Adventures of an Unemployed Jewish Girl... scratch that, EMPLOYED

Match These Doodies!

2008-07-25T15:06:00.003-04:00

Here's the deal.
I asked 10 of my closest friends & fam to describe their latest doodies.
Your Task - Match each one of these people up with their poops. easy!!!
Please post your answers in my comments section - the winner receives a secret prize.

PEOPLE - and YES these are their real names!!! muhahaha

1. Sarah
2. Ashley
3. Ernie
4. Hannah
5. Sharmel
6. Dan
7. Mel
8. Blaire
9. Sean
10.Steve

Poop Descriptions
A. firm, brown and came out in 2 parts
B. I don't even look at my shit, woman. (liar!!!! EVERYONE LOOKS!)
C. "Phantom Shit" I swear a took a shit but when i looked in the toilet, nothing was there!
D. Normal, but dark.
E. Small & Corny
F. Sticky alcohol poop... had to wipe a lot!
G. Gross
H. Short because i was afraid someone would walk in. Only one squeeze and a hurried flush. No one likes to walk in on a plopper!
I. It was therapeautic! It cleaned my soul.
J. Right before lunch on the 14th floor. It was a runny one sorta like diarhea. It free flowed right outta my ass with the slightest push. I had to wipe extra good and get outta there, because the cleaning lady was banging on the door!!

The Poopy Dance

2008-04-14T10:40:00.005-04:00

Spring has finally sprung, and my poop obsession is worse than EVER.
Let me explain.
I've always liked poop. Post-numero dos, i've gotta check mine out. It's been going on for such a long time now, that it's a total involuntary reaction, like eyebrow critiquing... or taking a big ol' whif of my own farts! I don't WANT to do it, i just do. I've gotta know!! I'VE GOT TO KNOW.
So anyway, here's what happened with the obsession.
ARE YOU REAAAAAAAADYYY???
i got a PUPPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
and damn, he is a major pooper.
His name is Ernie and he is 14 weeks old and a little buttercup of fur and love and chomps and smelly ass dumps.
I mean, this guy goes potty 4-5 times each day, it is totally crazy plus i'm a little jealous of his magical digestive system! At the rate he's going, you would think i'm feeding him chicken tikka masala for breakfast, lunch and dinner!

So, i have a poopy-bag dispenser attached to his leash, since i am kind of forgetful and don't want to be that girl whose pup takes a deuce on the driveway at the EXACT same moment that the soccer mommy is pulling her minivan in and I am bagless and need to run far, far away with my dumping doggy so i dont get fined or arrested or exiled from Hoboken for my lack of poop-pick-ups!

But here is when I knew my obession had gone over the top.

Yesterday, I took little Ernesto out in the backyard for a little unleashed romp session. He likes the backyard because it actually has grass, and i like it because there aren't any ciggy butts or bud light bottle pieces that he can chomp up.
I was on the phone with Ryan, discussing life and my indian food-induced tummy ache, when all of a sudden Ernie started doing... THE POOPY DANCE!!!
It goes a little something like this.
Sniff... sniffsniffsniff..
run to the left
run to the right
run back to the left
squat
get back up, that spot's no good
run to the right
sniff sniff sniff
dance in a circle
POOP while staring at me with his "give me a chicken flavored treat because i am pooping outdoors" face.

Me- "Ooooh, Ryan!!! Ern just pooped!! GOOD BOYYY ERN! GOOD POOP!!!"
Ryan- "uhhhh, yay?"
Me- "Hmm... where did it go?? Ern, where's your poop?! i don't see it!!"
Ryan- "If you can't find it, just let it be... it's YOUR backyard."
Me- ::searching wildly and sniffing for the camoflagued poop::
Ryan "Jess?"
Me- "I NEED TO FIND HIS POOP!! I WANT TO SEE WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!!!!!!!"

Unfortunately, I never found the poop. I am learning to let go. I don't ALWAYS need to see it... although... i'd really like to.

Hope you weren't eating your lunch, sorry :)

Also, here are some photos of my new little man!!!!

Little Shmernesto taking a nappy and dreaming of bacon and cream cheese:

Don't you just WANT to see his poop? The cutest poop in the universe!!!

Ern getting his first look at the female anatomy... ohhh maggie, you are such a SLUT!!!

Job Shmob.

2008-03-04T21:04:00.004-05:00

You know what really pisses me off? One day after my last post, I got the best Google Search of ALL TIME on my blog-stalking program... and I was the #1 result!!!
AHHHHH
drumroll pleeeaaaase...
"Port Authority this morning poop"
I am so proud!

Anyway, as you may or may not know, last week was my fist day back at my old job. Hmm... is anyone else noticing a pattern in my employment history?
Where is my rich husband?! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere?!?!

Below are the reasons why I quit my 4-month old job from hell.
Please, feel my pain!!!

Here goes...

1. no internet
2. no 2 hour lunch breaks. Ok, no 1 hour lunch break. Hmm... felt guilty leaving for a sandwich... aaahhhhhhhh
3. working weekends folding clothes and trying to understand weird Europeans who want me to try on a 10 year old boy's jacket because i am the same height but fatter. Or at least I think that's what she said. Great.
4. Mice in the bathroom. Mice poopies underneath my desk.
5. Cockroaches running out of the bathroom.
6. Sitting in a stinky stockroom in Paramus, NJ for 10 hours while scanning baby underwear.
7. This 8 and a half month pregnant biatch buyer who commuted from Queens, yet couldn't get out of her seat and walk 5 feet to the printer and would call me and make me fetch her shit, and one time asked me to go buy her pizza in 10 degree weather.
8. The fax machine. It was from 1991, I think. It made that silly AOL modem noise, and took approximately 10 minutes to send 2 pieces of paper. Plus, I had to fax every single order. Ohhhhhhh my.
9. Lack of cubicle. Sat in an office smaller then my childhood bedroom with 5 other women who only talked about pregnancies, being dilated and breast feeding their offspring. Made me want to vomit on my slacks. Couldn't make any private phone calls because everyone could hear everything. Couldn't fart. Couldn't blog.
10. Had to listen to assorted Spanish radio stations all days because of the 2 Spanish ladies in my shitty room. Couldn't eavesdrop on their conversations because they were in Spanish, yet they could hear everything I said. NOT FAIR.
11. That one girl from Long Island who gave me dirty looks everyday.
12. Monday meetings where I had to sit on the floor because apparently i was the least important person and better people got the chairs.
13. The time I got yelled at by the head of security because I let Sarah use my "family discount" but apparently sisters don't count as family?!?!
14. Did I mention I had to work on Saturdays?
15. The Financial District might just be the most depressing area of New York City, not counting my old, dirty, fuzzy-picture-framed apartment in Murray Hill. Mmmmm, how i loved riding into the remnants of the World Trade Center every morning.
16. No Dunkin Donuts in the vicinity.
17. Dressing mannequins in fugly Easter dresses.
18. Man with red mullet who emptied my garbage.
19. Smelly cafeteria.

That is all.

On a more exciting note, as I was walking home from the Path this evening, a possibly drunk/homeless man told me I looked like Fiona Apple.
Woohoo! Highlight of the day!

Jewish Girls Eat Ass!

2008-02-24T18:51:00.004-05:00

I've finally made it to the big time!
I mean... I wasn't discovered or anything like that. No fabulous blog-turned-book deal or even a job that would allow me to utilize my sweet photo captioning skills...
BUT... This is ohh so much more exciting!

I've recently discovered that there's a way I can track the referring URLs that bring readers to my blog.
In normal-people terms...
I CAN SEE WHAT YOU GOOGLE!!!

It is completely amazing yet disturbing that I am mostly on the first page of results for these...uhh.. interesting phrases, which makes me wonder...
Is there something wrong with me?
What are other people blogging about that I would be the #2 Google result?? What's more important than reality tv, getting black out drunk and discussing all types of genitalia?

NOW... it is time to share with you.
drumrolllllll please.
My Top 10 List!!!...entitled:
"Help! I will most likely get arrested/fired for being linked to these google results!"

#10: "Lake Bryn Mawr Camp"
Yikes! One measley reference to my uber-jappy all girls sleepaway camp and suddenly i'm the god damned google spokesperon! I can see it now...
Overbearing Jewish mother wants to send her little Alana to sleepaway camp in the Poconos. She's heard about Bryn Mawr, but wants to learn more.
The lightbulb goes on. "I know... I'll google it!"
I can just imagine the look of horror on her face when she is referred to my site. The Bryn Mawr reference gives way to Emily's lesbian wedding escapade...
Guess who's not going to that all girls camp afterall?!

#9 "Kowloon Strip Clubs"
Hmm... I ate at a nasty Chinese restaurant called Kowloon! I guess that means it's a real place... in China? With strip clubs? Mmmm... come check out my asian stripper blog!!!

#8 "Penis Modeling"
Woohoo!! Now we're talkin'. Adventures of an Unemployed Penis Model! Now THAT would be an interesting read, don't you think? I knew this guy in college who had a dildo modeled after his junk. I think that is truly wonderful for him. OK, next..

#7 "Lady Hairs"
Uhh-ohhh. Why do I have this feeling that like... an 11 year old girl was searching lady hairs, trying to figure out why on earth she was growing her own?! AND THEN... she finds out that I waxed mine off in return for more oral! Whoops! :) Sorry little girl's mommy. ahhhhhhhh

#6: "Jewish Penis"
i LOVE that someone searched for Jewish Penis.
It's like... "I don't want to see any old penis!!! It's GOT to be Jewish!"
Superb!! Religious genitals.

#5: "Carnie Wilson Swallows"
What was this person trying to find!!! Carnie Wilson swallows WHAT?! I mean, i'm pretty up-to-date on Celeb sex-tape fiascos, and really... i've never heard of a Carnie Wilson one!! If there is one available though, someone please send it to me ASAP!!

#4 "Sexy Jewish Girls Fucked in Dress"
Wouldn't that be 50 times more hilarious if it was "Sexy Jewish Girls Fucked in Bat Mitzvah Dress"?!... That would've totally brought it to the #1 spot.
It's great though, because when I clicked on the link, I discovered I fell into result spot #2 - sandwiched between a site entitled 'Sexy Brunette in red dress sucks then fucks...' and 'Free Porn Videos! Paula Abdul in sexy pictures..."
Mommy aren't you proud of me??

#3 "Dirty Penis Cheese"
I don't think that I've used these words all together, but boy... that's good. Once again, I fall into the #2 result, right underneath Urban Dictionary: Dick Cheese: "Gross mold-like stuff that forms on a dirty penis" Mmmmmm...educational!

#2 "Fat Camel Toes"
Yes!!!!! I knew all my talk of camel toes would pay off one day!!! Fat Camel Toe sounds extra raunchy, though. Have you ever seen those weird Nike sneakers that you can run in but don't need to wear socks. The toe area is separated into 2 parts, making it look like a supa-fat camel toe. I hate those!

#1: "Jewish Girls Eat Ass"
Ok, let's try to get into the mindset. Horny guy... sits at computer...
says to himself "Maaaaaaan, I'd LOVE to see some Jewish Girls eatin' Ass!!!"
Personally, I don't think that's very kosher. Nor I have eaten any ass lately!
But I really hope he got what he was looking for!!

Elvis Knees

2007-12-12T21:50:00.000-05:00

Last weekend I rejoined New York Sports Club for the 16th time. I'd been a member on and off since 10th grade and now that i moved back to New Jersey (gasp!!!) i had to once again sign my life away just because those little treadmill TVs are just about the most amazing invention since the Milano cookie.

Anyway, every time you sign up they offer you a free personal training session which always sounds super exciting right up until the day of your appointment. You think about all those great techniques you'll learn and how size 2 is just a few minutes away... when all of a sudden you remember that you just spent the past 8 hours at work and the last place you want to be is in a stinky, crowded gym full of people you avoided all through high school who will now see you sweating large stains in the pit region of your too-tight sorority tee shirt while simultaneously having your body fat measured and announced over the loud speaker.

I bitched and moaned and finally dragged myself over to the gym to meet Victor, hoping he had forgotten about the session and instead I could catch the last half hour of Tyra.
No such luck.
So we start to work out and luckily, he is most definitely not like the questionably gay trainer who asked me out during my last free personal training session(Please see "To Trim or Not To Trim")... except for the fact that Victor is EVIL.

FIRST, he tells me that my beautiful personalized Nike sneaks are crappy and i need new ones.
Fine, yesss they are 4 years old but they are PERSONALIZED!!! I spent many hours and many bong hits creating those magical sneakers! Plus, my dad had to pay a lot for the child slaves to embroider my last name into the side of those bad boys and i loooooooooooove them!

Next, we did some shoulder exercises. Victor told me i had horrible posture and it is truly terrible because i am only 23 and what's going to happen in another 10 years?! Grrrrrr.

"I don't need a free show!" Victor exclaimed, as i lay back on the giant green ball thing attempting to do sit-ups while my shorts rideth upeth. Now this... this was just rude. He is ugly!!! and kinda fat for a personal trainer, in my opinion! he should want my free upper leg/lower ass show!! If this wasn't enough for a Tuesday evening, then came the squats.
Regular squats. One-legged squats. Squats with weights much larger than my usual 5 pound limit.
Victor: "You have Elvis knees!"
Me: "What the fuck are Elvis knees!?"
Victor: "Look in the mirror"
well yes, that seems to be an awful lot of shaking, but sorry Victor, i actually have a job where i have to sit at a desk all day long and not teach boxing to fat mommies and eat subway 6 grams of fat or less subs because that's the only thing personal trainers probably eat!!! fuckers! And that is why i have Elvis knees and i like them just the way they are.
Then he dragged me into this office, pit stains and all, to pressure me into buying 5 more sessions for $400!
"Ummm I will definitely have to think about it"
IT BEING HOW MUCH I WANT TO THROW YOUR GLASSES INTO THE HUDSON AND THEN FEED YOU BABY DIARRHEA BECAUSE YOU CAN'T SEE!!!

Now my body hurts. All over. Bad. My legs. My weak shoulders. My free show area. Even my Elvis knees.
But at least it was free.

I Love New York... Hospitals!

2007-11-25T22:26:00.000-05:00

Guess what?
I had a crazy infection on my leg last week and went to the hospital.
Guess what again?
2 days later, i had an anxiety attack AT WORK and had to be taken away in an ambulence and now my whole office thinks i am a side show FREAK!
Guess what ONE MORE TIME?
On my 10th day of medication, my whole face turned into a giant red rash and i had assorted spots all over my body!!!!!!!!

Luckily, i'm fine now... except for that my pants don't fit because in the midst of my medical induced depression i managed to eat 18 desserts and 45 chicken fingers.
Siiiiiiigh.

Anyway, Thanksgiving was a lot of fun this year. Wednesday night I saw my entire graduating class at THE BREAKFAST CLUB! Yes, my town actually has an 80's themed dance club complete with a $15 cover and townies! Totaaallly worth it to sweat and dance with people I used to sit behind in Social Studies while sporting a hot, sexy rash on my face.

After a late night trip to the Peter Skank (Pank?) diner and an awful thanksgiving hangover, we journeyed to Emily and Elinor's place in Red Bank. 12,000 calories and several bottles of wine later, Sarah and I decided it was time to make a video of Emily's heinous 1992 wardrobe to submit to What Not To Wear.

Items worthy of mention include:
1 black and hot orange speedo bathing suit.
1 very gross 8 year old rhinstoned velour Delia's dress which she still wears to social functions.
18 assorted plaid tops.
AND!
some of the fugliest shoes to ever grace this planet. and Tevas.

As soon as the video is edited i'll be sure to post a link for your viewing pleasure!

Speaking of clothes, I decided to check out Sarah Jessica Parker's 'Bitten' line at Steve n Barry's today. Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeez, talk about a camel toe! I don't seem to recall her sporting any of those at her fancy Sunday brunches. Maybe because those pants weren't $12.99!! Fashion for any size? Yiiiiiiikes, I guess she didn't mean vag size.

Well, i'm tired and my battery is going to die now.
More life updates coming soon!

Cheesy Tots!

2007-11-06T22:11:00.000-05:00

Tonight's first order of business: Cheesy Tots!!
The fast food gods have finally answered my prayers with these miniature nuggets of fried fatty goodness from BK! AND... they serve them for BREAKFAST!!! Oh My!

Moving on.

My blogging has been really sparse lately. Let me explain.

It's not my fault, really. I have NO internet at work! None. No gmail chat. No facebook. I can't even check my bank account or look up the nutritional info for cheesy tots! I went from web-browing-supa-star to... person who actually does work while at work! The horror!!!

I've also been experiencing a sickness which Krystal has labeled CGS.
Classic Grandma Syndrome.
It goes a little something like this.
Wake up and go to work.
Come home from work.
Cook crappy food while watching Rachael Ray's 30 minute meals.
Check email and google image pictures of puppy dogs since you have no access at work.
Friend who is much cooler then you says "hey, wanna go to a bar later and see this super hip band you've never heard of?"
Reply "Ah, no... i gotta dry my hair and I Love New York comes on in 20 minutes."

Before it's too late, someone pleeeaase come over, drag me out of bed and force me to put on a bra because it's only 6 o clock! Thank you!

In other news, I have found me an apartment for next month in ye' old town of Hoboken, NJ. That's right, back to the Jerz! The excitement!!!
Seriously though that shit is waaay cheaper and since i'm planning my budget around a wonderful wardrobe of cardigans and more cardigans it just makes SENSE!
Please be sure to visit and take me to Target and/or the mall and to the Cheesecake Factory! (MOM!!!)
Also, i will live very close to my good friend Becky and will have more time to find the Jewish man of her dreams. Which is important. And also, i'll be close to work. Sort of! And last but not least, there is a Boston Market!! Mmmmmm all that creamed spinach!

The best part about giving up my room, however was finding the ad posted for it on Craigslist over the weekend.

Please read:

$1200 Luxury Doorman Building, master bedroom available DEC 1ST (Murray Hill)

I currently live with my boyfriend. Our roommate is moving back home, and we're looking for someone to share the space with. Master bedroom of a 1 BR converted into 2 BR apartment will be yours on December 1st. High floor of luxury building in the heart of Murray Hill with a great view of the East River and the UN. My boyfriend and I will pay 2/3 of the utility bills, you will pay 1/3. Apartment has nice-sized kitchen and bathroom with a cozy living room area. Laundry available in building and dry cleaner located conveniently outside the building. A quick walk home from the Murray Hill bars and tons of great restaurants. Please email me for more information, and tell me a little bit about yourself.

Here is my version:

$1200 - Building next to a great Luxury Building. Doormen who let just about anyone in. Eat dinner in your bed in the Master Bedroom. Available 12/1

I currently live with my boyfriend. He doesn't stop talking. Ever. Our roommate is on the verge of committing suicide because of how nasty this apartment is, so we're looking to share this space because we are too cheap to find our own place. Master bedroom is great, except the floor is peeling up because the maintenance crew used the cheapest finish in the whole wide world. High floor of the shittiest building in Murray Hill, close to a really great chicken wing place but that's about it. My boyfriend and I will pay 2/3 of the utilities and you will pay 1/3. Unfortunately, we will all share 1 bathroom and if you come home drunk you might have to pee in a Duane Reade bag in your Master Bedroom. We also don't replace toilet paper. Sorry! Apartment has a nice sized kitchen, however it is very dirty. I don't take out the garbage. Neither does my boyfriend, but he likes to leave empty pizza boxes on the counter and the floor, so feel free to take those out on your way to work. Oh, and that cozy living room. Just kidding. No living room! Instead there is a giant fish tank that I don't clean, ever!! Laundry available in the building and dry cleaner next door who charges $20 to hem a pair of jeans. A quick walk home from the Murray Hill bars, but an unbearable journey down 42nd street to the only subway in the area at Grand Central Station. Hold on to your wallet!!
Please email me for more information and tell me more about yourself. BYO toilet paper.

Pee in a Cup

2007-10-22T22:04:00.000-04:00

Why are those W2 forms so difficult to understand?
Single? Check
Kids? Ahhhhhh no, that baby never would've survived my job-quitting-alcohol-binge.
Head of Household? Uhhh. Well, I live with this girl and her boyfriend in a tiny, shitty, dirty apartment. I have the master bedroom and sometimes I cook, so YES. But wait, mom pays my cell phone bill and sometimes I steal cans of tuna from her cabinet... Uhhhhhhhh...
Are you claiming things and then itemizing them? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!!!
Shit felt like I was taking a pop quiz, but much worse because my dumbassedness means the government is going to steal all of the money i don't even have!!!

Other exciting first day activities included my very first drug test!! WOOOOOOO!

After 3+ hours of orientation, it was finally time.
While my morning coffee/water combo usually calls for at least 4 trips to the toilet, I made the horrible mistake of saving it all up for THE TEST.
At 11am, I made my way over to the medical establishment located a few blocks away. I had to go baaaad, but i figured i'd get in, enjoy my pee and get out quickly and quietly.
WRONG WRONG WRONG.
First I had to wait in line.
Then I had to fill in the drug test paperwork equivalent to the W2.
Waaaaiiiiting.
Watch old people drinking water.
Watch ghetto people looking very afraid because you know they smoked last night and just drank that magic cleansing beverage.
Cross my legs. Gottttta peee.
Praying to god the receptionist calls my name next. The same mulleted woman who took my license and then proceeded to tell me for 20 minutes how her entire family lives in my town.
Other office lady turns on the TV.
At least I can watch Ellen.
Trying not to think about all of the pee inside of my body.

"WINSTON"

YESSSSSSS!!! I sprinted to the toilet area and grabbed my cup.

"Don't flush when you're done"

Just so you know, it's super hard not to flush!! It's like I was fucking born with the flushing gene! I couldn't even enjoy the experience because I was mentally repeating "don't flush, don't flush" in my head as I let out the most gigantic pee of 2007. I swear, this pee could've filled at least three of those sample cups!!!

And I didn't flush.

A proud moment in my life.

Tequila!

2007-10-14T19:15:00.000-04:00

Q: What do you get when you combine crab cakes, one guava mojito, french fries, meatloaf, 2 german lagers and 3 bites of pepperoni pizza?

A: FOOD POISONING!

Me: Ryan, wake up!! i have food poisoning!!!!
Ryan: snores.
Me: Food poisoning! dizzy! gonna faint! stomach contractions!
Ryan: Whaaa? Want me to rub your tummy?
Me: NOOOOOO!! ::runs back to toilet::

Well, that was my weekend.

I also have to tell you that i'm drunk... right...now.

I'm not a degenerate though, i'm just quitting! so i should definitely drink margaritas, beer and tequila shots at 12:15 on a Monday...right??? RIGHT!

My boss just came over and said something to me, and I think I replied... I'm not sure. But then, the new boy Dave who sits 1 cubicle away just emailed me this:

From: DBahr
To: JWinston

You just had no idea what Pete said to you haha

And then I got this one from Mel:

From: MRuiz
To: JWinston

I'm WAAAAAAASTED!!!!!

So that is THAT.

I wish I could say more right now.

Dirty Penis!

2007-10-11T19:39:00.000-04:00

I am wrapped in my puffy yellow comforter eating a very greasy eggroll a la Ming's Delight.
Wait. Go Back. I have a terrential-downpour-induced-afro, which wouldn't be quite so bad if it weren't for those god damned bangs. Additionally, i'm eating anonymous fried things and maybe a cat... in my sheets... which i haven't cleaned since... since...

Anyway, not important!

Guess what?

I QUIT MY JOB!!!!!

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMP! there it is!

Now before you pull out your shitty Nokia to call and yell at me because you think i am a lazy fuck that cannot hold jobs because they are full time, and because i have to wear pointy, uncomfortable shoes on my jumbo feet or just maybe, because the long hours are really interfering with my dream of walking dogs and attending 3pm knitting classes in Bryant Park... listen here!

I am a DESIRABLE candidate! WOO, finally! Apparently, word didn't get out about the 2 hour lunch breaks and excessive blogging and drawing pictures on Microsoft Paint featuring me with spread legs and lots of hot wax on my vag. (Someone, please remind me to delete these off of my company computer!!)
I was hired... offered more money... and will receive discounts on shoes and shirts and lots of wonderful items which i will potentially spend my entire salary on! YESSSSSS!!!

Next Wednesday is my last day of media buying hell, giving me a fatty 4 day weekend with which i hope to get very drunk and also manage to lose 12 pounds so that I will be the hottest chick at the mandatory drug test on Monday.

Don't worry, i haven't smoked ye ol' ganj in like 3 weeks, and it was like... one puff. or three. and it was only because i wanted to be hungrier for the thai food, and then of course i needed it for the tummy-ache that ensued immediately after. peaaaanut sauce.

I am excited, though! Not for the working part, but for the discounts and also for the fact i will never again have to look at those fucking bitches who work in my office and give me dirty looks in the ladies room. EXCUUUUSE MEEE for pooping too loudly for your liking!! IT'S A BATHROOM!

I'm also pleased with my decision because get THIS:
Yesterday, i walked over to Just Salads, which is my favoritist salad joint in all of midtown east. Unfortunately, it's also the most expensive... So being the thrifty gal I am, I munched down half of my tuna/tomato/cuke/other stuff i can't remember salad and put the rest in the fridge for today. This way, instead of eating one $10 salad, i would be able to enjoy two $5 salads! BRILLIANT!

Cue lunch time today.

Me: walks into kitchen. shoves sweet-n-lows into my pocket. (gotta stock up!) opens fridge. rummages around. opens little drawers at the bottom. GAWKS!!!

SOME LITTLE BASTARD EMPLOYEE STOLE MY DELICIOUS HALF EATEN TUNA SALAD!!!!!!! THE HORROR!!!

FYI, my company doesn't reimburse for stolen salads, and so I dragged my ass a few blocks to Wendy's for a jr. cheeseburger deluxe and a side salad. $2.48! They're just giving that shit away, aren't they?! My oh my.

Okay, also. I need to discuss... America's Most Smartest Model?! WHAT!!! this show is amazing.
In case you haven't been watching, which i'm going to assume because your IQ is probably much higher then mine, this is a modeling competition for big fucking dumbasses!!!!!!

Anyway, the other day i'm walking on the treadmill and watching for the very first time.
The challenge was as follows:

One at a time, dumb model steps onto the runway. The Judges (INCLUDING BEN STEIN!) name a category. i.e. Capitals. Lakes, Dinosaurs, etc. Dumb model then has to do a sexy catwalk while naming as many items in the category as possible.

So everyone is stupid. One girl keeps repeating the same 2 items over and over so she can concentrate on how difficult walking in a straight line is. One guy thinks Seattle and Minneapolis are states. BUT, my favooooooorite was this.

Ben Stein: Your category is: Things that smell.

Dumb yet amazing model: "Dirty Penis."

He said it so seriously. Oh my god. I laughed/farted (laughrted?) on a treadmill in the middle of New York Sports Club. Don't you hate but kind of love when that happens?

Dirty Penis!!!!!!

I'm Wearing Long Johns and it's 90 Degrees.

2007-09-26T17:47:00.000-04:00

I did it. I got BANGED!
I really don't want to talk about it, though.

Ryan: Your hair looks great!
Me: I look like the mom from Everybody Loves Raymond!!!!!

Not my finest decision, but much MUCH better then the time I crawled home from my office christmas party and had to pee sooooo bad. So bad that I couldn't wait until my roommate got out of the shower and I umm.. emptied my bladder into a bastard Duane Reade bag in the middle of my bedroom, blinds wide open. Mmmmm, memories.

It seems this week is NYC's equivalent of fleet week... for police. I live and work right near the United Nations building. I can actually see it right now! From my bed! While watching Rachael Ray make burgers! In my awesome new thermal long johns! discounted 20% at Loehmann's!

There are seriously 30 police officers on every single corner. It's scary but comforting, except for when I went to Starbucks this afternoon and discovered the entire population of the latte line was in charge of saving my life. Sweeeeeeet.
Anyway, some are butchy ladies and some are quite awkward looking, but a decent amount are actually quite sexy. Specifically the ones located in front of the overpriced Mexi restaurant on 51st and 3rd. Laaaaadies, stop complaining about your lack of an orgasm and get yourself over to the east side NOW. These cops look mighty bored/horny.

Exciting news! I bought 2 new pairs of jeans (at previously mentioned Loehmann's!) and they were totally giving that shit away. I got 2 pairs of my first ever fancy, shmancy designer jap-jeans for super cheap which basically made me feel like the Queen of England except i'm jewish and curse a lot more. Only problem- I think they were made for the most giant woman in the universe, vertically speaking. I had to get them altered for $40!!!!! I paid $40 for one pair! I wish that was a joke.

Do you think that the dry cleaner union and the jeans-i-will-never-afford-full-price-and-sometimes-give-me-camel-toe-union have come together to completely fuck over all ladies under 6'5"?!?!?!

And if you really want to know what's on my mind right now, it's the Biggest Loser.
It's only week numero three, and holy shit, no one is losing more than 2 pounds! I want 20 pound losses and i want them now! I feel like i'm watching a super unflattering spandexy version of a Weight Watchers meeting.
PLUS, last night when the blue team lost they kicked off Jerry!! he's like 63 years old and lost more weight than all you other bitches and just wants to get fit for his grandkiddies!

By the way, I decided that the cutest thing in the whole wide world is an old man eating an ice cream cone. I don't know what it is! I just don't know...

To Bang or Not to Bang(s)

2007-09-20T23:19:00.000-04:00

Now that i'm poor and sans Marvin's Visa, i find that i get really excited by things other than cardigans and eyebrow waxings.
Such as:

1. Running down the escalator, practically domestic-style-abusing the asian man who is standing on the WRONG side(STAY TO THE RIGHT, SIR!) and just as the radiation of the 1,000 degree subway heat hits my face, the train is-a-comin' for me!
2. That random ass deli on 45th and 3rd. The grill-man seriously wants to do me, and when i ask for my mozzarella omelette, i swear there is no less than a half pound of cheese in that biatch! PLUS, plus... he is totally hooking it up when he jots down the price on the container...
visit #1 - $3.25
visit #2 - $3 and a smiley face
visit #3 - $2.75 ... big smiley face
visit #4 - $2! and a big fat heart with his phone number/peen-size posted inside.

juuuust kidding. but seriously $2!!!!

Now, let's see. My birthday was Monday and i decided to throw myself a big karaoke orgy fest to celebrate.
I needed to be looking fiiiiiine seeing as I hadn't eaten bread or any of bread's relatives in the past 2 months and therefore had to show off my newly 7 pound thinner bod. Oohhh docta Atkins, french me now!!

Anyway, i bought a dress because there was nothing at all in my closet!! (LIE!) I got it at Banana and while i thought to myself "hmmm.. this is kind of short" i didn't care because it was flattering and wonderful and had the potential to be very forgiving just in case i drank 20 beers and 20 jumbo pretzels. Yes i know i just said drink the pretzels!! if ONLY!

The day after my dress purchase, I went home to the Jerz for one of the many Jew-Holidays that totally ruins all weekends of September.

Me: "Mom! I bought a very cute dress at Banana for my party"
Mom: "Ooh! Show me online!" (Ohhh mama loves her America Online!!)

WELCOME
YOU'VE GOT MAIL

Me: "okay... let's see" ::clicks dresses:: "It's not here! Maybe because it's so new and sooo wonderful?!"
Mom "That seems very strange"
Me: "OH! Uhhhh-ohhhh"
Mom: "What? Is that it? That's a shirt, Jess!"
Me: "Whoops!"

So, I wore a shirt with no pants to my party while simultaneously singing Natalie Imbruglia's 'Torn' on stage where i'm sure the entire bar saw my sexy yet sensible beige underwear. Ugh, and don't think i usually wear the beige undies. My dress...errr...shirt was see-through, too! OY!
But like they say, it's my party and i'll be a hooker if i want to.
Don't worry, mom. Not a real hooker. No one pays me! But a girl can dream...

Here are some pictures. I wish i had a full-bod shot so i could show you my ass hangin' out ma shirt but i promise i'll try to acquire one ASAP!

1. This is me very drunk and singing. A big thanks to Hannah for completing the ultra-ho look with that smokey black eyeliner. Yum!
In the back of me is Mel, my lovely co-worker. She is so drunk... sooo drunk... that the next morning my sis Em confessed that Mel be hittin' on her. NIIIIIIICE! <--said very Borat-like.

2. This is Sarah's Russian hubby. He seems to be... blacked out. And he puked in my dirty bathroom the next morning which confirms it. Hey mom, check out your son-in-law!

3. This is Emily bustin' a few of her early 90's rap-esque dance moves. Normally, i would make fun of her but honestly she got hit on by every man/my work lady friend in the bar! first, i see her chatting up a random canadian. Then, one of Ryan's drunk friends! JEEEEZ, Em! keep it in your pants!

4. This is Ryan's BFF Brad's crotchal region. Tadaaaaa

woo! 23 years old! the excitement!

Tomorrow i have a hair cut/color at my most favoritist japanese salon where they give 10 minute head massages! mmmmm! Luckily it's yom kippur, so i'm pullin' the jew card and getting out of work at 3:30 so i can make it to my 4 o clock appointment and then starve myself with my beautiful hair! but that is not the point....
I MIGHT GET BANGS!!!! What are your thoughts?
Not the super poofy Emily circa '92 bangs. i want them to sweep! sweep my forehead, bangs!!! like Nicole Richie but not!
i'm very scared and i might not go through with it, but if i look very ugly when this is all over i hope you will all still be my friends!

okay, iron chef is on. BYE!!!!

P.S. A big shout out to my newest reader... dundundun... Ryan's mom. Hi!!! :)
But that's another story.

Strippers, Camel Toes, Etc.

2007-09-06T21:40:00.000-04:00

Here are some things i've been thinking about.

I walk to work every morning. 11 blocks, 2 avenues. More often then not, I end up leaving my apartment when I should be arriving at work because of a major clock discrepancy between my cable box and my microwave. Nine months later, i still haven't figured out which one is correct. But thankfully, i don't give a shit because showing up late = less time until my 2 hour lunch break. yay!

I did have a point, though.
Who are all these people jogging down 2nd avenue at 9:15 on a Tuesday morning? Don't you have a job? A family to support? How do you afford all of those designer jeans and mocha soy lattes and books you actually purchased at Barnes & Noble and not Half.com? HOOOOOW?!?

And the middle aged biatches walking their doggies and lovingly poop-scooping? You're not 16. You're not of retirement age. You look like every other large lady who works in my office, so why aren't you in an office? Puh-leeeeze, you are kind of ugly and i really don't think some sexy ass rich man is supporting you in midtown Manhattan in return for your very unhot piece of ass. Grrrrrrrrr....

But in all seriousness, HOW DO YOU DO IT?

Working sucks a fat, fat, fat one. But mama needs a paycheck cause mama can hardly afford her rent and because of this her own mama gotta help. Thanks, mommy. Specifically for last weekend's Banana Republic shopping spree. And all of those ultra supportive calvin klein bras. Oh, and the box of tissues and shaving cream I swiped from the hallway closet... errr..

I could strip, i guess. Ryan likes my boobs, but personally, I think they are kind of far apart. It runs in the family. Em showed me her boobs in the 'adult pool' in Vegas last summer and they were kinda spread out. Same complaints from Sarah.
I wonder if i get it from mom or dad or maybe uncle harold?
Sorry, this is gross.
Some people have such great cleave. Natural cleave. Hillary, you've got great cleavage. I can't believe the dorky jewish man of your dreams hasn't come along yet and gotten himself a piece of that. I would. Definitely.

Speeeeeaking of strippers and boobs:

My friend Krystal is supa cool and apparently supa horny because for her 24th birthday she demanded a party and lots of appetizers and a starbucks card AND a thong-clad stripper.
A few weeks ago, she summoned me over to the west siiiide to watch Big Brother and internet search for a sexy man stripper.

Seeing as we are all poor/spend all of our money on manicures and pedicures and overpriced frozen yogurt... we umm.... we went a tad low budg on the entertainment.

For a mere $10 per person (plus the 3 singles i shoved in Rico's fab fruit of the loom undies!), this is what we got.

LEFT: Internet-Rico
RIGHT: THIS IS WHAT SHOWED UP AND HUMPED MY LEG!!!!!!!

He was balding and love handlish and his underwear looked very... worn.

Here's some more XXX photos for your viewing pleasure.

The birthday girl, getting exactly what she paid for...

Ashley getting squashed while Rico plays with his 40 year old nipples.

Enough of that. I'm getting way too exicted.

Today i decided to skip the gym because I found a more exciting way to fit in my daily cardio. I walked to Bloomingdales and although I really wanted to shoplift everything in sight, I decided to try on 4 pairs of $200+ jeans for absolutely no reason. My jeans are all cheap and crappy and have that oh-so-comforting spandex stretch but i just wanted to know... are they worth it?

I tried on 2 pairs of Sevens, 2 pairs of Citizens of Humanity and you know what?
I HAD CAMEL TOE IN EVERY SINGLE PAIR.

SO, this is what i hoped you've learned today.

If you marry rich and find yourself walking dogs instead of going to work, i hope you either have a very tiny vag or maybe just get it removed so you can fit into all of your $200 jeans.

P.S. i love you, Rico!

A rant about things i stick in my mouth.

2007-08-30T11:27:00.000-04:00

On my way to the subway this morning, I got into a heated conversation about office food and beverage perks.
I actually have none, because the coffee in my office is the color of a really atrocious doodie and tastes like one, too.
But GET THIS.
A certain roommate of 37-55 Woodside gets FREE vitamin water, FREE fancy iced teas and... ugh, this makes me want to kill myself...
FREE GUACAMOLE!!!!

Am I worthless? Do my taste buds not matter?

I hate my life, except for i'm listening to Kelly Clarkson right now which is mildly inspirational because I bet that at one time or another she sat in a crappy cubicle just like mine and drank stinky coffee and had to use public bathrooms and make small talk with those jappy bitches at the 25 cent M&M machine. That's right! We don't even get free M&Ms!!!!

Today is kind of exciting, though because I will be attending my first official work Pot Luck fiesta lunch.
Now, you would think my obsession with the Food Network would mean i'm the next fucking Paula Dean. WROOOONG.

I wanted to dig deep into my recipe box for this one, but turns out i don't have one. So i thought hard about all of the items I know how to make that taste moderately yummy.

Brownies? No doubt I will digest them all before I even get to work.
Tuna Salad? That is just weeeeeeird. Plus, the mercury. Eh.
Cereal?
Microwavable chicken fingers??
Rolled up deli meats?!?!?!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

And that's when it came to me. One time, many a month ago, I made a fab guacamole for my 'hoorah my weird roommates are leaving for a week' party and it went over really well with the 8 drunken guests.

So i hit up my fruit man on the corner, but apparently... the Hass avocados are not in season right now!!!! Now, if you know anything about avocados, which i didn't until yesterday, I guess there are 2 kinds.

'Cado #1 is Hass and they are small and dark and creamy.

'Cado dos is FLORIDIAN. It's very large and breast-shaped and lighter green and FYI makes one shitty ass guacamole!!!!

Well, the tit-avocados are apparently in season according to the fruit man, so i bought a couple of those, a jar of the cheapest salsa i could find, and some lemon and garlic powder.

I got home. I peeled. I mashed. I salsad.

It looked like a dog got into my White Castle Crave Case and then puked it up into my disposable Tupperware.

Maybe it tastes good, I thought.

Nah. It tasted almost as raunchy as the office-poop-coffee so I discarded that bitch and had to buy some chips and pre-made guac this morning. Ugh. You try to save a buck and instead spend 10 more. The story of my life. If only my office had the free mother fucking guacamole, this never would've happened.

I'm done talking about this Pot Luck now because it starts in 15 minutes and I have some other exciting news.

I AM GOING TO THE RACHEL RAY SHOW!!!!!

YESSSSSSS, now i can say my life is complete!!!!

One night I was hanging out with this man who i would only hang out with because he bought me expensive sushi rolls on a regular basis. Anyway, we're watching Rachel and he has this creepy ass Rachel Ray fetish which i thought was nast because her boobs always looks so awkward in her tops and you know she is such a fluctuater and all, but he really wanted to stick it in her.
So i went online and we were like sweet, let's get on the Rachel Ray ticket waiting list.
AND FINALLY MY DAY HAS COME! Thank god I used my e-mail address!!!!!
Sarah and I will be attending September 12th... the first day of Rosh Hashanah. AMEN!!!

There is also a hilarious dress code which bans sequins, the color white, ugly track suits and promotes the wear of 'gem-tones'. Personally, I was thinking about wearing my YUM-O tee shirt, though. No rules about Rach-Ray apparal. Yeah, i actually have one. I was Rach for Halloween. Errr...maybe i'm the one with the fetish. Anywaaaaaaay.

I'm off to the Pot Luck now. Wish me luck.

Part 2... I hope you still care!

2007-08-23T21:57:00.000-04:00

God, sorry. My liiiiiife.
i have no excuses this time. i've been lazy and sitting on couches and eating very questionable chinese food in massive quantities. Luckily, i attended happy hour tonight which has given me a medium sized buzz... just enough for a blog! hooooooorah...

NOW... where was i?

First of all... FIRST OF ALL
i have to tell you this

When you get off of the plane and enter the airport you must buy a $10 tourist card!!!
At first, i'm all "Ooooo tourist card. Maybe that's for discounts!"

No, no, no. that's not it. you buy the tourist card. and then 4 steps later, you hand in to a man. And then he lets you into the country.

no tour buses! no complimentary flan! Just entry... entry into a world of pork aaaaand... pork.

Our luggage actually arrived with our flight which was miraculous and off we went in a very mysterious taxi cab to the Ocean Bavaro Resort & Spa.

We arrived before check-in, and were welcomed to a buffet lunch. I wasn't all that hungry due to my airport hotdog, but mama be likin' the all-inclusive so we found ourselves face to face with a mighty skanky buffet... the same shit we'd be eating for the next 4 days.

I must say, they had some good broccoli. some good... umm.. cheese slices.

Ryan liked the weird beefy soup and the spagetti...look!

ew. gross. i'm having flashbacks.

BUT, in case you were wondering, i enjoyed a 'rhea-free week! I'd been very afraid for my intestines and butthole since the pad thai mishap a few months ago, but all was well in ye' old dominican republic. I even lost 20 pounds!!

gotchaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

After our gross meal, we probably did it. Sorry, the details are blurred. It's been like 3 weeks and I just had a few drinks but i'm guessing that's right. blah blah blah...

here comes the good stuff....

Day 2-
We lay by the pool. it's nice. it's hot. i'm tanning. i look sexy, yada .. yada.. yada...

There's this super gay activity board and Ryan is verrrry excited about his 10:30 archery.

I am very excited about my 11:00 massage in the cabana next to the pool.

So, we part ways. I'm getting massaged and it is heavenly and fucking cheap and my massage lady Maria is in love with me, i think. i'm getting rubbed, i love it and it's over at 11:30.

I mozy over to the pool area. No Ryan.
So I lay, I take a dip in the pool. I watch the old fat ladies do their water aerobics. I pick a wedgie. I drink a diet coke.

No Ryan.
Hmmmm.... think, jess. think.
Did he run off with a dominican lady?
Did he fall asleep somewhere?
Is he taking full advantage of our all-inclusive buffet?

Ahhhhh i know. He's in the internet cafe doing his fantasy baseball!!
hmmmm, no. not there either.

So i jump in the pool. float around. get out.
AND THEN HE'S RUNNING TOWARDS ME. with a tiny mush of a dominican man running behind him.

"Jess! Jess!"

right now i am thinking: Ryan won the archery competition and we will get a room upgrade and a free vacation and a million dollars!

"Jess!! MY HAND!!!!"

"I shot an arrow through my hand!"

That's right. Impossible, you thought? No, actually... possible!

Arrow through the hand. Arrrrroooooow throuuuuughhh theeeeeee haaaand.

We went to the hospital which was a nice experience and i even got to pee there which was cute because now i can say i've peed in a hospital in the dominican republic. He got some stitches and painkillers and a few "it's okay, it's okay, your hand is fine"

The rest of vacation was a mix of "ouuuuuch my hand", "mmmm that feels good" and "ewwww more pork!"

We had a mighty hellish flight home, which almost turned into no flight home. I made a poor decision and ate a Quizno's cobb salad on our connection flight and it gave me so much 'rhea i thought i might just die on American Airlines. Ryan had hand surgery last week to repair the nerve damage and has not left his couch in days. He even gets to wear a gigantic foam contraption at all times. hooooorah !?

Whatev. it was fun, though. seriously, it was.

American Airlines Can Suck My Brazilian. Part 1 of my trip to the Dominican Republic.

2007-08-10T11:38:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. Where have I been? I suddenly remove all of my vag-hair and then that's it! I disappear without a word!

Shockingly enough, i was TOO busy this week at work to blog!! UNHEARD OF!
I accumulated 8 billion indecipherable emails while on my romantic getaway and finally, FINALLY it's friday, i'm mildly hungover and i've got 3 types of cheese under my belt. So, now i'm ready to tell you a tale.

Come with me back to last monday night. I arrive at the Jaslow residence around 9pm, sat in a pot-smoke-filled room while turning into a biatchy remote-hogging girlfriend, making all of the men in the room watch the latest episodes of top chef and confessions of a matchmaker (um, love it!!)

The alarm is set for 4:45am. That shit is whack, I say. But, our flight to the Dominican Republic departs at 7.

"Delta International!" Ryan proclaims to our driver
"Ooooooooh Delta!" I squealed. "I'm soo happy it's not Continental because of those skanky ass burgers I had on my flight to Vegas. They stunk up the plane like a White Castle!"

The check-in line is long and full of many Dominican-Republicans with huge suitcases stuffed with instant rice, toilet paper, large carnival stuffed animals, live gorillas, etc. We were the only white people! It was fun! DUNDUNDUN... until we got up to the counter.

"Confirmation Number?" asks bitch-mo-fo-ass-check-in-lady
"Ummmmmm" Ryan takes out papers from his man-bag. "Oh, these are just for travel insurance"

ME: "Why do you not have the flight info?!"

"Ok, well can i have your names?" -check-in-hooker

We give names.

"You're not on this flight!"

ME: KFSDGHSDKLGHSDKLGHSLGHSLKGHKGH !!!!!

Ryan: calls Expedia.
Ryan: looks at me weirdly
Ryan: might shit his pants
Ryan: "IT'S AMERICAN AIRLINES!!!"

It's 6am, i'm fungry, i need coffee, i have a giant suitcase that has wheels but honestly doesn't make it much easier cause those wheels are bullshit, and we need to find the AIR-TRAM and ride that shit to gate 8 or 9.

So we're hustling, man on the air-tram says gate 8, so we run run run to gate 8. AND THEN THEY TELL OUR ASSES TO GO TO GATE 9!

SO, we approach check-in at 6:07am.
AND YOU KNOW WHAT?

"It's too late. You need to check in an hour prior to departure"

FUCK YOU, SLUT.

So we wait stand-by and it's REALLY fun!!!!!
NOTTTTTTT.
it sucked a fat one, but luckily we were the last standbyers allowed on the flight. Hoorah!
Ryan is happy because now he knows he won't be denied my unbelievably hot, amazing sex.
I am happy because i'm hungry and mama be hopin' for some yummy plane-brunch type items.

No such luck. Mo-fuckers make you pay like $12 for a 3 Muskateers Bar and basically a ham & cheese hoagie was the equivalent of my utility bill!

Anyway, we arrive in San Juan safe and sound. Except for the fact that San Juan isn't our destination. So WE WAIT STAND-BY AGAIN!!!
Ryan looks all freaky and upset and his leg is doing that bounce around shit and while he's doing that i get up and buy a hot dog. Mainly because its $2 and also because it's funny to eat hot dogs in the littlest, ghettoist airport i have ever been to. Oh yeah, and there was no Au Bon Pain.

So, they're boarding our flight and the lady is like
"Jaslow? We may have 1 seat, but we might have 2. So get on this weird bus thing and they will drive you to the smallest, shittiest plane on planet earth and maybe you can go to the Dominican Republic!"

We get on the bus. We get on the plane. There are 2 seats. No one speaks English. I have to pee, but i'm afraid if i stand up the whole plane will come crashing to the ground, plus i dont even think there is a toilet facility! The flight attendant is sitting in this tiny chair in the front of the plane and laughing and saying crazy shit in Spanish and the plane is making these loud, grinding noises and they gave me some passport-control paper to fill in EXCEPT ITS ALL IN SPANISH and i didn't take Spanish in high school i took Italian!!! and Ryan is sitting 10 seats back and he definitely took Spanish in high school and I bet they are serving him Paella and shit back there cause all i'm getting is a nasty stench and that same loud noise and i might just die and so I ask the boy next to me how long he thinks it takes to get there and he doesn't answer because i think he does not speak english or he hates jews or he might throw up!!!!!

We're in the air for 30 minutes. And then we land. And then we hope and pray our luggage has arrived cause you know that shit was sitting stand-by, too.

Okay this the THE END OF PART 1 because work is basically over in 5 minutes and my ass isn't staying late for you sluts!!

STAY TUNED!

The Aftermath

2007-07-25T10:38:00.000-04:00

Well, just call me Jessica Da Silva Cruz because now I am as Brazilian as they come!
ahhhhhhhhhhhh!

Right after I made my appointment yesterday, I confronted a good friend/co-worker who had also converted to Brazilianism not too long ago. I was seeking comfort, solace, a few words of wisdom before I said farewell to my lady hairs.

Mel- "Well, You'll have to get on all fours!"
Me- "Like... uhh.. on the floor?"
Mel- "No, you dumbass! On the bed!"
Me- "Ewww, Doggy Style! Is that for the ass hair region?"
Mel- "Yeah...That part doesn't hurt too much, surprisingly. But, the rest fuckin' hurts like hell!! It kind of turned me on a little, though!"
Me- "Oh."

I was officially creeped out, but there was no turning back. The Spa had my credit card number and I would be charged whether my lady hairs remained or not.

At 5:00pm I gathered my things and said farewell to my beautiful cubicle neighbor Monique.

Of course, my hair doctor wasn't ready for me.

So, I sat nervously in the waiting room skimming through US Weekly and wondering which celebs had been Brazilianized and which had not.

Lindsay-Lo? Hmm... probably.
Britney? Questionable bush.
Rihanna? There is most definitely nothing under her umbrella.

"Jessica? We're ready for you"

I followed my curly haired lady past a number of labeled doors. First there was 'Tranquility' and then 'Peace'. Finally, she led me into 'The Garden' and told me to remove my pants and undies and lay on the bed.

So I did. And then she came in. And told me to do this.

Yep, that's me. Spread eagle in front of a stranger. Yum!

"So, uhh... this is my first time. Ummmmm... Do most people leave a little somethin' somethin' or just get rid of everything?"

"Well, it depends. Some people leave a little. Do you want to?"

"Um, ok. Yeah. Leave a little. And then i'll decide, I guess"

WOW, AWKWARD.

p.s. i'm not going to tell you what I decided because uhhh, that's WAY too personal!

So she starts waxing me and i'm all
"Ouch!"
"Ahhhh!"
"OOOUUUCCCHHAAAAHH"
"Oh, that one wasn't so bad"

"You're pretty good at this" She told me. "Most people are really freaked out their first time"

"Oh, I'm a very good patient" I replied, eyes completely shut tight and holding onto the bed for dear life.

What I was really dreading was Doggy Position. How degrading! This is lady-on-lady and Doggy just didn't seem politically correct.

"We're almost done" She announced as she tweezed my remaining areas.

And running through my head is - Huh? What about the Doggy? I'm not getting Doggy?

"Ok, Now lift your legs up"

Here it is, position #2. Sooo much classier than Doggy.

Mel was right. This region was much less painful. She even waxed out some upper leg hair free of charge. Hoorah!

And then it was over and I was Brazilianized.

I pulled on my business casual slacks, paid my bill and walked home the 8 blocks to my apartment.

And then I ate my first dinner sans down-there-lady-hairs.

It was nice.

The End.

A Eulogy

2007-07-24T14:54:00.000-04:00

To my dearest, dearest down-there-lady-hair,

I can't believe we'll only be together for another two hours and fifteen minutes. What is it now? 10 years? 11? God, time really flies, doesn't it?

I remember the first time I saw you. It was shower-time, and I had just pulled down my hot pink Umbro shorts. I guess I had forgot to put on underwear that day. There you were. Brownish. Curlyish. Just like on my head, but there was a lot less of you. I liked you immediately. I still do.

Remember that time I tried to Bic you off during my Freshman year of college? I never did say sorry. But i'm sorry. I blame it on the Jungle Juice and that guy from Writing 105. I forget his name, but I swear it was him.

You just couldn't stay away though, could you? No, you were back in no time. Friends Forever, isn't that what they say?

I haven't minded you hangin' around my Victoria Secret's. Please, don't think that is why i'm doing this. It's not you down-there-lady-hair. It's me. Or wait, it's not me. It's my boyfriend. He blacked out last week and revealed his undying scorn for you. Oh, and i'll get a lot more oral. So, uhhh, sorry!

I don't know about me, but I know you'll be strong. Just think about all those unpleasant gyno visits. The stirrups, the rubber gloves, the prodding!
Maybe it'll even feel nice. Hot and waxy! What's not to like?

Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you for being a friend.
Maybe i'll even see you again in a few weeks. It'll be just like the old days. Just like when I pulled down my Umbros on that fateful day.

The Funeral will commence at 5:15pm at The Spafumerie II on 49th and Second.
Hor'dourves will be served immediately following.

Tada!

2007-07-19T10:49:00.000-04:00

Finally, Murray Hill. A little recognition!
A big thank you to all of the friends and fam who called last night to make sure I didn't explode all over Lexington Avenue.

I happened be enjoying yet another lo-carb-meat-fest in my kitchen when shit went down, so all is well and i'm in one piece. hoorah!

In other news, I am off from work tomorrow! GLORY! I am having a major dose of cubicle fever and am going to D.C. this weekend to see Hillary, Mike, Janna, Ash and Hannah. Lucky for me Hill's air conditioning is on the fritz so it looks like i'll be spending my drunken sleeps cuddling in between the lezzies. Just like college! Except hopefully this time they'll keep the moaning and groaning to a minimum. Yes, YOU ashley! ahhhh flashblacks!

My boyfriend no longer wants to commit suicide because he recieved a sexy job offer which basically makes him the richest man in Woodside, Queens. I bet if he wants, he can even afford a year long supply of Panda Garden mixed vegetables! Unbelievable!!

I'm still poor, though. Great.

Okay, what else.

It's Restaurant Week here in NYC, so you know I was forwarding that shit to Daddy Winston.
In one hour I will be chowing down on Filet Mignon and sipping red wine with Marvin. Ahhh, the romance.
It's amazing how often I talk about my dad at work. It's like this.

Monique- "What are you doing for lunch today?"
Me- "Marv is takin me out for steak today, biatch!"
Mo- "Yeah, he took me out for steak last night too! and then we DID IT!"

Thanks, Mo. Very cute.
Too bad your mom flew in from Georgia last night and gave me really good... uhhh... ah, i guess that's weird.

Other exciting things in my life:

-Somebody left a Duncan Sheik CD on my desk and I secretly like it.

-I've started to BYO iced coffee to work! It's genius! I'm going to be a billionaire by 2009. You'll see!

-Last weekend I went to Jerz to visit my sister Sarah. She took me to her 'ladies only' gym and it was hilaaaaarious. Everything was hot pink and purple and supa-early 90s style. Even the employees! This is what I can remember:

Wow, that took way too much time.

Bye!

Bravo for Bravo!

2007-07-09T10:30:00.000-04:00

Did anyone else bother to watch the Charm School Reunion show last night? I felt like I was watching a tit concert! If someone were to ask me what happened, I honestly wouldn't know how to answer. All I saw were breasts! Big ones! Even innocent little Buckwild was busting out of her v-neck dress! Sean came over to watch, and the only thing he could pay attention to was the balding, mustached man cheering on Sapphyri in the front row.
"Now THAT's my type!"
"Whaaaa Whoooo? Dude, did you see those BOOBS!?"

I really like reality television, which is strange because I really hate reality. I haven't watched the news since I was forced by my 8th grade Social Studies teacher, the same bitch who dumped my desk out onto the floor and called me discombobulated in front of the whole class! What a hooker!

I also hate politics. Passionately.
Quick, name as many Presidents as you can!
Uhhhhhhhhhhh. Abraham Lincoln!?

Sports? Forget about it. The closest I ever came to sports fan was when Hillary and I decided to become scorekeepers for the boys' lacrosse team in high school. We figured this would definitely increase the chances of losing our virginity before graduation. Mission Accomplished... well at least for one of us! Sports, WOO!!!

But Reality TV... Sweet, sweet Reality TV.
I'm really into Top Chef right now, which is seriously a blessing since Bravo runs repeats at least 20 hours each day. Sometimes I like to imagine myself as a contestant, turning every challenge into a new and improved stir fry creation using only Pam cooking spray and canned baby corn.

Gail Simmons of Food & Wine Magazine will compliment me on my robust Asian flavors and Chef Colicchio will be so impressed he'll have no other choice but to throw me onto the Kenmore Kitchen counter and have his way with me. I mean, uhhhhhhhh nevermind.

I used to love the Next Food Network Star, however this season blows my ass. All of the contestants suck equally, plus they're ugly. I'm sorry, there's enough ugly Food Network Stars for my taste already. Nigella's Feast? Don't get me started. Giada the BobbleHead? C'mon, you're telling me she actually EATS?! douubttttttt it!
And worst of all.... Healthy Apetite with Ellie Kriger. One Word. WOOF!

My only true Food Network love is the Barefoot Contessa. Sometimes I wish she were my mom! "C'mon pookiebear, let's create our own pizzas and then grill them in the backyard!" ahhhhh i love you!

I am eagerly awaiting the return of Project Runway, and life is seriously wonderful again now that Extreme Makeover is back in action.
Wife Swap? Um, BRILLIANT!

Oh shit. I'm at work and it's Monday and I was a half hour late due to elevator traffic plus had to buy an iced coffee and now it's 11:30am and this is all i've accomplished.

In the words of my dear friend Heidi Klum, Auf Wiedersehen!

Banana Hairs... Revealed!

2007-07-02T14:46:00.000-04:00

What a strange week it has been! Monday I went to work and it was gay. Tuesday, I also went to work but thankfully it was less gay due to a 2 o' clock early dismissal. This translated into 3 large and in charge frozen margaritas and a trip to Urban Outfitters to return a dress I had already worn and may or may not have had sex in. Whoops. Beware of the plaid halter dress, size large.
I thought I was doing myself a favor. I said to myself, 'Girrrrllll, you need that $50 for pedicures and iced cappucinos and general life! Return the dress. Return the DRESS!'

So, I returned it. But unfortunately, I was drunk. And so I frolicked over to Banana Republic, just for a peak. I was sure I wouldn't like anything. Positive! Just wasting some time. Just taking a looooooksyyyy....OOOOHHHHHHH there's a SALE!

And so i bought a shirt/dress contraption and a bottle of water from the upscale hot dog vendor on Lexington Ave, totaling the amount of my return. fuckshit.

Fourth of July was a giant blur of beer pong and swedish meatballs, yesterday I almost committed boredom-induced suicide in my cubicle and today has consisted of nothing more than a free, questionably whole wheat bagel, 2 visits to ye' ol' bathroom compliments of the tub of Pinkberry frozen yogurt I chugged last night and an unsuccessful 2 hour search for the hottest and sexiest bikini in all of internet land!

So basically, I have nothing to say right now. Except for something which is amazing and that I would like to share with all of you!

Alright. I love bananas. I'll say it, I love them! They are cheap and heavenly, taste good in cereal or in smoothie-form or even straight up. But i hate the peeling process, mainly because of those stringy ass banana hairs. They are GROSS! Picking them off is just plain unappealing, and GASP!! Actually swallowing a hair? Let's just say, that's a giant no-no.

BUT, did you know banana hairs actually have a scientific name?

Phloem Bundles!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(pronounced flom). They are part of the system that carries nutrition to all parts of the banana. - quote Chiquita.com

So have a lovely weekend, enjoy the weather and beware of the Phloem Bundles!
That is all. Goodbye!

check out those phloems!

P.S.

From: Winnymom@aol.com

You had sex in a dress and then returned it? Gross!! Did it still have the tags on it?

Mom

Expecting?

2007-06-24T08:34:00.000-04:00

God, it's really fucking hot outside. So hot, i'm contemplating retiring my hair straightener. Sooo hot, wearing underwear has become a chore. Sooo fucking hot, i've started sweating underneath my boobs, and it aiiiiin't pretty.

What is one to do when waiting for the subway in the most humid, rancid, 105 degree underground heat?

I bought a dress. It cost me $22 at Forever 21 and it is the most perfect summer dress for activities including but not limited to working, churning butter, calling out sick and easy access sexual activity.

Problem: It's mighty boobalicious (2nd mention of BOOBS!) and in return forces every nasty, nasty man in Times Square and Woodside, Queens to look me up and down and throw out a "HEEEEY MAAAAMI!" or if i'm lucky, a "HEEEEY SEXY MAMI!".

It's a love/hate relationship.
On one hand, my bod must be looking mighty sexy. I'm not as grotesquely obese as I imagine! hoorah and hooray!
On the other, i feel like these stinky mexican/homeless/hallucinating admirers are touching their penises and thinking of me:The boob-sweating Jewish girl extraordinaire!

This was what happened on Saturday afternoon. I pranced all over town in my dress, being cat called and hating it but secretly loving it. No need to feel guilty about those 17 brownies I ate last night! The 39th street homeless man with half-dead dog and negative 18 teeth thinks i look great. Might as well supersize that #3! Mmmmmm

As the afternoon turned into evening, I decided to head home and prepare for my evening festivities. I stopped into my local grocer to pick up some berries and milk and such, and headed to the cash register, still feelin' hot and sexy and basically like Murray Hill's Next Top Model.

"Hey, how are you today?" asks 19 year old braided-haired register man.

"I'm really good, thanks!" - meeeee

Register Man- stares at my stomach region

Me- feeling weiiiiird. feeling reallllllly weird.

Reg-Man "Aw... so you're expecting, huh?"

Me- "Umm...no? Yeah, no i'm not pregnant."

Reg-Man "Ahhhhhhhhh shit, im so sorry"

Me- "Uhhhh, yeah it's okay. I just drink a lot of beer, I guess.

Reg-Man "Daaaaaaaaaaamn girl. How much beer do you drink?"

I paid for my fucking fat free food items and ran home and cried in my bed for seven minutes.

Then I called 3 friends, all who proceeded to tell me that they have been mistaken for preggers before, and to calm the fuck down and that it was probably just my super-in-style-pregnantesque-dress.

Anyone want to buy a dress? 10 dolla!

Five Years From Now...

2007-06-20T10:53:00.000-04:00

At home last weekend I noticed an envelope sitting on my kitchen table. It was addressed to me care of Old Bridge High School West, and upon closer inspection I realized I had sent this letter to myself.
As I slid my finger underneath the flap, I instantly knew what my envelope contained. This wasn't going to be pretty.

Senior year Ms. Mennona, who I recently found out was caught doing the nasty mc. nasterson with a female student, asked us to write letters to ourselves outlining what we hoped to accomplish in five years time. Sighhhhhhhh.

Dear Jess,

There's about 3 months till I leave for college, and i'm kind of nervous. I'm ready to leave my parents, but not my friends. Right now, I am 5'4" with highlighted hair and in really good shape. I don't think too much will change with my looks in 5 years.

(Dear Jess,

College is much fucking better then highschool. Don't worry about leaving your friends, as you will only keep in touch with about 4 of them. Your hair is now a shade of purple, with some heinous dark brown roots coming in. You've also drank enough beer to fill up a mack truck, and in return have went up about 3 pant sizes. On a positive note- your boobs are much bigger.)

Some goals that I have for the next five years are to do really well in college, try new things (maybe karate or fencing), make a lot of new friends and become somewhat career oriented. I really hope I get a great paying job my first year out of college. My dream is to own a hotel or restaurant.

(Hahahaha... seriously? In college, you achieved the title of Winstoned, due to the excessive amounts of marijuana you smoked pre-class, post-class, pre-dinner, uhh... all the time. You definitely tried some new activites, including but not limited to gravity bongs, 10-foot bongs, frequent alcohol-induced black outs and promiscuous sex. You did well in college, mainly due to the fact you majored in Retail Management, and are now an entry level media slave, earning a mere 30 grand in the most expensive city in the country. Congrats, you dumbass biatch.)

Something that I do hope to change in 5 years are some of my qualities. These include me being a little to: impatient, emotional, jealous, self-conscious, picky and critical. Hopefully i'll be working on a little self improvement.

(No such luck, friend. You are a beast when it comes to criticizing others, specifically for their uneven/bushy/rainbow/drawn-on eyebrows.)

What I like about myself? My ability to make others laugh and to be 'just one of the guys'. I hope that in 5 years from now, I am still trying to find the humor in every situation I face. I also hope that i'll still love the thrill of meeting new people and going out to have a good time.

(God, you are one cheesy ass 17 year old. Finally, an accurate prediction. Why, i LOVE going out to have a good time. Especially, when the good time includes 7 Heinekens, 5 gin and tonics, falafel sandwiches and sexual activity. Hoorah!)

What's important to me most: My parents, even though they're irritating and ask the same question 20 times in a row. I love my sisters - in 5 years, Sarah might even be married! And Emily, well she might still be with Elinor. I'm sure they will both me really successful.

(Ohhhh Ellen. She still loves to repeat herself, after all these years. And damn, i'm good. Sarah is married, Emily's still a lesbian. Successful? Errr... not so sure. But at least they now own dogs, cats and talking birds. Didn't see that coming...)

What's going on in my life right now: Senior prom is this Friday and then off to Wildwood this weekend. I'm really excited but I don't want it to be over. Graduation is so soon, and i've been so busy trying to get things done. I should be employed by Wawa by Wednesday and I need to fill out a lot of papers for Syracuse. It's kind of stressful because i'm really used to doing nothing.

(Now there's the Jess I know and love. Bitchhh, you didn't even work at Wawa though, what the hell are you talking about? You're still used to doing nothing. Look, you're blogging at work! You cringe when given any form of work assignment, and take 2 hour lunch breaks every single day! Good job!!)

Well, I guess that's all that can be said for the moment. I'm ready to face whatever the future throws at me. Cya in 5 years!

Love, Jess

(Weed, Beer, Weed, Beer, Weed, Beer, Graduation, Work, Beer Beer Beer. Oh and you're poor.)

Love, Jess

GREAT VALUE FOR THE PRICE

2007-06-06T13:58:00.000-04:00

This hotel is great... if you like mosquitos crawling into your asshole all night long delivering you malaria while trying to fall back asleep in your twin-sized bed after 2 hours of buffet-induced food poisoning. (the paella was DELICIOUS!)

The water is soo clear and the sand is perfect. Just make sure to show up before 7am or else it gets really crowded and you'll have to lay out by the pool instead. Speaking of the pool... WOW! It was seriously wonderful, but don't let your kids drink the water!! Little Jimmy had diarrhea for last 6 days of the trip. Poor kid, he couldn't even enjoy the breakfast buffet (he LOVED the french toast!!)without sprinting back up to our room to use the bathroom, which only backed up 9 times the entire trip!
Don't believe those other reviews, either! We had hot water the whole vacation!! We just had to take our showers between the hours of 2 and 5am. Not a problem...

The maid service was perfect. Well, the first 2 days our sheets and towels went unchanged, but a nice couple we met in the lobby told us the secret! You just need to leave the maids little trinkets each day. We gave Margarite chocolate bars, a bible and a set of ear plugs, among other things. She really loved us, and even started crying when we realized our safe had been broken into and all of our passports and my wedding ring had been stolen! She was so sympathetic. If you're reading this, Hi Margarite!!

All in all, The Punta Cana Rio Bamboo All Inclusive resort was well worth our money. You won't regret it!

DOMINICAN REPUBLIC, here I come!!!!!

The Mango Tango

2007-05-30T23:07:00.000-04:00

Iced coffee season has arrived, and this morning I was all set to post about my passionate desire to consume the miraculous beverage on a bi-daily basis, along with the many issues that arise when choosing between Starbucks (a tad bitter but i have a gift card!) , Dunkin' (AKA "fruity diarrhea"-Ashley Connors) and the 17 assorted street coffee vendors conveniently located between my apartment and work.

Anyway, i'm sure you want to hear all about it... and if you do, feel free to write.

Right now, i'm alllllll in a huff.

Tonight, yessss tonight... I have sliced me my very own mango! No, i can do better then that. I have taken my mango's cherry! I have danced... the MANGO TANGO.

I'd been thinking about BYO-Mango for quite a few weeks now. I'd been spending $4+ per container on the fabulous little pre-cut mango babies at the local fruitery, and when translated into alcoholic beverage money I was losing out on at least 1 or 2 solidly drunken happy hours.

And so, with debit card in hard I popped into my local Morton Williams and searched for the forbidden fruit. Red mangos! Green mangos! Yellow-reddish-greenish mangos! How does one even tell what a ripe mango looks like? Is ripe mango color common knowledge??! I grabbed a hybrid-colored one, and threw in an avocado for good measure. What can i say? I was feeling adventurous!

I let my mango sit in my makeshift fruitbowl composed of a hot pink plastic appartatus i found in my roommates cabinet, possibly saved from a childhood cookie baking sesson. My fruit sat there for two full days, since I wasn't sure about ripeness or unripeness or mango expiration dates and so on.

On the way home from Brooklyn this evening, I was feeling rather inspired. As we discussed adult ass-wipes and the American Girl Theater, my writing teacher sat on her floor cushion, munching away on what I supposed was self-cut mango. It was like a sign from the heavens!

I rushed off the 6 train and straight to my fruit, awaiting me quietly and looking exactly the same as two days prior.
Not knowing wear to start, I consulted Google for a little advice: How to cut a mango

Cross-Hatching?! They think i can fucking CROSS-HATCH a mango!!!!?

I came really close to crying when I was informed i had to use something known as a paring knife, and picked something from our knife-holding unit that looked like it could possibly cut a piece of grilled chicken. Chicken... Mango... similar..sort of... mmm mango chicken.

I attempted the diagonal slicing technique displayed in step 1, but my mango halves wouldn't budge! I dug my fingers into the mango and surpriiiise... that shit is MUSHY.

After 30 seconds of failing to rip the mango halves in half, i brought out a new knife resembling something in which you may have seen in one of those killer clown movies. I proceeded to slice the shit out of that thing, fingers dripping in mango innards and praying that my roommate didn't walk into the kitchen and catch me in the act and call the fruit police!!

Whatever. Now i'm eating mango in my bed and i am seriously in love and seriously in need of some floss.

I Am The Biggest Loser... in sooo many ways

2007-05-12T09:31:00.000-04:00

Alright. So, it's one thing to drunk text the man who slept in your bed last weekend. You might even dial and leave one of those hideous voicemails leaving a detailed account of how horny/drunk/in love you are and then want to hang yourself in the morning when you discover your call log displays 17 outgoing calls, all in the span of less than 10 minutes.
Those things I compleeeeetely understand. Hill, I know you're with me...

However, last night I made a totally different type of drunk dial. This one was made after the consumption of one Sam Adams Summer Ale (YESSSSS, it's back!!!) and approximately four vodka-sodas with lime, and went out to my boyfriend who was spending the night smoking pot and eating assorted asian cuisine on his couch in Queens. It went a little something like this... I think?

Me- Gets brilliant idea and runs into bathroom area
rinnnng rinnnng

Me: Hiiiiiii!!
Ryan: Are you drunk?
Me: Yesssss!!! I have a question for you but feel free to say no if you think it's weird!! (AKA you better not say no or ELSE!)
Ryan: Uhhhhhhh??? okay...
Me: Do you want to go out to dinner with my family tomorrow??

That's right folks!!!! I drunk dialed to see if he would get dinner in New Jersey with Sarah, Boleslav and my Super-Jew parents whom he's never met before!!

If this wasn't odd enough, I proceeded to call my mother so she could change the reservation.
When nobody picked up, I did as any good daughter would do and left a long, drunken, slurred message on my parent's answering machine, which... now when i think about it... uhh, where the hell were my parents on a Friday night at 11pm??
aaaahhhh bad thoughts, bad thoughts.

Let's see. What else?
Ah yes, The Biggest Loser Competition Part 2 is in full swing, and according to which scale I decide to use, what time of day it is, and how many quarts of "low fat" frozen yogurt I've consumed prior to weigh-in, i MAY or MAY NOT have lost 1 pound.

About 3 months back, Krystal and I were tired of our lardy selves, and made a pact to be amazing weight watchers for the next 4 weeks. Whoever lost a higher percentage of weight would be treated to a fabulous dinner by the contestant who just couldn't stay away from Taco Bell. Mmmmm chalupas... and gorditas... saaalivate.

Where was I? ohh yes, so for 1 week in February I ditched my lunch break trips to Bloomingdales and forced myself to elliptical and lift heavy objects, and to my surprise I dropped about 3 pounds.

Krystal on the other hand decided to call it quits when her life was thrown into turmoil over finding a new job, taking care of her obese yet adorable cat Timmy and interviewing crazies off of Craig's List to fill the open room in her apartment.

The competition was temporarily put on hold, but as of last Monday we're back in action!
The terms have been discussed, hmm... and they're exactly the same as the first time except we've become a bit more detailed about the reward:
The winner receives 1 free dinner of.... drumroll pleeease... 'Ridonc Sushi Rolls'
Yep, you know what i'm talkin' about. Spicy tuna on top of shrimp tempura on top of yellowtail sashimi, avocados, king crab, hot sauce, cheeseburgers, your mom, banana republic, etc... and i DON'T want brown rice, thanks!

So far i've tried consuming less than 7 alcoholic beverages on a maximum of 2... errr.. 3 nights per week, as well as making sure I don't hit up Mamoun's in the west village for the most delicious $2 falafel of my liiiife.

My pants are fitting... the same.
My love handles look... cute?

Anyway, i'll keep you posted as the competition progresses.

p.s. i wrote this very hungoverly on a saturday morning, so feel free to excuse any weirdness that may have been blogged. neeeeeed coffee.

Ok, bye!

What Not To Wear: A How-To Guide by Emily Winston

2007-04-29T16:23:00.000-04:00

The closest Emily ever came to fashionista-status was in Vegas last summer. We decided it was about time to throw her 1992 black platforms in the Treasure Island garbage can and forced her into varying ensembles composed mostly of Sarah's extra small self-bedazzled tank tops and matching mini skirts. We did such a good job with her show-girl makeover that she even managed to look borderline-straight and was hit on several times at each of the clubs we attended. I even decided to reward her sexy efforts with a $25 lap dance courtesy of a large, hunky black man, which she later mentioned that she quite enjoyed.

Check out the Emily sandwich happening in this photo... (not for your eyes, Elinor!!)

So that's why I was pleasantly surprised when I opened up my Gmail inbox this morning to find a message from Em entitled "Blast from the Past Fashion Show"

**Please keep in mind that her jaw is currently wired shut due to a wine-induced hot tub incident and she hasn't been able to consume solids in about a month. It's POSSIBLE that these outfits might like a smidgen better once the 10 or so pounds make their big come-back. wait.... hahahahahahaha, i doubt it.

The message reads as follows--

"For your viewing pleasure!

All of the following fashion items were purchased around 1999. I tried them on today to see if there's anything I should possibly save...the rest I can try to sell on ebay or just donate.

Cast your vote for each item!

Navy pinstripe suit
Cream button-down shirt
Navy flats
Black skirt suit
White shell
Black flats
Red mock turtleneck
Black pumps

first of all Em, this pose is hilarious. Was Elinor directing you or did you just come up with that move all on your own? I must say that the 'red mock turtleneck' really accentuates your golden California tan, though.

Oh my god. This is SO fugly. Nice choice of undershirt on this one. Are you planning on wearing this to an interview?
mmmm unemployment line, here you come.

Now, one would think that you would've worn this blouse underneath suit #1. Although, this outfit doesn't completely make me want to spew my turkey sandwich all over my freshly washed sheets. Next...

Well, I can tell that Ellen Degeneres book I bought to cheer you up really rubbed off. This outfit screams 'I like the ladies', but who am I to judge?

Well... I guess you can open up your very own Ebay store entitled 'Emily's House of Fugly' and make a fortune.
Or maybe you can just construct some new chew-toys for your parrot and cockatoo.
Better yet, you should throw everything in the garbage.

A JAP's Guide to Budgeting, Dieting and Infrequent Sobriety.

2007-04-15T19:05:00.001-04:00

I'm on a budget...and a diet... really... I am.

Monday - April 9th, 2007

My good friend Dan invited me to his comedy show at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. Lovely, I thought! A wonderful $5 cultural event to lift my spirits after an always-so-hellish Monday afternoon spent dillydallying in my cubicle, eating a vast array of uber-fiberous vegetation, laundering, ellipticaling for 35 minutes and tending to my excessive amounts of Judaism-induced body hair via my blow dryer and a Venus razor.

On my way over to the theater, I got a call from Coleen.

"Meet us at Dino's Party House!!!"

Dino's WHAAAT?! As an unofficial member of AA, anything with the words 'Party House' makes me want to kick off my Nike high-top sneaks, funnel a beast ice and sing my finest karaoke-rendition of Paula Cole's 'Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?'

So off I went to the Party House, located about 3 blocks away from the theater.

There were a total of 6 people in the entire bar - two of which were my friends, one the bartender, two were making out passionately in the corner and the sixth... a lonesome, tan-skinned man playing a game of PhotoHunt.

As I sipped my Blue Moon, said man started hitting on Coleen. And when I say hitting on, I mean he actually told her he would like to make love to her. Yesssss, make LOVE. He then proceeded to buy us cheap vodka shots and tell Michelle and I that he would also be interested in having sex with us, but that he would only make love to Coleen.

I told him that wouldn't be necessary, and that some more shots would be just fine.

20 minutes later, we collected our coats, said farewell to our new man-friend, and made our way over to the theater. I had no intentions of drinking more beverages... that was, until I saw that magical sign.
$2 PBR.

There is a god!!!!

I sat next to Dan's parents, drank several delicious Pabsts, journeyed to a small pub called Walter's which included a drunk woman with newborn-baby, took an $8 taxi-ride home, ate microwavable dumplings and set my alarm for 8am.

Tuesday - April 10, 2007

I had really wonderful intentions on Tuesday afternoon. It was ASPCA day, and I planned on heading down to Union Square with Mel after work to look/make out with all of the puppies, raid the salad bar at Whole Foods and go home and do nice things like watch repeats of I Love New York.

Around 3pm, I got a text from my buddy Flounder -- "Happy Hour?"

Ohhhh, how I despise turning down a perfectly good happy hour.

Me: "Mel... want to grab a beer first before the puppies?"
Mel: "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS... is he bringing his guy friends?"

We coerced Monique into joining our beverage festivities, and off we went to Local to join the Flound-Man & Co.

Flounder loves a good drinking game, and with the help of the $1 Coors Light happy hour special, I was able to get drunk all the while maintaining my allocated beverage budget for the week. And the beers were LIGHT. All 5 of them. Hence, my diet budget.

As 8 o' clock approached, I said farewell to my buddies, walked a drunken Mel to Grand Central and hurried home to watch American Idol. Not to mention, I was quite fungry at this point and couldn't wait to cook up an asian stir fry feast complete with wasabi peas, pineapple tidbits and anything else that tastes spectacular while doused in teriyaki sauce and eaten in a drunken frenzy.

On the elevator ride up to my apartment, I dug through my purse in search of my keys. I took out my disposable tupperware, my coffee thermos, my wallet, sunglasses, kashi granola bars.... UH-OH.... left them in my gym bag...which is in my cubicle... which is 11 blocks and 1 avenue away, which if i go back means i'll miss all of American Idol and I don't have TIVO... and then I won't see Sanjaya and my life will be OVER! mehhhhhhhhhh!

And this is when I realized the joys of paying over a grand in rent. DOOOOOOOORMAN.

Thankfully, I was able to get into my apartment only 20 minutes late for Idol. I watched Sanjaya flambouyantly prance around the stage all the while cooking my Asian splendor, and even found the time to convince Hillary into meeting an Italian-Turkish-Jewish JDater. And then I set my alarm for 8am.

Wednesday - April 11th, 2007.

I did not drink! I did not spend money! I even managed to smoke pot in my kitchen wearing only my underwear while simultaneously eating leftover cold pork dumplings. HOORAH!

Thursday - April 12th, 2007.

Damn you, Jon Ames. Thanks for leaving Local Radio Buying without a replacement and giving me all of your god-damn-skanky-ass-assistant-bitch work to do.

Lucky for you, I accept happy hour propositions as apologies. They BETTER have some mofo good drink specials.

As I gorged on $3 Blue Moons, $2 soco-lime shots, and assorted fried calamari bits, I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket. I always get a little excited when I don't recognize a phone number, and hoped it could possibly be a headhunter offering me a job naming nail polish colors, or maybe even Yolanda Vega telling me I won tonight's Pick 6 and to come collect my mill.

"HELLLOOOOOOO?!" I drunkenly slurred.

"Hi Jessica. This is ldkfgjgel;trkjg"

"WHO?! Who is THIS?!" I yelped.

"Jessica. This is Dr. Faust. I was just calling to tell you I got your blood test results back"

OHHHHH DICKKKKKKKK.

"They came back negative."

Boooooom Shaka Laka, I ain't dying of any weird-stomach-pain-induced-diseases! Well, at least not this week.

Still feeling the effects of my medical buzzkill, I decided it would be best to go home, microwave turkey meatballs, call my mother and fall asleep before 10pm.

Friday - April 13th, 2007.

Ahhhhhhh Friday. FINALLY, I can enjoy my life once again!

Due to the 10+ hours of sleep I received, I was actually able to attend the gym during lunch. Yeah, I was shocked, too.
As an added bonus, I was even able to elliptical my way through 40 minutes of Save the Last Dance Part 2 (Did you know there was a PART 2?!) and then proceeded to lay on the mats and laugh at Mel who only agreed to go to the gym because she really needed to take a shower.

I was feeling particularly wonderful because it was bow-chicka-bow-wow... PAYDAY.

After work, I cheerily frolicked down third avenue and straight into French Nails, for a brown-esque manicure and a 10 minute back massage by the god-of-all-nail-salon-massueses-of-my-LIFE.

I decided to keep it a low-key night in preparation for Saturday's Sake Bombing Fiesta, and met Ashley for dinner down in the Financial District. A few innocent fish tacos turned into 2 size-of-my-head frozen margaritas, an $80 bill and a buzzed subway ride to mmmmm... Woodside, Queens.

Saturday - April 14th, 2007

I spent the next day cruising down Queens Boulevard with Ryan in his pimped-out Rav 4. I had a burning desire to go shopping at Target, and we found one located in the most inconvient sort of mall-type-thing on the side of the Boulevard from Hell.

After a lovely diner meal and some assorted discount shoe-shopping, I beached myself on his couch for as long as possible until making my way back home to prepare for the cheap sushi and many a sake bomb that would soon be taking up residence in my liver.

My evening was one giant Asian-induced blur. Hmmm... are you seeing the pattern, too?

I was about 5 sake bombs deep before the food even arrived. Same for Ashley, who desperately needed alcohol in order to shmooze her questionably homosexual yet still undeniably sexy new roommate.

I reminisced with a long lost friend who actually wanted my babies circa 10th grade and yes... even sent me the first...errr..ONLY roses I have ever recieved. To thank him, I decided I would spill three-quarters of my $12 mango mojito all over his lovely Lacoste shirt and then coerce him into purchasing my next beverage. Tadaaaa.

Sunday, April 15th

Slept till 11. Woke up. Ate leftover turkey club from Queen's diner. Fell back asleep. Woke up at 4:30pm. Facebook stalking. Canned clam chowder. Microwaved an eggroll. Blogging. VH1's Charm School Starts tonight. Set my alarm for 8am. Looking forward to Happy Hour.

New Message from Mr. Wonderful

2007-04-03T10:12:00.000-04:00

Lately i've been wondering why people bother to pay for internet dating services when they can choose from a vast array of sketchy Staten Islanders and ambiguously gay Manhattanites completely free of charge! While I tend to use My Space for general stalking purposes, recently i've been getting a wild influx of male suitors filling up my Gmail inbox each day.
Honestly, I don't get it. My profile picture isn't slutty. I'm wearing clothes. I'm wearing tie-dye for christs sake!! My hair is skanky, i look hungover...errr... i am hungover, and my oh so un-exciting boobs are no where in sight!
See what I mean?

But yet, the men are going nuts for my hot Jewish ass.

Let's begin...

From: Mr. Wonderful
Subj: Mitzvah
happy passover!

~m :)

ps: don't worry about me...I sold my soul to the devil years ago ;)

Dear Mr. Wonderful

You sound wonderrrrrrrful. Happy Passover to you as well. Does it bother you that I accidently ate eggplant parm pizza last night? Nope, it wasn't on matzoh.
I don't get your p.s. Does that mean you want to have sex?
TTYL.

From: BiLLz
Subj: Add Me U Kno U Want 2
Add Me U Kno U Want 2

Hi BiLLz,
I really like your use of the number 2. It's so meaningful. I'm getting kind of wet just thinking about adding you to my friends list. Ahhh, I gotta go.

From: Mr. Swanky
Subj: whats up?
Hey, My name is Manny, wondering if you go out to clubs usually?

Hi Manny,
I like your name. I don't usually go clubbing, but my cubicle neighbor Monique does. Last weekend her drunk friend Shawanda got in a fight with some Spanish broad, weave pulling and all. I heard that shit was craaazaaaaay. I bet she might go to a club with you. Want me to inquire?

From: Moshe
Subj: Jessica!

OK, I am gonna be gay and say, Oh my God, you are such a doll.

I liked all your pics, u seem so vibrant, I would love to treat to
dinner coffe, hot chocolate or whatever, even a broadway. Tell me
you're single and that we can go out sometime, no strings attached.

-Moshe

Shalom Moshe,
I like your pics, too. Especially the one of you smoking a joint. Are you a gay stoner? I've never met one.
Are you gonna treat me to alllll of those things? That would be nice, considering i'm really broke right now and NYC taxes have recently decided to take away more money from my paychecks. Don't they know i'm already paying $2.99/lb for shitty ass mealy gala apples?!? Oy.

From: Edd
Subj: hi
what a poor 'about me' section... you can do better than that...

Hi Edd,
Sorry to disapoint you. I used to have a longer 'about me' section where I talked about how my bed has wheels and it moves across my floor and how the only thing i'm capable of is consuming asian food. But really, who cares?
I like that you spell your name with 2 d's though. Your mom is probably really creative.

From: Georgey
Subj: WATZZ UPP SWEETHEAT,,,,
YOO WATZ UP HOW U DOINGG DO U GOT AOL OR AIM IF U DO I WOULD LOVE TO
TALK TO YOU ALOT BETTER SWEATY

Hi Georgey,
So, you think i'm a sweetheat? That's nice. You're right about being sweaty. I went to the gym during lunch, and of course there just wasn't enough time to shower. So here I am... sweaty.
It really turns me on when you use all caps like that. MMMM GEORGEY.

From: KHRYSTYAN
Subj: No Subject
Hi there Jessica, i like your profile, especially the pictures, (the
one holding the beer is the bomb!) ... I was wondering maybe we can
chat sometime. I still don't get your headline :(
Hope to hear from you soon Jess.

Hi KHRYSTYAN.

Which picture of me holding the beer? It seems I am holding a beer in every single picture. But, thanks. I'm pretty good at holding beer.

From: Dave
Subject: No Subject
What's a sock hop?

Hiiii Dave,
You know... poodle skirts. Grease lightning. Fuckin' let's twist again like we did last summer? Wait, is that a sock hop? OK, bye.

From: Sami
Subject: Hey
hi jessica how are you u look really cute great pictures u have there
by the way ..and u seem nice too .. sorry i dont know exactely what
where to start,not that i dont mean it to be honnest i was just
browsing throu this thing and your beauticul face caught my eye :).. i
tried to read a little through your profile and i loved it :) so i
thought i d write a couple of words, and i hope i ll get a chance to
talk to you soon and get to know alittle more about you.
write back soon
sami

Hi Sami,
I wish i could take a look at your 'beauticul' face too but it seems your face has been replaced with a photo of a palm tree, and alas... your profile is private. what's a girl to do?

From: Joseph
Subj: Is that your kitten?
it's awfully cute. any chance you use AIM or anything like that?

Hi Joseph,
Yessss, that's my kitten. Her name is Sweet Potato and we bought her for $10 from a crackhead in Syracuse, New York.
Nah, i don't use AIM. I never really got into technology. I use Morse Code, though. Feel free to get in touch.

From: Hirts
Subj: Models
Wassup, I think you are gourgaeous, and I want to know if you want to
model for me?

Hirts!

I'll model for you. I've got really great feet. Size 9 and a half. Sometimes a 10. I've even got a hunter green pedicure.
What do you pay?

From: Gori
Subject: London 2 NYC
Hey steph..

(You look incredibly beautiful in the picture, is that you? I'm just
curious to know)

Well, I was just browsing through a few profiles and yours really
grabbed my attention! You seem like a pretty interesting person and
i'd love to get to know you better..

I'm originally from Kensington London but I've just moved to NYC to
work on broadway and I'm LOVING it! U guys really do know how to
party..

I know it mite seem a bit weird this, but it'd be nice to learn a bit
about you. Like what you like to get up2..what kinda music are you
in2..etc?

by the way, you're really cute in the pictures (wow!!)

hope 2 hear from you soon..

Gori

Hi Gori,

Yes, that's me in the photo. I know, I know. Some people are like WOW, you look just like Angelina. But good looks just run in the family. Thanks Marvin!

Before we go any further, you steal my heart and i give birth to our biracial babies... I just need to know one thing. Who's Steph?

From: Aaron
Subj: No Subject
You are a decent looking Jewish girl.

Dear Aaron,

You don't know shitttt. Gori from London thinks i'm damn fine, as does Mr. Wonderful, Moshe, Georgey and Hirts.
I seriously kind of hate you.

Kowloon Me To The Moon

2007-03-26T15:25:00.000-04:00

I spent the weekend visiting my favorite pair of best-friends-turned-lesbian-lovers out in Boston. One hybrid wine-pot hangover, a faux call in sickness and a $30 Grey Hound bus ticket later, I found myself smushed in between a cold, hard window and a Wellesley College student with one of the most unappealing moles i've ever witnessed. Said mole resided right above her lip, which sounds sexy in a Cindy Crawford-esque type way, but in fact was quite the opposite. It actually had 2 little hairs poking out of it, and while we discussed our overly Jewish summer camps and the joys of Japanese food, I couldn't help but wonder if i should dig out the tweezerman I keep stored in my purse for emergency stragglers and pluck those bad boys outta there.
I resisted, but seriously almost caved the second the Teddy Graham crumbs starting collecting in her creepy little mole-bush.

I finally arrived in Boston around 8pm, lugging a hefty duffel bag filled with only the neccessities... $3 wine, my best friend and life long companion- the Chi hair iron <3, a couple of oversized black & white cookies and a loaf of challah bread. That's right, I took requests. I contemplated purchasing some lox as well, but decided i didn't want to upset or nauseate my fellow bus companions on the five hour journey through the land of ye olde Connecticut, which honestly is already depressing enough without having to bear the scent of oily fish.

John met me at South Station and we proceeded to Hannah's Jetta, conveniently parked about a mile away from the bus station. Hannah is another member of the Navigation Fan Club, yet still manages to get lost EVERY SINGLE TIME. it's actually quite fascinating. She and Ashley constantly second guess the technology, get into a gigantic lovers' quarrel and then finish it off by making out in the front seat while you close your eyes, make gagging noises and sing Wilson Phillips 'Hold On' as loud as you can to drown out the sounds.

As we approached the car, I noticed an unfamiliar display of bleach blonde hair hanging out of the backseat window.
It was Tamara, and according to some incoherent ramblings and the half empty bottle of whiskey placed neatly in her lap I could tell she was in black-out land. While secretly flattered that I was an important enough event to pre-game for, I started to worry when she attempted to steal an innocent couple's clams casino at Legal Seafood and then proceeded to run out of the restaurant in search of pizza and potential man-friends.

Rest assured we picked her up after dinner in China Town, alive and well and partially hungover.

If you really want to know what I did in Boston for 48 hours, I'm gonna go ahead and say I ate, watched LOGO - yes, the lesbian and gay network and spoke in a full fledged Indian accent the entire time. Ashley and I also made up a song with a somewhat Jamaican beat entitled "Me Knows Where Me Likes to Be Touched" dedicated to a flambouyant ex-army Irishman whom she met in a gay bar in Chelsea last time she came to visit. She inquired when it was he knew he was gay and he replied, well "Me knows where me likes to be touched!" and it goes a little something like THIS-

ME: touch me where me knows where me likes to
Ash: TOUCCCCCCCH ME WHERE YOU KNOW WHERE YOU LIKE TO BE TOUCHED
ME: touch me, touch me, tou-uhh-uhh-uchhh me

and so on and so forth.

We also made up a song dedicated to this Indian academic advisor named Nidhi Oberoi from Syracuse who I met with Senior year to discuss my future cubicle life.

This is to the tune Biggie's HYPNOTIZE-- please feel free to sing along!

Nidhi Nidhi Nidhi
Can't you see?
Sometimes your Oberois just hypnotize me
And I just love your hindu dot
I can't wait to lick curry off your bush**.

I would like to apologize in advance for the mention of Nidhi's bush. The original lyric was "i can't wait to lick curry off your SPOT", but Hannah suggested bush, and seeing as my sexual preference was the minority... we decided bush would have to do.

Over the course of the weekend, I have decidedly come across my favorite highway in the history of all the highways in my life. It's called...bumbumbummmm...ROUTE 1, and we had to drive down it several times in our journeys to and from Boston (Ash and Hannah reside in an old homosexual-run firehouse 30 minutes north of the city.)

What's so amazing about Route 1, you ask? The whole road reminds me of one giant MULLET. There's strip clubs, stinky motels, a giant restaurant named Kelly's which is dedicated to everything roast beef (it even has a drive-thru!), several obscenely Vegas-like glowing cactus-billboards and the most mysteriously statuesque Asian-inspired castle I have EVER seen!

Me- "Hey... what IS that place?!"
Hannah- "Its Kowloon!!! it's AMAAAZING! They serve every type of Asian food imaginable!"

My eyes lit up like a nun recieving her first encounter with cunnilingus.

As you know, i am a whore for asian food. that's right. a WHORE. muhahaha.

Ash and Hannah agreed that a trip to Kowloon was in order, and we decided it would be the last stop before I had to head back to the city.

When Sunday morning rolled around, I put on my ever-expanding spandex pants in preparation for the Asian feast that awaited me. We piled into the Jetta, blasted some Real McCoy and made our way down route 1 for the very last time.

When we pulled up, I couldn't contain my excitement. I hopped out of the car, and whipped out my digi camera. It was like the Eiffel Tower of Route 1, and i NEEDED evidence of my arrival!

An elder, mulleted woman who was most likely arriving just in time for the early bird volunteered to take pictures of us. Please see below.

As the hostess led to us to our table, I couldn't help but think how hilarious it would be if i perhaps... got married in Kowloon! There were lotto machines galore, old people, ladies with unibrows, an overabundance of obesity and a glorious display of ponds and waterfalls surrounded with fake, spray-painted rocks. mmmmm... heaven.

I imagined our waitress Denise definitely lives in a trailer park, but i loved her just the same. She made wonderful reccomendations and was amazed when I told her i took the Grey Hound all the way from New York City JUST to come to THEE KOWLOON!!

We ate strange fried chicken tidbits, teriyaki beef "nuggets" and an assortment of the greasiest noodle dishes i've ever encountered. Everything tasted like it was scooped straight off of a chinese buffet and we only managed to finish 1/80th of the food. We simultaneously became overwhelmed with nausea, held our stomaches and tried not to gag when Ash kept passing gas at the table. See for yourself, YO!

Denise took this.... mmm Denise

Me... dreaming of my Kowloon wedding.

Imagine Ashley farting for this one.

Laughing because I feel like my stomach is slowly dying inside of me and I know i'm about to sit on a bus for 4 hours.

Suffice it to say I haven't touched Asian food since, but i'm hoping to get back on track by this weekend. The end.

Where Art Thou Cream Filling?

2007-03-20T14:24:00.000-04:00

I have a lot on my mind these days.

I recently discovered Hostess 100 calorie pack cupcakes. you know... those orgasmicly amazing cupcakes with the cream filling that splooges just a bit when you bite down? Yes, those!
CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?
While i've never been a big believer in the 100 calorie pack movement that is currently sweeping the nation, i've gotta say WOW!
Each pack contains 3 mini cupcakes. The whole thing takes a little less than 30 seconds to consume, but really... truly... yummy.
My only complaint is that there's no vanilla curly-Q thing on top. Those would probably make them 112 calorie packs which would totally devalue the whole concept!!!

So, of course i had to tell my mom about them. She's all about the chips ahoy 100 cal packs which i find to be far inferior to the magicalness that is HOSTESS!!

I wonder if my company scans my e-mail account, and sometimes i wish they did.

From: Winnymom@aol.com
Subject: Hostess 100 cal packs

Jess,

I had a pack with lunch and they made me very gassy. I'm never gassy after lunch! Maybe that's why you were gassy yesterday? Actually, they have a lot of fiber for such a small portion (5 gms., I think). They are also loaded with chemicals, which probably doesn't help.

Mom

So there you have it folks. they.will.give.you.GAS

Moving on.

Has anyone besides myself bothered to read the comments posted on my past few blog entries?
I am being sexually harassed by Sol Beskowitz and A. Coven. I'm not even sure A. Coven is a man. Hmmmmmmm.
It's really not as fun as i expected, either. My clothes are still on. my hair isn't mussed up AND i'm in my cubicle!! At least if they would show up and do that sexy arm-swiping-manuever across my desk and scatter my stapler and manila envelopes onto the floor, it would be much more enjoyable. sighhhhh

So, I guess i'll address this now.

Dear Sol Beskowitz and A. Coven,

How are you? How is Israel? Is the weather nice? Did you really fly into JFK today? I really wish we could hang out, but i'm actually going to my sister's house after work to eat dinner and make out with her dog. How long are you in town? Do you like drinking and eating chinese food?
I'm not sure we would work out, what with you flying back and forth from Israel to NYC all the time. I'm needy, Sol and A. Coven. I need to hang out after work. We would have to watch American Idol together. You would have to sit and wait patiently outside the dressing rooms at J. Crew and tell me I look nice in every pair of pants I try on and then bring me home and feed me chocolate dipped marshmallows while I paint my toenails.
You would probably hate my bed, too. It has wheels that i haven't yet figured out how to remove so when we get busy you're probably going to get annoyed and just want to leave. My roommate is also really messy. There's never any room in the freezer. You have to find little spaces and physically SHOVE your eggo waffles in there. See what I mean?

In conclusion, hostess 100 calorie pack cupcakes give me gas. It runs in the family. Do you think you could still love me?

I Do Not Hate... On the Garden State.

2007-03-07T14:22:00.000-05:00

I was awoken Sunday morning to the familiar sound of a text message from somebody named Iobiadmin@Verizon.com. For some reason my otherwise tech-savvy mother hasn't quite mastered texting from her ACTUAL cell phone and has thus resorted to downloading some crazy program onto her Compaq Presario in order to alert me of family happenings without having to bear the sound of my Sunday hangover 'yes-there's-a-half-naked-man-laying-next-to-me' voice.

On this particular morning, she inquired if i was planning on coming home for the day. The only thing on my agenda happened to be pretending i might actually go to the gym and then at 5 o' clock announce that i had forgotten it closes early and "Oh well, MAYBE TOMORROW!" So i heaved myself out of bed, washed off last night's mascara and headed to Port Authority. Ohhhhh NJ Transit, how i've missed you so!

Whenever I visit my parents, I know i'm in for a full day of culinary excellence! This is especially important when the only items left in my fridge are honey mustard and moldy vegetable cream cheese, and so i tend to make the journey at least once every 3 to 4 weeks.

When I walked in the door, Dad was waiting in the kitchen munching on his typical pre-luncheon snack of microwaved hot dogs on potato bread. Then, the oh-so familiar topic of where to go for lunch. This is how the conversation went. This is how EVERY conversation goes. Mmmm, how I love going home.

Me: "Well, i've really been craving Indian..."
Mom: "No way, Jessie!"
Dad: "What about that new Thai restaurant that opened? Don't you like Pad Thai, Ellen?"
Mom: "I don't like Pad Thai, Marvin! You know what it tastes like? It tastes like Spaghetti with ketchup on it! Doesn't it taste like spaghetti with ketchup, Jess?
Me: "Umm... well, not really. I like Thai. What about that brunch place? The Turning Point? Let's go there!"
Dad: "No, i don't like it there! It's too feminine. All of their dishes are just too feminine! Portions are too small, and we have to wait. Ugh, no Jessie. You can go there without me."
Me: "OHHHHHKAAAAY. Chinese?!"

I don't know why we didn't just decide this in the first place. It is a Winston family tradition to consume Asian on Sundays, and I don't know why I would've assumed anything different.

So off we went to Hunan Gourmet. Dad turned on his navigation for the 12 minute drive down route 9 to the restaurant. I think he has a secret crush on the woman with that sexy robotic voice, which tends to be a bit more pleasant than my mother screaming "MARVIN!!!! NO!!! turn THERE!!!! Can we stop?? I have to pee AGAIN"
I don't really blame him, but I do find it pretty unnessary to use navigation when visiting a place you know how to get to. This is very confusing. Sarah has actually started doing it, too. Weird. I don't understand! I don't need navigation.... I just use taxis!!

As some of you may know, my sister Sarah got married in the fall of 2006. My mom has a severe obsession with everything-wedding, which in turn has influenced me to either become asexual, elope or at least just marry a non-jew as to avoid the situation entirely. I thought it would be a LONG, LONG time until any talk of wedding in the Winston home would resurface... but boy, was I wrong.
Turns out, Emily and Elinor are moving back to New Jersey and are planning their Civil Union ceremony!! While Em never struck us as the wedding type, she's decided that
A) She needs Elinor's health benefits
B) Nana pays the big bucks for marriages/babies/bat mitzvahs
C) Any excuse to stuff your face and drink heavily on my parents bill is A-OK with her.

We're all pretty excited, Mom especially since she is 100% positive the wedding is going to make it into the New York Times wedding section.
Jew finds same-sex love with non-Jew? Check
Met on an Ivy League fencing team? Check
1600 on the SATS? I'm sure that magical fact will somehow creep its way into the article...as per usual.

As I stuffed deliciously greasy chicken chow fun into my mouth, I imagined Em walking down the aisle wearing a vintage 1991 Abercrombie sweater, faded ankle huggers and her old, crusty Doc Martens with the laces coiled up like the old days at Lake Bryn Mawr Camp. She'll chop her hair especially short for the occassion, even though we advised her otherwise, and will ask if i wouldn't mind blow-drying it for her.
Elinor might spice it up with a brightly colored vest, her Cornell sweatpants and some loose pigtails arranged on either side of her head. We'll dance the Hava Nagila while their African Gray and Cockatoo flap around above our heads and their 3 cats nap in the corner by the cake. When the wine bottles are empty, we'll beach ourselves on the couch, Mom will whip out her calculator and we'll count their hard-earned money. I can't wait!

In other news, Dad has been mistaken for a senior citizen! Apparently, he visited McDonald's last week for a cup of coffee, and was only charged 45 cents!! He asked if they were having a special sale on coffee, only to find out that's the cost for the oldies community. Awww Marv, i still love ya! Perhaps you can pass along the discount to your broke-ass daughter?! Pretty please?
Additionally, he's taken on a new client who actually found a mouse in their Wendy's chili. Be warned!!!

I spent the rest of the afternoon at ShopRite with my mom, grabbing whatever looked expensive and delicious and tossing it into the wagon without regard. When I returned home, I ransacked the cabinets for shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream and many other essentials to ensure I wouldn't have to pay for them myself at good ol' Duane Reade! I shoved my goods into a monster sized duffel bag, gave a few farewell kisses and headed back onto the bus...but not before Mom could give me some leftover white meat chicken breast from Shabbat dinner Friday night.
"You need MORE protein, Jess!"

Thanks again!!

The Grocery Blues

2007-03-01T09:58:00.000-05:00

Since moving to Manhattan i've taken up a brand new sport! Yep, this comes as a shock to me too, considering my athletic career basically ended in the 4th grade when I gave up on soccer and took up competitive cookie eating.

But anyway, here goes.
First you fill up your basket. Teriyaki chicken! Sugar snap peas! Hummus! It doesn't really matter what you put in it, just make sure the basket is heavy enough so there's no way you're going to want to hold it for longer than 25 minutes.

When you're all done, look for the man in the red tee shirt waving a giant flag. You can most likely find him close to the entrance and being extraordinarily friendly, which will in turn make you feel pretty uncomfortable. He probably looks like he smokes a lot of pot, and hasn't bathed in at least 2 days.
Have I said too much?

When you find said man, go to him. You will find yourself in line behind a minimum of 50 people. That's on a calm day, like say... Tuesday. Sundays are merely for professionals.

Now that you're in line, feel free to peruse your surroundings. Make your way past that eye-poppingly cheap produce! 39 cents an apple?! Toto, I don't think we're in Murray Hill anymore.
Check out the bakery. Grab some low-fat blueberry scones, they're only $1.29!

That baskets feeling pretty heavy, huh?
Put it down, I promise you'll feel much better. This line is long and moving pretty damn slowly. If only you had less than 12 items, you'd get to wait at LEAST 3 minutes less!!

As the line moves along, you pick up your basket, walk approximately 7 inches and then place it back on the ground. Efficient? I don't think so.

So, you start to nudge it with your feet. Nudge, nudge, nudge. Along with the nudging, comes the 'Bumpology', in which people bump into you with their wagons and carts while reaching for the soy chili on the top shelf, and then for some reason you both apologize
"Sorry!! Can I just...? Yeah, just trying to get the... oohhh GOT IT! Sorry!"

You've already made it to the free sample area, and have added 8 more items to your basket! Mmmm... they're giving out organic cinnamon crumpets. I've never even had a crumpet, and I lived in London for Christs sake!!! C'mon, toss those babies in, too.

Seriously, you gotta love Trader Joes. They are like the equivalent of telling your friends that you just rode your vintage bicycle to a Sondre Lerche concert in Williamsburg, and stopped for a tofu-hotdog on the way home.

Once you've made your way into the dairy aisle, you know you're almost home free! Have you noticed that sound? The sound of hard, plastic scraping against the tile floor? That's right. Look around. You're playing... the Basket-Push! Everyone else has picked up on the nudging just like a giant sign was posted on the wall with how-to instructions and a real, live demonstration entitled "How To Not Feel Like Your Hands Are Going To Fall Off"

Just when you feel the sweat stains starting to form in the armpits of your brand new Anthropologie sweater, you come to the check-out dispatcher. You're 30 minutes late for American Idol, you've acquired at least 3 bruises on your hip and thighs and to top it all off, you just realized that you've far exceeded 3 grocery bags worth of goods and have NO idea how you're going to transport everything home.

Finally, after 38 long minutes, you pick up your basket and head to your designated register, conveniently located next to what is now the END of the line.

As you watch your $5.99 pre-cooked shrimp scan, you praise your gigantically lazy ass for traveling all the way down to Union Square just to get a good deal on your groceries. You've improved your calf muscles, increased your weekly budget for alcoholic-beverages and are the proud new owner of organic cinnamon crumpets!

See! Who ever said I can't play sports??

P.S. This is when you know my social life is starting to go downhill...

Do you have love for New York?!

2007-02-26T22:15:00.000-05:00

Are you feelin' me White Boy?!?

Let's Hear It For FOX!

2007-02-22T10:41:00.000-05:00

I like to dedicate one day each week to cleaning up my life. This entails at least 40 minutes on the elliptical, a date with the laundry room, general dust bunny collection and a thorough eyebrow tweezing- magnifying mirror and all!
Why don't I spread out these activities, you wonder? There's a simple answer to this really. AMERICAN IDOL.

Yes, American Idol. The perfect excuse to skip out on happy hour, and instead put on a pair of your stinkiest sweatpants and lay on your sheetless bed eating reduced-fat peanut butter straight out of the container.

While I generally feel the need to be immersed in social interaction at least 12 to 14 hours each day, when I'm watching Idol it's like i've been transported to a tropical, deserted fantasy island... except Simon's there, too. We're wearing nothing but leaves to cover our private parts and he's feeding me grapes and a delicious assortment of cheese while we gossip wildly about each of the contestants' performances.

We disagree a lot, specifically because I think Leslie the dog walker is amazing in her hybrid dog-walker-singer type ways, and I would happily hang a lifesize poster of chubby-faced Chris in my bedroom any day of the week. Simon tells me I have the taste of a mule, but I think it's rather hot when he talks dirty to me and we remove our leaves and have crazy, passionate British-Jewish lovemaking all over the island.

Sigh. Until we meet again next Tuesday at 8 o' clock.

EnGAYged and Underage

2007-02-19T21:45:00.000-05:00

Why thank you Mr. President for letting me sleep in till 10:30am this morning, only to awake to the sound of my roommate's 30 year old boyfriend violently puking last night's Long Island wedding into the toilet bowl.

Oh yes, Presidents Day. Yet another meaningless holiday to keep me far, far away from the hells of my cubicle walls. As I lay in my bed watching Barefoot Contessa, I contemplated what exciting Presidents' Day-like activities awaited me.

Grocery shopping? mehhhh, I've still got 2 days worth of frozen eggrolls, not to mention oodles of 'oh, poor you... no valentine AGAIN' chocolates from my mom, aunt and lesbian best friends.
Laundry? I'm doing well with the pants, and I can make it until Thursday if I wear my 1996 ghetto, hole-ridden, Hanes-For-Her period panties. No one gets ass between Monday and Thursday anyway... right? hmmm.
The gym? Oh, wait. All out of sports bras! My sneakers are getting... worn? My toe hurts! I just straightened my hair... 4 days ago.

And then, just like clockwork... Sean called.

"HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!!! OH M'GOD, that married man from Hot Or Not texted me last night... do you think I should fuck him??"

I couldn't have asked for a better wake-up call, unless of course it was from Mr. and Mrs. Hilton informing me there was a mix-up at the hospital and that I am in fact Ms. Paris and i better start packing for my brand new billion dollar apartment complete with an in-house Starbucks barista, personal trainer, sushi-roller extraordinaire and an Amex with unlimited credit. mmmmmmm.

Whoops, sorry. Getting back on track...

After discussing the pros and cons of sleeping with a secretly gay married man (Pros: big arms, hairy. Cons: Also enjoys vagina part-time), we decided that the perfect solution to a Presidents' Day activity was to embark on something cultural... something New Yorky, something NOT in Murray Hill... and most importantly, something FREE. Ohhh the joys of entry-level media jobs.

Sean suggested the Guggenheim, which sounded alcohol-free and right up my alley for a Monday afternoon cultural event. I was saving myself for Tuesday, you see. Mardi Gras open-bar, compliments of who else? Horizon Media Inc!

So I dressed myself appropriately for the lovely Antarctica we are currently experiencing, and met him outside of Grand Central. We hitched a ride via the 6 train to the beautiful Upper East Side, and I waited patiently outside the museum as Sean chugged the rest of what he has dubbed 'The Ghetto Latte' (grande coffee, shot of cinnamon dolce syrup... shortly followed by a dump the size of the Bronx)

We made our way through the revolving doors, and came across an extremely hideous line and an even more hidous admission price of $18.

18 BUCKS?! We looked at each other with a look of utter disgust. Doesn't the Guggenheim know what our broke-asses can buy for that amount? As we stood in the warmth of the lobby, we ran through a list of purchases better suited for our money.

Let's see... 3 Gin & Tonics, NINE Ghetto Lattes, a shirt from H&M....a box of Trojans AND a spicy tuna roll!!!

We re-wrapped our scarves and headed back into the cold.

I suggested painting pottery, and yes... confusingly enough the gay man vetoed.
Sean suggested assorted 5th Ave shopping. I reminded him that would most likely cost more then 18 smackers.
I suggested laying in my bed, eating more frozen eggrolls, watching The Simple Life and searching the world wide web for potential jewish lovers.
And then came the best suggestion I've heard since my sister recommended I wax my eyebrows in the eighth grade (Thanks Sar!)

CANAL STREET! Yes, it was the perfect solution. Thoughts of fake Dolce & Gabbana and skeevy, deceased chickens hanging in windows flooded my head as we made our way back to the 6.

After making it downtown, I realized my bladder needed to be relieved. I silently cursed myself for not peeing in the beautiful cleanliness of the Upper East Side, and began a wild search for a nearby toilet facility.

Burger King? 6 old ladies ahead of me. 3 of which may need to change their Depends. Takes TOO MUCH TIME away from my cheap china shopping!
McDonalds? i have to BUY SOMETHING? I scanned the menu for the addition of dumplings to the dollar menu, crossed my legs to delay any premature urination and moved on..
FINALLY, yes finally we came across a Starbucks. only 2 people to go! Lady #1- pees like a champ! she's in, she's out! Lady #2- possibly European. Hands her coat and purse to her lady-friend before entering like she's about to run the New York marathon. TAKES AT LEAST 7 minutes in the bathroom!!! Perhaps she chose the Ghetto Latte?

Boom-Shaka-Laka I say, because I managed to buy a glorious pair of green aviators that I haggled from $5 down to $4! Take THAT Guggenheim!!! I am plus 14 bucks!
Sean, on the other hand bought a $10 watch, and a $10 pair of F-Prada shades, leaving him $2 in the hole but infinitely more attractive to the gay community of Manhattan!

We basked in the thriftiness of our purchases all the way back to Murray Hill. Sean jumped into my bed, and I microwaved veggie egg rolls and edamame. We watched The Real Housewives of Orange County, feasted on Asian cuisine and said thank you to all of the political figures who made our day of culture possible!

Until next year, Mr. President...

Ode to Valentine's Day

2007-02-14T12:04:00.000-05:00

Hoorah! Yet another boyfriendless Valentine's Day for the books.
Luckily, I still have my innocence, errr... my virginity? ummm... my sobriety? My hot, perfect body?!

alright, so i have none of these items! However, I do have 5 friends with whom I will be enjoying a one night spectacular 'Black Out Valentines Day' complete with sushi rolls, shrimp tempura and all-you-can-drink wine. What kind of wine, you ask?
BOXED WINE! Most likely, Franzia or something of equal horrendous quality, but I will bask in the cheapness until I vomit.

While I haven't yet found a man to shower me with cucumber flavored body lotions, chocolate dipped strawberries or multiple orgasms, I'm still reeping many of the holiday's vast array of benefits!

1. Mom gave me a $50 Starbucks card. Free lattes for 2 weeks, maybe 2 and a half? Pure glory!

2. Aunt Mara sent me a large, overfloweth box of chocolates. They arrived on February 3rd, but please... i don't discriminate. Thanks to my period the chocolates are long gone, but my fat ass remains in tact!

3. This morning as I was leaving my apartment, a single rose stood longingly next to my welcome mat. The card read "Happy Valentines Day. -The New York Tower"
I contemplated carrying my lovely, new rose through the hail storms and into work to pretend i had a secret lover who sends single roses via messenger to my cubicle. However, I quickly realized that my gym bag, coffee thermos and umbrella would make it impossible to transport and that hail and roses just might not mix. Maybe next year!

4. I won a free pizza lunch at work today!

5. Somebody clicked for me on Jdate!

6. This list is getting DEPRESSING!

I'm off to consume pizza and count down the hours until I am inhaling wine and spicy tuna rolls.
I wish you all a HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY... and for all of you single readers be thankful that you have until next February to lose those last 16 pounds!!

Sangria Gives Me 'Rhea

2007-02-02T14:36:00.000-05:00

I work in an office composed mostly of 20-somethings who are simultanously counting down the minutes until their next alcoholic beverage. They (OK, fine... We)compose fancy e-mails dedicated to each Thursday's happy hour extravaganza, complete with bar specials, directions and photos found after typing in 'Drunk' to a gmail image search. I once tried inserting a photo of Monique, my cubicle neighbor, into the bottom of the e-mail. I took it as we were doing a photo shoot entitled 'Sexy in my Cubicle', and although it may look like she is all smiles, you can tell she is secretly thinking... 'look at my computer! my job is DEPRESSING and I am thirsty!!'
However, she threatened my life right before I sent it out, and as a result her photo was replaced with that of Buck Hunter.

Last Thursday was dedicated to everything Mexican, and as luck had it, the bar du jour El Rio Grande happened to be a mere 2 blocks from my apartment! Super convenient for a quick change out of my business casuals and even more so for the drunken commute home.

And then the Sangria happened. How many Sangrias, you ask? We may never know the answer to this question as I can't seem to find the receipt for my tab... but i can imagine it was a bountiful amount!! I am a complete sucker for Sangria, mostly because you can eat delicious little fruit tid-bits while getting wasted at the same time. No need for nachos or chicken fingers! It's kind of like 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner. Except for the fact that I HATE those. Pert Plus! ::Shudders::

While downing these delicious beverages on an empty stomach (well, except for the fruit!), I was introduced to a super sexy half-black man named Taylor, an Account Exec for something-or-other Inc. He gave me his business card, which makes me want to vomit a little bit, but I excused this move because of his overwhelming sexability factor. We took company-expensed tequila shots with his co-workers and Mr. Taylor was totaallllly digging me. He repeatedly told me how much he likes Jewish girls (WHY!?), in addition to the fact that I should quit my job and do stand-up comedy. I contemplated this idea in my head, but quickly realized I would have to immerse myself in alcoholism... which honestly, I really can't afford right now.

While I don't remember saying goodbye to Taylor, closing my tab or drunkenly crawling back to my apartment, I figured I couldn't have done anything TOO crazy as I woke up alone and fully dressed in my bed at 5am on Friday morning.

I reached for my cell phone in an attempt to figure out what happened to my post-happy hour life only to find 6 missed calls, 1 text and 1 voicemail awaiting me.
I didn't recognize the number that all 6 calls came from.
The text read "WTF?"
And when I finally mustered up enough energy to dial my voicemail
"Jess... It's Taylor. Where did you go? I went to the bathroom, and when I came back you were gone!"

Ok, so I left. I probably felt like I was going to puke. Or maybe I was just hungry? I was most likely hungry! But, did I eat?! As i tried my hardest to recall any pizza or easy mac that may or may not have entered my mouth, I fell back asleep and woke up at 8am to a dry mouth, a hideous hangover and the super-tempting thought of calling out sick.

Honestly, what better place to spend the afternoon than your cubicle, when it feels like someone has carved out your skull and replaced the insides with mashed potatos?
I struggled the 11 block walk to my office, and spent the day alternating between zoning out, scanning menupages for an inexpensive, Asian lunch and a little too much quality time sitting on the toilet. Must have been all that fruit...

Around 2 o' clock I grew some balls, and decided to give Taylor a call to let him know I was alive and well. We spoke briefly about the extent of our hangovers, and said he would be in touch over the weekend.

Amaaaaaazing, i thought! My first interracial relationship!!! I immediately called my mother to tell shock her with the news about meeting my new half-black-man friend.

"Oh, so he DOESN'T live in in Murray Hill?! Be careful, Jessie!" was her oh-so discreet response.

I didn't hear from Taylor again until around midnight on Saturday, as I was in the middle of a horrendously expensive taxi ride to Bumblefuck, Brooklyn.

Via the text, he wrote

"Hey. What R U doing?"

I excused his adolescent AOL grammar and wrote back:

"I'm heading to a party in Brooklyn. you?"

a $25 cab ride later, I arrived at the party and proceeded to pour myself a super hefty gin and tonic. As I made my way over to the crackers and hunk o' Brie that were calling my name in the corner, I felt my ass cheeks start to vibrate.

Taylor: "I'm waiting for you to get drunk and invite me over!"

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?! Is he SERIOUS?!
I decided that maybe... just maybe, he meant invite him over to the party. That would make sense! Who doesn't like a party... in Brooklyn... at 1am... where you won't know anyone except the annoying, Jewish girl!

Me: "Well, you're welcome to come to this party, but it's pretty far away"

I couldn't figure out if that was the correct response, but I went about my beverage and cheese consumption as planned.

NOW PLEASE READ CLOSELY and prepare to GAWK!!!!

::butt vibrates::
12:53am
"Thanks. i will wait for tomorrow when u r at your place. Daytime sex?"

DAYTIME SEX?! WHAAAAAT! Does he think we met on Craigslist under the Male seeking Male personal ads? Did I mention a daytime sexual rendezvous when I was blacked out off of 4, maybe 7 Sangrias?! AND he wants to partake in this daytime sex on Super Bowl Sunday? HUH!?

Once again, looks like mom was right.
I texted one last time. I was drunk and very, very confused.

"That is very forward of you", was my only response.

I went about the rest of my evening, and made it back to Manhattan safe and sound around 4am, sans any dirty responses from Taylor.

The next morning as I lay in bed hungover watching What Not To Wear and contemplating whether my hangover was mild enough to attempt a quick visit to the New York Sports Club, my phone vibrated once again.

"Give me a time and your address :)"

While the thought of getting completely naked in the daylight after 3 solid evenings of binge drinking/eating fatty items seemed wildly appealing, I closed my phone, tossed it onto my nightstand and fell back into a delicious hungover sleep.

I guess it's back to Jews for me...

The Elevator

2007-01-22T16:19:00.000-05:00

It doesn't take a genius to figure out why on earth my parents are half-funding my move to Manhattan.
Mom thinks: Jessie will find a wealthy, Jewish doctor/lawyer/financial advising man who will sweep her off of her low-income feet.
I think: I will binge drink 3+ nights per week and bring back an assortment of jazz musicians, waiters and Brooklynites to my apartment for unmentionable activites, possibly to be followed by a lovely morning brunch at Euro-Diner.

For those of you who are new to the world of Jessica Harris Winston, I am prone to engaging in relationships with scruffy, hippie men who reel me in with their sensitive-male guitar renditions of Dave Matthews' #41, hookah smoke and the ability to chug 16 Keystone Lights and still drive me home safely.

Much to Ellen and Marvin's dismay, I just can't help myself. I'm sure they dream of my wedding to anyone whose last name ends in berg, baum or farb, but with Emily's lesbian charade I figure i'm in the clear as long as he belongs to the male species.

Which brings me to... the elevator. Forget about Central Park, Starbucks and even the Joshua Tree! I may be a fairly new resident of the New York Tower, but it didn't take long to figure out that the elevator is by far the most popular means of finding a date in Murray Hill.

Today I called in sick. Was I sick? Well, not in the technical sense. But I was feeling pretty nauseous every time I sat down in my cubicle, so I figured a Jess Winston Appreciation Day was in order. I got into the elevator to leave my building at 10:30, only to be greeted by who I like to call... The NYU.

The NYU- "A little late for work today?'
me- "Oh, well not so much... i'm taking a (I ACTUALLY DID THE FINGER QUOTES!) "SICK DAY"

i said this very cheesily, as it was early and I was proud I got to brag about my rebellious endeavors.

The NYU- "Ohh, i see. I go to the business school at NYU and I've got class at 1:30!
To me, this reads I AM A BIG, NERDY JEW...PLEASE TAKE ME HOME TO YOUR MOTHER!

Due to our wildly slow moving elevator, i was forced to make more small talk. I learned his name is Adam, he's about to be 26 and he was in fact on his way out for bagels. He asked where I was headed, and i replied to Union Square... to write about being the poorest girl in all of Murray Hill and to buy ultra cheap groceries at Trader Joes.

And then he laughed.... and his laugh sounded like my UNCLE HAROLD. My Uncle Harold has the most hideous laugh known to man. For reference to my Uncle Harold, please visit this website: http://www.samsloan.com/winston.htm

As you can see, Harold Winston was in fact the worst ever President of the United States Chess Federation... now, please imagine his laugh.

Between the private university dropping, the salary dropping and my all time favorite-the 'I work for KPMG/other company i've heard of/seen on umbrellas but have no idea what they do except for the fact they pay 18 times more then my job', i'm ready to throw myself out of my 22nd floor window and straight into the East River.

BUT! My all time absolute favorite elevator pick-up so far has got to be from Mr. and Mrs. Stein of somewhere in Long Island, New York.

One day during my first week as an official Murray Hiller, I found myself in an elevator with a much older man. I happened to be sporting my Syracuse sweats that day, and SURPRISE, SURPRISE...
"Did you go to Syracuse? My son just graduated in May! Do you know Jeff Stein?"

The name didn't sound familiar, or at least it was no one I could recall sleeping with.
After admitting I had never heard of his son, Mr. Stein took my name and said these exact words

"Jessica Winston, eh? Which apartment? I'm going to tell Jeff to give you a visit!"

How magical is what I did NOT think, as I walked off the elevator and into my apartment. And in the back of my head I heard my parents cheering with delight "Stein!!! you hear that, Jessie? STEIN!"

Several weeks later, I found myself on the same elevator with 2 yenta mothers.

Yenta #1: "Oy, that show was not good, Barb!! I almost fell asleep 2 times!"
Y #2: "I liked Mama Mia MUCH better!"

and so on and so forth, until Yenta #1 turned to me and said

"OH, you are a cute one! Is that scarf from Anthropologie? Are you single?"

I SWEAR TO GOD SHE SAID THIS

Me- "Umm... yeah, it is. Yep... i am." was my super smooth reply.

Yenta #1: "My son would just LOVE you! He just moved in last week, you know. What are you doing right now?"

AHHHH shit! My black spandex pants and the mouthful of Tasti Delite dripping down my chin must have been a dead give away for any tri-state Jewish mother radar.

Me- "Well, I mean... um...I was just going up to my apartment. I have to help my roommate with something"

Yenta #1: "Nonsense!! Come, come! Just for a minute... I think you are definitely his type!"

As the yenta mothers dragged me out onto the 16th floor, I silently plotted a way to either faint, vomit or run and hide in the garbage room. I was desperate, but there was no escaping the clutch of the overbearing Jewish mother!!

I followed the women to apt #16B, and found myself looking at a chubby, buck-toothed awkward man-boy. Yes, he was a man-boy. Face of a boy, body of a... sort of a man. Nonetheless, I was pretty relieved at his lack of hotness as the moment was just a tad too awkward for my liking.

I introduced myself, along with which always comes the 3 Jewish Questions.

1. Where are you from?
A. Long Island
B. New Jersey.
C. Nothing else matters.

2. Where did you go to college?

A. Ivy Leaguer
B. East Coast Private University (**Penn State also acceptable)
C. Nothing else matters.

3. What do you do?
A. Doctor, Lawyer
B. Med student, Law student
C. Other Acceptable fields including finance, media and real estate

I discovered my Man-Boy resides from Long Island (A!), graduated from Syracuse (B!) and works in Real Estate (C!)...

SHOCKER.

And then... suddenly... the lightbulb went on.

"Umm... is your last name Stein by any chance?"

God knows how I remembered this, as I tend to black out the weeks events at Happy Hour each Thursday.

Well, ring-a-ding-ding, my suspicions were correct.

As I recalled the tale of meeting Mr. Stein a couple weeks prior to the 2 yentas, Jeff Stein looked as if he possibly wanted to kill himself, or maybe just his parents.

I made a polite, yet speedy exit and laughed my ass off all the way up to the 22nd floor.

For $12 only...

2007-01-07T15:58:00.000-05:00

In the past few weeks, my relationship with manicures has gone from non existant to a full blown addiction. Just like crack, but a bit more expensive. I never used to like nail polish. I am opposed to many girly things. For example, i don't wear earrings. I was pressured into piercing at an early age and after enduring the pain of the stapling gun i decided no way, not for me. I let the holes close. it was over.

i've always felt uncomfortable with the idea of earrings. i also feel mildly off about large belts, high heels and strapless bras. i need those straps, i'm ENTITLED to those straps!!

But manicures. Oh sweet, sweet manicures.

Before entering my first year into the real world, i had only received 2 manicures in my life. Said manicures included a hot pink number for Emily's 1992 tropical themed bat mitzvah while the second was a seafoam green rendition to match my fluffy seafoam green frock at Sarah's. I'm positive these manicures lasted 2 days each. Between the wedgie picking and the chewing of dorito cheese particles out from between my fingernails, those suckers never stood a chance.

I always thought.... who wants magenta nails? I am a NATURAL woman, and i don't need this garbage.

Until... Sarah bought an amazingly wonderful color appropriately named 'Lady Godiva'
Oh Lady Godiva, you are indeed a lady. You are my ebony godess, and i want you to be smothered on my nails forever!

After realizing that self application of Lady Godiva looked like I took a hearty dump and wiped it sans toilet paper, i decided i had to seek professional help.

Let me tell you... for $12 only, plus tip of course, you can feel as awkward as you did the first time you were penetrated in your 11th grade boyfriend's flannel sheets while his parents watched Wheel of Fortune in the next room.

I sought out Google, and secured a lunch time appointment near my office. Look at me. Lunch-time manicures! I scarfed my $10 Pax salad and headed over to the salon. I felt quite professional and ladylike as i awaited my manicurist to come and collect me from the smushy couch in the corner.

"Square or round?" Ms. Russian Manicure Nazi inquired.

I pondered this for a moment. I don't know! Should I call Sarah? Are square nails WEIRD?! Round? Square? MEAAHAHHHH

"SQUARE!", i blurted out... not in fact sure that I truly meant it.

She arduously filed my nails, reminding me the entire time that my nails were dry, i don't take care of them and I in fact, suck at life.

Then came the tool kit. Shit, can't you just paint my nails and we'll call it a day?

She starts to prick and pluck and before I know it she is cutting up my cuticles with her little bastard scissors. I vaguely recalled Sarah warning me not to get my cuticles cut in case it's a dirty salon with unclean utensils who have possibly been exposed on FOX news.

She didn't even ask! Do i stay STOP? Is cuticle cutting neccessary? Don't i need my cuticles for growth and prosperity and calcium retention?

Torture time concludes and she lotions up my hands. It smells... interesting. She is MASSAGING my hands.
I love massages... passionately, however I have no idea where to look as she massages my hands. We are not having any sort of conversation, and is now the time to start? Should i ask if she has any pets? How she got into nails?
Is it ok to watch her rub my hands, or should i look at the woman next to me or should i look at the ceiling?

I'm getting increasingly nervous as the rubbing continues, but thankfully it's a quick job and before I know it, she's asking me to pay.

Ok, this one i get. They don't want you taking your wallet out post-paint-job.
Problem: You have to tip before the painting has even begun!!!
If i am a crappy tipper, i can be assured my nails will look like another messy toilet accident.
I angrily place my 43% tip on the table. Here we goooooo.

The painting went smashingly. Lady Godiva was one hot bitch, and i couldn't wait to return to my cubicle so i could type... and point at things? Surely, i would pick up at least 3 guys with my new and improved nails!!! MANICURES FOREVER!

After my Bitchy Picasso finished her job, She lead me over to the nail drying station.
HOME FREE BABY, no more pressure for small talk, no hand rubs, no self esteem knocking.

As i'm sitting under the nail-drying-mechanism-with-crazy-blue-infrared-lighting, i feel something on my shoulders. That something is a back massage!! It is so unbelievably awkward once again, but thankfully this time i don't have to look her in the face. Plus, i don't fear criticism in the shoulder area, as i have been told many a time that i have a pair of gloriously amazing shoulder blades.

The machine clicked off, my shoulders were left to the wind, i eased into my winter coat and ran out of the door.

I longingly adored my nails on the 4 block journey back to work. I made a quick stop into the deli next door for a diet Dr. Brown's and hopped into the elevator.

I plopped down into my desk and cracked open my soda.

FUCKKKKK

not exactly dry... yet.

Anyone know if Manicures for Dummies has been published yet??

The Slums of Murray Hill

2006-12-07T13:48:00.000-05:00

I finally did it!!!

Farewell to the hideous sound that is my cell phone alarm telling me it's 6:30 am and i must get out of bed. Goodbye to the NJ transit, traffic, broken seats, broken reading lights, unfriendly, unbathed neighbors. Adios made-the-night-before turkey sandwich and other assorted ziplock bags full of healthy snacks. Ta-ta to pretending i'll have the energy to go to the gym, and instead laying on my couch watching The Bachelor with my mom and eating 6 servings of fro-yo.

Last weekend, i moved to a damn sexy apartment building on East 39th, otherwise known as Murray Hill. I never imagined I would end up in the area, considering my original budget only allowed me the oh so desirable possibility of becoming an inhabitant of Jersey City, Williamsburg or Harlem. As luck and my financially fortunate parents who didn't want me to live in the ghetto had it, i was able to move in with a friend of a friend to the 22nd floor of a converted 1 bedroom. Although there isn't hardly enough room in my living room to clip your toenails or do jumping jacks, my bedroom is a whole other story. I've got a big mama of a room, complete with enormous windows overlooking the East River. I've even got a full sized bed, capable of holding one, make that even 2 other people!

In recent days, i've taken to walking around my room completely naked with the shades open. I keep having this sensation that I'm on the show Friends, and that somewhere nearby, perhaps on 40th or 41st street, my neighbors are glancing through their binoculars.

"Jimmy!!! She's about to shower!"
"Which towel is she using? The yellow one or the blue?"
"Oh, she's going for the blue! She's even got the showercap tonight!"

The one teeny, tiny problem i'm experiencing...
the budget.

Before i moved in, i was all "Oh, don't even worry, Mom. I'm going to bring my lunch EVERY day, make my own coffee and purchase only happy hour priced beverages!"

So far, so untrue.

Due to my lack of willpower and my love for everything Asian, i had 1 lunch-break manicure and 3 sushi meals this week! Soon i'm going to give birth to my very own spicy tuna roll, but will be forced to give her up for adoption due to insufficient funds.

Stay tuned...

For your enjoyment....

2006-11-21T10:18:00.002-05:00

I've decided to post some of my writing class assignments on here. If you're Stan or the man with MSG allergies, please click the small red X in the corner now. Thanks!!

Pomp and Circumstantial Evidence

2006-11-21T10:18:00.001-05:00

It was the weekend of Emily’s graduation from Cornell. We had just finished breakfast at the house we were sharing with our loud, obnoxiously Jewish extended family, and Sarah and I had grandiose plans to escape the madness and spend an afternoon at Em’s place.
Her house was crusty yet charming, and we huddled together in Emily’s bed to rehash about the events of the weekend.

“When I came downstairs this morning,” Sarah began, “Nana was passed out in the La-Z-Boy with a towel underneath her in case she peed in her sleep!”

“Ha, I know,” I chimed in. “I can’t believe Mom gave her the master bedroom. We should’ve thrown her a box of Depends and sent her to the nursery!”

“What about Aunt Mara?” Emily asked. “How’s her OCD behavior this weekend?”

“Ah, same old,” Sarah replied. “You know. Opening doors with a sanitized washcloth, washing her hands every six seconds…”

“Mara needs to get laid, immediately”, I added.

We lay back on her bed laughing, all of us secretly praying that we would grow up to be slightly less insane versions of our relatives. Emily put down her mug of coffee and got up to go to the bathroom; an event that Sarah and I knew would take at least a solid thirty minutes. We tossed an Engineering book at her as she walked out the door. “You’ll need this!” I yelled after her.

“Hey, Jess. Look at that doggy-print underwear on the floor. That cannot be Emily’s!”
“Definitely not hers!” She still wears those ugly yet sensible shades-o-blue Hanes that mom bought her in the ninth grade. Why would she have those?”

We silently pondered the panties, and it seemed we made the same realization at exactly the same moment. Emily’s friend Elinor from the fencing team had been spending the entire graduation weekend with us. She was weirdly quiet, and kept hanging around. She also aspired to be a Veterinarian. Hence, the dog connection.

“Jess”, Sarah whispered, “Do you think Emily is… gay?”
“Oh my god, maybe Sar” I choked out. “Is that even possible? I mean, I guess it is. That underwear…”

Sooner then expected, Emily returned and plopped back down on the bed.

“Hey Em,” Sarah began. “Are those your doggy panties over there?”

“Oh, nope those aren’t mine. Those are Elinor’s. Her lease is up so she’s been staying with me for a couple weeks.”

“Oh,” Sarah replied, “Well, are you gay?”

“What? No! No, I’m not gay! She’s just staying here, that’s all.” Emily quickly spat out.

The awkward moment passed, but part of me still felt uneasy. Emily dropped us off with the family, and said she would see us later for Thai food.
We walked into the kitchen to find my Nana ranting and raving, flailing her arms in the air and reciting indecipherable words from the Yiddish dictionary.

“Oy gevald,” Nana blurted out to my mom. “What’s with this shikse Elinor? She keeps making the eyes at Emily. I’m intuitive, Ellen. I think something meshuganah is going on with the two of them. She is trying to convert Emily to a feygele… a lesbian!”

“They’re just friends from the fencing team” my mom calmly replied.

“She’s not gay, you guys” Sarah interjected. “We asked.”

“She doesn’t know it yet!” Nana called out. “But I know it. I’m intuitive!”

“Well,” my mom said changing the subject. “Everyone go get ready for dinner, our reservations are for 7 and we’re meeting Allison’s family.”

As it was only 4:45, I took up residence on the couch and watched as Donna denied David sex for the thirty-second time.

We were 22 minutes early, as my punctuality-obsessed mother would not have it any other way. I studied the menu as we waited for Emily, Elinor, Allison and her family to arrive and hoped the waiter could substitute the ‘Pad-See-Ew’ for a bacon cheeseburger and fries.

“Ellen, would you look at that retarded boy over there!” Nana must have thought she was whispering, but it came out in more of a holler.

“Can you imagine? Oy, it’s a shame!”

“Shhhh,” my mom whispered, “stop that!”

“Stop what? What did I do? Oy, am I starving! All I had today was a little nosheray. Just a little bit of that pot roast and some of those delicious matzo balls, and just the smallest sliver of chocolate mousse cake.”

“Winston? Party of 13. Right this way”, the hostess announced.

I suddenly felt the urge to run very far away when I realized the Down Syndrome boy my Nana had trash-talked was Allison’s younger brother. I really hoped he didn’t understand loud, senile grandmothers.

Emily sat next to Elinor and I eyed them throughout the entire meal. I tried to look for any brushes of the hand or flirtatious gestures, but nothing. Em was concentrating harder on her green curry then on Elinor. I guess she had been telling the truth.

The rest of the weekend flew by. 2 boring ceremonies, 4 grandmotherly outbursts, 18 sanitary washcloths and 5 unbutton-your-pants meals later, we packed up the car for our long journey back to New Jersey.

Sarah drove the car, mom sat in the passenger seat and I squished myself next to some luggage while my dad prepared to take a nap. As soon as we hit Route 81 South, Dad was snoring like a drunken pirate.

Suddenly, mom turned the radio down.

“Girls, I have to tell you something,” she whispered, obviously not wanting to wake my dad.
She hesitated for a moment.

”Emily and Elinor are together. They have been dating for the past five months. Em didn’t want me to tell anyone, but since you guys guessed…”

I looked at Sarah with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
“I knew it! The doggy panties!” Sarah shouted.

“Huh? Who? What about dogs?” my dad mumbled, half asleep.

Mom interjected before he could gain full consciousness.

“Oh, nothing Marvin. Go back to sleep.”

And just like that, my sister was gay.

To Trim Or Not To Trim

2006-11-21T10:15:00.000-05:00

It had been over four years since I had last seen Stan and could only recall classifying him into the ‘random druggie’ category of my Jersey public high school. He sat in front of me during twelfth grade English class, alternating between complete silences and napping. He was neither sexy nor unattractive and his dilated pupils served as a constant reminder of the Ecstasy he had a habit of ingesting. In my mind Stan had become a vague, distant memory not unlike my first pair of Keds.

A few weeks ago I was working out at my local New York Sports Club. I was on the elliptical and in the middle of watching “Date My Mom”, when I suddenly felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Stan. He was sporting a black Personal Trainer tee-shirt, hunk-like muscles and looking 1,200 times hotter then I can ever remember. I, on the other hand, was not at my finest. My hair was a combination of dirt, sweat and frizz which I paired nicely with exposed, unshaven legs and a major set of pit stains.

It must have been my lucky day, because Stan was flirting. Normally this goes against my rules. Usually, I’m drawn to guys whose daily physical activity entails binge drinking. Upon leaving the gym, I agreed to a free personal training session. While it sounded like a fantastic idea in the moment, several concerns dawned on me the day of.

1. All of my gym shirts have pit stains, in shades ranging from yellow to brown.
2. Is he going to weigh me?
3. Aerobic activity gives me gas.

I tried to ignore these daunting thoughts and instead concentrated on looking like a Jewish version of Suzanne Somers. I made a quick stop at Target to pick up some stain-free Hanes v-necks, straightened my curly-fro, and squeezed into a pair of surprisingly flattering black spandex. I did a last minute check for camel toe and made my way over to the gym.

I worked out with Stan for over an hour. He made me laugh, and thankfully this didn’t make me fart. He said we should go out for sushi sometime. I thought we should start planning our honeymoon. I left the gym on Cloud 9. Stan had asked for my phone number. Maybe living in Old Bridge wouldn’t be so bad after all. Besides, doesn’t dating a personal trainer guarantee my future eligibility for a size 2?

When I got home, I immediately signed into MySpace.com to see if I could stalk my future-husband-to-be. I checked the yearbook for the spelling of his crazy Russian last name and Tada, found him. What’s this picture of a hot male model doing here? Why is his comment wall signed by guys with overly shaped eyebrows named ‘Hot Naught-E Boy’ and ‘JohnnyBigShlong’? Oh, look at that. There’s a photo of Stan half-naked in the shower posing with a fluffy, pink loofah. This was more unsettling then the time in high school when my mom told me and my boyfriend to “keep it down in there”.

I never saw it coming. Is Stan gay?! I pondered his webpage as I shoveled a bowl of Turkey Hill Moose Tracks into my mouth like I had just escaped from a summer at fat camp. I couldn’t even fathom the possibility that Stan might actually like boys. He seemed so…so straight.

I avoided the gym for two weeks. Instead, I purchased a stepper and a Kathy Smith work-out DVD. While ‘Kathy’s Basic Step’ was made just a few short years ago, I loved it because it looked as though it was made in 1985. All of the steppers, the big ‘K’ included, wore neon colored leotards over contrasting neon colored spandex shorts. Even the men. Although I originally intended on using the video for calorie-burning purposes, I found myself watching it just for the ridiculous ensembles.

I finally made my big comeback to the gym last Thursday. I had rejoined Weight Watchers, which is something I like to do every other Monday after a weekend filled with beer, barbecue chicken pizza and Bloomin’ Onion. God, how I love the Bloomin’ Onion.

I had to burn at least three points in order to make up for my overage of fat-free sugar-free pudding pie, and Kathy just wasn’t cutting it. Before I hopped onto the leg press I looked both ways to see if I could spot Stan. I prayed it was his night off and let out a sigh of relief when he didn’t show up in my radar.

Not even two minutes into my workout, he found me.

“Hey, Jess! I haven’t seen ya in while!”

Ohhhhh no!

“Hey. Yeah I know. I’ve been like, so busy with work and class and everything.”

‘Everything’ meaning clomping around in my sister’s bedroom to a forty year old aerobics instructor, eating Malomars and scanning JDate for guys who earned over $100,000 per year and whose noses didn’t resemble the Titanic. This was no easy task.

“Oh. Well that’s cool. I’ve been real busy, too.”

Doing what? Humping men?

“I was wondering, do you want to go out with me and some friends on Saturday? We’re going to this bar Ashes in Red Bank… should be a good time”

Am I hearing this correctly? Oh, I get it. Maybe he wants me to be his fag hag. Get in line, buddy.

I took him up on the offer anyway. My inner detective just had to know the truth. Besides, alcohol was involved. How could I resist? I decided on a steady diet of broccoli and baby carrots, as to maximize my alcohol-points intake on the big day. I would certainly need them.
When Saturday rolled around, I started to panic. What does one even wear when going on a date with an attractive, yet possibly gay male? I did a mental scan of my wardrobe, and decided that nothing I owned was appropriate for such an occasion. This called for a trip to the Freehold Mall.
I needed to look cute in case he was straight, but I couldn’t dress slutty if it turned out he wasn’t. I also didn’t want to spend more then twenty dollars, in case his gayness meant I would be buying my own drinks.

It came to me as I chewed my grizzly-Chinese-chicken sample from the food court. I would pop my ‘Forever 21’ cherry. I pushed through the crowds of pre-teen girls and the moms who tried to dress like them, and found the perfect top. It was a flattering green and white striped tank top, which I planned on pairing with a short, frayed denim skirt over a pair of grey spandex leggings. I must have been spending a little too much quality time with Kathy.

It was getting late and I raced home to shower and get ready. I washed my hair, shaved my armpits and then I looked down. To trim or not to trim? As I was not about to chance razor-burn on an unreliable suitor, I decided to go au naturale. I changed into my tank top and sucked in. Not bad, I thought. I threw my curls up into a messy pony tail, put on some makeup and at the advice of my mother, poured a strong cocktail while I sat at the kitchen table and waited for Stan. He was twenty minutes late, and tardiness doesn’t fly with Mom.. “Even if he is straight, I don’t like him already!” she protested as I ran out the door.

Then, something unexpected happened. Stan got out of his shiny, new Beamer and opened the door for me. Okay, he might be straight. Or maybe folks from the U.S.S.R are just really polite. He looked good, but for some reason my attraction just wasn’t as strong outside of the gym. Why couldn’t he have worn his personal trainer tee shirt and carried some free weights? I would have even settled for one of those huge, bouncy balance balls. I guess my personal trainer fantasy had gotten the best of me, but I figured a few drinks and he would be Hulk Hogan.

We made a quick pit stop at Wawa to meet up with a car full of his alleged ‘guy friends’, and Stan went inside to purchase some Trident strawberry-kiwi gum. Fruity gum for a fruity guy? Perhaps. Conversation flowed easily as we made the twenty-six minute journey down to Red Bank. Stan talked about the health benefits of egg whites and Creatine shakes, while I tried to decide whether I would start with a Martini or a Gin and Tonic.

When we got to Ashes, I saddled right up to the bar to scan the drink list. Stan stood behind me, and told me to order two of whatever I was getting. I bravely chose a $12 Gloria Estefan, an orange-flavored Mojito, in hopes that I would not be the one paying. Two votes for straight, as he whipped out his MasterCard. I took the next few minutes to analyze his buddies. Three were checking out the girls. The forth was bordering on ambiguously homosexual, while I was bordering on extreme paranoia. What are those statistics again? Is it two out of every five guys are gay? I forget.

The drinks kept coming. I downed one more Gloria, three Coronas and two shots of Soco and lime. I was wasted, stumbling and praying that I would not pee my spandex. Stan was doing the white-boy shuffle. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to quit the Ecstasy. While the details are fuzzy, I do recall him holding my hand. Or maybe he was just holding me up so I didn’t have to crawl to the bathroom. Either way, there was some definite flirtation. At some point Stan stopped drinking. As I had no intentions of being the designated driver, I kept on chugging.

The next thing I can remember is waking up in his car, my ass on fire from the heated seats. We were back in Old Bridge, in front of my house to be exact. I said a quick, sloppy “I’ll see you at the gym” and staggered down my driveway. He didn’t hold the door open, try to kiss me, or even put his hand down my pants. Gay! I knew it, but I didn’t care. I was completely hammered, famished and more concerned about what leftovers would be in the fridge.

Rock bottom, I thought to myself as I stood in front of the open refrigerator door stuffing my face with cold, chopped steak and mac and cheese. At least points don’t count when you’re drunk! After the binge, I struggled up the stairs, threw my shirt on the floor and fell into bed. I desperately wanted to brush the meaty feast out of my teeth, but I thought that throwing the flavor of Colgate into the mix might have caused me to vomit. I closed my eyes and drifted into a comatose sleep.

“Be my lover. Got to be my lover! Da-da-da-dee-da-da-da-da.” Ugh. What the? Oh, text message. It was from Stan.

“Thanks for the compliments and the good time. Had a blast. I must say I wanted to kiss you, but hate when alcohol is involved”

Why are you blaming your unclear sexuality on alcohol? And compliments? What compliments? I certainly did not tell him he was a good dancer. And he’s not gay? Lord help me. I proceeded to the toilet to throw up and figure out how my life had come down to determining other people’s sexual preferences.

I woke up and felt so awful I convinced myself that I miscarried in my sleep. My hair resembled Krusty the Clown, mascara ran down my face and my gut protruded ever so nicely over my too-tight leggings. I put on a shirt and stumbled downstairs for a cup of coffee.

My mom looked up from the Wedding Section of the Sunday Times.

“So, is he gay?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe he’s bi?”

You, Me and MSG

2006-11-21T10:13:00.000-05:00

Some women say that they can tell a lot about a man by his taste in music. Others, in his choice of shoes or ties. For a select few it’s the car he drives, the cologne he wears or the way his bathroom is decorated. “Wow, look at his beautiful array of monogrammed hand towels… he must get along great with his mother AND be good in bed!” However, being myself, a nice Jewish girl from an overly Jewish set of parents, I can tell if I like a man by the way he eats. Likes sushi? Adventurous! Into the fatty, greasy bacon cheeseburgers? Manly man, bonus points. Coffee lover? Sensitive, maybe TOO sensitive but we’ll give it a try. I steer clear of any consumption of veggie burgers, turkey burgers and main course salads. Don’t get me wrong, I love salad, I absolutely do. But please, just have a small version (with full-fat dressing, please!) before your big, manly fat-burger, THANKS!

So, I’m sure you’re not surprised when I decided to meet Mr. Match.com at a local Italian restaurant. I didn’t know all too much about him, but I figured a few glasses of wine would help the flow of conversation. Wait, I should rewind and tell you what I knew about him pre-dinner. He’s 26, a Jew, allergic to MSG (and I don’t mean the nosebleed seats at the garden!) and is way too into cars. He has four. Why would you own four cars? Okay, maybe if you’re Little Bow Wow and Cribs is coming over to tape you, your car for each season that you can’t even drive yet and your Coors Light-filled fridge that you’re not even old enough to drink yet! Apparently, one of his cars is old and purple. Two are pick-ups (Are u SURE you’re Jewish?) and the last is a sexy red Beamer. Interesting selection. Prior to meeting him, he sent me photos of his cars, not himself. That should have been a warning in itself, but who am I to judge?

Dinner is at 9:30. I am fuckin’ staaaaaarving and in need of a drink. Oh and of course, just as I expected… he’s a lot cuter in his photos. Well, maybe not the Beamer! That looked pretty great in person. About 3 minutes into the date, I knew I was doomed. “Would you like something to drink, Miss?” “Do you have a wine list?” “No, it’s actually BYOB.” SHIT! Damn you, restaurant review website for not warning me! Diet Coke it is.

He’s nervous, I can tell. You know how I can tell? He tells me. It’s about 95 degrees outside and he’s just a tad too sweaty looking for my liking. THEN the kicker. “I’m not even that hungry, it’s just TOO hot out!” Okay, then why are we here? Again, I’m fucking starving and my fat-free dressing-laced salad I had at 2 o’ clock just ain’t doing the trick. I dive head first into the breadbasket, while he sits there looking nervous, sweaty and talking about cars. His cars, the cars he works with and oh why is there a large, scary dent in the side of MY car? Oh, apparently it can be fixed if I would like ‘his car people’ to look at it. Sure thing, buddy. Sounds like it would require another date, maybe even 2… EEK!

The specials sound really good and I’m totally thinking I might go for the shrimp ravioli, or maybe the scallops. Oh, you don’t like seafood? Not even shrimp? Ah Ha! Definitely NOT sushi. He’s getting some hybrid chicken/sausage combo that he can’t pronounce. He doesn’t even try to pronounce it actually. He just points his finger to it on the menu, and tells the waiter “The Chicken… Ssss…Sca….Scarrp” Oh, no. C’mon, give it a try. Sound it out, I promise it’s not too hard! I give him a few bonus points for the manly-esque meats, but I quickly take them back for the lack of effort.

I’m not digging this guy, but at least there are no awkward silences. Thank god. Usually no alcohol on a first date is a complete death sentence but we’re actually not doing too badly. You know why? He always goes on sober dates, because he doesn’t like to drink! “I don’t like the way it makes me feel.” HAHAHAH, excuse me? HELP!

The plates arrive and I’m glad because now we can talk less… about cars. I ask him about his MSG allergy and discovered it gives him hives and swollen lips. Hmmm… that could be hot. Perhaps I should’ve suggested Hunan Wok. Now this next part is just unbelievable. I want you to know I’m laughing right now, because I had to hold it in all through dinner and it was just too monumental. His chicken was sitting in an especially oily, greasy mess and GUESS WHAT? “For some reason, greasy food makes my nose itch.” He warned me… you know, in case I was wondering why he was incessantly scratching his nostrils throughout the entire meal! At one point in the date, he asked me if he had something in his nose. Shit, I must have been staring, but that’s all he could do. Chew his chicken and scratch, scratch, scratch!

He redeemed himself by ordering us peanut butter gelato and telling a few entertaining stories that finally didn’t revolve around cars or food allergies. I feel bad, he’s a nice guy, sure… but I just didn’t realize someone could be so strange, or at least let it show in the span of one and a half hours!

We parted ways with a polite hug and an “I’ll talk to you soon”, but not until he got an up close and personal look at the dent in my car. Thanks for the advice buddy, and sorry about your nose.

NEXT?

Cheetos and Fritos and Doritos, OH MY!

2006-11-21T10:09:00.000-05:00

In case you’ve been in asleep in your cubicle for the past 14 years, you should know that you are in the presence of a highly esteemed political figure. I, Ms. Jessica Harris Winston, was the very first, or rather the only President of the Eating Club. I know. Harris. Who gives their cherubic, little puffy-cheeked daughter the middle name Harris? I certainly didn’t own a penis, live in an active adult community r wet my Depends at the thought of the early-bird special at the Old Country Buffet. However, my parents claimed that it was the only name they liked that began with an H. Maybe the names Hillary and Hannah didn’t come about until late 1985.

I was one of those kids lucky enough to endure the excruciating pain of being the youngest sibling of three. Emily, my elder by seven years combines the fashion sense of your sixth grade math teacher with the brains of Doogie Howser. Now, with all of the recent publicity it seems like she and Neil Patrick Harris have a bit more in common then I originally thought. Senior year at Cornell, Emily pulled an Ellen. We had all assumed her heterosexuality up until that point, but for some reason the news was about as shocking as finding out that overdosing on Taco Bell gives you diarrhea. Mom responded with an “Oh, that’s nice. At least I won’t have to pay for another wedding!” and now she tells the world about her daughter’s ‘partner’ and thinks Lesbianism is as trendy as a pair of Ugg Boots.

Emily was my Mr. Myagi. I held her responsible for teaching me all of the important things in life. At about the age of 9, Emily inquired,

“Jessie, do you spit or swallow?”

“What do you mean? I, uh, I guess I do both!” I nervously replied.

“No way, you can’t do both! You have to pick one. Is it SPIT, or SWALLOW?”

“I guess I do both?"

Wrong answer.

Sarah is four years older then I am, and an excellent example of the Marsha Brady syndrome. She might as well have worn a Geisha outfit and bowed down to my parents because she was certainly the favorite, not to mention she always had boyfriends clinging to her like a bad case of Herpes. We act alike, sound alike and many people say we even look alike. Except for one minor detail. She is Nicole Richie, and I am Carnie Wilson. Post-Gastric Bypass, but still Carnie Wilson. Maybe I got a chubby sperm with a pokey metabolism, or perhaps my egg had a thing for big, beefy men. Or maybe, just maybe it was the long-lasting effects of the Eating Club.

I was El Presidente of the Eating Club. How does one attain this ultra-prestigious title? Well as I mentioned before, my sisters loved to tease me. Some days I was forced to me their child-slave, while on other occasions they would attempt to suffocate me with a blanket while simultaneously farting on my face until I begged for mercy. I believe it was Emily who had the genius idea of creating the Eating Club. I’m not sure whether it was out of pure cruelty or if she decided that I needed an extra-curricular activity. I had a brief run-in with soccer and gymnastics, but I guess mom got tired of paying to watch me stand obliviously on the field picking Umbros-induced wedgies out of my butt like I had Down Syndrome. I also attempted ice-skating which lasted a mere 13 minutes, 12 of which I was trying to shove my eggplant sized feet into those awful skates and 1 to decide the ice looked scary and I wanted to go home instead and shove cool ranch Doritos down my throat.

Becoming President wasn’t all fun and games. Getting elected into office was harder then the SATs. I thought that half a box of Milanos would do the trick, but apparently cookies were just not enough for the Winston sisters. In order to be considered ‘cool’ and hang out in the backyard clubhouse with the rest of the club, I really had to start packing it in. So I kept eating! Waffles and ice cream quickly became a breakfast favorite, while I went nuts for salami, provolone and mayo sandwiches for lunch. After-school snack? Box of mini pizza bagels!

"No, you can’t have any, they’re all mine!"
"Mom, is dinner ready yet? I’m starving!!"

My rampant eating habits combined with marathon episodes of Saved by the Bell quickly evoked the growth of a little somethin’ somethin’ right below the home of my future breasts. Emily and Sarah dubbed my fat belly, the ‘Twoogie”. They found it especially fun to surprise with a quick, hard pinch and a loud “TWOOGIE, TWOOGIE!!”

“Why are you guys making fun of me?? I’m cool and I’m the President of the Eating Club!”

I eventually discovered the joys of weight-loss through the Elliptical and fat-free food items, but not without a few more years of Twoogie Torture. To this day, I still blame my childhood chunk on my sisters. However, my adult on-set chunk is a whole other story, which I blame solely on my love of beer and…Milanos.

Poop and Spaghettios

2006-10-18T10:43:00.000-04:00

My morning started out as it normally did. Rise at 6:30... or, 6:41 rather. I put on my business casuals(ew), slopped on some eyeshadow/perfume and made sure my hair didn't resemble the jew-fro that it in fact, is. I grabbed a bottle of water, a vanilla yogurt, a half-broken umbrella and my iPod, and hauled ass down to the park-n-ride. My cell read 7:21 AM. Early! In fact, this is not actually early. Every day my original out-the-door goal time is 7:15. However, 98% of the time I'm running out the door at 7:32, so 7:21... it's an early sort of late, i'll take it! Smooth sailin' as I hopped onto the NJ Trans and made my way up the turnpike without hitting any rainstorms/traffic/smelly indians falling asleep on me. It's going to be a good day!
I got to Port Authority at 8:35, giving me the perfect amount of time for a subway ride and a quick stop at Ess-A-Bagel for my vat-o-caffeine before making my way into work at 9. My average bed-to-desk arrival time is appox. 9:20am. Is it wrong that I still stop to buy coffee when I'm late? I would like some thoughts on this. Anyway, the commuting Gods were smiling down upon me as i hurried to catch the E train uptown. Sigh. The E train. How i despise the E train during rush hour. It's seriously like the running of the bulls. Hurl yourself through the crowd of suits and force your body to fit in the tiny spot between a European lady smelling of expired falafel and a Mexi dressed appropriately in a matching Corona hat, t-shirt and bag. With no pole in sight, stand with legs shoulder-width apart and balance like you're in Pilates class.
As I made it down the subway stairs, I noticed something odd. Everyone on the E train was getting off. This was more unsettling then the time I puked up my pastrami sandwich from Michael's Deli in the Menlo Park mall food court. What's going on? Terrorists? Murder? Nope. Apparently there had been some subway-mishap at 59th and Lex and the gigantic herd of E-trainers had to find a new route to make it to their destination. Time check: 8:54AM.
I went upstairs and began searching for a subway map. If i was smart, I would carry one with me. But unfortunately, i'm not. After walking around for a good portion of 8 minutes, I didn't come across a single map. What the fuck? Why can't I find a map in the subway station? I thought back to living in London- the enormous maps posted at every corner accompanied by clear, legible signs that even a Kindergartener could understand. 9:07AM.
I'm sweating profusely. I'm walking underground in a winter coat, carrying a Mastiff sized purse and not quite sure where i'm going.
I chanced it on the 7 train. The air was not working on the 7 train and I sweat some more. Luckily, I found myself somewhat closer to work, yet still looking at a solid 10-12 minute walk. Plus my coffee.
I hop off the train at Grand Central, and lucky me- the escalator isn't running. This is no run of the mill escalator, either. This is the Mt. Everest of escalators and by the time i reach the top i am excrutiatingly hungry, sweaty and nauseous.
I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, popped open my disabled umbrella and proceeded to Third ave. Walking around NYC when it's raining is an abortion. For some reason, i always unknowingly choose flip flops on these days, and end up with soaking, blackened feet. I trudge through the sea of umbrellas, trying to avoid being poked in the eye or even worse, letting my naked foot slip into a cigarette-infested puddle of street sludge. To make matters even worse this morning, my nostrils were in full force. As i walked, I kept smelling poop. Poop, and then Spaghettios. With meatballs, perhaps the most offensive of all the canned pasta goods. Smelling one, and then the other. Separately, and then simultaneously. Still, I stop for coffee. "Excuse me miss, your lip is bleeding."
Ummmm, what?! That's just great. Up until this point, I thought the bagel-man who whistled at me every morning only understood the words 'cream cheese', 'skim milk' and 'crack'.
I made it into work at 9:45, my latest arrival to date! Thank you, thank you! No applause neccessary. I plopped down at my desk unnoticed, and let out a sigh of relief. I reached into my purse to get my yogurt, only to discover it had exploded onto my notebook, iPod and tampons. Great, time to whip out the reserves. A bag o' stale Kashi and some watermelon Trident.
Can't wait to do it all again tomorrow!

Just a Spoonful of Splenda

2006-10-17T15:16:00.000-04:00

I am both amazed and appalled by how many Splendas/Splenda-liquidy-substances I consume on a daily basis. Today for example, I have ingested Splenda 4 times and it's only 3:30 in the afternoon. This leaves room for at least 3 more, considering I haven't even touched any form of diet-carbonation or sugar-free ice cream yet. I'm slightly concerned about my abusive behavior, but I can't seem to break the addictive cycle. I figure, hey... it's healthier then funneling 8 Keystone Lights followed by 2 slices of size-of-my-face pizza, right? Oh wait, I do that too. Shit.
I wonder if one day there will be such a thing as Splenda-Rehab. I certainly wouldn't mind a 6-week work hiatus to cleanse my system of all the evil f-sugars! Sign me up!

The Rise and Fall of Abercrombie & Fitch

2006-09-29T21:42:00.000-04:00

Do you remember what old-school Abercrombie & Fitch circa 1995 was like? I certainly do. While I was sporting t-shirts featuring dancing hot dogs, kittens and cheez doodles with matching spandex in every color of the rainbow, my sister Em (with the fashion sense of say... an accountant mixed with a chess player) used to love the Fitch. She basked in the array of oversized striped sweaters in colors ranging from olive to brown. The store was a combo of 'preppy' and 'dumpy', all rolled into one. It reeked of smarty-pants East Coast College kids who actually went to class, nerding it up on the Quad after their 8:30am Biophysics class.

In approximately 2000, A&F went mainstream and began to sell cute graphic tees and comfy sweatpants. They made preppy a little more trendy, not to mention it was WAY fuckin' cooler than Aeropostale.... I still cringe when I walk past one of those. While I was an avid Abercrombie shopper from about 7th grade up until Freshman year of college, I've kind of avoided the whole scene ever since. Mostly because logo shirts make me wanna vom all over the place. Don't even get me started on FCUK or Armani Exchange!

Yesterday I decided to take a stroll along Fifth Ave during my lunch break. I had no particular destination in mind, but for some reason being broke(see "Why I can't move to NYC" for details) makes me feel like being near some intense commerce. I guess it's kind of like watching the Food Network when you're on a diet! Yeah, i'm sure that watching Paula Deen shove 8 sticks of butter into her famous southern pecan pie MIGHT magically satisfy you're cravings. Uhhhhh??

I did a quick in-and-out of Banana and Express and that's when I saw it... a massive Abercrombie & Fitch... with 2 half-naked models standing in the entrance. I was definitely intrigued, and decided to see what kind of merchandise they've been selling these days. Guess what? Logo shirts! Logo hoodies! Logo PANTS! $59.95 hooded sweatshirts behind glass cases!!! Are they serious? I actually need to ask that anorexic 16 year old in the ass-length jean skirt if I can touch that crappy piece of cotton made by a toddler in Taiwan? And holy shit, have you been inside one of these places lately?? It felt like I showed up at a party that I DEFINITELY was not invited to! And what's with the nauseating techno music? I mean, I thought I looked great until I stepped into that store. As the half naked meet-and-greeters silently critiqued my hair, body and fashion sense, I felt like I stuck out like say...SHAMOO at a 'Little People' Convention. Plus, I can't believe they even have that job. I'm guessing A&F is NOT an Equal Opportunity Employer, if ya know what I mean! I imagine their interview process works just like this:
1. Count to 10.
2. Recite the Alphabet.
3. Prove that you're white.
and then they whip out the body fat calibrator... pinch more than an inch and you're outta here!!

never again...

Commuting for Cocktails

2006-09-26T16:21:00.000-04:00

In college I learned that the first thing an entrepreneur needs to look for is an opportunity. However, in the land of public transportation, all of the entrepreneurs are passed the fuck out on their commute... except me! The NJ transit, my fave and yours, gets me from Old Bridge, NJ to Midtown Manhattan in about one hour... NEVER less and usually more. Any hint of inclement weather, perhaps some wind ::GASP:: or a slight drizzle and i'm impatiently sitting in the Lincoln Tunnel for an extra 20 minutes. It's mind boggling, really... and this is why i'm thinking it would be a good idea to move out pre-January. I'm sure those snow storms are a real gem for the bridge & tunnel crowd... gross!
Anyway, commuting basically takes a big, fat 2-3 hour chunk out of my day and forces me to nap, read or listen to some tunes while I try to remain unconscious for as long as possible. Cell phone usage is shunned--believe me, i've been SHHHHHHHH'd at more times then i'd like to admit! Awww... i'm sorry, Did I interrupt your 5:45PM nap? Oh, my bad! What are you, a 5 year old? My bus manners have greatly improved since, but once in a while I still get that urge to be 'really loud obnoxious cell phone girl'!
You know what? The commute really blows. I'm sick of smelly, snoring old men falling on top of me as the driver takes the sharp curve to exit the Turnpike ramp. Also, I can't stand to see people doing work on their laptops on the way home. Dude, didn't you JUST leave work? I don't know about you, but when I leave work at 5pm, my brain rejects any thought of it again until 9am the next day. Hmmm... make that 10am. I need an extra hour for granola bars, coffee and zoning out.
I propose a change! I want to revolutionize the raunchy ass commute and turn it into something to look forward to every day... So here goes!

1. Happy Hour/Meet & Greet:
I see the same faces every single day and I've MAYBE spoken to 2 people. One being this ridiculously gropey/annoying guy I knew from High School who proceeded to ask me for my number (hope he likes Dominos...) The other was a super friendly Indian man who wanted to play 20 questions...which was fine. But, let me ask you this. At what point is it acceptable to stop talking to this stranger and resume reading/napping/zoning? Do i need to ask his name? What is stranger-meeting etiquette if i'm not interested in banging him?? It's always a predicament!
Anyway, I think each bus should be fully equipped with a Stewardess... JUST KIDDING, i mean a bus attendant! With a cute little rolling booze-cart. I would love to sip on a Gin and Tonic first thing after work without having to stay late in the city! NJ transit presents... HAPPY HOUR! A buzzed commute is a happy commute, don't you agree? Fellow commuters can network, make new friends and even some potential hook-ups! Well, I might not want to partake in the hooking up considering the median male age on my bus seems to fall between 42 and 50... hmmm, although maybe I can meet a sugar daddy! Then i won't have to commute at all! "Dinner will be ready at 6:45, honey! I know how you work up a big apetite while you get wasted at Bus Happy Hour!" :)

2. Entertainment:
I'm sick and tired of seeing commuters watching movies on their portable DVD players (jealous!!) or on their tiny fucking iPod screen. (Still jealous!) I propose we get a couple of sweet ass flat screens- one for the front of the bus and one for the middle. Let's bond and watch a movie together! Just think... it'd be cute. We can all gasp simultaneously the moment Keanu and Sandra realize that they just can't slow down the bus!! And we can all giggle when Harold & Kumar can't find the White Castle... maybe we could even pass around a few blunts for that one? Okay... i may be pushing it, but you catch my drift!

3. My last idea is quite possibly the best, although it involves complete renovations and some pretty unappealing spandex-clad bodies. mmmm, love handles. FITNESS CLASS! C'mon... I mean after I get home from work and eat dinner, it's already 7:30 or 8 o' clock. My motivation dwindles and I just wanna get in my jammy jams and watch Wife Swap, Project Runway or whatever other hideous reality show is on! (By the way, did you hear The Bachelor is making a comeback??? so pumped!) SO, if i got to burn some cals on my ride home, I could spend the rest of my evening without feeling like a lazy lard-ass who is only capable of sitting at desks and on buses. Just gotta wipe out all the seats and replace 'em with mats, get a few free weights and hire a yoga instructor! Piece o' cake! Dangerous? Perhaps, but so is being fat and sedentary... so I figure what the hell...Let's give it a try!

Why I'm not ready to move to NYC... $11 salads

2006-09-22T14:14:00.000-04:00

When I first accepted my job last month, I immediately started my hunt for an affordable (or at least somewhat affordable) apartment in the NYC area. I imagined myself jogging through Central Park, meeting friends out for sushi on the Upper East Side and of course, getting wasted in the Village without worrying when the last bus leaves from Port Authority... or at least having to find a cute, single guy to let me share his bed for a few hours! I call this the 'Jewish American Dream', because it's all fucking impossible...if you make 28 grand a year and DAD-AY (daddy, for all you non-jews) isn't about to shell out $1,000+ bucks per month.
I scanned Craig's List apartment listings like it was my job...well, actually, I was doing this WHILE i was supposed to be doing my actual job. Oh, c'mon... you do it too! I mean, yeah... I do my work, but if i'm gonna stare at a computer for 7 hours a day you can bet your ass i'm gonna spend some sweet ol' quality time with my Internet Explorer. Besides, celeb gossip is always a hot lunch topic & i've got to be prepared. "Damnnn, did you see Lindsay Lohan's vag?? fuckin raunch, dude"
My only complaint is that I can't sign into MySpace, Facebook or Instant Messenger. When I open up my Gmail at work to find I have new MySpace messages, it drives me absolutely nuts! I want to check it so bad... but impossible!! I sunk to a new low last week when I received a message from a guy I had hooked up with the previous weekend. I swear... not being able to check that message was mental torture. It was just sitting there...waiting to be read. It was only 10am and since I don't get home until 6:30, I was desperate. Thank god for friends with unlimited internet access ...specifically friends that understand the need to Internet-stalk!! Within minutes, Krystal e-mailed me my message... and as unthrilling as the content of it was... i felt like a bad ass. i beat the system!!... OH, and i'm pathetic :)
Back to my apartment search. I knew I didn't want to spend more than $800/month on rent. OH BOY! Guess where I can live?! Let's see... there's Harlem, specifically of the Spanish variety. I can also live in various parts of Brooklyn, i.e. with the H&H in Williamsburg (not the bagels, i'm talkin' bout Haseids & Hipsters). Oh, and don't forget about good ol' NEW JERSEY! Which honestly, i wouldn't mind at all if that included Hoboken. However, I was laughed at by several brokers upon telling them my budget... so there goes that one. I actually saw a beautiful apartment in Union City, NJ. Ever been to Union City??? No? Please don't start now!! The area is abot 90% Hispanic and somewhat frightening for a young, white girl from the 'burbs. The only advantages I saw included cheap spanish food and the chance of shocking my parents with my very first inter-racial relationship!! Hmmm... I bet that would freak them into paying my rent in Manhattan... i'm gonna remember this one!
So, I decided to call it quits after seeing one too many dissapointing apartments... crusty-ass, old, dishwasherless living quarters with one bathroom for four people! I mean, if i'm gonna spend half of my salary to move out, it AIN'T gonn be to one of those dumps.
I've come up with a new plan! I'm gonna suck it up and live home for a while. It's what everyone has been telling me to do, but i've had serious blinders on. What's not to love about Old Bridge, anyway? We've got every fast food joint imaginable, not to mention like 6 nudie bars! Helppppppp....!
Anyway, i'm gonna save money, right?? That's what I thought. When my first paycheck arrived, I was thrilled! Sugar plum fairies holding up large dollar signs danced in my head. With no rent, utilities or grocery expenses...damn, i'm gonna be well dressed!! For the next week, Craig's List was replaced by Anthropologie, Urban Outfitters and Bloomies. I shopped during my lunch break--not to mention Pumpkin Spice Lattes galore and those fabulous little chopped salads that have like an 80% markup. The other day I spent $11... on a salad. Fuckin' whores... But, who cares?! I'm a baller now... All of a sudden I LOVE living home! Pass the potatoes mommy, it's gonna be a long ride!! Oh, you like my cardigan?? Thanks... it was only $120! Let's go out for spicy tuna rolls... my treat!! This manic behavior went on for approximately 2 weeks... until last night.
I have a sad, sad confession to make. Last night was the first time I've ever seen my credit card statement. It's true... I think I had a Visa before I even had my period. Pardon my gross visual! My jaw dropped as I logged into my account... i've already spent $1,000!?? But! But! I only bought a few measly sweaters and some food! I haven't even started on pants or jewelry yet!! Not to mention a new winter coat... UH-OH...
I suddenly felt deflated. Deflated and poor. I've already started to spend my next paycheck... ouch! I stared blankly at my statement...calculating...re-calculating and trying to figure out when it all went wrong. When did i become such a big fucking jap?

So now I have to live home AND budget my money? I miss my care-free college days.... Grad school, anyone?!

What could be better then a 6 day job??

2006-08-01T16:47:00.000-04:00

No, no! you're not seeing things... believe it or not... i was HIRED! hooray, wahoooo ! Luckily they didn't check MySpace and discover that photo of the thong-clad stripper (mmmm Billy the Kid) giving me a birthday hump or even my fascinating hobbies of bong smoking and binge drinking... SCORE!

For some really strange reason I was excited when the scary FAO Schwarz HR guy called me at 6pm(<--Foreshadowing!) on a Friday night and offered me a job as a merchandise analyst... my first thought after accepting was... SHOPPING! my current wardrobe is completely unacceptable for the working world, right?? besides, i'd be making sweet money soon enough so why not spend $1000 bucks on shoes, clothes and a sexy ass betsy johnson bag 2 weeks before i even start... a genius idea, really. Well, soon enough the misery commuting to nyc began, and SURPRISE... they want my entry-level, low-payed ass to stay in the office till 8 o clock at night... sorry folks, i don't DO overtime, at least not without getting paid for it... and what's the point of wearing my cute new FCUK skirts if the only ones to appreciate them are the smelly bums on the C train?! At least i got an unlimited suppy of diet coke and access to a fabulous little espresso maker.. sigh.

6 days into it, i quit. i'm such a hard worker, I know!!... but hey, at least i got paid now i have more time to.. umm.. blog? and sleep? sweet!

So yes, here I am... back to unemployment, craigslist, endless cover letters, and trying to figure out what color my parachute is...or some shit like that? It's funny because I think i'm having a case of multiple job personality disorder. i want to be something new every day! let's see.. first there was assistant buyer, marketer, PR girl but then i thought... those hours might suck too! soo then i decided maybe i'd get my teacher certification, at least they get out at 3!! then the next morning i woke up and thought i had a fantastic idea... i'd be a massage therapist!! after convincing my mom that a massage therapist doesn't NECESSARILY jerk off her clients, i decided to inquire with a school up in westfield... it actually seemed kind of cool, but then i thought about all of the hairy, fat, nasty, wrinkly backs i'd be feeling up all day and poof! that job is out...
any suggestions??

Passed Out in the Parking Lot

2006-06-05T17:37:00.000-04:00

Okay... this morning was ridiculous. I'm driving to my gyno appointment around 9 a.m. and right when I'm like 2 minutes away I started feeling kinda nauseous and dizzy. So I pull into the parking lot, and i'm like holy shit, i'm freakin dizzzzzzzzy! I get out of the car and faint in the parking lot. Right outside Starbucks. Luckily, a man was driving by and he picked me up and carried me into the doctor's office. I hadn't had anything to eat except a banana but nothing to drink and the hot paramedic man said it was low blood pressure. I caused such a scene, I felt like a local celebrity. As soon as the helpful stranger got me into the waiting room, I collapsed in a heap on the floor! All because I jumped out of bed too quick and ONLY ate a banana. Who woulda thunk it? I had a stretcher and everything. I swear I could've been saved if I had just made it into Starbucks for my Tall Nonfat Sugar-free Vanilla Latte. Latte's are lifesavers. That should be their new advertisement slogan. Starring ME, local fainting banana-eating celebrity.
So they take me to the hospital and after two hours they determine I'm perfectly fine but... AM I PREGNANT? Uhhh.. since when did fainting mean I got knocked up? I swear... the parademics asked me, the nurses asked me and THEN the doctor! I was like wow, maybe I've got that guilty pregnant look on my face! So i tell them, 'Well... I mean it's not OUT of the question but I really don't think I am". You would think they would just ask me to pee in a cup and look for the little red line... or is it a blue line? I'm not sure, but anyhoo they take blood! Then they make me wait an additional hour to tell me No, I'm not pregnant! Thanks for the concern. They told my mom they were just taking precaution because I'm at the 'right age' to be pregnant? What the hell does that mean?? Can't you be pregnant anytime between getting your first and last period?? I'ts like going to the health center at school. When you tell them you have a funky rash on your ass or a bad cold they automatically give you a pregnancy test and an STD screening. Gotta love it.

And so it begins...

2006-05-30T13:20:00.000-04:00

I was shocked. There's no way my parents could be THAT chill with my current state of joblessness. "Relax, Jessie... Come home, hang out, go to the beach... you'll find a job." Coming from an overbearing Jewish mother, I never thought I would hear those words. So that's what I'm doing. Wake up around 11. Drink coffee, have a nosh and watch a little Food Network or perhaps What Not to Wear. When I've had enough, I drag my ass 5 minutes down the road to the gym. Gotta love the those little TVs they attach to every cardio machine. I would never make it through without those babies. So I watch a little Oprah, burn some of last nights beer calories and stare at the senior citizen who is in far better shape then me and then at the greasy Jersey-shore style Guido in the wife beater with enough hair gel to fill up my Poland Spring bottle. This is the most productive point of my day. Gotta love unemployment.
I fill the rest of afternoons plowing through that graduation money... shit. Yeah... I really needed that trip to Short Hills mall last weekend like I need a Big Mac and super-sized fries. Right. I love to rationalize my purchases. I think 'Well, hey at least i'm not a cheap jew!" But then I realize that most of the time I'm spending my parents money. WHOOPS.
Ok. Back to my daily routine. I love to spend a solid chunk of my day on Craig's List looking for jobs out in SanFran or Boston. 2-5 years experience? Uhhh.. does my 8 week internship count or perhaps the 2 weeker I did in London where I hungoverly painted a wall and organized business cards? The only shit I see on there for entry-level are egregious sounding tele-marketing jobs. Oh and if I really want I can be Assistant Manager of a Party City or a Starbucks barista! Wow... really gonna put that $120,000 degree to good use! I actually got a call about being a coffee sample girl in SanFran for $14-$18 an hour. Sadly enough, I'm contemplating it. $18 an hour to pour coffee into cups?! I wouldn't even be steaming soy milk, blending or chai-ing! I wrote in my cover letter that I'm 'Passionate' about coffee. I love telling HR people that I'm passionate. I applied to a job right after that to this earthy-crunchy store out in Berkeley and told them i'm 'Passionate' about saving the environment. HAHAH. Cut to last night. "Hey, Jess... where's your recycling bin?" My recycling WHAT?! Classic.
I gotta run. It's almost two... I bet I can find something good on those little gym TVs.