freaked out that, even 4 years later, Big Brother is talking to Semi-Big Brother and keeping an eye on me, followed by vague and cryptic Notices of Assessment, which in turn is already a joke because they just took the money from me anyway. In a way, all this headache was for nothing...I'm just a pawn in their little game.

reality check!

Last night, like other Wednesday nights for the last 6 months, I went to my Accounting class prepared for a dull evening of P/E ratios and earnings reports. I settled into the ridiculously sloping desk/chair apparatus, balanced my scalding hot cup of tea on the ridiculous slope, and dug out a notebook. (Don't worry. No one gets scalded with the tea.)

Twenty minutes later, the professor, some accounting guy named Ed, is full swing into describing capital budgets and net income increasing over five years and blah blah blah, when he says, "Oh, and a bit of a personal question. I know there are two Stephanies in this class. Did one of you go to ---- Academy?"

With a look of concern and befuddlement, I timidly raised my hand. Why does my professor know where I went to high school? Why is he asking me in the middle of capital budgets?

"Oh!" he said. "My son goes there."

"Oh?!" I said. "How bizarre." Around me, my classmates giggled and whispered "small world" to one another.

"What year did you graduate?" Ed asked me.

"Uh...1997."

"Oh, well my son's a senior." Ed nodded and smiled, and I returned the vague gesture, acknowledging a shared moment. And although our chat ended there, and Ed returned to dividend yields, I had the following panic-stricken inner monologue:

1997. 1997. 2005. My god. I'm about to have a 10-year reunion. But I just went to the 5-year. How can it be 10 already? My god. I'll be 28 then. I always thought by 28 and my 10-year reunion I'd be somewhere. I thought I'd show up to the reunion with my husband and kids in tow. But that clearly isn't gonna happen. I mean, it's only 2 years away, and I don't even have boyfriend. I'm not even dating anyone. I don't have time! It's highly unlikely that I'm going to find someone, like them, fall in love with them, marry them, and bear their children in the next 2 years. I mean, I guess it's possible, especially considering that everyone else in my family is getting married based on an average relationship time of about 17 minutes. So 2 years isn't all that crazy. But god. 2007! 28 years old! Where is the time going? What am I doing?
AUGH!

When I snapped to, Ed had moved on to debt ratios, but I was stuck on some ratios of my own. In a few weeks, I'll be 26, which means I have to round up, so it's the same as 30. I'll spend the next 4 years being 30. In my mind, I'm still 19 or 20, just sort of floundering around trying to get some footing in this world. I just started life over in New York, I'm still broke, I'm back in school, my job blows, and it turns out men in New York also have their thumbs up their asses. I guess some things never change. And I guess that I'm not going to have the luxury apartment with the giant wall of books and charming spiral staircase that I share with my fantastically handsome husband and our brilliant crew of children--not yet. Maybe hoping for all that by 28 was silly. Maybe for my 15-year reunion. Maybe when I'm 33.

My god. I'm practically 40.

i heart green.

Every year about this time (if not sooner), I would have the depressing and heart-to-heart conversation at high decibels with my friend Anne Marie about how much we hate winter. Being prisoners of a cubicle jungle, the most we could do was stare at pictures of the tropical beaches calendar I gave her for Christmas, or do some fantasy vacation shopping online and look at all the pretty palm trees. Usually it sounded something like this:

Me (whining, throwing body around like a 3-year old): Anne Marie, I HATE THIS SNOW!

Anne Marie: I KNOW!! I can't take it anymore! I'm moving to Barbados.

Me: I just can't even look out the windows anymore. Everything is bleckh. Crappy grey roads. Crappy grey skies. Crappy grey snow. I hate when even the SNOW is dirty!

Anne Marie: I KNOW!! And my van! It's disGUSting from all the salt.

Me: I can't take it anymore. I am so depressed, I just stare at the walls.

Anne Marie: I'm telling you, it's that disease. We have the S.A.D. - the Seasonal Affective Disorder. Look. (furious typing into google) SEE. It's REAL.

Me: I KNOW it's real. I KNOW I have it. I totally have it.

Anne Marie: We need to buy these special lamps. They cost like thousands of dollars but they are so bright they act like the sun. Ugh, I would totally sit in my lawn chair in front of that thing. With a mudslide. THAT would make me feel better.

Me: But I can't afford a thousand-dollar lamp. Our insurance won't cover it. Ugh. I'll just go buy a plant. I need something GREEN.

Anne Marie: GREEN. I KNOW!! Just SOME sign of LIFE. My GOD! I'm moving to Barbados.

So like I said, this conversation happens pretty much every year...except this year. Because I don't work with Anne Marie anymore. (But, that was a pretty good simulation and I feel like I was there, whining, with Barb laughing at us from across the way.)

Anyhow, all this was a backdrop for the fact that I just "came to" a few minutes ago and realized that I was staring at--and possibly fondling--my new green plant for at least 5 minutes. A few weeks ago, I started to get that whiny itch again, and realized I had no greenery in my apartment. My one plant is at work, where I talk to it and tend to it regularly, and it grows smilingly in the fluorescence...unlike we humans.

So on a recent shopping trip, I made it my mission--nay, my life's purpose--to find a good, healthy, draw-me-out-of-depression little green plant. I picked through various shapes and sizes, short ones and tall ones, fat ones and skinny ones, prickly ones and...not prickly ones, until finally, my plant found ME.

"Oh THERE you are my beautiful darling!" I shouted as I ran open-armed to my lovely. I stroked and caressed its delicate stalks, letting the fair leaves tickle my fingertips. We also shopped around for the new perfect pot, requiring that it too must be vibrant and colorful and big enough for my new friend to grow beyond our wildest expectations.

And I took home the plant and the pot, got dirty with the soil, and proudly mounted the fantastic creature on my kitchen table, tall and leafy and GREEN!! Oh sweet greenness how I've longed for you!!

And today, after looking out the window at the drab post-snowstorm mess down below: the crappy grey roads, crappy grey skies, crappy grey snow, I retreat back to my ferny friend and get lost in my own private palm tree in my own little Upper East Side studio oasis.

things i'll never give up.

Once again, it is the lenten season. And I, being the devout atheist that I am, decided to take this opportunity to realize those precious things in life that I will never willingly give up. Not even on an experimental basis.

#1) Coca-cola. I LOVE COKE. Nothing says "refreshment" and "wake up" like the hiss of a newly opened bottle or the crack of a newly opened can of Coke. I know some people do coffee, some do yoga. But me? Coke, all the way. And I'm not talking any diet or vanilla crap either. We're talking red label, no funky flavors. Just straight up, proper Coke. It's delicious and it goes with just about everything. Pizza? and Coke. Cheese? and Coke. Peanut butter? and Coke. Chocolate chip cookie dough? and Coke. Friday afternoon? and Coke. Mmm, I love my Coke.

#2) Cheese. I LOVE CHEESE. At any given point in time, one could find a minimum of 8 kinds of cheese in my fridge. My love of cheese started very young with simple (white) American and string cheese. As I got older, and started living with other cheese-addicted persons, I started to appreciate the slightly finer cheeses, like fresh mozzarella, dubliner, jarlsberg, or a variety of others whose enzymes give me hives, but which I eat anyway because the immensely satisfying taste is worth the chance of death.

#3) Taking showers. (Thank god, right?) No seriously. I LOVE taking showers. I could spend the whole day hypnotized by the hot water of a good shower. Some people have an aversion to bathing, or are just lazy. "Ugh, I have to take a shower." "Ew, I haven't bathed in four days." No way baby. Not me. Minimum of one per day. Somedays 2 or 3, depending on my activities. I know this has a lot to do with the wild mane of hair upon my head, which needs to be washed often to prevent headaches (it's true, shut up), but seriously...me likey hot water.

#4) Nose picking. Have your laughs. Go ahead. Say "Eww...she's gross!" But I know the truth. Everybody does it. I'm just not afraid to admit it. (And I could name a few others who would too.) Nose picking is such an incredibly satisfying experience. Especially in New York, where the air conditions often leave you with a noseful of black crunchy stuff. Do I want that up there? Hell no. So in I go, rounding up the painfully hard boogers to enhance my clean breathing passages. I don't like picking soft boogies; that's what tissues are for. But hard crunchy boogs need a finger. As soon as I feel something getting solid up there, I go in for it. Shamelessly. Not in public, of course. But if I have known you for more than, say, two months, and we are in a private place, be prepared to see me pick.

#5) Sleep. Some people in this world are ambitious and restless, and aren't satisfied unless they are active. I am not one of them. I will choose sleep over most activities, with the exception of consuming coke or cheese, showering, or picking my nose. Sleep is a wonderful, wonderful thing. Sleep is something I am always dreaming about during my waking hours. I imagine the puffy comfort of my bed, the perfect plumpness of my pillows, and the undisturbed hours that pass while I lie in my blissful unconscious state. And really, bed optional I say. Sleep on the beach, the grass, a hammock, the couch, the floor, wherever! Just sleep...sleep......sleep.....zzzz...

adding insult to injury. literally.

So, yesterday, like every other day, I went to the vending machine upstairs for my morning can of cranberry juice. But this time, the vending machine hated me, and refused to take my dollar bill. I didn't fret much because 5 feet to the right is a change machine. But the change machine also refused to take my dollar bill. So, pissed off and thirsty, I left the kitchen.

I used my high-tech proximity card to open the door to the stairs back down to my floor. It's one of those split stairwells, with 6 or 7 stairs, then a landing, then 6 or 7 more stairs, then the floor. I was still fussing about my juice when it became frighteningly obvious that one of my feet was aborting the stair-descending process.

Presumably, the heel of my shoe was caught in the cuff of the opposite pant leg, but I'm not really sure what happened. But I wiggled my foot and tried to plant it on a step while exercising a death grip on the railing. I did get my foot free, but thanks to gravity and the inertia I already had going down the stairs, I totally missed the step, and next thing I know, I'm going down, aiming head-first for the wall that encases the landing halfway down the stairs.

With my second thunderous crash in about a week, I managed to prevent any major head injuries by bracing the wall with my hands and landing on my knee. Pain was instant, as was humiliation. At first I didn't move at all, hoping that if I was very still and didn't whimper, people would think someone just dropped a very large box, and wouldn't come looking. The plan worked, and I eventually stood back up, re-attached my flopping traitor shoe, and hobbled down the second half of the staircase attempting to look as casual, normal, and non-chalant as possible. I rehearsed my schpeal: "Me? Fall down the stairs at work? No, you must have just heard that man who just dropped a very large box. Yes, I helped him pick everything up on my way up to get my juice."

Back at my desk, I pulled up my pant leg to see instant bruising and swelling around me knee. It looked very nice next to the bruising from the Fire Alarm Incident. I popped some Advil, and whined all afternoon about how much it hurt. (I also embraced the irony, or perhaps I should say premonition, over predicting something like this happening YEARS ago.)

A few hours later, I had to go to the doctor. As doctors tend to do (and much to the continual amusement of my sister, even now at the ripe age of 22), she wanted to test the reflexes in my legs. Before I could think, she pulled back and slammed that little rubber triangle hammer...right into my bruise. My leg twitched little--the rest of me twitched a lot, and I groaned in attempt to stifle the huge profanity that was about to fly out of my mouth.

In the end, I laughed about it. I mean, it could have been worse. What if I'd gotten my juice and the compressed beverage can knocked me in the head when I tumbled? Or, what if had happened earlier when I was showing the new guy where the kitchen was? Or what if I'd fallen down the second half of the staircase, and rolled right into the main hallway in front of half the office? That would have REALLY sucked. So I guess in the end, a little rubber triangle hammer ain't the biggest problem. But it still hurt.

again with the chocolates and flowers??

It's Valentine's Day Eve, and I'm already grumping about it. V-day is one of those "holidays" that I dislike immensely and hope to ignore despite the multiple millions of dollars that are spent by "the industry" to flaunt it and aim it down my throat in the hopes of making me gag.

A lot of people say to me, "You just don't like Valentine's Day because you're single." Usually, in response to that, I say something eloquent and articulate along the lines of "Go fuck yourself." No, that's not why I don't like it. And while that reason may not exactly help the situation, it sure isn't a primary reason. Let me explain.

There have been years where, when good ol' Saint Valentine came knocking upon our doors with his little cherubs and red-hearted arrows, I have been not single. And even in those years, the only Valentines I ever got were from my mom. (Thanks mom.) In fact, there is only one year I can recall getting anything: 1995. My best guy friend in high school gave me a mix tape whose grand finale was Dennis Leary's hit single, "Asshole." Despite this, the mix tape is still the best Valentine's gift I ever got, simply because it is the ONLY Valentine's gift I ever got...that wasn't from my mom. So really, I've had 9 years of dashed expectations that make me the Realist that I am today.

So I don't expect much. Scratch that...I don't expect anything. A card would put me into shock. Flowers--cardiac arrest. Like last Friday, I went to get a sandwich for lunch. And the guy at the deli gave me and one of my friends each a small stalk of flowers from a vase. I squealed with joy at the kindness of strangers (who likely just want my return business), and giggled even though big burly construction workers were trying to sweet talk my flowers away from me. "No way!" I told them through their reflective safety vests. "These are the only flowers I'm gonna get! Back off!" I may, however, return to that same deli tomorrow and see if I can scrounge up a box of chocolates, or perhaps some sort of marriage-for-greencard arrangement.

Anyhow, I just wanted to state, for the record, that I'm not a big fan of the highly commercialized Hallmark Holiday that we are forced to reckon with each year on February 14th. This year, I did send one e-valentine to one person, and it was only because it contained a very cute puppy (another industry marketing ploy). Otherwise, I'm really only in it for the next-day half-off chocolate sales.

That, and the card from my mom. (Thanks mom.)

that's gonna leave a mark.

This story begins several days ago while I was lying on my bed, talking to a friend in the dark. As I stared off into space, a quick green flash of light caught my eye.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What was what?" he responded. I sat up and looked around, and it happened again.

"Oooh, right there! It came from there!" I said excitedly. Then I realized there was a smoke alarm on the wall. "That's weird. I don't ever remember seeing that there before."

"Well, every apartment has to have one," he said.

"Yes, and mine did. Over THERE," I said, pointing to the empty ring of mounted plastic in the kitchen. "I took it down because it went off EVERY time I turned on the oven. It's in the silverware drawer."

"You know you're not supposed to--"

"I KNOW I'm not supposed to take it down. But EVERY TIME I TURNED ON THE OVEN!! What's the point of having a device if it's over-sensitive to the point that people dismantle them?"

Soon after this conversation/argument, my friend left. And as I shut and locked the door, I turned around to see right there, upon the countertop, a new, sealed-in-plastic operating manual for a combination smoke/carbon monoxide detector.

"Mother fuckers," I said to no one in particular. This meant that someone had been in my apartment without my permission NOR my knowledge, which was not only illegal but also gave access to all my bras and underwear scattered on the floor. This did NOT make me happy, and I spent the night wondering if someone was going to jump out from a closet, except there's only one closet and definitely no room to hide in it.

Now -- to the present day.

Hungry and cranky and most likely suffering PMS (yes, AGAIN), I went to the store for some groceries. Among other things like tofu, yogurt, and cheese, I bought Stouffer's French Bread Pizza, Deluxe flavor. I was so so so excited for my little french slice of heaven, covered with sausage, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, peppers....yummmmm!!

As the instructions indicate, and as I've done a thousand times before, I microwaved the pizza for 90 seconds while the oven preheated to 450°. I popped in the pizza, checked the time, and wandered away from the kitchen.

When I checked my pizza, it was a little crispy, but I didn't mind. I pulled it out of the oven and was examining the cheesy goodness when--

BEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! "Fire! Fire!"

In complete and utter bewilderment, I spun in circles trying to figure out who was talking to me. I crossed the apartment in a series of quick strides, wondering how on earth I was going to fan the alarm that is mounted just inches away from my 10-foot ceiling. I looked around at my feet and, with the oven mitt still on my hand, grabbed a thick catalog while snapping the lid on my giant 18-gallon Rubbermaid container of clothing. "Fire! Fire!" some woman's voice announced.

I put my weight on the container, knowing it wouldn't hold me for long. But to my surprise it supported me as I waved the giant catalog over my head, begging the beeping woman to stop announcing my "fire" to the five boroughs. It wouldn't stop, it just wouldn't stop, and as I wondered what my neighbors were thinking....the inevitable happened.

POP! The Rubbermaid lid let go and fell into its container, dropping me a foot and a half to the ground. I bounced off the wall, taking my very, VERY treasured script of handmade Chinese calligraphy from college down off the wall as I went. Then, with a giant thunderous CRASH, the Rubbermaid tipped to the side and shot out, smashing into my water-filled humidifier and sending it careening -- in pieces -- across the floor. Vaguely aware of pain on the left side of my rib cage, I scrambled back to my feet and went to the kitchen for a chair.

The chairs are cheap and chinsey (but such a bargain!) and not made to withstand the weight of a crazy woman frantically waving a thick catalog at a chirping, speaking fire alarm. (By the way, WHEN did they start TALKING??) I lined up the chair, but first stopped to open the window as much as possible -- which was only a few more inches than its already open state. "Fire! Fire!" BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Back on the chair, I stood and fanned and fanned and fanned. I wondered if I could reach the device, but suspected extending myself that far would make another spill not just likely, but deserved. I wished I'd looked at the manual so I knew how to shut this thing the fuck up. And I fanned and fanned and fanned, my head now inches away from the million-decibel shrieker, until finally...it stopped.

Sh.

Deep breath.

I rested my arms a second before fanning some more in the hopes the squawky bitch wouldn't start up again. I jumped off the chair to open the other window, landing in a giant puddle of water left behind my scattered humidifier, which was now actually under the bed. I fanned a few minutes more before finally relenting, stepping down so I could eat the goddamned pizza before it was slightly crispy AND cold.

As I chewed my first delicious-but-not-worth-the-trouble bite, I walked in front of the mirror and lifted my shirt. Two parallel red marks, each 6-8 inches long, wrapped around my rib cage, and another, much smaller, at the base of my neck. There's also a bruise on my hand. I don't know what I hit, but I hit something, and all because some dirty asshole let himself in to install a new, state-required smoke alarm, whose batteries, I assure you, are about to come out.

nyc is unkind to the decision-making-challenged.

I have been staring at my computer screen for I'd say about 15 minutes now. The reason? I can't decide what I want for lunch. I have a natural inability to make these kinds of decisions, so it's not that it's surprising. It's that it keeps getting worse.

Back in Boston, we had a cafeteria in our company's building. The food sucked and was completely over-priced, but usually my biggest decision was "do I want fries or onion rings." (Coincidentally, this was also the most exciting decision, because it meant we had an option other than fries, which was very, very exciting.)

Other days, when I'd go out to lunch, it was a little harder. Barb and I would clamor into the car, and hem and haw over where to go, hoping we'd come up with an idea before the light turned green. On special occasions, one of us would be craving something, and say something like "I want honey mustard. Let's go to Friendly's!" But in the majority of cases, I'd just yell out "Go left!" or "Go right!" and we'd pick an option from that part of town, narrowing it down only as we drove past our options, saying "I guess not Papa Gino's...not Johnny Rockets." But even then, it was HARD. I never knew what I wanted, and that was with about 10 or 12 strong lunch options to choose from.

Now imagine that I have about 10 or 12 HUNDRED lunch options to choose from. Chinese, Mexican, Korean, Afghan, Indian, Japanese, pizza, sandwiches, bagels, and on and on and on. And even if I narrow it down to, say, pizza, I then have to decide which of the 47 nearby pizza shops I want my slices from: the Italian place, the Greek place, the Kosher place, the place with seating or without, the place across the street or 3 blocks away, the one with the free soda or the one with extra cheese. I end up so completely overwhelmed that instead of choosing ANY of them to silence and satiate the screaming hunger from my stomach, I sit here staring at the walls.

In traditional Barb's-car-like style, I usually just wander out the door, and turn left, or right, or go straight, and eventually say "oh. I guess I'll go here. again. or for the first time," which is really only the beginning. Because then I have to deal with picking something from the menu...

it was a good idea at the time.

This morning the sun was up and the birds were chirping (or cooing, as pigeons do). It was one of those mid-winter days where the temperature rose up and above the recent chilly single digits, with hopes of high 30s in the forecast. This, my friends, is a skirt day.

So I showered, dried my hair, and trotted around happily as if it were a spring day in April. I dug out a black skirt, some black tights for my legs, and then.....off to the closet.

I know you think this is going very girlie very quickly. And you're right. Because when I got to the closet I pulled out an aqua blue sweater. For funky layering purposes, I tossed a pink shirt under it. And when I was almost ready to go, I opted for some pink shoes - same color as the shirt. How CUTE!!

Until I got to work. Now I am afraid that I'm one jelly bracelet away from a bad 80s throwback. If I maybe put my hair in a scary ponytail on the side of my head, and added some lace gloves, I really think some fashion magazine photographer would chase me down the street for their "Don't!" section. Or maybe those "What NOT to Wear" people would jump on me from their perch upon some fire escape and hose me down.

Truthfully, I think I'm okay. I am right on the verge of being TOO 80s. But I can't help it. I mean...how do you unlearn something like that? It's like my child self was digging through the closet looking for "radical" color combinations, but instead came out with something that, like, totally makes me want to gag myself with a silver spoon!

Watch out Debbie Gibson. Here I come.