fooled by the pearls

TWIR: “Another Day, Another D-bag, Another Dazzling Disappointment.”

2009-10-07T12:49:00.000-04:00

TWIR: “Another Day, Another D-bag, Another Dazzling Disappointment.”

I'm an absurdly anxious person with extreme control freak tendencies. I hate everything about flying from start to finish. Do you call a car or to save money, take the very-convenient-to-work-and-home-subway? If you take a car, how bad will NY traffic be at any given time? Will the security lines a nightmare? While I know you can basically take anything you want with you on a plane leaving NY (ironically), will the motherf**kers working for TSA in Florida confiscate the pricey perfume I’m carrying on? And then there’s the matter of strapping myself in to a metal death cage that weighs 200,000 lbs and travels about 600MPH at 37,000 feet. When the end of this incredible journey is finally reached, I’ve got an anxiety-ridden visit in with my parents in the land of strip malls. I DIE… and not in the amazing Camp Zoe sort of way.

To deal with my neurosis on a recent pilgrimage back to mecca to see Superman and the rest of Urban’s wunderkinds take on Tennessee, I did what any rational person would do. I arrived at JFK two hours before my flight and headed straight to the sports bar in T5. After receiving free drinks from the bartender and the creepy, middle-aged men on either side of me, I boarded the plane and heard the pilot announce it was going to be bumpy the whole way to Florida. I instantly popped extra half of an Ativan and as soon as the beverage service started, ordered white wine only to have the steward bring me red vino. Regardless of his colorblind mistake, I opened and poured into a glass… right before he came back with the white I originally ordered. At this point, it only seemed appropriate to open and drink the cold white and let the red have a breather. I had two hours, right?

What seemed like 5 minutes later I woke up as the wheels touched down in Jacksonville to a tray table that had been packed up and the same steward telling me – with a horrified expression – that I’d passed out and he'd tried to wake me up multiple times for wine payment and/or general health concerns? I apologized, not particularly embarrassed or genuinely sorry, and offered to pay Judgy McSteward who, in turn, said something to the effect of, "just get the eff off the plane, crazy lady."

Sometimes while trying to keep up with the ridiculousness in your life, you get caught up in it. You become a casualty of crazy, akin to being a casualty of war. I've also come to realize that for every unbalanced action, a similar and equally absurd reaction is very much possible. For example, at home we have to hand wash dishes as we are unfortunately without a dishwasher. We use these ginormous, white coffee mugs every morning to hold the rocket fuel espresso we make. It makes me slightly insane when the crevices inside have coffee stains and are not cleaned to my liking. (Read: I'm completely neurotic and want everything done my way). However, instead of just soaking the mugs in hot, soapy water a little longer, I spray bleach inside the mugs. And we’re not talking about the veggie-based Green Works. I mean the Bud Heavy of bleach, regular old Clorox. It is beyond a doubt, certifiably demented of me to think that bleach is the better choice to a faint ring of a best friend's coffee left over from yesterday morning.

Romantic relationships will most likely render the maximum idiotic, ill-conceived, and impracticable reactions from people. Take, for example, dating someone’s ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend. In theory, it’s a genius idea. Think about it. Someone else already did a test run and you know that at the very least, your head won’t end up in a freezer or your skin on a blanket (too far?). At any rate, you know this person is likeable and maybe even well liked by your friends if it ended amicably. However in practice, it’s a great big douche move. Think about it. You’re dating your friend’s ex. You’re taking a big sh*t on big book of friend code and in return, getting your friend’s sloppy seconds. It’s a really bad idea. Unless... it all works out, in which case; Mavel Tov!

Unrelated, someone I know seems to have slipped into a torturous pattern of essentially not being attracted to someone unless they work together. I’m sure for that person, it happens to be a totally subconscious, coincidental event. Anyhow, could someone please remind me that person the office (particularly if that office is an ad agency) is the probably the ultimate worst place to meet someone? You’d think I they would have learned by now. I they have not.

A nice, tall, attractive 24-year old boy in Manhattan who claims to want to date you is basically a modern day Trojan horse. (Trojan cult? …get it? He’s young. Anyhow…) Having passed the 24-year benchmark four years ago myself, I should have known better... just like I should have known better than to order and consume my 6th grain alcohol margarita Friday night at Rio. However not really being one for restraint, but instead acting more like the poster child of “gluttons for punishment" everywhere, neither situation really stopped me.

The thing is this man/horse is unbelievably appealing at first glance with his tall stature, southern accent, affinity for SEC football, possession of seersucker pants and an endless supply of crisp shirts. The total package looks tempting at first. But once you get up close and pick it apart, it turns into a big f**ing mess that blows up in your face. And there you are crying at the bar, feeling like a fool because in addition to you, this baby Trojan colt also hooked up with half the girls in the office! And what did you get out of it? A monster hangover.

At some point you stop feeling bad. You have Jameson on the rocks with your friends on a Sunday night at a speakeasy in the West Village. (You whip up a pointed blog post). You reach a limit. A best friend and fellow New Yorker reached one a few months ago with a man she met on a plane. They went on a date where his truly awful shirt caused her to raise an eyebrow. However, not wanting to screw up that second chance karma, she entertained a second date. She showed up horrified to him in sweatpants and a shirt she described, while shouting over the phone as, “a shirt that was actually, originally designed to not have sleeves!!!”

And while yes, perhaps we’re overly critical bitches, and clothes can be changed, sometimes you have to ask; Is it worth it? Looking back, if all you ever really had was an adolescent g-chat buddy who talked about himself always and occasionally slept over, it’s not worth the anxiety, the tears or the potential damage to relationships with real friends. That big, wooden horse can stay locked outside the gate because I’m hoping on a plane to New Orleans with some of my favorite people on the planet. And to quote one of them, “the mustometer will be redlined all weekend.” So to my dear friends heading to NOLA, I’ll say this: Saddle up, because I’m putting myself in the running for the weekend game ball. And I’ll be starting out with an Ativan and some red and/or white wine high in the sky Friday morning.

Don’t be fooled by the pearls.

VENN

Keeping Up With Crazy, vol. 1

2009-07-01T18:21:00.002-04:00

You want to see crazy people? Go to a sandwich/chopped salad place around 1:00pm in a mostly commercial area of NY. Want to amplify your crazy? Go to what I consider to be the only one with decent food in the entire financial district, Patuca, and you find yourself in the epicenter of hungry people whose drive for at-desk-productivity outweighs the quality of life that comes with taking a lunch hour… or people like me, who would rather go back to their desk and singlehandedly try and watch everything hulu.com has to offer than sit in City Hall Park and enjoy the lovely weather, er, fog/rain.

Personally, I find crazy people fascinating, so I quite enjoy the priceless people watching in a hot, crowded deli. Before you even get into what really makes people tick in these places, there’s usually someone dressed as though they clearly forgot they had to be in public for most of the day. I understand that office thermostats are often set around 30* below, but that does not give you carte blanche to walk around looking like the bastard child of the Easter Bunny and Batman.

By that I mean, I saw a woman walk in wearing a teal “sweater” with elongated sides all around which I am assuming are meant to wrap around you for extra warmth, but the problem was that you couldn’t even see armholes. It was as if she cut a hole in her childhood security blanket and set out to her adult day. I mean, this thing would have put living room throw blankets to shame. A snuggie would be more fashionable and frankly, more trendy. I wanted to take a picture of the crazy woman in her bat cape, but I stopped just short of snapping it, in part because my blackberry camera has a flash that would have gone off and attracted attention and in part because of something that rarely happens with me. I stopped and thought, would I want someone to do this to me on an off, ahem, hungover day? No, no I wouldn’t.

Enough empathy for now. Back to my comfort zone: picking apart mannerisms of perfect strangers who never did anything to me. Thank goodness for the protective glass covering the salad ingredients. I have to believe that were it not there, people would point to their desired ingredient not stopping short of sticking their swine flu carrying fingers in there for a sampling.

Crazy happens during ordering and there’s really no reason. I get how it can be unnerving to wait in a long line and then have to depend on someone who might not speak the best English to put together your precious lunch. (Note to self: the ability to speak Spanish would really come in handy here – way to go on growing up in Florida and studying French for six years). Anyhow, think about it; there are about 20 options of various salad/sandwich toppings. Even if the person serving you doesn’t exactly speak the queen’s English – or have a green card – when their job is to make salads for people all day, every day, what do you want to bet they understand the words “tomato,” ‘cucumber,” “beets” and “delicious goat cheese?” And frankly, worst case scenario they screw up and make you a new one? You’re paying $15 for lettuce. They’ll start from scratch.

Speaking of $15 salads, price point is another thing that cause people to go bonkers. I don’t understand it. I stood in front of a ~~troll~~ woman in the sandwich line the other day that, of course, was clawing over protective glass covering to scream out complex orders of tomatoes and sprouts. Well, this ~~troll~~ woman was none too pleased with the amount of avocado on her sandwich, quietly suggested they give her more and then turned to me I guess looking for sympathy and gave a little, “harrumph!” Umm, hey lady, do I strike you as a person who would give a shit about the amount of avocado that the sandwich guy allocated to your sandwich, because I don’t. So please step far enough out of my personal space to notice the sporting of the wayfarers inside, the earbuds in-ear and the BBM to Casey in hand and know that I’m not interested in anything having to do with your lunch.

Of course what I just said is BS because after she started snorting off like the ~~woman~~ troll she was, I kind of needed to know how it would pan out. Clearly ~~not~~ needing more avo on her sammy, she barks at them to add more, so they do. She then completely loses her cool when they charge her an additional $0.50, as per the board that says: Additional Toppings $0.50 each. Right. I mean, am I the only one who finds it embarrassing to cause a stir over the difference between a $6.75 and $7.25 sandwich? I get that the eating out adds up, but honestly, if you’re concerned about saving money, buy groceries and bring in your lunch.

Lastly, perhaps what’s most troubling is that I actually think about it this much. I mean, none of this matters, but when you go to the same place nearly every day, there’s a lot of time to observe. And I’d be lying to say I didn’t love crazy people. On that note, I asked a friend last week if she’d rather go to Iran right now for a month or spend six months in a small town in Tennessee having to watch Fox News and attend Baptist church. She, of course, said Iran and added, “I’d wear those robes around and no one would know how fat I am.” She’s not fat, not even close. However, I suspect she’s not the only one who would make that same choice, crazy as it may be. And strangely enough, I love living in a city with people who would choose chaotic and violent rioting over a certain cable news channel… even if they crowd my personal space while barking off salad orders in an overpriced deli in lower Manhattan.

The Week in Review: Foreign Territory.

2009-03-23T18:20:00.000-04:00

When leaving the ease of a familiar routine or the comfort of a shared 600 sq ft of space in the sky you call home, it’s safe to say that you won’t know what to expect. What you expect might not be what comes to pass. Now this can be as spectacularly exciting as it is extraordinarily disappointing. And somewhere in the middle of the is-she-self-medicating-highs and cut-yourself-on-purpose-lows, you realize that this is life and if nothing else, at least it’s interesting.

Let’s start at, well, the beginning of this theme I hope to pull together into a complete thought by the end. I’m going to say something, and then I’ll hold a minute for you to pull it together. I gave up alcohol for lent. …………………………………………………….. It wasn’t my idea. My good-Catholic-girl-BFF-roomie decided to give it up for lent. Like a lemming, I followed and said; yeah I’ll do that too.

When you give up alcohol, one thing you most certainly don’t miss is the hangover. One thing you do miss, however, is the alcohol. This is why I caved and as I began to write this, I opened up the finest bottle of $8.99 sauv blanc that the wine store downstairs has to offer. For the rest of lent, I’m just hoping to cut back and be healthier, which will no doubt turn into some concrete resolution to maybe, “lay off at least four out of seven nights a week,” and then evolve into, “seriously, no more day drinking… during the week.” At least I am aware that my rationalization sounds about as sensible as, “well I’ve shut down the meth lab, but I still shoot up once a month or so to keep my edge.”

Regardless of my lack of ability to commit to a measly 40 days of self-started prohibition, I can still celebrate the end of Doobie’s sobriety at brunch on Easter Sunday. Because that’s what the deprivation is all about, right? Making one of the two Whiskeypalian-raised, requisite church appearances per year and then following up with liquid lunch. Needless to say, this venture into foreign territory panned out just as everyone expected it to. No one had faith in my 40 days of sobriety. Then again, I’ve never given anyone much of a reason.

The next undertaking into the unknown panned out with an unexpected ending of the most unpleasant nature. I recently ventured to San Francisco for the first time to visit a friend of mine. To say I was excited to see him is a gross understatement. Two days in, to say I wanted to teleport myself back home to New York, or get hit by a bus, is also a gross understatement. On the bright side, I saw two cousins and a dear friend from high whom I hadn’t seen in nine years (who took me through the “gayborhood” as he called it, and accounted for such a pleasantly surprising highlight of my trip out there). On the down side, I travelled 3000 miles to find out that the boy I fancied recently started seeing someone else. Special. Again, on the bright side, I had some unexpected, self-directed acting lessons. What the hell else are you supposed to do with a full 48 hours to go than put on a happy face and act like you’re having fun? I’ll tell you. Average about 1000 TMs per minute to Doobie/Chanita/Casey/Jamie/Chantelle/Michael detailing what you’re really feeling (unadulterated misery) and outlining what you’d really like to be doing (drowning yourself in a bucket).

Restoring balance and perspective in my universe, I ventured back to the birthplace the next weekend for a dear friend’s wedding. Now, this was a weekend I’d been dreading for reasons other than the wedding, much of which is just general anxiety generated when I’m not in a major, metropolitan area. It turned out to be better than I could have imagined. There’s nothing like a few nights (read: gallons of wine) among friends from the home front to make you see how, in the eternal words of Bob Marley, everything’s gonna be alright. And there’s nothing like seeing a best friend live out the wedding she always wanted to make you see what happy really looks like. And there’s nothing like Elmer’s school glue for children to adhere the ripped leather back to the heels of your shoes after sinking into the lawn all night. Unexpected highlight of a casual wedding, where the bride and groom are actually already married before the ceremony: taking your wine glass down to the river with you for the service.

My last and most recent expedition into the unfamiliar actually wasn’t that unfamiliar. Like any good New Yorker in training – 5.5 years to go till the title is legit – at lease renewal time, instead of doing the easy thing and staying put, we decided to surrender to the soul-sucking process that is moving in Manhattan. Getting evicted a mere year ago wasn’t enough. It was time to set out and spend $6 grand I don’t have, but would need in order to call a new neighborhood home. Or would I?

In an unexpected turn of events, the second apartment we saw was a go. It was cheaper than our current place, in real Soho (not “Soho”/a refrigerator box in an underground tunnel by the Spring Street E train), the rooms were equal size and my ginormous couch would actually fit up the one flight of stairs you had to climb. Too good to be true? Yes and no, but mostly not really. One hiccup was that they wanted us to each make about $30K more than we currently do. Let’s be clear about something. If I had a $30K addition to what is already a comfortable salary, I would be looking for a more expensive apartment. Still, to end the search at apartment #2, we were ready to move forward. That is until I went out for cocktails in celebration of the return of a dearly missed NY transplant in from Chicago for the weekend. After a few rounds and a quick, “ja, I’m moving again” conversation, I learned a valuable lesson: good things can come from shitty bars, in particular Black Bear Lodge in Gramercy. BB will forever have my seal of good karma approval, for it is there where we started the conversation that led to getting the best apartment ever.

The best apartment ever is the entire 5^th floor of 118 Hudson. It’s situated in Tribeca proper above Bubby’s and across the street from Nobu and Mr. Chow. Yes, I’m culinary name-dropping. The elevator opens up into 1700 square ft of space and there’s a washer/dryer in the unit. Enough said. But is it? No, because the finished roof deck wasn’t mentioned yet. And it plays host to a tiled bar, fridge and a grill that, unlike others I’ve seen in NY, would not be easily confused as part of a “kitchen-set” accessory for a child playing with dolls, not to mention there are lovely panoramic views of the Tribeca skyline. Not to be outdone by apartment amenities was the process itself. I’ll lay it out for you: we looked, we wanted, we took. No broker, no fee, no deposit, no lease. Just an amazing space in a low rise building full of guys who are all friends with each other, and perhaps soon, with us too.

For a glass-half-empty kind of gal like me, this foray into good luck was a welcome change. An old coworker recently told me, “The sum total of splendor in the universe is always the same. It just keeps changing locations,” and I take that to mean that my luck will once again become depressingly shitty. I find strange comfort in that, probably something to do with familiarity of the situation. I was also recently told getting your heart broken makes you feel alive. Alive? Maybe, but only because you’re painfully aware that you are. I liken that tidbit of advice to telling someone it’s good luck to see rain on their wedding day. File that under, “you’re definitely being told this for the sole purpose of trying to make you feel better, not because anyone actually believes it.” Finally, I was most recently told - by a psychic I saw this weekend on W Houston – that July and August would be good months for me. While that has potential, as it coincides with a mini Fire Island share I just got in on with one of my most favorite partners in crime, I also think it was Miss Cleo’s last ditch effort at selling me on more “psychic services” since I would only shell out the $10 bare minimum. You see, I’d never gone to see a psychic before and I didn’t have a whole heck of a lot of faith in what she said, but none the less, it was interesting enough to try something new. And maybe continuing to try new things is the big take-away here. Putting yourself out there could be the very thing that makes you realize how much you actually love everything you left behind, chief among it being white wine. And no matter what happens, New York is always there to fall back on. So whether you’re coming back from a foreign land, foreign coast, foreign borough (less likely), or a foreign state of being, i.e. sobriety, nothing compares to the homecoming with that skyline. And seeing it from a new neighborhood is certainly a refreshing point of view.

DON’T BE FOOLED BY THE PEARLS.

venn.

The Week in Review, XVI. “Going to the Chapel…”

2008-08-05T18:23:00.000-04:00

The Week in Review, XVI. “Going to the Chapel…”

I was walking around near the Meatpacking District on Saturday looking at townhouses. I always try to browse within my means. I noticed a sprawling, empty, low-rise building stretching through a good portion of the block. There was a sign on the scaffolding that read something to the effect of, “rental, commercial and estate demolition.” While I’ve personally been a victim of great buildings changing ownership and function, I still think it’s exciting to see new renovations, forms, functions and constructions in the city. OK, in the spirit of full disclosure, I actually think purchase power on that level is exciting. I mean, I was over the moon two weeks ago when I bought a new dress and heels on the same trip to Tracy Reese. I can’t even imagine the excitement that comes from pulling the trigger on a gigantic piece of prime NY real estate. “…half the block on W 18^th between 8^th and 9^th, you say? OK, I’ll take it!”

I have absolutely no credibility or authority on vows of commitment, successful relationships, or even making it through a wedding reception without blacking out, so I thought I’d be appropriate – er, funny for me - to reflect on the ghosts of weddings past, both up on the alter as an attendant and in the pews attending, to serve as an amusing/cautionary tale for those people biting the dust next year.

I’ll admit it; I’ve had a really easy wedding season this year. So easy, in fact, that Doobie and were able to book a trip to Germany for Oktoberfest in the fall. I look at it as one last celebration of the lack of restrictions single life offers before we commit all disposable income for the foreseeable future to celebrate our friends’ commitments to commitment. I have anxiety thinking about next season’s minimum of 10 new dresses, 8 out-of-town flights, 5 weddings, 3 bachelorettes, untold amount of drinks, a partridge in a f**king pear tree, and ZERO prospects of an “& Guest” to bring along with me.

Now, clearly this might apply more to the ladies reading. Goodness knows all of this is a simple, 500-step process for any female involved. Guys are lucky bastards who require so much less assistance and fuss in these situations. What will they wear? Well, whatever they’re told… which is a suit, personal tux or rented tux. What’s the rest of the attention focused on? Organizing a perfectly-timed bachelor party to Vegas during March Madness right before that April or June nuptial. Once it’s time for the big day, I’m fairly certain their main concerns are centered around making sure to get a cooler of beer for the limo and not dying of a heat stroke in the suit/tux at the wedding. Oh, if it were only so easy for us gals.

It all starts with the bridesmaid dress, aka a $350 conglomeration of satin and tulle that you would never have even worn to prom back in high school during a time of less developed sartorial sensibility, much less in front of your closest friends and family in pictures that 50% of these couples will treasure for the rest of their lives.

You have to go into the purchase process knowing two things: 1. The sizes are ill fitting, usually skewing to the small side, making it necessary to buy a larger size than you might normally wear, and 2. Because of the ill fitting sizes, you’ll need to throw another $100+ into alterations of something you’ll never wear again. And don’t brush over the ill-fitting sizes comment. Some people are obsessed with wearing a certain size. If you are one of them, please ask yourself when, if ever – and I’m guessing never, someone has said to you, “ooooh, darling dress… what size is it?” No, sorry, that’s never happened. Why then would you set yourself up for disaster by buying something that won’t zip up?

In the back room of a cathedral, I once watched a fellow bridesmaid zip up a skimpy size only to have the zipper rip in half. I tried my best not to laugh out loud/immediately started snapping pictures. Out of nowhere, an old church lady (picture Dana Carvey from his SNL days), busts into the group with a mammoth tackle box full of supplies and starts sewing up the gaping hole in the dress. Adding to the tension, this one chick who grew up in Minnesota, and has since picked up the thickest southern accent you’ve ever heard, tried to gather us around saying, “Yaaaaaawwwwwlll, I thaaank we shuud prraaayy.” Sugarbee, JC may have turned water to wine, but that zipper isn’t fixing itself through the power of prayer. Just when I thought it couldn’t get better, someone yelled out, “Yall?? Oh you grew up in Minne-f*cking-sota,” I then wondered if the guys had any limo beer left in their cooler. While it all turned out beautifully in the end, an evolving train wreck of this proportion needed toasting.

Moral of the story: always have drinks on hand and buy dresses that fit.

Before the dress ever even zips up…or not, there’s still the matter of addressing hair and makeup. Some people are better on their own. Some people are hopeless. The easiest solution might be to organize pre-ceremony hair and makeup for the bridal party… you would think.

Last summer, I was over at a friend’s getting hair and makeup done before we headed over to the church. The girls with longer hair went before me and I watched as their hair was twisted into tiny, scorching hot curls and pinned then to their head for good measure until we were ready to leave. The vision of half pulled-up, flowing curls will look lovely on them, I thought, but surely they must have another plan for the two of us with much shorter hair.

False. The plan was the same. I moved to the hair chair panic-stricken, desperately explaining to the lady how well my hair holds curl, knowing how hideous I’m going to look at the end of this process. She decides that on me, she’ll just stick to ringlettes seared into my hair at 500 degrees, no pins. Once the ringlettes were in place, and my hair was plastered back with easily enough aerosol hairspray to double the size of the hole in the ozone, she brushes out my curls. I can’t see anything at this point, but I sensed that I looked ridiculous. My worst fears were realized when she says to me, “well don’t you look like you just hopped off the Good Ship Lollypop.” Hey lady! You did this to me. Thanks. That’s exactly what every neurotic, image-obsessed girl in her mid 20s wants to hear at the end of the process. Thank goodness there were drinks on hand.

Moral of the story: allow your attendants to dress like adults. Remember, they’re on display and in pictures that 50% of you will want to keep forever.

Those being the only two hiccups I’ve encountered on the bridesmaid side of things, I thought I’d wrap up with a few DO’s and DON’T’s I’ve learned over the years as a guest.

DO remember that the little packs of rice are meant to be thrown at the bride and groom from a distance and not down your friends’ dresses and pants… ultimately ending up all over the hotel room and in the sheets when you “fall asleep” in your dress.
DON’T drink an entire bottle of champagne before a wedding you’re not in. Remember, you will be available for cocktail hour, not stuck taking pictures. Otherwise drinking an entire bottle of champagne is such a good idea.
DO bum a cigarette from the Father of the Bride. It’s super classy.
DON’T sit next to one of your best friends and your other best friend’s little brother at a ceremony conducted in a language you don’t speak. Your friend’s brother might make you giggle. Once they start, they don’t stop, and this is inappropriate at a religious ceremony.
DO live it up when you realize you’ve been intentionally seated at a table in the back of the room, by the bar, with all the other degenerates there. This was not an accident. People are actually expecting you to be loud and act like an idiot. Embrace it.
DON’T let someone swing you violently around a dance floor when your dress is cut down to your rib cage. You will flash people. This is inappropriate.

And lastly…

DO please still invite me to all 47 weddings next year in spite of all I’ve just said. I might have to embezzle money to fund all the plane tickets, er, dresses no one else has ever seen before, I’ll definitely still blackout with the cast of characters tying the knot next year, and they’ll all be discussed in great detail after the fact, over another barrel of wine at the Pig with my two dinner companions from last night. But don’t worry; you all might get your chance to poke fun at me one day. Of course by that time we’ll all need to use the wheel chair entrance to the townhouse I picked out on the west side of Manhattan.

The Week in Review XV – “TopTier Friends”

2008-07-30T13:24:00.000-04:00

The Week in Review XV – “Top Tier Friends”

I pass judgment on perfect strangers on the way to work. It’s uncalled-for, unreasonable and unmerited really, but it’s a necessary part of my heat-distraction-mantra. OK, who am I kidding? I do this year-round, but at the moment it goes something like this: “it’s not that hot… it’s not that hot… hi – have you SEEN your hair ... it’s not that hot… it’s not that hot…. oooh, buddy – only gay men can wear jorts and look good in them - désolé… it’s not that hot… that guy’s suit is tailored far too well for him to be single – or heterosexual – too bad… it’s not that hot… it’s not that hot …” oh come on – skinny b*tch in jeans is clearly on drugs to be in denim and not be affected by this heat…” and so on.

Anyhow, it doesn’t work, because by the time you arrive at the subway even your sunglasses feel like a constricting, heat-radiating nuisance. And I’m a glasses-on-on-the-subway kind of gal… obviously so that I can stare directly at the strangers on my car in closer quarters and continue to pass judgment. I also think about what it would be like if something terrible were to happen and I was forced to spend the last minutes of life with these freaks on the uptown R train at 10:00, errr, 8:50am on a random Tuesday morning. That’s a bit morbid though.

You know how sometimes you do Sunday morning brunch with your friends and it turns a little too boozy for your own good? (Read: You know how 75% of the time you do brunch with friends you continue drinking until you eventually self-destruct, black out and kick-off the work week feeling like you’ve been run over by an uptown R train full of sweaty strangers lacking sartorial direction?) It was one particular weekend brunch a couple months back that I found myself locked in the back of a molester van in Chinatown with two fellow A-listers while they bargained with a Chinese immigrant over fake, quilted Chanel bags. Ahh, the American dream.

It always starts innocently enough. That day we’d met at the Plaza fountain to run the 6-mile loop in the park. The very hint of exercise made us ravenous. After we finished that landmark triumph in athleticism, we walked over to Sarabeth’s on Central Park South and asked them if we were presentable enough to dine at their establishment so long as we sat outside. It only takes one person to order that first drink at brunch to get everyone else to join in. To her credit, P-Pants also ordered an entire pot of coffee. A few hours later, it became apparent (to us anyhow) that we needed to head downtown to see the latest illegal productions of high-end rip offs, sad as they may be. And why not? None of us had been to Chinatown in years, so it was really a sort of cultural exploration too.

Twenty minutes on a downtown C-train later and we’re in the thick of it, still in sweaty running clothes and still buzzed. This calls for a quick stop at everybody’s favorite mall pizza chain restaurant, Sbarro, to pick up a surprisingly good selection of beers to brown bag for our journey through bags on the black market. When all was said and done, though there wasn’t enough time for Bed, Bath & Beyond, it was actually a pretty nice little Saturday. We saw at least five people get arrested, bought Chanel from the back of a windowless molester van, snagged a few necklaces that broke immediately upon returning home, and got a fake “I’m not a Plastic Bag” bag for $25, when the 3000 authentic Anya Hindmarch ones sold at $15/each as a special promotion to encourage hugging trees.

So, I’ve been rambling on about this to illustrate the point is that there are certain things you only do with top tier friends. It’s that small inner-circle that’s part of the larger circle who you can count on for an immediate and resounding “yes, I’m in” to whatever it is you suggest. They’re the ones you think of first when someone offers you 4 tickets in a suite to see Bon Jovi in his mecca… Jersey. They’re the ones who cause the biggest disappointment should they not be able to attend said Jerseyfest, leaving you to feel lost and let down like it’ll be the hardest thing in the whole world to find someone else to go with you to see these living legends of rock play live while you’re being spoon fed free food and drinks. Only a top tier friend would steal beer from a mentally challenged cashier at the grocery store in Hampton Bays to cheer you up on your birthday when you’re in the middle of a stage-5-breakdown-anxiety-attack, convinced you’re getting fired from your job you love. Not that it really happened, or that Doobie was the one who would have done it if it ever had happened. To her theoretical defense, she told the cashier the beer was free and he just believed her.

I’m convinced no one actually likes all of their friends, so I’m hesitant to believe that everyone doesn’t have some A-team- All- Stars that they favor. Now, it may be difficult to pick them out as we get older and continue to meet new friends. Right now, for example, Facebook tells me I have 588 friends, but I am pretty sure I don’t know 75% of them. I think it might be easiest to break friends down into categories and carve out the top tier from there. The way I see it, you can generalize into about 3 categories of friends:

The ones you grew up with. Whoever you grew up with that you still talk to… they are your top tier friends in this category and probably always held that spot. For me, they did. For some, they may be the only friends in this category. Actually, some ppl might not have this as an applicable category anymore.
The ones you went to college with. Now, it goes without saying that we all have fond memories with these crazy f**kers, but the gold star friends from this group are the ones you still talk to constantly, who haven’t gone batsh*t crazy after leaving the comfort of the judgmental group en masse. They left the nest and learned how fly, whereas some of the others left the nest, took a wrong turn and ended up in an oil spill off shore and are now dependent on PETA to scrub them clean while Americans watch on CNN, sigh and say, hmm what a shame. That doesn’t even make sense. Anyhow, these are the people who follow through on the pact you made four years ago to travel to Germany for Oktoberfest 2008 and good thing too, because it’s going to be epic.
The ones you’ve met since leaving college and entering this so called real world

The ones you work with. You spend 75% of your life with these people. It helps when you like them too. It’s even better when you can sit with them on a 3-way instant message conversation all day, snorting laughing, while you plan out the scenes of the fictitious movie you’re writing on advertising and betrayal starring all the classic characters you talk about behind their backs. These are the people who you punk, telling them they need to call a bar to confirm a party, when really you’ve given them the number to the strip club Scores, and they aren’t even mad, just happy to finally be in on the scam.
The ones you’ve met in NY (or fill in the appropriate city here _____). This can mix with those in 3a. For me it’s those people with whom I shared apartment 3a on 55^th st… all 25 of them, without getting sick of each other. Seriously. Well, minus the 3-month stint with the hyper hyena girl we got off Craigslist. I thought for a split second that these might be the most mature set of friends you’ve got, and maybe in some way they are. They have no problem leaving really great seats in the Garden long before the OAR show is over because you’ve all realized that you’re the oldest people there and need to go hang out with adults. Mature decision. They also have no problem making a cauldron of rum-soaked sangria on a random Saturday afternoon and then staying out till the sun comes up because you were so into the GNR dance party going on in the living room you didn’t realize it was 9:00am. Immature decision.

Now I considered another category centered on people who know how to act like adults when splitting a bill at a big table. I stopped myself from going there (nope, no I didn’t) in high, desperate hopes that not everyone has to deal with people who don’t quite get it. Seriously, there are few things more irritating than watching that bill come to the table and having people try to itemize what they’ve consumed. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin and float away from the table when someone pulls a bill out from the night before (actually happened once) or tries to say something to the effect of, “umm, I only had a side of iceberg lettuce and 3oz of house wine.” Yeah, hi, I also was at the table you lying lush, and I noticed you put down a lot more than that. My thoughts are: What‘s a couple bucks among friends? , it all equals out over time and at most you’re saving yourself about $10. I get it if you work for some freakish communist who thinks $35K is fair compensation in NYC in 2008. I’d say something upfront too so I could buy myself a $17 watered down vodka/soda later on at the bar. However, if that’s not the case, then WHY would you ruin lunch/brunch/drinks/dinner by making everyone feel awkward, walk out of the restaurant annoyed and inviting unsolicited criticism from perfect strangers, only to hop on that downtown R train thinking, “Well that sucked, and damn it’s hot. I hope something bad doesn’t happen so that I have to spend my final minutes with these freaks. I don’t even have sunglasses.”

DON’T BE FOOLED BY THE PEARLS

VENN

TWIR, XIV: Please Consider the Fact That No One Cares

2008-07-30T13:22:00.002-04:00

TWIR, XIV: Please Consider the Fact That No One Cares

Monday, March 24, 2008

You know what drives me absolutely bonkers (among a hastily-expanding, infinite amount of things) are the posers who think it’s trendy to put that green note with the little tree icon at the bottom of emails. “Please consider the environment before printing this email.”

Listen, I am as much of an eco-freak as someone living in a concrete jungle can be; I more than support the cause. I use mass-transit. I own 2 real furs… err, wait? I have a f***ing compost pile of Diet Coke bottles/cans under my desk at work that I feel too bad about not recycling… and will eventually take to a bin… at some point… maybe when I leave the office late at night and don’t mind being mistaken for a homeless person who just dug through the garbage. I stood in line at Whole Foods at 5am in the rain for a “I’m not a plastic bag” canvas bag to use instead of plastic bags at the grocery store, and among other things, I’ve stopped eating mammals* because of the greenhouse gases they produce on the meat-butchering farms where they are raised. (*I reneged this commitment twice in the past 10 months, once at a media party and once after a media party, both times excessive alcohol was involved and come on, sometimes you just need a bite of a burger). I digress. This is not about me.

Back to the e-consideration of Mother Earth. It’s so f***ing presumptuous to think that people are just printing out your emails left and right - like they aren’t already getting 9859285732986 other emails in a given day - to the point that you need to step in and say something to stop them before they print it out. Thank goodness you have that little icon and note there, you arrogant jerk, so that when people get to the bottom of your emails, just before they hit the Print/Kill-a-Tree command, they can now stop and think, “F**K, WWAGD?!?!” (F**K - What Would Al Gore Do)? Well we all know what Al would do; he wouldn’t print that email. If people are really printing out my emails, I would ask them to please consider what they’re doing with their LIVES if they truly feel they need a hard copy form of this sh*t to file away.

Equally annoying as the faux eco-freaks (fauxcofreaks… that doesn’t work does it) are 99% of real estate agents in New York. Living in the center of the universe is great, but for sure the worst possible thing you can do here is move your stuff from one NY apartment to another. I challenge you to find a more agonizing process to go through. Adding brokers to the mix only compounds what is already an extremely painful experience. The whole process is just awfully ass-backwards. And if you’re an in-advance-planner-type, forget about it; start the anti-anxiety meds now. In my case, the last round of relocation started with eviction, which was a special little twist of the knife in the side.

Most brokers are shady. And that’s being kind. Take the guy from Best Apartments who showed us a place in Tribeca. It was a great place in Tribeca proper, as opposed to a Craigslist ad that says something to the effect of “$3150 / 2br - Big true 1 bdrm-flex 2 bdrm, 740sqft, city.water vu, drmn, gr8 area! Tribeca/Soho!!!!” That really means Tribeca/Soho/a sketcy area not remotely close to either of those posh neighborhoods, and watch it, because you’ll likely get mugged at night by a shady character… possibly the broker who is trying to sell you on the place. That brings us back to Best Apartments Buddy. He shows me this apartment and I liked it a lot, however, I was the only one who was able to see it at the time. I gave him $500 to put a hold on it till we could send in the applications. As luck would have it, we found a much better apartment on the day we were approved for this one. We said thanks but no on Tribeca, and he said we owe him $4695 because we decided not to take the apartment. Excellent reasoning. Then he threatened to take us to small claims court, and after we called him out on his BS, he decided he’d just keep the $500. This kicked off what inevitably turns into the equivalent of taking a large sum of money and dumping it in the East River.

Speaking of large sums of money, another annoying thing brokers do is show you apartments out of your price range. These apartments will be the ones you fall in love with, and of course everything else will seem like a rat-infested sh*thole in comparison. As I said, we saw mecca the same day we were approved for another apartment. This was the holy grail of NY apartments: centrally located, stunning, 2100sq ft and just out of our price range. Fitting right into place as part of the universe’s grand scheme against us, we decided we could stretch a little more for such a fantastic space. How often do you find that much space in NY? OF COURSE IT’S TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. Please. During the application process, the owner of said apartment decided that perhaps the paycheck to paycheck lifestyle wasn’t the ideal tenant situation for him. Did he even take into account the fabulous clothing that explained the lack of available funds in our checking accounts? No. He decides we need an extra month of security upfront, which along with the 15% broker’s fee (another special aspect of moving in NY), brought the grand upfront-cash-needed-total to $30,000. I sh*t you not. Am I wrong in wanting to scream out, “If I had $30K lying around, do you think I would be looking for an apartment to RENT with two other people, asshole?!?!?!?” That settled… onto night #47 in a row of wine for dinner. Those of you who were there know how well that panned out.

Maybe the last worst thing brokers do (can I even say that – it’s probably like picking a least-favorite child) is show you spaces that are flat out unlivable. Under this umbrella falls the 6’x6’ “bedrooms,” underground apartments with no windows, entire apartments with no closets or living rooms, walk-ups that triathletes couldn’t manage every day, and among other things, anything on Avenue D or Peter Cooper (read: Stephen King) Village. The last one made the list while viewing an apartment and looking out the window to an empty playground with empty swings blowing in the breeze. This is the stuff that Law & Order: SVU episodes come from. Anyhow, we saw so many awful apartments it was entirely depressing. Exactly what part of “overpriced bat cave that you can only fit a twin bed into” did you think you were going to sell me on? I am a professional, er mature… I will be 30 in about three years; I need a place that leaves me with a modicum of dignity and enough disposable income to buy at least 3 new outfits each month. Is that too much to ask?

Eventually you get so tired of looking that you settle on a place you can live with and live in. Sure it’s $500 more each month than you’re paying now, it’s a fraction of the size of the fabulous 5^th Avenue apartment you left (after they evicted you and changed the locks) and even after downsizing the copious amount of STUFF you’ve collected over the past 3+ years you still need to get a storage unit for the opposite season’s wardrobe… the point is you’ve finally found a home and you’re not far away from once again feeling settled. It’s then that you get an email from your broker letting you know that within the next 24 hours you’ll need a certified check for the majority of what you make in a year another for 15% of the annual rent, but CONGRATS, because you have a new home! Then, just before you go to print that sucker out to remind yourself of just exactly how far into debt you’re about to fall, you see that familiar little evergreen icon and accompanying note from yet another self-important asshole reminding you to consider the environment before printing this email.

DONT BE FOOLED BY THE PEARLS

VENN

TWIR: XIII "Survival of the Fittest..."

2008-07-30T13:19:00.002-04:00

TWIR: XIII "Survival of the Fittest..."

Monday, October 22, 2007

I recently took an online quiz that told me 98% of all women in the United States drink less than me. I wasn’t terribly concerned as I answered NO to the question, “Do you ever have a drink when you wake up in the morning to take the edge off?” Technically it’s true. I can’t help it that tailgates start early, or Essex has a 3-drink brunch special on the weekend. It’s not like I’m making a Jack & Coke roadie on the way into the office every morning. Anyhow, 2% of all women in the US is a decent number. At least it didn’t say something like, “Legs is back in college, Bizz can out-drink you in a head to head competition, and Tink had a hell of a weekend, but you should probably still go ahead and find an AA meeting to crash.”

On a daily basis we brave the elements around us. Be it our climate in crisis, less than desirable social situations, chilly rain drops crippling tri-state transit and causing Lexington Avenue to explode, working with crazies, or wildlife invading our homes (a pigeon flew into our apartment and dive-bombed my roommate in the shower a few months ago). We have to put our best foot forward to deal, get past it, and go get some Clorox to disinfect the hell out of it. This is survival of the fittest.

What I think it all boils down to, is that Darwin and his little theory of natural selection are wrong, at least to some extent… at least I hope so. You do to. Think about it: those individuals with slightly better adaptations, according to the theory, would get more food, be healthier, live longer and, most importantly, have more mates. As time progresses, traits become more obvious, therefore later generations will be more defined and, possibly after thousands of generations, form a new species.

Quick, picture five people you can’t stand to be around and apply that thought process. It’s depressing; but as with most things, it can get worse. How many of those people are married or on the road to being so? It’s almost overwhelming to think about because that would mean someone like “Dogface or Doorknob,” ghosts from office space past, who are as unfortunate-looking as they are ferociously annoying, haven’t been weeded out by now. Both are married and as such, far more along their way to premeditated reproduction than chronically-single Venn ever will be. They fit into the theory, and are therefore the stronger majority, making me, the one with a personality and sartorial awareness past 1994, the weaker minority who will eventually become as extinct as the dodo bird. On so many levels, I can not accept this.

How is it that micromanaging freaks have survived so long? Shouldn’t they have been wiped out in some sort of collective mutinous effort by now? Does it mean the ability to micromanage is a favorable trait, or simply that there are enough people out there, sans backbones, putting up with that crap? I realize the office is not like a dull date, bad movie or some other adverse situation from which you can easily remove yourself. You have to see these people over and over again, day after day. However, coming from someone who had three W2’s in 2006, I clearly don’t stick around and wait for things to improve. I just agency hop or seek out more enticing employment at beer pong tournaments.

Office martyrs, holier-than-thou-attitudes and certain aspects of a dress code (at least in this industry) also cause me to raise a brow. I can’t walk around in designer denim or my Manolo flops on a Thursday, but someone who is plainly, morbidly obese sporting glorified black sweats, is ready to take on the world?

Enter evolution of the mind, and a whole lot of stereotyping. I brought all of this up to a coworker (and co-creator of officepwned.com – coming soon). He suggested "ugly” people don’t have to worry about being liked or superficial things traditionally "pretty" people think about, or are stereotyped as thinking about. Instead, those who are less attractive focus on getting ahead in being smart and practical, assuming that handsome people are stupid for working at what seems like a less practical survival tool. He then asked me, would I rather be ugly and always exceed everybody’s expectations (no), because that would cause a shift in the paradigm. Unsightly would become attractive and the whole cycle would start over. Just look at what was considered beauty in the past; those people would be measured as sub-par by today’s beauty standards.

From that I have two takeaways. First, so long as people who could compete on “The Biggest Loser” roam the halls in sweats, someone with a healthy BMI should be allowed in denim. Second, it’s less surprising that the freaks have found each other and paired off, leaving us normal people in the minority. I don’t mean that all married people are freaks by any means; I adore my married friends for so many reasons, one of which is that they give great hope for balance. I’m referring to my office freaks: “Doorknob and Dogface.” Also, labeling myself as normal is dangerous (and far from the truth). Normal pigeonholes you into a corner, held up to performing by the standards of others.

Perhaps D&D are married because they found what they are looking for a long time ago. Maybe I’m not because I have prioritized goals for myself. I could probably fool some unfortunate schmuck into changing that if I made it my purpose to do so… and stopped being controlling… and learned how to compromise. Not really interested, but I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Part of what might make us both interesting and successful could be the very fact that we don’t compromise, especially in this industry.

Back to D&D. It’s entirely possible they act they way they do because the office is their only outlet for that sort of behavior. What if “Doorknob” is married to a jerk of a control freak and she backs down to him all the time at home? Office space is her safe place to micromanage subordinates and be in complete control of a situation. People extend their experiences across all aspect of their lives in order to create equilibrium. When the person at hand loses control in one part of their life, they might go beyond an appropriate limit in another, attempting to feel in control and maintain that equilibrium. Instincts are still very strong in humans no matter their environment. Unlike animals, we have the capacity to step back, breathe and asses the situation. We should remember that before making our coworkers lives hell, and their accountants deal with 3 different W2’s in April. However, if I’m wrong and micromanagers Doorknob, Dogface and their respective husbands are the ones taking over and forming a new species, then I’m going to need to elevate my alcohol intake to that upper 2% to tolerate coexistence until expiration and extinction.

Don’t be fooled by the pearls.

VENN

TWIR, XII “You can’t always get what you don’t want…”

2008-07-30T13:17:00.004-04:00

TWIR, XII “You can’t always get what you don’t want…”

Sunday, May 6, 2007

Am I the only one who realizes that American Idol is a property of Fox Broadcasting Company and not NBC Universal? My neighbors just down 5th Ave at the Today Show certainly don’t. It’s generally one of their most important stories. While I understand the show is extremely popular with a cult-like following, I have to say I remain a little puzzled. I can’t quite wrap my head around the constant promotion of one of your main competitors who consistently achieve higher primetime ratings (largely thanks to Idol).

For the record, inept and negligent recruiters are up there on my list of “Venn’s Top 5,000 Pet Peeves.” I'm not actively looking for a new job right now, but that doesn't change the fact that I keep an updated resume posted on about five different career websites at all times. Am I happy in my current job? Yes. Am I perfectly willing to sell out for a position that would be 50-100% higher paying than my current job? Yes.

To that point, I got a call the other day from someone asking me if I was interested in a sup position with a considerable boost to my salary, and it peaked an interest. I think anyone living here in New York understands the feeling you get that there might be something better out there, and if you’re not at least moderately relentless in looking for it, someone else will snatch it up. With a very guilty conscience, I called the recruiter back for details. This dim wit hasn’t gotten back to me for over a week, when she ought to be pushing me into an interview (considering if I were to land the job she’d get a 20% commission). Now, I’m caught in wanting something that I didn’t want in the first place. Now that I conceivably can’t have it, I need it.

Along a similar line of thinking lie the crazy things that we do in relationships and when forming relationships. Admittedly, it’s mostly the crazy things girls do because of guys, but I’ve definitely come across several severely-unhinged gentlemen who fly their freak flags high when they don’t obtain their desired reaction from females.

I think unavailability has a lot to do with causing people to flaunt their routine stint of crazy. For the most part, this is where the gentlemen come into play. I speak from experience here, recent experience. I’ve seen all kinds lately: emotionally unavailable, recently out of a relationship and lastly, the real special ones who are still in a relationship – married even.

Those least deserving of blame are the ones fresh out of another relationship. They were, after all, just broken up with or just ended a relationship themselves. This does not mean, however, that they are incapable of making someone a little crazy. They could, for instance, share a car service home with you after a business dinner/five hours of mojitos, and finally put an end to the undeniable sexual tension built up over four months of working together but never meeting in person. Then they might come to your dinner party that Friday night, unable to keep their hands off you. A few days after, they might call you and tell you that they can’t stop thinking of you. They might even invite you out on a date the next week, only to cancel the day before over instant messenger rather than calling, and never reschedule. But perhaps I’m simply too harsh a judge, and that’s just par for the course when you’re a 31-year old boy.

Then there are the times when you meet someone, go out with them, and while there might not have been fireworks, you figure you’ll give it another shot…after a little investigating. Given my recent track record, I figured this one had a freak flag too. He’s 34 and VP in our industry, so I knew he likely agency-hopped a bit. That meant someone I know must also know him. My suspicions were, on every level, validated. He’s married, and his wife is due to give birth on my birthday. Special added value there. I found this out while I was down in Florida for a friend’s wedding. I got a text from him and here’s how the conversation went:

Married Guy: How’s the sand?
Me: It’s cloudy here. How’s your wife?
Married Guy: Be nice. Are you going to Atlanta for the National Championship game?
Me: Why should I be nice when I have to find out that you’re married from someone with whom you used to work? And why would you ask me out in the first place? No, going back to NY.
Married Guy: I thought you knew. Sorry. And why? You’re cute, nice, fun & hot – pretty great. And I can get myself messed in the head sometimes, but I never got in a spot like this before. I hope we can talk about it.
Me: Perhaps I should be wearing a scarlet letter rather than my “Beat Ohio State” button.
Married Guy: There’s that cute girl I like so much.
Me: Vomit.

And he’s not the only married guy who has recently asked me out. It happened again Thursday night, post tequila-sipping at a downtown bar. I was leaving to go to my roommate and her fiancé’s goodbye party when the gem of a gentleman says to me, “I really enjoyed our conversation, and your eyes are just so inviting. I would love to see you again.” I reminded him he’s sporting a wedding band, indicating he’s both legally and spiritually bound to another in marriage. He comes back with, “Yeah, but unhappily.” With stand-up guys like that out there, I feel the occasional crazed behavior is not only excused, but almost expected.

PS – government warnings should not be limited to cigarette cartons. They should be slapped all over tequila bottles and the glasses the bottles get poured into. Warning: after drinking this you will be unable to speak and borderline socially-retarded.

Those who make us girls the most crazy are the emotionally unavailable or possibly just plain uninterested. Because the universe is unfair, we’re naturally more drawn to these fellows. They are the guys that you become great friends with. You sense a bit of an attraction, so you tell yourself that if something comes of it, cool, and if not you’ve got a great friend, so you’re happy with that too. Of course that plan is good for about three days, till reality hits and you realize nothing is ever that easy. You’re caught wanting something you didn’t think you wanted in the first place.

Begin crazy behavior – provoked crazy – but crazy behavior, none the less. Since you are friends, you still hang out, both in groups and with only each other for company. Your friends adore him, your roommates adore him, and admittedly you do too. You’re stuck over-thinking everything, never stopping to realize that it might just be the control freak in you needing, well, control of the situation. One night on your couch, after a sushi dinner with a side of sexual tension (and nothing to free it) he leaves you with a conversation, via text, to really send you over the unstable edge:

Unavailable: See, two single people can make good decisions.
Me: Yeah, I guess, by default.
Unavailable: Believe me; I’m saving you from a big pain in the ass.
Me: Yeah, yeah.
Unavailable: No, really. This is not a line. I like you too much to subject you to it. We get along too well.
Me: I’m far from perfect.
Unavailable: You’re not perfect? Two issues don’t make a right. (and I kid you not) insert a smiley.

Now you’ve got your guard up. You swear it off. Then, for good measure you sleep with him, thus solidifying uncomfortable interaction and nearly destroying your friendship. After a month of awkwardness on a level you previously thought to be impossible – to a point that it kills all attraction that once was, and changing his name in your phone to “Don’t Call or Text,” you finally admit to each other that things are in fact weird and you’d like them not to be that way anymore so you can go back to being friends. And, by the way, you stop acting like a complete basket-case.

Now, maybe it’s just New York turning us all into control freaks and actually no different than the feeling of needing to find a better job when you genuinely don’t want to leave the one you have. Maybe it’s because you grew up in the South and you’re still trying to overcome the damage that did, i.e. – among other things, the underlying expectation to get your Mrs. degree by 22, be at the alter by 24, retire by 26, and pop out babies within a year or so after that. Is it possible that we’re perfectly content with a single life and just too overly-bombarded by outside factors to realize it? Are we so consumed by trying to have it all that it causes our freak flags to fly high and attract an array of unavailable men. Maybe it’s bad karma seeking revenge for when we acted poorly in previous relationships, i.e. answering the “Oh, how are you and ____ doing?” question with, “Ehhh, things are OK, I guess, but I think I’m going to break up with him soon,” for the entire 8-month duration of your relationship. Or maybe you never wanted any of it in the first place, but must have it now only because some brain dead recruiter won’t call you back and give you the details. Any way you look at it, you can’t always get what you don’t want.

Don’t be fooled by the pearls.

VENN

The Week In Review, XI “It’s a Small World After All…”

2008-07-30T12:56:00.000-04:00

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

There’s something inherently unfunny about working 12 hour days for many, many weeks in a row. That has stopped recently and I’ve since been intoxicated for at least two or threeve solid weeks. Please pardon the delay.

For the record, people who neglect to put contact information in their email signatures are dead to me. I get it; they don’t want to be stalked. I don’t either. Honestly, unless someone is a complete social retard with no friends (picturing a few in this office right now) no one wants to be stalked. But guess what happens when some self-important ass clown doesn’t put phone/fax number in their signature. They have to be tracked down. This means that a small herd of third party people are now involved in the hunt, irritated, and wasting even more time in their already meaningless days. Worse are the people who don’t fix their return setting to include a signature at all. Do they not realize when they randomly get cc’d to answer a question, etc… that their contact info is not anywhere in the fu**ing email? Obnoxious.

For an outsider (I’m assuming – fortunately) the island of Manhattan would seemingly be the last place you’d expect to constantly experience “small world” stories. After all 8.1 million people live here, even more are here working on any given week day, and then there’s the tourists. Not backed by any legitimate statistic, I’d say there are at least a million of them walking around my neighborhood on an average day, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, bugging me to take their picture in front of 30 Rock. I digress. Anyone making the aforementioned assumption would be dead wrong. Those of us lucky/smart enough to live here know that you’re always one stampede of tourists away from running smack into the person you just mentioned two minutes ago.

Perhaps the strangest breed of these occurrences is stepping onto the same subway car as someone you know. At the risk of sounding completely cliché, I’ll say it. What are the odds, right? The first time it happened to me here, I was rendered nearly speechless. Leigh and I stepped onto a crowded car and pushed our way to the side only to find another friend from prep school sitting there on the bench. In this case the chance encounter was particularly positive; we hadn’t seen Meredith in a long time and we spent the afternoon shopping Upper East boutiques together. I dare say that rarely would one of these meetings be a negative thing, save ex-boyfriends, people whose calls you’ve been avoiding, or any emotional terrorists you might find in the eighth circle of Hell, i.e. creatives or either of my old superiors from McPrison. I’ve now come to expect “small world” stories, any way they come.

In a slightly less PG version of running into someone on the same subway car, or working in the building across the street from two of my sorority sisters, we have my Saturday night. Kim and I found our A-game, put on our drinking boots, and headed to the bar. Whoa cheesy… and yet not edited out. Anyhow, sucking down bourbon at bar #1, with its five other patrons, we get a call to go meet Erin’s bachelorette party and soon find ourselves in a cab headed to Naked Lunch. For those of you unfamiliar with the place, it’s a normal sized bar that on Friday and Saturday nights packs in more people than a U2 concert at the Garden. They play a delightful mix of 80’s and hip-hop, so as you might imagine, it’s an obvious pick for b-days and bachelorettes. Either that, or it’s 3am and someone remembers how much fun they had there the last time they were there, on the verge of blacking out.

On the way down there, I tell Kim, “Maybe we should harass this boy I met in the Hamptons last summer. He and his buddies don’t really go out at less than 100% and he lives nearby.” We stumble out of the cab and hop in line. A few minutes later I mention to Kim that I think I know the guy standing a few people in front of us. He turns around. It’s “Ben Hamptons.” Small world. We go in, pay, and separate, as our friends are in different areas of the bar, but don’t worry. It gets better.

A few bourbon drinks and some really inappropriate tequila toasts later, we are reunited and get to chatting. He asks where I went to high school. Being that he is from the Midwest, I question why he would care, but let him know I went to Bolles in Jacksonville. He says he knows one other girl from Jacksonville, that she works on his desk at Merrill and asks do I happen to know Erin. Funny, that’s whose bachelorette party I just met up with. Funny, he’s going to the wedding. Small world.

It also came out in conversation that he’s skilled at the art of the flying trapeze, but who isn’t these days? Seriously, upon mentioning that to my KatieBee’s fiancé, he said he also learned how while vacationing at Club Med resorts as a child. He just neglects to freely advertise the talent. Small world.

Anyhow, this is a boy I met in the Hamptons in August (at the Drift – those of you who have been there know what an important detail that is). I didn’t speak to him until September, when, after an entire day of watching football and drinking beer, I was finally cocktailed enough to ask what he might be doing. Immediately following this feat of liquid courage, an extremely intoxicated Mandy was making me promise to eat pizza and drink water in order to be allowed to go down to the party, for which I desperately needed a wingman. I was given an hour to “make it or break it” at this party. We walk in the front door, through the fog machines/strobe lights that were going at full blast, and Mandy and Ellen know everyone in the room, everyone that wasn’t a hired Hustler dancer, that is. Again, small world.

In maybe the only major metropolis in the world undefined by one particular industry, we actually have a built-in system that kind of perpetuates these chance meetings. If advertising is any indication of how other industries work, they’re all completely inbred. Everyone knows everyone. Then figure in the clients, etc… that each industry services. Then figure in the friends you have across all of different industries to whom this city plays host. You get a lot of crossover. So maybe we’re all just connected through a few mysterious direct dial/ fax numbers that some self-important asshole refused to put in his/her email signature, and the longer we work here in some kind of professional capacity, the more likely we are to run into each other in line at the Naked Lunch.

Don’t be fooled by the pearls.

VENN

TWIR, X “Home for the Holidaze – Part Deux…”

2008-07-30T12:42:00.000-04:00

TWIR, X “Home for the Holidaze – Part Deux…”
Sunday, January 7, 2007 at 11:21pm

Contrary to what many people think, text messaging is not an acceptable alternative to actual conversation as a permanent means of communication. I’m not saying that it’s never appropriate. I mean, no one actually likes all of their friends, so I don’t begin to blame people for texting them rather than calling if the message is short. And certainly, it is fine for the first round of contact after someone takes your number at a bar. I definitely don’t fault some boy for being wary of calling the crazy girl he might have thought was cool at 2am – I’d be scared to call me too. However, I think it’s reasonable that at some point, we as adults (you know – by default because of age) stop building relationships by spelling them out on a keypad, and start talking into the receiver… but not for too long. Long conversations on the phone are just irritating.

I honestly don’t understand people who give up caffeine. I go through about five cups a day without thinking twice. There were these skinny girls in the kitchen the other day talking about a friend of theirs who totally gave up caffeine and then went into Starbucks and was accidentally given real coffee instead of the decaf garbage she asked for. Apparently she couldn’t breathe all day after that, nor sleep that night. How can you work in New York and not have caffeine? I don’t understand how there is even a market for decaffeinated coffee, and why anyone would go into Starbucks to buy it. I put it on the same bizarre level as non-alcoholic beer and cheese-less pizza. Moral of the story: don’t give up caffeine/that which makes you function like a normal human being.

I know I’ve mentioned before that holidays give me anxiety. For once in my life, I’m really not exaggerating or just being dramatic. My ride to the airport alone justifies it. In spite of my advertising salary leaving me with bundles of leftover money each month, I called Super Shuttle to take me to the airport. Big mistake, lesson learned. It was an hour late and went to the wrong address on Lexington, but the driver – who was about as mild-tempered as Bob Knight and looked like he was going to have a heart attack and die at any minute – assured me that the rest of the pick-ups were right around us on the East side of Manhattan, and we’d be through the midtown tunnel to JFK in no time.

Not the case. We go from 47th St to 34th St to 57th St to 23rd St to FDR Drive down to Alphabet City and then supposedly we were on our way to the airport at long last. Now, to give you an idea of the general mood of the van, he has picked up four other girls, also in their mid-twenties, and a woman who speaks no English. We’re all raging at this man, pushing him closer and closer to sudden cardiac arrest. Every time he put another piece of luggage in the van, he’d wheeze and say, “Jesus Christ, what do you have in here?” I’m sorry, is it not your job to drive people to the airport? I’m having trouble understanding why it is you’re finding it surprising that my suitcase, which comes up to my natural waist, is heavy. I have no tolerance for ignorance and stupidity on that level.

Super driver gets a call from Super Shuttle’s dispatch and starts talking very quietly on the phone. Since he’d previously been talking at the level of Satan doing a special performance at a Black Sabbath concert, I knew something was up. He has agreed to pick someone else up. We head to Sutton Place to get this woman we now all hate. By this point, the woman who speaks no English has started to freak out because she’s fairly certain she’s going to miss her international flight. She starts to have a major anxiety attack, saying over and over again, “I feel bad. I feel bad.” To attempt to calm her down, we basically turn the van into a make-shift Lamaze breathing seminar. Unsuccessfully.

Being the Thursday night before the Christmas holiday, we hit traffic on the highway in Queens. Our driver, trying to avoid imminent mutiny, decides to drive on the shoulder of the road at – no joke – 90MPH. This is not easing the worries of the panic-stricken passenger in front of me who continues to tell us, “I feel bad” and flail about van, crying on the shoulders of the people next to her. Next thing we know she’s leaning forward, dry heaving, much like a cat with a hairball. The girl behind me throws her a shopping bag and she proceeds to vomit in it, while holding it in someone else’s lap. Special.

By the time we get to JFK, she is so wound up that she can’t identify her own luggage. The driver runs into the terminal yelling for a medic, we all jump out and scream at her till she tells us which bags are hers, and then I scream at the driver to just leave her with the police, that they’ll know what to do, and that he’d better damn well get us to the Jet Blue terminal ASAP. It is now 8:49PM and I have to check luggage and board my plane at 8:55PM. I make it, but I’m sure it took at least another year off my life getting there. All that stress, and I hadn’t even left New York yet. Oy vey, my friends, oy vey.

My family is crazy. I know that everyone’s family is crazy to a point, but I think mine might be popping a few more crazy pills on average. This is why I drank my way through the nine days I was back home, which by the way, is far too long to be at home once you’ve moved out. I actually found myself wishing our office wasn’t closed. Lesson learned there too.

My problem was that I drank my way through that week-long holiday with my family, rather than going out with friends. I only left the house to be social with old friends twice. The first time involved an old roomie from NY (who I miss terribly) and two friends from back home who actually live in NY now. Way to branch out, Venn. The second time involved the Jags/Pats game on Christmas Eve day, and my aunt, her manfriend and two kids came too. Even though I wandered around drinking beer for most of the game, behavior had to be monitored, and Christmas Eve dinner with all the crazies was looming in the not so distant future.

As has been tradition since 1992 (post Hurricane Andrew when the majority of the Miami sector of the fam moved to Jacksonville) Christmas Eve dinner was hosted chez Venn. I wasn’t really feeling well, so I started off with a screwdriver thinking that the OJ would brighten my spirits and the vodka would numb me to what I was about to endure that night and the five days after it. I was just trying to be resourceful.

My great-aunt had recently fallen down while shopping and banged herself up pretty bad. Now, I do feel terribly bad for her and wouldn’t wish that upon anyone, but I don’t, for the life of me, understand why old people want to talk incessantly about injuries and illnesses. It’s gross. She wouldn’t stop; she even brought pictures of what she looked like before the bruises started to heal. She also brought along her cousin, who is old, a bit eccentric, and losing control of her bladder. Perhaps I should say lost, as she did manage to wet my mother’s newly upholstered furniture before dinner. By the time we sit down to dinner, everyone is good and liquored up, which set the scene perfectly for my father to be extremely rude to my mom’s sister and her kids. Thanks, Pops, that’s not awkward or anything in a room of only 10 people.

Christmas Day. I think that for most families, the whole sit around and open presents thing lasts a few hours at best. In mine, try 12. No joke. Dinner time comes, and I might as well have been intravenously consuming wine all day long. Trust me, you would too.

The same ten crazies from the night before are sitting around having a casual dinner and watching football. My aunt starts to tell me about how Ohio State is going to bury Florida. I don’t know what’s actually going to happen with that game Monday night, but I know that was about the absolute worst thing you can say to the wino who is fanatical about Florida football. I argue up a storm with every stat ESPN.com has given me in the last threeve months. Mom/June Cleaver breaks it up and makes us stop. My aunt’s manfriend, who played football for Michigan back in the day, also tries to say something neutral. I respond to this by telling him I think the Big 10 is overrated. Dad tells me I’m being rude, and I run off from the table. Dad intercepts me at the front door, telling me once again how rude I am. In case you weren’t already thinking I should be involved in either a 12 step program, or hauled off in a restricting white jacket to a padded room, be fooled no more. I start yelling at my Dad, telling him that I’m not the only rude one, that his behavior around his in-laws on Mom’s side is awkward and embarrassing and that I’ll never bring a boy home, ever. This shouldn’t be a problem anyhow, considering my chronically single state and lack of ability to meet someone of an appropriate age, or who is appropriately available or I actually like. However Dad was still apologizing days later on the way to the airport, so it’s nice to know that I was not only able to make a scene, but crush his feelings. Way to go.

Fast forward four days and I’m back in New York. It’s good to be back. Maybe a little too good. I really think I’m becoming one of those people who don’t like to leave Manhattan, or maybe I’m still just scarred from nine days in back in the birthplace. At any rate, NYE came and went. In my life I will never be able to have pineapple juice again, and I have vague yet disturbing memories of some guy following me around the bar when really, he looked like he should have been at a Star Wars convention.

After the holidaze, I’d very much been looking forward to going out to Arizona to watch my Gators play for the crystal football. However, my dreams for the ultimate road trip were cut short when I found out that my rep got me tickets to the wrong game. Little did he know that the Fiesta Bowl was NOT the BCS championship game. Ass clown. In case you’re wondering, yes, he feels like a total putz. Somehow it has evolved into him becoming scary, stalker rep. He’s since offered to buy all other kinds of tickets and fund my night of drinking for the game, there by inviting himself to Gin Mill with NY Deeg. When I said no to that, he asked me if I liked Chris Leak. I said yes. He said, “say no more,” and hung up the phone. Who knows what that means. We’ll see, I guess.

Lastly, Kim deserves a pat on the back. If only we were all on a large gambling barge and had a bottle of Hennessey, we could celebrate properly. Little inside, I know.

Don’t be fooled by the pearls.

VENN

The Week In Review VIII, "Home for the Holidaze…

2008-07-30T12:35:00.000-04:00

The Week In Review VIII, "Home for the Holidaze…
Tuesday, December 5, 2006

I started writing this when I was very hung-over last Friday. There really is nothing quite like sitting in a cubicle, hungover. Add mortified to that. Hung-over and mortified, in a cubicle. I can't tell you the story b/c I don't remember enough of the night to know specifics. I was out sans babysitter, with co-workers I've only known for five weeks. I'm sure they have an excellent opinion of me now considering I have the mentality of a 20-year old frat boy when I drink. I can only imagine that I said something inappropriate, tried to make out with any male that walked by, and then passed out at the table. I know for sure that the night involved lots of wine, no dinner, me boasting/proving my ability to chug lots of beer at an impressively fast rate, not being able to open the front door to my apartment which caused me to stumble through the Italian restaurant downstairs, go through their basement and up the elevator to my floor, and finally, waking up around 6:20am, in my full set of clothing – shoes included – from work the day before, lights on, door opened. I've since realized that chugging beer is an art that ought to be learned, perfected and retired in college. It was fairly miserable Friday.

While on the subject of misery… in the grand tradition of bland, fattening food, another Thanksgiving came and went a couple weeks ago. It's good to be back in New York, even if there are approximately 50million tourists here right now. I sometimes feel guilty (for 15 or 20 seconds) for getting happy chills coming off the plane in NY and sighing when I get off the plane in Jacksonville. Then I remember this is the center of the universe and Florida has strip malls.

For so many reasons, going home for the holidays gives me severe anxiety. I'm a girl who doesn't call home but once a week on a good week. You can imagine that actually spending five or more days in close proximity to the parents is a potential disaster. They play nice on the phone for the week leading up to your homecoming, and then lightning flashes, the switch gets flipped and I find myself in a nightmare of a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde situation where I'm constantly getting lectured, given a suggested curfew, and forced into activities I have no interest in doing.

I don't have a brother or sister to help defend either. There's no man to man coverage of the parents; it's two on one. And when you add in extended family for holiday gatherings, all attention is focused on the kid who moved 1000+ miles away from home. However I could probably get a life-sized cardboard, cut-out photo of myself, a tape recorder and field their questions Ferris Bueller style. After they comment on the way I'm dressed or have styled my hair, the questions are always the same:

1. How's New York? Great, I love it. I'm really happy there.

2. How's the job? Until recently, I would tell them that I'd rather scrub the bathrooms at Yankee Stadium with my own toothbrush and I was certain that my AMD bore the mark of the beast somewhere, but now it's: I actually just started a new job and things are going well. I'm working with great people, and I haven't idly threatened suicide once in over five weeks on the job.

3. (I bet you can guess what follows the moronic giggle I need you to imagine) Are you dating anyone? Which really means, are you going to get married and start popping out babies? No, no I'm not. Maybe one day I'll meet someone of an appropriate age, who I'm actually attracted to, when my BAC level isn't 1.0, maybe. Until then, don't hold your breath on grandchildren…in fact, just don't hold your breath on grandchildren.

4. When are you moving back down South? Remember when you asked me if I liked New York? I'm pretty sure that I told you I'm happy there, so please tell me why I would leave? I'm a terrible driver, I can't even imagine what sushi would taste like if I were to get it delivered, and I think I'm switching my political party affiliation, so I'm probably not welcome here anyhow.

Food is another key factor in me being less than thrilled with the holidays. Christmas food is better than Thanksgiving, but as far as I'm concerned that's like saying drinking sour milk is better than a fried turd. I find it all bland, fattening and fairly disgusting. Think about it: there's a reason people only eat cranberry sauce in the shape of a can once a year. It's gross. And honestly, if I am to ingest that much fat and that many calories, I'd just assume it not be from green bean casserole. Gag me. I'd rather it be from something both worth it and delicious, like dipping lobster in butter sauce… or pizza… or McDonalds.

I get it though. Tradition is important, but please, at Christmas, tell me truthfully how many of you go crowd in a manger and watch a live birth take place. In fact, please tell me where to find a manger. You can't. The land has been sold and a strip mall has gone up in its place.

Now, I know everyone talks about this in apparent "disbelief," but I'm genuinely bothered by the fact that the second you wake up Friday morning after Thanksgiving, you can't do anything without stumbling across cheesy Christmas displays, decorations and music. Why do people lose all sense of style when it comes to holiday decorations? Perfectly normal people will put light-up, plastic crap in their yard and wire their homes so that they flash. Some don't stop till their property resembles Times Square, a place I'm pretty sure is representative of Hell on Earth. Why anyone would want to replicate that in their front yard is beyond me. If I worked retail, I'd kill myself listening to holiday themed music on repeat. Come live in my apartment, right off 5th Ave between Rockefeller Center and the Park, and tell me what about the 94589673984793845793576 tourists outside right now makes this the most wonderful time of the year. Maybe that's why I'm so attracted to those of the Hebrew following. They don't do this crap AND they get eight nights of gifts. Plus they've got Adam Sandler and a song that references OJ Simpson to represent them. We've got something about Mommy kissing Santa, a song that when you think about it, is pro-adulterous relations through the eyes of a young Santa-believer.

On top of everything I've mentioned so far, add in the cost of getting back home for the holidays. For Thanksgiving and Christmas, on an advertising salary, I spent just under $1000. Thank goodness it's not just acceptable but more like a code of behavior to drink your way through the holidays. Otherwise, instead of straight up with two olives, I'd need my martini shaken with straight up rat poison.

Don't be fooled by the pearls.

GO GATORS,

Venn

The Week In Review, VII. "Pattern Behavior…"

2008-07-30T12:26:00.000-04:00

The Week In Review, VII. "Pattern Behavior…"
Thursday, November 16, 2006

Let's call it Threeve Weeks in Review this time around. Being happy for too many days in a row caused me to temporarily lose my sense of wit, thus nothing to write. The change in mood since leaving McPrison is almost frightening, but in spite of not hating the new job (not at all) I've reunited with my inner-morbid-pessimist-self and will attempt to give this thing a whirl. Traveling back and forth from New York to Florida and interacting with other travelers, my parents, fellow marathon runners, friends, roommates, etc… in recent weeks made me think about pattern behavior we all practice. For example, why do we recycle empty wine bottles, but throw away a glass that crashed and burned on the hard wood floor after you passed out on top of your bed with a vodka drink in your hand?

Speaking of crashing and burning, my first situation centers around travel patterns. I've noticed when you're either waiting to board or sitting on an airplane, people feel the need to trade war stories. Honestly, unless you're a hot, relatively young and available male who lives on the island of Manhattan, I don't care where you came from, where you're going, or what you're doing there. This is why I often fly during obscenely early hours when the majority of people traveling are on some kind of business trip or just too tired to speak. Still, every once in a while, when I have scanned the waiting area for the seemingly most busy person to wait with, I will plant myself next to the embodiment of Joan Rivers meets Milton from Office Space meets a "that guy" who won't stop calling after 10 unanswered voicemails. They can be on the phone, sending emails from a Blackberry, and scanning the unfolded Times in their lap, but the minute I sit down, it all disappears and I get their life story – a big part of which is usually some sort of timeline of every occasion they've ever had to set foot on an airplane, and how the flight panned out.

I don't care how bad the turbulence was the last time you flew to Chicago in the early 80's. Maybe, instead of making my ears bleed, you should think about walking to the newsstand, buying Vogue, and reading it cover to cover because you clearly haven't updated your wardrobe since Reagan's first term as president.

Furthermore, I am a complete control freak and I hate flying. Each time I fly, it's the worst experience of my life, hands down. People always ask you when you get off a plane, "how was the flight?" Well, considering that I overdosed on Xanex, Ativan, and three bottles worth of mini-bar wine then added some Tylenol PM for good measure, and STILL had a minor stroke that took at least another year off my life, IT WAS THE WORST EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE. What I really hate are the people who judge you as you're purchasing alcohol on board before noon (or, at 7:30a.m.). It takes a great deal of restraint not to look at them and say, "Listen, lady, I'm glad that you're OK with the physics of a 76 TON airplane at 36,000 feet, and the fact that someone will eventually figure out how to explode it with 3oz of hair gel, but I'm not. I need this right now, so stop staring. You don't know me. You never have to see me again. Pretend I died. We're probably going to anyhow."

Coming back to New York on the most recent worst experience of my life, the pilot makes the comment, "bla bla bla winds, winds, the landing is going to be a little breezy today." Jackass. Breezy is having dinner on the water in Sag Harbor in July and needing a sweater because the cool air chills your sunburned skin. Involuntary head-banging because the ginormous 737 is about to fall out of the sky, and has to go north of Connecticut to turn around and come back in to land with the wind because otherwise it WONT MAKE IT – that to me cannot be equated to "breezy" so much as "oh holy shit we're all going to die." Mandy experienced what I just described on her way back to NY the same day I got the "breezy" comment. Honestly, the next thing I want to hear after a comment like that is some sort of last call. And not for people who want another sip of Diet Sprite over a gigantic ice cube in an oversized shot glass. This is for people like me, who need to immediately buy out the rest of United's on-board bar. I want to be good and sauced when my body hits the ground and liquefies.

Pattern behavior kicked up a notch or two, in the company of others, is a cult in disguise. I observed a lot of this beginning at approximately 6:30am on marathon Sunday, when I hopped on a bus full of overzealous Southern runners. Eradicated and terrified of the athletic feat ahead, clad in a dri-fit shirt that bore VENN in black paint and glitter, I followed Meg to the back of the bus.

We got an announcement from the cult leader to drink the kool aid and start going to the bathroom as we make our way to the start in Staten Island. So, like good lemmings, the people started to go. When the line was a little built up, they felt the need to start talking to us about all the marathons they'd run before and oh yeah, also their status of how many times they've crapped this morning and how it worked out for them in the little bus bathroom. I felt like I was back in the sorostitute house after dinner, except it was old men and not a certain very good friend of mine giving me updates…a lot to handle before 7:00am, in the company of mostly strangers. Still, you start thinking to yourself, well, these people are older than me, have run multiple 'thons and are alive. They must know what they're talking about, and I will now follow everything they do in a valiant attempt to not crash, burn and collapse somewhere around mile 20 in the Bronx.

It worked. 4 hours and 28 minutes later I found myself grinning like an idiot with a finisher's medal around my neck, wrapped in a mylar blanket, talking to strangers about the race, how much I loved it, and how many times we all crapped on the way to Staten Island. Patten behavior can't be all that bad.

Or can it? Certain pattern behavior can be downright annoying. Such as…

1. Drunk dialing. I realize it can be wildly funny to get an incoherent message from friends who absolutely needed to tell you how much they love and miss you after their 7th tequila shot, but it helps when you've already passed out yourself, and don't hear the phone ring. It is in no way cute or amusing to get these on the rare nights you're trying to sleep…like the night before the merrython. Getting startled awake at 3:00am and 4:00am was rather obnoxious, and probably messed up crapping patterns on the way to Staten Island. Because, yes, it all goes back to that.

2. Moms. They are serial offenders of annoying pattern behavior. My mom sends me scores of newspaper articles she's cut out of the Florida Times Union. They usually showcase people I know who are doing better in life than me by getting 47 higher degrees with honors, creating world peace and getting married. Her latest round of clips involved two things. The first was a picture of Cynthia Nixon from The Week, wearing a dress I bought this summer. Now, the article was talking about her coming out of the closet. Did Lynn actually read this? No clue. I have absolutely nothing against alternative lifestyles. Nothing at all, seriously, but this dress is fabulous (Diane's artichoke for those of you wondering), and what I spent on it replaced groceries for a few weeks. I don't want to equate it to Cynthia's coming out every time I put it on in next summer. I just don't. The second article was written by some Times Union staff writer who genuinely sucks at life. It was all about how FL/GA should be called the largest outdoor frat party, and basically belittled everything that goes on during that delightful weekend…saying it's not a real cocktail party b/c no one is in black dresses and white gloves, bla bla bla. There were really so many faults with what she said, but the point is that it pissed me off. And mom sends stuff like this all the time. Great way to communicate when you live 1000 + miles apart. Try this mom: ask me what's going on in my life for once in 25 years… (I'm sure this issue will resurface in therapy at some point in my life)

3. Certain kinds of lying patterns can be annoying too. Clearly there's a fine line with me saying this, b/c I tend to fib quite a bit. But, what I have in mind is something like trying to disguise bragging as complaining. That shit doesn't work with me. I'm manipulative and self-serving. I see right through it.

One final pattern I don't want to leave out, that doesn't fit into any one category, is one I'm sure we've all experienced. Some of us to more severe degrees than others, no doubt. What I'm talking about is the pattern of: getting drunk, getting beer goggles and hooking up. We've all been there. Insert story from last Tuesday night (if you know it, good for you, if not then really, just let your imagination run wild). And on that note, I'm out.

DONT BE FOOLED BY THE PEARLS

Venn.

The Week In Review, VI. "Walk this way…"

2008-07-30T11:46:00.000-04:00

The Week In Review, VI. "Walk this way…"

October 2006.

Yesterday was my last Monday at McPrison. Enough said. Today is my last day at McPrison. Even better. My exit interview is at 11:30am and I can leave after that. Icing on the ecstasy cake. My boss said I'm probably allowed to stay around after the exit interview if I want to. My reaction to that was thinking I'm probably also allowed to hold my breath till I pass out, but I try not to make a habit of it. Idiot.

I have already assumed that my next job will suck too. That way, I am either right (which I love), or pleasantly surprised that it turns out to not suck (doubtful). While the attitude goes against my piss poor plans for a more positive outlook, I don't think I'd know what to do with myself if I was happy in my job. Think about it. You spend about 75% of your life at work. So, right now, I'm miserably depressed ¾ of the time I spend awake. The thing is, I love my apartment, love my friends and love NY. If I liked my job too, I'd be one of those people who walk around smiling all the time, and I think those people are legitimately crazy. A positive disposition on that level scares the hell out of me.

I’d like to jump into walking and shopping this time, mainly because I did a lot of walking this weekend while shopping. New York kind of lends itself to that, and I think as a New Yorker (or in my case, aspiring New Yorker – 7 more years to go before I earn the right to that title) I become very aware of walking patterns exercised by different groups on the street. Because I'm usually angry, or at the very least agitated, while I'm walking around, I constantly think about a more efficient way to plow people down in the street in order to get where I need to be. The solution, I believe, is for the city of NY to institute walking lanes on the sidewalks of Manhattan. As I see it, we could divide the space into three lanes of traffic:

Lane 1 – Outside, closest to the street, are the Manhattanites and some bridge and tunnel whores who work in the city. People who do not live here (or at least work here), should have to jog to keep up with anyone walking in this lane. Also, people in this lane understand that you don't wait to cross the street on the actual curb. You edge out as far as you can, like you're waiting in the track block for the start of the 200M relay, without getting killed by a passing vehicle.

Lane 2 – Riding bitch, we have runner and joggers. Anyone doing their part to make their ass fit into ONE seat on the subway or ONE seat on the bus deserves a lane in my book.

Lane 3 – Tourists. They're everywhere, and they need to get sectioned off. Living just off 5th Avenue in the 50's has its ups and downs. I find genuinely delightful the fact that it takes me no more than 2 minutes to walk to Saks, and I can see the Peninsula and St Regis from my bedroom window. However, I'm not the only one who wants to experience these places. Visiting touristas tend to want to see them too, and take pictures, lots of pictures. Now, if they had their own lane, they could walk as slow as they need to in order to take it all in, and when they require an extra hand to take their picture in front of St Patrick's Cathedral, the person they ask won't be irritated because they too want their picture taken in front of St Patty's house. In this lane, tourists can stop and watch movies being filmed on location, because they're the only ones who see this as a novelty. There's constantly a movie being shot in my neighborhood, if not on my actual street. Now, if I thought that by stopping and staring, some delicious actor would walk off the set and whisk me away, I'd loiter too. Back in the real world, I only see it as an added annoyance in my day. Sunday, for example, 5th Ave was blocked off from 54th to 49th, so I had to walk to the Madison entrance of the E-train to Hell. Awesomely enough, that was closed for the day, causing me to have to walk back up to 56th and 6th to get on the damn subway. Lastly, Times Square should have bridges with limited access to New Yorkers only who, for some sick twist of fate, are forced to walk around over there.

There are a few floaters I've left out of my ideal walking scenario: drunks, schizophrenic homeless people, and anyone who might be hung-over. They don't have a definitive walking pattern and will tend to drift in and out of all three lanes as they please. This can't be helped. Rain will also mess up the system. This is because most people lose the ability to function like normal human beings in the rain. It's a free for all in the streets. If you're fat, carrying a large umbrella and walking slow, you redefine obnoxious and raise my blood pressure to dangerous levels. That is the equivalent of a jack-knifed semi on I-95 during the holidays.

I don't think it's unreasonable to have an in-store walking code of conduct either. While the pace slows significantly from the street, people still need to stay mobile. If your ass is blocking a rack of clothing I need to get around, I have two suggestions for you:

1. Don't just stand there and pretend like you don't see someone.

2. Leave the store and go get in the running/jogging lane. You'll be happier when you're able to buy the next size down.

When I see girls with boyfriends in tote, on a Saturday in the fall, in a store like H&M or Century 21, I realize that there exists a level of "pussy-whipped" (pardon the term) above and beyond what I previously thought possible. If Hell froze over and I actually found myself in a real relationship, here's how I would want that conversation to go:

Me: "Will you go shopping with me and be the judge of how I look in the clothes I'm buying?"
Fictitious Manfriend: "HAHAHAHAHA, NO. That's cute, really, thanks for the laughs, but I have a set, and I'm taking them to the bar to go watch football."

I'm pretty sure that ass clown who can't take a hint after at least 10 unanswered calls/texts, and who doesn't watch Sportscenter is the type of guy who would just love to surrender his manhood and follow some girl around from store to store like a retarded puppy. And really, what good does the in-store manfriend provide anyway? As far as shopping buddies go, opinions are scaleable, and you should think about which one will truly do you right.

When your friend says, "You look fabulous in that" what they mean is: Yeah, yeah enough about you. I want to move on to the next store. You might have muffin tops sticking out of your jeans rather than a waist, but if you purchasing that will make you shut your mouth and allow us to move on, I frankly don't care."
When a straight guy says, "You look fabulous in that" question his sexual orientation. But when a straight guy pays you a compliment, it's not because your Diane Von Furstenberg top is stunning as it is classic and elegant. It's because you've successfully showcased your cleavage and/or have on jeans so tight that they can picture you naked.
When a gay guy says, "You look fabulous in that" then you really look fabulous in that. This is a valid opinion in its purest form. You've got a brutally honest critic not looking to get in your pants for a piece of ass. Instead, they're looking to see what those pants can do for your ass.

On a similar note from above, I genuinely feel bad for little boys whose mothers drag them along on shopping excursions against their will. I want to look at them and say, "Hey lady, you're breeding a total pansy." Eventually the kid will back down and stop fighting. He will then grow up to be the exact kind of guy to surrender his manhood on a Saturday in the fall, and follow some girl around like a retarded puppy. And honestly, some stupid screaming kid ruins everyone else's experience too. This was the case on Sunday, when some brat who should have been home with a nanny pretty much made me hate everyone in the store. Case and point, I overheard this girl say, "OMG, Marc Jacobs jeans in my size, and for only $70." My initial reaction was, "Yeah you dim-wit, what did you think? This is a designer discount store, meaning you buy designer clothes at discounted prices."

While, negativity and pessimism are constants in my life, I don't need them to surface during the precious “few” hours I spend shopping on a regular basis. I prefer to keep them locked up where they belong: at work, where they can keep me just shy of miserable 75% of the time I spend awake.

Don’t be fooled by the pearls.

VENN

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE.

2008-07-30T11:31:00.000-04:00

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE.

This was also written in October of 2006, when I was writing for an SEC Sports website, before I knew of the Gator glory to come.

The SEC has once again beaten itself down, leaving no undefeated teams in college football’s greatest conference. By this point Florida loyalists have all canceled our hotels rooms in Arizona, for the mighty Gators fell hard last Saturday night on the plains of Auburn. Short of some very surprising football games around the league to finish out the season, and a miracle in the voting system, the crystal football is not headed south after January 8th.

Some curses you just can’t break, not this year anyhow. In the 94-year existence of this rivalry, Florida has never headed into Auburn undefeated and come back with a win. They’re also the 4th team ranked #2 in the AP Top 25 to lose this season. Yes, the 7th installation of the 2006 Gator gauntlet ended the best start the team has seen since 1996, and what a great year it would have been to repeat. I realize this is not news to anyone by now, but it’s the first time I could get into it without feeling a repellent combination rage and heartbreak. So maybe that’s a bit overly dramatic? Well, Gator fans never claimed to be gracious losers. It’s like a birthright for a true Florida fan to be a sore loser/get violently angry/scream obscenities at your best friends and family who happen to not be Florida fans, even if you happened to talk a big game about the big game.

However, the Auburn Tigers War Damn Eagle I can’t pick a single mascot ad nauseam… Yeah, they kicked it up a notch from the less than impressive performances they gave in the two weeks leading up to the Florida game. They had a lot to save face from, heading into last weekend. There’s the obvious loss of their #2 spot to the unranked Razorbacks on October 7. Then, there’s the last time they faced Florida in 2002 when Bobby McCray forced overtime by blocking Damon Duval’s field goal with 30 seconds remaining in regulation. In OT, Grossman hit Taylor Jacobs with a 25-yard TD pass on UF’s first possession. Then, Ian Scott’s fumble recovery sealed the deal on Florida’s first-ever OT win in this series. That was a loud day in the Swamp, up there with the loudest I’ve ever heard Ben Hill Griffin get.

However, none of that matters now. It’s all in the past, just like Florida’s dreams of a national title this year. And though the Gators’s defense might have taunted Auburn quarterback Brandon Cox by breaking up four passes and racking up five sacks, it was Auburn who stopped Florida when it really counted: the second half. The Gators couldn’t move, and Auburn scored 19 unanswered points.

Leak did not bring his A-game to the second half. The first major blow in a crushing, kiss-of-death succession of mistakes killed the Gator’s hopes for even a go-ahead field goal, as Leak fumbled deep in Auburn’s territory. Then Eric Brock’s interception set up John Vaughn’s fourth field goal of the evening, which was a fair representation of Auburn’s scoring all night long. The Tigers managed to pull off the win without scoring a single offensive touchdown. With a score of 21-17, a glimmer of hope even after three incompletions, and 31 seconds left on the game clock, Leak hit Dallas Baker across the middle, Baker lateraled to Jarred Fayson, whose own lateral turned into yet another fumble for the Gators. This one recovered by Tigers defensive back Patrick Lee who rushed 20 yards right into the end zone, rubbing salt in the wound of the imminent Florida loss.

It’s a good thing we have a week off followed by Florida/Georgia on neutral ground in Jacksonville. Leak was booed in the Swamp a few weeks back for merely coming out on the field in the second half instead of golden boy Tebow. While I strongly disapprove of the classless behavior shown by Gator fans that day, I can imagine our four-year starter-Heisman-candidate senior wouldn’t have received too warm of a welcome back in the Swamp if we had a game this weekend. Looking forward, let’s just hope Georgia doesn’t decide they have something to prove in two weeks.

The Week In Review, V. "In all honesty…"

2008-07-30T11:27:00.000-04:00

The Week In Review, V. "In all honesty…"

This was written in the Fall of 2006, a few weeks before I knew how glorious the football season would end for us Gator fans.

It was a hell of a day yesterday. I got a new job and I quit this worthless excuse for one. Effective October 24th, my servitude with Universal McPrisoncamp is officially OVER. I'll get into that in a minute though. There's something I must first address that is overshadowing my "no more McCann" bliss.

RIP – Arizona, January 8, 2007. RIP – crystal football in Florida's vine-clad halls. May the overrated Big 10/Pac 10 "powerhouses" who will probably end up there once again enjoy their undeserved reign at the top. Congrats on making your way through Northwestern, Arizona State, Stanford, and Minnesota. Bravo guys, well done. Now, I'm a huge fan of Chris Leak, but if the kid has a cold or the flu, it's not like we're the freakin' Georgia Bulldogs here. Our multiple quarterbacks are actually talented, extremely talented. Put the fu*king freshman superstar in the game and let him win it for us. We were almost there, we really were. Instead, the night ended in tears, crushed dreams and altered plans for New Years as the mighty Gators fell hard on the plains of Auburn. I'll cut this off by saying that Gator fans never claimed to be gracious losers. It's pretty much the birthright of a true Gator fan to whine/complain/scream obscenities/get violent. That said, please, I'm not emotionally stable enough to catch sh*t from any of you. I will tell you to rot in Hell, fu*k off, or die just before I hang up the phone on you and resent the very day you came into this world.

OK, that's quite enough of that. I have for you now my thoughts on being honest, as it relates to employment, relationships and friendships.

First, we have employment. I've been interviewing like a madwoman. At some point along the way, my bullsh*tting skills peaked, and I was able to fool another company into thinking I would be an outstanding addition to their team. Suckers. Anyhow, after many, many rounds of standard BS interview-speak, I got to thinking what if we could be totally honest with the people questioning us. Per usual work-day activity, Meg and I were chatting online with hot babes: each other. We explored this topic and collectively came up with the best possible and most blindingly honest thing we could tell a potential employer about ourselves to answer the ever-popular questions, "What are you looking to get out of this job?" and "What are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?"

What I'm really looking for is a work environment where the ratio isn't 25 girls to one toolbag dude who is way too into his job. My strengths, you say? Well, I can shotgun a beer faster and put down more bourbonon any given Saturday, than most guys I've ever met, and certainly any other female. Clearly this is strength of superhuman proportions. Sometimes this happens on weeknights, though. After such occurrences, I will come in the office late, hung-over, looking like a bag of ass, and be completely unproductive all day long. You might call this a weakness, but trust me, if you knew how hard I was clinging to life, you'd be proud of me for getting out of bed and making it in here at all. On these days, please do not attempt to assign me any work. I'll be taking a personal, in-cube holiday. To be honest, these will happen often and with no warning. I will get inappropriately drunk at office happy hours. After one such happy hour, the aforementioned in-cube holiday and rules apply. No matter how cool you turn out to be, I will hate you. This is because you will assign me work, work that requires effort above the natural pulse of life through my veins, and will undoubtedly be nowhere near as amusing as emailing my friends. On most days, I will send approximately 394,859,287,529,057 personal emails, or 500 per every ONE work email. I really only see this as a strength. All this writing has advanced my tone, vocabulary and style to a level I'm nothing short of thrilled with, not to mention it's the only thing I do all day long that I actually like doing. While I truly have it in me to be an asset to your team, I'm not all that motivated. To be honest, because that is the theme here, I have no real desire to advance my career in this field. This job is just acting as a holding cell till I marry someone rich enough to cover my expenses too. Speaking of expenses, I will spend 90% of my paycheck on frivolous things the weekend directly following the direct-deposit. I will then subsist solely on Mac n' cheese and bananas, spending nothing until the next paycheck. Please note: I will always be impeccably dressed at work, an obvious strength. My real concerns here are vacation days, how long of lunches I can get away with, and how early you can get me out of here every night. Remember, I probably have a happy hour to attend. Oh, and if ever I should call in sick, SERIOUSLY question my honesty.

That is what I really ought to tell people in order to give them fair warning of what they've got coming. Frankly, I'm surprised that people don't look at me, and hear that very speech while I'm rambling on about how I really just don't like to disappoint people, so I end up taking on too many projects and when that happens, you run the risk of losing focus on attention to detail bla, bla, bla, ad nauseam... I then get scared when they actually make an offer, and for the exact salary increase I requested of them. Are they that desperate for another person on the team, and how does that translate into average hours spent at work each day? What am I getting myself into this time?

Let's switch gears for a minute to relationships. Honesty can be a fine line to walk there. In a relationship, how do you find a balance between saying the right thing and being entirely too honest? For example, when I was stuck in the middle of an eight month lapse in judgment, and he said, "I love you." I was thinking, "Aww thanks, babe. (meaningless brush on side of face) you know what I love? I love not paying for movies or wondering about the next time I get to have sex… no, let's pick a more obscure restaurant where we won't run into anyone." Sometimes I think I actually could have gotten away with that too. Sick. I sure know how to pick 'em. Take for instance my current case, which is a repugnant combination of over-affection and being way too honest - on his end. Overbearing buddy I met some intoxicated weekend here in the city called Friday night when he wasn't supposed to call until Sunday (foul ball, strike 1). He shows up in a mullet wig from a party he went to (strike two – only people like Seth Rogan or the men of SNL are hot/funny enough to show up in a mullet wig). OK, back to this kid, he tells me twice that I'm beautiful (foul ball – while very nice – I guess? - you made me throw up a little in my mouth). He texts me on Sunday, and asks "How was your gameday?" STRIKE 3, YOU'RE OUT on account of 1, Being a complete ass clown moron – DO YOU WATCH SPORTSCENTER, COLLEGE GAME DAY WRAP-UP, OR CHECK OUT ESPN.COM? Obviously not, or you would know that my Gators lost to Auburn and that gameday is a sore subject. I live for one thing in the fall: college football. That text of yours was insulting to my very existence. I hate you now. 2, Too much contact for the leprechaun of an Irish Catholic boy who works in Jersey. This Whiskepalian likes sarcastic, asshole, [lately Jewish] banker types who work on Wall Street. You don't have to cross a bridge or tunnel to get down there. 3, Not nearly edgy enough, so do yourself a favor and read a few snippets from Ruminations or something of the like. Congrats, my friend. You earned yourself a spot on the "don't answer" list in my phone. And honestly, it wasn't all that fun while it lasted.

My third and final installation of the honesty predicament involves dealing with friends. For example, an email pops up in your inbox with a link to some article of clothing they've purchased. The note reads something like, "OMG – just got the BEST deal on this. How CUTE is it?! I'm DEF wearing it to _______ event! Yay, flowers and sunshine!" You open the link and all you can think is, "Oh sweet Jesus, did you temporarily go blind while you were shopping? I hope the store paid you to take that hideous thing off their hands. Maybe you were hung-over when you bought that? It's the only acceptable excuse I can think of. Do you have any idea what your ass will look like in that? What? What was that? Oh, that was the sound of you falling with an earth-shattering thud into the pits of sartorial HELL." But instead, you lie to their face (via the internet) and say, "OMG, soooooooo cute! You'll look fabulous in that!"

Now that I've successfully pinned myself as the world's biggest slacker/pirate hooker/judgmental bitch, I look back, frightened, and think maybe it's better that we walk around in a perpetual haze of false pretenses. Perhaps brutal honesty isn't all it’s cracked up to be. Toning it down surely makes for easier maintenance of employment, relationships and friendships. Who knows, though? If I didn't lie on the phone 5 minutes ago to a recruiter, telling him that I hadn't already accepted another job offer, then I wouldn't be going on another interview tomorrow for something that could turn out to be better than what's on the table right now. Conversely, if a new acquaintance of a certain friend of mine was more honest with her when they met, she'd know that he was, in fact, born in 1985 and not 1982 before things got a little, ehh, heated… On that note, I'm out.

DON’T BE FOOLED BY THE PEARLS.

VENN.