Kowloon Me To The Moon

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?

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.

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

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?!

Are you feelin' me White Boy?!?

Let's Hear It For FOX!

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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....

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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...