I had to wait in line… behind a car

When we’re done and finally back in New Jersey, this road trip will have comprised around 2400 miles and 38 hours of driving. That’s a lot of time on the road and a ton of stops for gas. Back when I had a car, I was always paranoid about running out of gas, so I barely let the gauge go beneath a quarter of a tank. Why risk it? Well we made it our first 1200 miles without running out of gas, yet the other night we hit the beach, the outlets, dinner… and then empty. The entire day, I was leaning over to check the gas thinking hmm that is getting kinda low. We openly discussed adding it to the list of things to do, however I’m not quite sure why we didn’t make it more of a priority. We were literally 2 minutes from Meredith’s Dad’s apartment the other night and she announces that we have 4 miles to empty. With controlled panic, I ask where the gas stations are. She replies that they are at the end of this strip we’re on, which right now consists of nothing but marshland on either side, but she’s not sure how far that is in mileage… Super…

We’re going about 25 mph because Meredith claims that uses less gas, and still no gas stations in sight. At this point I cannot even look at Meredith because she can see the mileage display (which she later told me was on 0 miles to empty for a really long time), and if I could see her face, I would lose it. Instead I pulled my hood up over my face and began to hysterically laugh. The same uncontrollable hysterical laugh that came over me when I was on The Cyclone last summer and thought I was literally going to die. It’s the laugh that happens when you’re not sure whether you should be laughing or crying. Am I going to have to push this car? That is really not what I had in mind for my vacation. Could I even push a car? Then like out of a dream, a gas station appears on the right! I have never been happier to see one in my entire life. When they use the expression “running on fumes”… I now have a new appreciation for what that means…

Mmm… Mush

I realized on our way down here, driving through the different states, that I definitely did not belong. We stuck out like sore thumbs everywhere between Maryland and Florida. It became the most apparent while attempting to get coffee at a road stop McDonalds somewhere in South Carolina. I was pretty much convinced I wasn’t going to leave there with my life, my Louis Vuitton bag, or my coffee. But once we got into Florida, I figured we were okay… until our dinner at Pinchers. The Jets/Dolphins game was on and the dude on the bar stool next to us was trying to google the weather report for The Meadowlands mistakenly thinking it was in NYC. When I told him we were from New York, he said he had figured that out already. So we asked what gave us away. He replied “a couple of reasons.” Hmm what could those be? Our outfits? Our accents? Our bags? Definitely couldn’t have been our manners, because as much as I wanted to give him the stink face, I smiled and Meredith said “have a good night”…

We are like the picture of contentedness these days. How could you have any sort of aggression or anger on sunny vacation? It’s such an easy life down here. Especially on Sanibel Island. What an amazing place. Like a tropical isle, hard to believe it’s Florida. We attempted to answer the call for exercise by renting bikes for a couple of hours. You know what they say about that. How hard could it be? It’s just like riding a bike. Yea no problem, until I looked down to rearrange something in the basket and next thing I knew I was mating with a bush… full of thorns. I guess as Meredith summarized as we stared at my scratched up and bleeding arm, “it’s much harder when the bike isn’t planted to the gym floor”…

Who was in here? A gangster?

I’ve been down here for 2 and a half days and today is the first day that my tan has come anywhere close to meeting my tan expectations. Hello? Isn’t the sun supposed to be much stronger down here? Right now we’re at simmer, I’d like to be somewhere near grill by at least tomorrow. Today we went to the beach, which to me is more like a paradise cove. Definitely not like the beaches I’m used to on the East coast of things. The gulf coast has white sands, barely any waves, and a pelican. If I had felt like moving at all, I would have taken a picture of it because it was huge and floating pretty close to the shore. But alas I was too lazy…

Vacations are for lazy, but I really wish I could muster up the energy to exercise a bit. One would have thought that Meredith and I would have already played tennis like 4 times, however somehow the tanning is a mighty distraction. It would most likely be a good idea for me to attempt some sort of motion, other than walking up the two flights of stairs to get to Meredith’s Dad’s apartment… especially since they eat like champs down here. Last night we went to Ruth Chris. Basically, if Burger King had made a quality fragrance that lived up to its billing, it would smell something like the inside of Ruth Chris steakhouse. Trust me, if I could bottle that and pour it all over someone… I would have done it already. Our waiter Mike was like a walking Ken doll. Well, not as attractive as Ken, but he had obviously gone to the same barber. One butter smothered petit filet later and I was in afterglow. Let’s not tell my trainer…

Cancun is just like Florida, but we have more Mexicans here…

Florida rocks. It’s very hard to feel like it’s December here while I’m lounging out by the pool next to a palm tree. While we were in the car on our journey Southbound, we would periodically check the temperature gauge and be overcome with joy as it slowly crept up. I mean, when you’re shoveling snow on Sunday and on Wednesday, only a couple states to the South, the thermometer reads 64 degrees, that is one small step closer to happiness. Less clothing usually equals more happiness…

The other part of happy, is hour. Screw the early bird specials, we want drinks. And awesomely so do Meredith’s Dad and his buddy Cliff. These two are hilarious. All of a sudden at dinner, after Cliff has ordered a dozen oysters on the halfshell, he calls the waiter over and seriously asks for a shot of the cheapest tequila. This he says, just in case there is E Coli or Botulism present in his dinner. Of course, I immediately bust out laughing because one of my-coworkers had said almost this exact infamous line one fateful night, however he had asked for 9 shots and unfortunately that number had included me. Trust me the experience of doing a shot of battery acid is not one I would like to have again. I think I would rather have E Coli… or eat oysters...

What a bright coat you have… the better to see you with my dear…

Destination: Ft. Myers, FL
Time to arrival: 7 hours, 54 minutes

Finally we’re in the state of Florida. This is fortunate considering I have not only lost my desire to sing loudly in the car, but I have also lost my voice. Too bad there’s about 6 more hours to Ft. Myers. Meredith’s friend Jay is also driving down. However he might as well be a truck driver, because he left New Jersey this morning and was already in North Carolina. There is however something to be said for sight seeing, at least that’s what Meredith and I keep telling ourselves. So we decided to stop first at Amelia Island, and then at the University of Florida in Gainesville in order to be jealous that some people chose to go to school in paradise, while we chose Rutgers and Antarctica, I mean Syracuse. On our way to campus, we passed through Waldo, Florida. If you ever decide to ask yourself where’s Waldo?, don’t bother, it is the most infuriating town. Every 100 or so feet the speed limit would go from 45 to 55 to 65 and then back down again… and then back up again. By the time you slowed down, you could speed up again. Ridiculousness.

What’s also ridiculous is the amount of Asian food I consumed today. Chinese, or what passed for that in the South, for lunch and Hibatchi (that place where they cook in front of you, Mara) for dinner. We were two of the maybe 7 people in the restaurant, one of whom was wearing a day-glo flourescent yellow sweatshirt, the kind that reflects light. But we were really hungry, so we'd take whatever was open! I hate those chopstix that don’t break evenly down the middle. I always screw them up and our waiter kept feeling bad for me and giving me new ones to try and I kept breaking them unevenly… we could be here all night…

After leaving Gainesville, we decided to power through to Ft. Myers. Regardless of the fact that I was presently in a food coma and literally stunk of Hibatchi… we pressed on the next 4 hours to our destination. Meredith decided to take a nap, so I went into survival mode. Me, Britney Spears, and 90 mph. If Meredith had actually woken up, she’d have some serious blackmail material. Arrival in Ft. Myers, 1 a.m.… and we’ve come full circle… I am a crab…

Are you in the Daughters of the Confederacy?,.. Don’t worry neither are we…

Charleston is amazing. So quaint. So southern. Not sure anyone would know what to do with the two Northern girls both sporting Juicy outfits and taking pictures in front of the Daughters of the Confederacy building. Luckily for everyone involved, nobody had to find out because it was Christmas and there were about 2 people on the streets of Charleston. Those 2 people would be the one Black guy standing around on a corner who asked if we were going to allow him to be in our photos with us, and I replied.. well… basically I said exactly what this blog entry is named. Then there was the second person out, an older gentleman walking his white fluffy dog fully sporting (quite unfortunate) pants with Christmas trees all over them. My eyes almost didn’t believe what they were seeing… hence the above photo proof I’ve provided for ya’ll…

Destination: Savannah, GA
Time to arrival: 1 hour, 58 minutes

Savannah is only about 2 hours from Charleston. Peachy. We arrived around lunch time and decided to celebrate Christmas the Jew way. Might as well hold onto tradition even when away. We chose Wang II, because the name made me laugh. They serve odd Chinese food down here. Our sesame chicken was basically sweet and sour chicken with sesame seeds sprinkled on top, and our lo mein was practically made with fettuccine noodles. What is this nonsense? Clearly wankers work at Wang II. While in Savannah, I really just wanted to hear someone say “Frankly Scarlett I don’t give a damn,” but everyone down here just sounds like John Edwards…

I don’t think I’m gonna be able to get on this turtle…

Destination: Charleston, South Carolina
Time to arrival: 8 hours, 46 minutes

I love me some driving. It’s amazing. Cruising along. Open highway. Idiots who get into accidents and cause the rest of us to sit in hours of traffic. If I am stuck sitting in traffic, not moving, some idiot better need to be airlifted otherwise it is clearly not worth my time. I suppose I was silly to think we wouldn’t encounter any traffic on our 19 hour highway adventure, but this is really getting a little irritating. Why cannot people drive as safely as me?

If you define safely as making up 20 minutes of our 40 minute traffic expenditure by practically breaking the sound barrier in the 70mph speed limits in North Carolina. 70 mph speed limits!!?? Yee-haw baby! I can now proudly say I know what it feels like to go 90 mph. And it feels mighty fine… (just don’t tell my Dad)

All last week, Andrei kept trying to cajole me into stopping at South of the Border. Apparently this is some sort of touristy attraction (trap) that I really must see once in my life. Well I saw. Meredith and I stopped there for dinner. You know how they say that Disney World is the happiest place on Earth? South of the Border is definitely the tackiest place on earth. We dined at Pedro’s Sombrero Restaurant, complete with brown and white cow print upholstered booths. Halfway through our gourmet Christmas Eve meal, that by the way cost us a whopping $12.95 total, Meredith turns to me, fully serious, and says… “can you imagine working here?..” Um, NO? I most certainly cannot…

Merry Christmas ya’ll! (I am so Southern now, it’s scary…)

Oh it’s bigger than I thought it would be…

Jessica:

1 suitcase

2 overnight bags
Laptop
Tennis racket
2 grocery bags of junk food
1 extremely overpriced (yet muy chic) purse that I have no business owning

Meredith:
1 Florida bag
1 on the road bag
1 car-only bag
Laptop
1 bag of “thanks for being a great teacher” gifts
1 bottle of wine from some kid

Destination: Annapolis, MD
Time to arrival: 3 hours, 38 minutes

3 and a half hours is about how long it took me to drive between Syracuse and home. It’s really nothing, should be a piece of cake. Definitely no stopping will occur… um, why are we stopped? We are not even as far down the NJ turnpike as the exit for Merck, ie, really not far from home, and already we have encountered traffic. I am starting to think this may have been a really bad idea…

Fuck. We’re going 10 mph. And somehow we have managed to eat half a can of Pringles, and I managed to misplace the cap… someplace in the area of my seat. We have also managed at this point, to completely memorize and successfully predict the XM 20 on 20 songs. Luckily Meredith isn’t sick of my loud singing yet. In the area of unsuccessful, I would put my relentless but fruitless efforts to take photos of the highway signs at 75 mph, in the dark. I think we are delirious and we’ve only been in the car for 3 hours… only 16 more…

I would sum up our time in Annapolis as: crab dip, crab soup, crab cakes… and then my friend Julia, the unlucky host of the road trip loonies for the night, had to go and have the crab omelet for breakfast. Thankfully I am in a vacation state of mind, because if I was crabby… we’d be over the crab quota. Now, where are all the Navy men at??

Posting from the RTW archives

It's that time of year again. I have to admit, this year, I kinda didn't really think about anyone but myself. Hey... the first step is admitting it! I haven't seen my super all year, so it never occurred to me to give him cash. I probably should have given something to my trainer Oscar, but no offense, he makes me go completely out of my way to meet with him... and I'm the client. I have tried to finagle my way out of the holiday tips many times... I think in 2004, I definitely had the most creative idea though...

Volume CXCVII - Tis the Season

People who are nice all the time scare me. How is it possible to be happy and cheery 24/7? It's not, unless you live in a bubble or you're being totally fake. Why can't they just be moody and get cranky like the rest of us for Christ's sake! But people who are only nice with ulterior motives, those are the ones you really have to watch out for. So I started to wonder the other night why my doorman Adam, who doesn't even know my name, always makes me miss the elevator because he's trying to give me my roomate's dry cleaning when it's not there because she already took it, and probably just knows me as the quick change girl who comes in at 7:00PM and leaves for the gym at 7:03PM... started being overly friendly to me on November 30th. Then it hit me. For all the times I've opened the door for myself this year, all the times he's called up to my apartment and spoken so incoherently with his stupid accent that I just say "ok" and he sends up strangers... NOW it's time to smile and pretend he's special for 25 days. Every year at this time I am painfully reminded that it is not PC to be an el cheapo grinch. I have to be in the giving spirit if it kills me, or rather I have to give... screw the spirit. I HAVE to tip the doormen and other random strange men that roam my building claiming they do some kind of work there... for hypothetically saving me from the rapists that chase me home every night and signing for my 2 fed ex packages a year, but I don't have to enjoy it...
Then one day while I was on the subway, I heard a man begging for money. He claimed he was homeless and a veteran, anything we could give would be helpful. He wasn't one of those offensive bums who pretended they were blind or smelled like a barn... so I thought hmmm, maybe this year I will give to those less fortunate than me instead. Wouldn't that be really nice of me? A humongous mitzvah! My serotonin levels will go through the roof! To hell with the doormen, they are not less fortunate... they probably make more money at Christmas then I do for the entire month of December. Besides, the doormen expect like 50 bucks each, a bum... would be thrilled to get even a nice crisp $5, it's just simple economics. Or maybe I could somehow combine those two ideas into one really great super idea! I could give money to the bums and in the holiday cards to the doormen, print up some fancy thing saying I made a donation in their name to the "Sponsor a Subway Bum" foundation. It's just like the Boys and Girls Club, only... different. Could someone really be offended that I did a good deed to help others in their honor? At holiday time? Feed the birds, tuppence the bag? What do you think?? I think they'll be quite pleased!... to never see me again...

RTW © 2004

Mesmerized by meat scent

Who knew, or would have believed that a couple of days after my fateful purchase of FLAME the Burger King meat aroma, it is completely sold out at every Ricky's in the city. If that isn't enough ridiculousness... someone is selling it on ebay and the bidding is up to $102.50. What was once merely a token (gag) gift, is now a collector's item! Everyone is clamoring to smell like broiled beef... I fear Andrei might be attacked by a vicious mob of meaty odor seekers... He better lock that shit up somewhere, it's priceless...

Are work Pot Lucks the new Black?

Jessica: i'm shoveling carrot cake into my craw
Jessica: this is the perfect carrot cake
Jessica: there are no stupid raisins messing with my cake to frosting ratio
Andrei: hahaha...raisins ruin everything
Andrei: cake
Andrei: cookies
Jessica: seriously they're like walnuts
Jessica: get the F out of my baked goods
Andrei: my grandmother (italian one) used to put them in her meatballs
Andrei: who wants fruit with meat?
Jessica: raisin meatballs????
Andrei: apparently it was some old school recipe
Jessica: you will be bringing those to the next potluck?
Jessica: how could u keep us from this creation!?
Andrei: I should just add like raisins and chocolate chips to the meatballs
Andrei: whatever we have lying around the house...throw it in
Andrei: top em off with some sprinkles
Jessica: i might actually come in on Monday for those meatballs
Jessica: i signed u up for popem meatballs
Jessica: that’s what i coin them
Jessica: the sprinkles sealed that name
Andrei: I'll glaze some of them too
Jessica: you are going to be the Juice potluck meatball king of new york
Andrei: I like that

Come on baby, light my fire

I think now, I have seen it all. Burger King has come out with a cologne. Flame. They describe this magnificence as a “scent of seduction with a hint of flame-broiled meat.” Meat cologne? Junior Whoppers! How have I lived up until this point without this in my life and where do I get some... Now? I am so attracted to guys that smell like cooked cow...

My co-worker Lauren and I took one look at the above insanely hilarious photo, jumped out of our seats in an instant, and were on the elevator on the way to Ricky’s. Funny neither of us were embarrassed to ask the guy at the counter for the “Burger King meat cologne.” He said he’d sold out of it at his register, but alas there were a few left at the other counter. We bought 2.

When arriving at the perfect holiday gift for your male co-worker, what really could be more amazing than hamburger scented cologne? Who wouldn’t want to be sporting Eau d’ ground beef? Obviously Andrei will be bathing in this crap and attracting all of the lady carnivores in the bar later. Or... All of the neighborhood dogs... But definitely no vegetarians. Sadly though, it really does not smell like flame broiled meat. Instead, it sorta smells like dirty old man, or as the salesman at Rickys said “Bodega Joe.” However, nothing beats the fact that I can now say things to Andrei like... Vanessa wants to smell your meat.

Merry Christmas Andrei!! So much for having it your way...

Rationalizing 101

The human brain is an enigma. Especially a woman’s. Even more especially, mine. The way I rationalize things is seriously one inch from insanity. Example 1: When I was trying to lose weight, I used to say to myself, well you can have that piece of chocolate because tomorrow you will go to the gym and work it off. Then my brain would say, but... If you didn’t eat that piece of chocolate, when you’re at the gym tomorrow, you’d be working something else stupid that you ate yesterday off. It was like a strange form of playing guilty catch up. Somehow I let myself tell myself these things.

So I may or may not have just come into about $1500. I kinda feel guilty bringing it up since lots of people have or are losing their jobs recently, but I work hard and like to tell myself I earned it (example 2). This is the first year that I hadn’t been steadily compiling a list for months of entirely ridiculous overpriced garbage that I coveted and planned to buy with my holiday bonus. I honestly didn’t think I’d be getting one this year and rather than be disappointed that I couldn’t own the oh so essential $195 Burberry rubber rain boots, I decided to just be happy with the things I do own that I bought within my means. However now, I am ill prepared to deal with the $1500 burning a hole in my pocket. I have no list. Now is when my brain explodes! What completely pointless overpriced thing can I get!?!!

The googling begins. Do I want overpriced shoes? A television? Ridiculous amounts of clothing? A bag? Ahhh sigh, there’s that Louis Vuitton I half covet. $700. And here comes the hilarious rationalizing. I would rather die than spend that much of my own money on a purse. But in the scheme of having a $1500 gift card... $700 isn’t even HALF!! I am so frugal!!...

Road Trip 08

In 7 days, Meredith and I will be embarking on an awesome journey. This isn’t Paris and Nicole Go to Tennis Camp, or even Tennis Camp 2: The reunion... This is Thelma & Louise: Lost Highway. This is possibly going to be entered into the Guinness Book of World Records as the longest Bon Jovi sing along marathon EVER. This is Road Trip 08-Meredith and Jessica drive to Florida. Be scared (especially if you're a Chinese restaurant bathroom floor).

I have to say, I am super psyched! Although, that’s easy to say after not having spent even one minute in the car yet! Every person I’ve told about our voyage has schrunched up his or her face and said... Ugh why don’t you just fly? Because that takes all of the adventure out of it! Could I look forward to being forced to listen to Barbra Walters entire autobiography on audio book on a quick plane ride? No, certainly not. Could I bring literally almost everything I own because I have poor decision making skills for vacation attire on a plane? No. Would I have about a bazillion amazing blog entries from a quick 3 hour plane ride? Maybe only one, because I’d get stuck squashed between a fat person and a crying baby. Trust me people, it’s in your best interest that I take this road trip. I will most certainly be updating you from the road and seriously, if we break down... One of you best be an AAA member and send help immediately. Maybe this isn’t such a super idea...

I’m gonna need to start working on my southern accent... And get a parasol...

The Unbitch Chronicles

My new leaf of not being bitchy doesn’t seem to be working out very well for me. Honestly, I think it’d be going quite swimmingly if everyone else in the world didn’t insist on constantly being monumentally stupid and/or annoying...

... Like the saleswoman in Banana Republic last night who came over to me while I was literally the only person in line and motioned like she was going to ring me up, then asked if I had a Banana Republic card. Is that now a requirement to make a purchase? When I responded that I did in fact have one, she proceeded to allow me to follow her to the register. Cardholders get VIP checkout now? I might have felt special if I wasn’t the only person on the line. I wasn’t planning on paying with my Banana card though, and that’s where the trouble started. I had a coupon that stated “Exclusively for card members... $30 off a purchase of $100 or more” and the saleslady tried telling me that meant I had to use my card. Well no, it doesn’t say that. Nowhere in the fine print does it say that either. She points to the exclusively line and states her bogus claim.

Unfortunately for her, I am a writer... And also apparently a (sometimes?) bitch. “Exclusively for card members” could easily mean that the coupon was sent to me because I am a card member. If it was intended to mean that I had to use my card, they should have tried one of their other staple and not to mention much more straightforward lines like “when you use your Banana card.” I find it infuriating to argue with stupid people though. You can never seem to win because you can’t make them smart and you can’t make yourself stupider. Bad situation. Eventually I just gave in and handed her my Gap card, which was apparently also not correct. The Banana card is yellow. Super. And at this point, is when I lost it. I looked right at her and said “I am not going to play this game with you anymore. It’s all the same. The cards are accepted in all of the stores.” (ie, Banana, Gap, Old Navy) Was she kidding? There were about, oh lets see, 4 people in the store... none of whom were purchasing anything, and this lady thinks a good use of her time is arguing with me over a severely overpriced sweater and badly worded coupon. Do you fools want to make a sale OR NOT?...

Top Ten

Top ten reasons why this is a great headline:

Woman smuggles monkey to U.S. under blouse

10) Who the hell wants a monkey that badly?

9) 10 hours in a tiny plane seat with a sedated monkey up your shirt, I mean isn’t that funny enough?

8) Smuggling... K lemme guess. I’ll go with the usual... Drugs. Liquor. Diamonds. Prescription meds. Illegal aliens...? Nope... A monkey. I suppose that’s creative.

7) Couldn’t she just get a dog? A fish??

6) Was this animal tested for diseases before she shoved it up her shirt?

5) She definitely watches too much Friends.

4) We should be thankful she didn’t want to have a tiger.

3) Don’t we have f’ing monkeys here? I really don’t understand...

2) I guess it could have been worse, she could have smuggled it in by hiding it... Elsewhere.

And the number one reason why this is a great headline...

1) Did she go there planning to steal a monkey? Was there a monkey stealing scheme that involved pre-planning of bringing a maternity shirt to hide said monkey under for the big getaway? Or was this like completely spontaneous? Ohh what a cute monkey, I think I’ll stick it under my shirt and take it home with me... I kinda really have to know.

Wet-lap

So I literally just spilled an entire cup of water... In my lap. Yep, went to drink from the plastic cup, fumbled a little, and poured it into my crotch. I am soaked... And will probably be spending the next hour or so sitting at my desk because if I had to go anywhere, surely everyone would think I peed myself. That’s how bad it is. Sopping wet, soggy jeans. What is wrong with me!? Usually I just spill coffee all over my desk and my papers. That’s my typical M.O. I do it all the time. Although in the effort to make myself feel better right now, since we obviously can’t make me feel any less wet, one could argue that is much worse. Sticky, smelly, brown. I should be thankful, at least, that I didn’t spill coffee in my lap. Maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to partake in activities in the real world...

Posting from the RTW archives

I love shoes. They are wonderful. If I had no feeling in my feet, they'd be even better! A couple of new year's ago, my friend Meredith and I hobbled up Park Avenue, not finding a cab and basically so distraught with pain that when we finally saw a cab, we took it 3 blocks to my apartment just to bask in the bliss of not having to stand in our shoes for 2 minutes. This past weekend at my company holiday party, I literally had to leave because I physically could not stand up anymore... and not from being drunk. The balls of my feet seriously hate me right now... but oh how hot my shoes were. I will most certainly never learn my lesson...

Volume CCXIII - Foot Fetish

Part of the whole working/living in the city package most likely includes a serious amount of walking. Unless you're working from home, your office is in the building next door to your apartment, you're screwing a cab driver to get free rides, or you're so elite that your driver and the black towne car come to pick you up every morning... You're taking it on foot. Thinking of walking to work in the city always immediately brings up the horrifying visual of women in black skirt suits and white sneakers. Ghastly. Yet unfortunately most of the cute women's dress shoes are made by Satan and are so far from comfortable they're not even tolerable, and basically only nice to look at in the store. Too bad shoes are meant for wearing not staring. What options are we left with? Especially us vertically challenged individuals who would look cute in moccasins but much better in a hot pair of pumps. Shall we wear our sneakers on the walk while lugging our dress shoes in a bag that's so large it could easily be mistaken for a diaper bag? This is not mommy and me goes to work. Shall we suck it up and be mistaken for a midget? Or shall we sacrifice ourselves at the feet of fashion...FOR the feet of fashion? Sacrifice being the operative word because the other day, I hate to tell you this, but I actually drew blood all in the name of pedi-fashion...
There is no way to tell whether or not shoes are going to be comfortable by merely walking for two minutes around the shoe store before you purchase them. Ideally you need to take them for a test day to really get a true feel for how they're going to treat you. Like how I realized the great pair of cream colored pointy toe pumps with kitten heels that I bought were actually a modern day torture and blistering device. By the time I made it to the elevator in my office building the band aids that I mistakenly thought were a protective armor shield had fallen off and my feet were bleeding. I re-applied new band aids but I was in so much blinding, bleeding pain that I could barely walk to the bathroom which is no more than 20 feet from my desk. My friend Sari suggested I hobble over to a shoe store at lunch and get myself some relief in the form of new shoes. She even offered to pick up some rubber flip flops from a guy on the corner and deliver them to my office on her lunch break. Rubber flip flops? Can't I have jellies instead? Bleeders can't be choosers, but I opted to complete this mission on my own and make my way to a shoe store. Once inside the shoe store, I, genius of the world, replace my cream pointy toe pumps with smokin hot white pointy toe almost flats. The only criteria being that they were the slightest bit more comfortable than what I had on. Then the sales lady starts trying to sell me insoles and leather cleaner. Me being in a bloody foot coma, couldn't care less what she was putting in my bag... All I wanted was to put on the shoes. Give me the shoes, now. $100 later, no more pain...

RTW © 2005

Truckin it

I was walking down 26th street by my office today on my way to grab some lunch and I had a weird flashback.

Back when I used to commute from NYC to work in New Jersey, my lunch options were slim. I didn’t have a car, so if one of my coworkers with a car wasn’t offering to let me tag along with them, I was either bringing food to eat... Or partaking of whatever was edible on the Lunch Truck. The Lunch Truck was basically grease on 4 wheels that came 2 times a day, once at 11am and once at 1pm to peddle its wares. At first I was a bit wary. Food off a truck? The only food off a truck I had eaten before that point, god help me, was a catfish sandwich with my ex while completely hammered in Madison, WI at around 4am. And honestly as inebriated as I was, I would have probably found my own arm to be gourmet. As it turned out, the Lunch Truck wasn’t as bad as I had imagined. My favorite lunch from the truck consisted of cheesy, greasy, chicken quesadillas... that I ate everyday, clearly knowing from past experiences (like the day before) that they made me sick to my stomach. Gosh what I wouldn’t do for some down home delicious lunch truck food right about....

Oh. Is that a truck outside of the Tyra studio? Does that truck say White Castle? Yep... That is fully a White Castle Lunch Truck. Classy. I wonder if they serve quesadillas...

Not quite Betty Crocker, more like Betty Crock

Not surprisingly I have come across another job that I am in no way cut out for... Chef. I can reheat, I can boil water, and okay I’m being a little bit too hard on myself here... For the most part, I can follow an easy recipe. For the most part. Well... Except for the time my friends Leah, Meredith, and I decided to have girls’ night and cook dinner. I somehow got stuck (ha, I probably volunteered) making the risotto and just assumed that I was supposed to put in the whole box of rice. Needless to say I couldn’t understand why there wasn’t enough liquid, so I just kept adding more water and my risotto end result was more like clumpy rice paste, which wouldn’t have been an issue if I was serving it to preschoolers who actually don’t mind eating paste.

This is exactly why, as a person who lives alone, I choose to avoid cooking. Why make elaborate meals for myself when I could just as easily make something that doesn’t have any more complicated instructions besides remove plastic, microwave on high for 3-4 minutes? To this end, I was really intimidated when my team decided to do a Thanksgiving pot luck lunch at work. My old job had Thanksgiving pot lucks every year and I brought forks. What was I going to bring to this one from my vast cooking repertoire? Cheese and macaroni from the blue box? At first I decided to make guacamole, but that really needs to be made fresh right before serving, so I opted out. My boss suggested I could make crescent rolls. Everyone loves crescent rolls. Oh I can definitely do that! Pop them out of the tube and stick them in the oven, which I was excited to find out turned on this morning, since I’ve maybe used it 3 times before. My co-worker asked me if I had to take the sweaters out of it before I turned it on, right after another co-worker asked me if I made the rolls from scratch. Yes I made them from scratch. I spent hours upon hours coming up with the perfect recipe to get them to taste IDENTICAL to Pillsbury rolls... I am a culinary genius...

The Unbitch Chronicles

I have been trying to turn over a new leaf and be more nice. Therefore not be a bitch or think bitchy thoughts. It was going great until...

... The idiot next to me on the spin bike this morning was watching SportsCenter and kept cheering and saying “go, go, go!, score a touchdown”... Which may have been fine except these were highlights of games THAT ALREADY HAPPENED. It’s not a live game you dumbass. They already said who won! Who gets that pumped about a highlights reel? I hate him. Ugh, I’m a bitch...

Pot Luck

I am bringing crescent rolls to the holiday pot luck tomorrow, Andrei is bringing meat balls...

Jess: how cute is that little dough guy when u push in his belly button...
Andrei: you mean the pillsbury dough boy?
Jess: yes him
Jess: he is making my crescent rolls later
Andrei: if you buy his product, I heard he actually shows up to help you
Jess: YEA
Jess: that's what i'm talkin bout
Andrei: does he know how to make meatballs?
Jess: hahahaha i'm not really sure... i think he just does baked goods, I’ll ask him
Andrei: I want the doughboy
Jess: I NEED HIM
Jess: otherwise my crescent rolls will be shit
Jess: do i have to make them pretty on a serving plate? cuz i was like gonna bring them in a zip lock bag!
Andrei: well the meatballs are arriving in a plastic bag.
Andrei: or a Patsy's bag
Andrei: depending how tonight goes
Jess: ha!!! cheater
Jess: wait, do they have rolls at patsys???
Andrei: I'll get you some if the doughboy doesn't hop off that box and make them for you
Jess: ha i doubt i can find anyone i can con into doing this for me
Jess: anyone who wants to let me call them doughboy
Jess: while they're doing it
Andrei: I'd like you to come over in a chef's hat and make me some crescent rolls
Andrei: yeah, I'll poke you and call you doughboy if you want
Jess: hahahahah sadly someone might like that

Death of a saleswoman

There are some jobs that I am definitely not cut out for. I could never be anyone’s assistant. I have no interest in picking up my own dry cleaning or kissing my own ass, let alone someone else’s. Nor could I ever be a waitress. Seriously, could you imagine me as your waitress? My mouth would very quickly run out of spit and I would easily set the world record for person who made the least amount of tips. Unfortunately it seems that I am not destined to be a salesperson either. A friend of mine recently started consulting part-time for a company so I volunteered to do a “book show” and try to help her sell some of the product. How hard could this be? I’m charming... Sometimes. It wasn't like the product was knives or some kind of useless voodoo organic herbal cold remedy, it was jewelry. What female person doesn't like jewelry? Basically this shit should sell itself. I most likely need to put in zero effort. Should be a breeze!

Uh... Only I could screw up a sure thing like this. I'd probably have an easier time selling girl scout cookies or tupperware. I've done everything possible, most likely alienating all of my co-workers along the way, to try and sell this jewelry... Stopping just short of simply buying it all myself. What am I doing wrong? I have had over a month to do this. I’ve sent out a couple emails, I’ve talked it up to people, I’ve brought in the jewelry for people to touch, I’ve smiled, I’ve modeled the pieces, I’ve offered to personally gift wrap any holiday purchases, I’ve even cornered them and tried the poor me I suck at this please make a purchase out of sincere sympathy for my patheticness as a saleswoman. Nothing has worked. I do not understand! How could I possibly be a failure at selling jewelry to a bunch of girls?...at holiday time!? Hate to see how I’d perform at taking candy from a baby...

Leaner Cuisine

If you saw my shopping cart any given week, you would be quite perplexed. Some cottage cheese, some brown rice, a couple Lean Cuisine meals, diet orange soda, and Pop Secret Butter microwave popcorn. I am like a shopping schizo. Might as well eat a low calorie frozen meal before you indulge in an entire bag of greasily delicious microwave popcorn, then get up at 5:30am the next morning and run 5 miles. Seems to make the most sense. Although I do have to say, the Lean Cuisine frozen meals aren’t really all that terrible. Besides being ridiculously high in sodium and barely enough food for a small child, they are ready in less than 5 minutes, have under 500 calories total, and happen to be one of the most efficient ways to never have to wash dishes. Fantastic! I’m hooked! Well until I saw an article today on MSNBC stating that some of the chicken dinners are being recalled. Lead paint? E.coli? Thankfully no. Meals may contain “foreign materials.” Foreign? So chicken from another country? Cats? Again, no and no. The foreign materials in question are apparently “pieces of hard plastic.” Perfect! Yummy! Wait, how many calories are in plastic?...

What the Pf*ck?

Seriously. What the Pf*ck? What came first the moron or the egg? About a week ago, I blogged about the salad idiot downstairs who insists on including the yolks in my salad when I specifically ask for egg WHITES. It consistently makes me crazy. However today, he outdid himself. Today, after I once again ordered the same salad and clearly said the words egg whites, he plopped an entire hard boiled egg into my salad WHOLE and left it there. What the PF*CK? How in the hell does that make any sense at all? Following that logic, when I ask for grilled chicken, I obviously want an entire chicken thrown in there. It can almost make one yearn for the days of the yolk lumps. Bet you can't explain your way outta this one Nancy Pfotenhauer...

He is special

I love Keith.



(p.s. it seems mirror blog for Facebook doesn't support the video links, if you can't see the video in the post, to watch the clip visit my blog at http://rtweb.blogspot.com/ or click the link at the top of this page...)

A Penny for my thoughts?

In certain situations,
“They” always say, be the bigger person.
What if I don’t want to be the bigger person?
What if I want to be a small, petty person every once in a while?
Why should I be the bigger person?
What do I get for being the bigger person?
That my person is just bigger?
Somehow I should be comforted that I took the high road when I was made to feel badly?
I’m sick of being the bigger person.
Maybe the other person should be the bigger person, if being the bigger person is so wonderfully fulfilling.
I am the bigger person so often that I honestly must be the most ginormous person on the planet.

We can, We did, now what?

We did it. Ba-riggidy-rack-ed the vote. What do we talk about now?! I do not have much to say about the "runner up" as they called him last night... wow how um, PC. Try loser, and I don't mean that in a mean way... but "runner up"? This isn't Miss USA (insert Palin joke here). McCain doesn't get the crown if Obama poses nude for a fraternity calendar.

I watched the returns at my friend Marisa's apartment. The same apartment that I sat in exactly 4 years ago when our country decided to... well we all know what happened. This time I brought Apple Pie and Beer, because nothing is more American. Well nothing besides ignorance. How can you go to an election party and not know what the electoral college is? Really? Really. Are you new to the country? Did you just get off the ferry from Ellis Island? Because that is really the only excuse. Although I can say in defense of stupidity, I had no idea that the big rectangle state was Wyoming... but at least I knew there is no state named East Virginia...

What the Pf*ck?

I am christening a new segment to the blog aptly named 'What the Pf*ck?' as my man Jon Stewart coined after the lunacy that is one of the McCain Stepford Spokeswomen Nancy Pfotenhauer.

Seriously. What the Pf*ck? Everyday I get the same salad at one of two places. Literally the same salad. Mixed greens, grilled chicken, tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh mozzerella, and egg whites. Not egg, egg whites. The purpose of specifying by adding on the word whites, is because I do not want the yolks. Not that I want them separated from the whites and tossed in, I do not want them AT ALL. I really thought that was a pretty obvious concept. However recently I've been finding lumps of yolk in my salad. What the Pf*ck? Clearly the moron at the salad place is in fact a moron.

Posting from the RTW archives

This is the second year that I've lived on the ING NYC Marathon course. As the runners pass up 1st avenue, it reminded me of this...

Volume CCL - Run, Squirrel, Run

When I was in high school I was on the track team for 4 days. Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration... it was more like 2 days. Which, incidentally, was just long enough to weasle my Dad into buying me a new pair of running sneakers in anticipation of his soon to be track and field star offspring Jessica Joyner Kersee. I wanted to be a sprinter. Or more accurately I just wanted a cool varsity jacket, sprinting was simply the means to achieve that dream. Ya know, run 100 meters as fast as you can and be done. Easy as pie. That's most likely the longest I could run before getting blinding side cramps and falling over, so it seemed like a winner of an idea. How hard could this be, right? However, during our first practice, the coaches instructed us to run all the way to the park and back. Say what?! I thought I was a sprinter? I am not a distance runner! Needless to say, that was when I realized the track team was not for me. Hence when I went to watch part of the New York City Marathon, I was in complete awe. It's like watching 85,000 crazy lunatics. Those people are nuts. Absolutely nuts. Could you imagine me running 26.2 miles? Do I look Kenyan to you? I don't even think I'd make it across the Verrazanno Bridge without asking God to kill me about a hundred times. But hey, at least I'd have an excuse to wear those cute little running undies that somehow seem to pass as shorts...
I went with my friends Nicole and Sari to watch at the 22 mile marker in Harlem. Yes, you read that correctly, I went to Harlem. It was at about the 4 hour point, which means the super-human winners who finished in 2 hours already had their award ceremonies and were at home showering. These were the regular people who finish in a more average time. I wonder how long it would literally take me to finish. 4 days? You think I'm kidding. The only people to cheer me on would be commuters going to work on Wednesday morning. At what point do you just call it quits? When you are face first on the pavement with a mouth full of gravel? Do you think there are marathon officials whose job it is to tell you at 9:00 PM that maybe you should just take a cab to the finish line before they start tearing it down? How embarrassing! I would definitely come in last. If there are 85,000 entrants, I would probably come in 85,050th, beaten even by stray dogs and random pedestrians. By the fifth hour, even we were tired... simply from cheering. Sari was losing her voice. I had miraculously mastered the mysterious art of clapping but not making a sound. There were people running by in costumes. At one point Nicole screamed "go bear... or squirrel... go squirrel!" How do you run in a full body squirrel costume? These were clearly not the serious athletes. Not like I have any right to talk. When the track coach told us to run to the park, I ran to TCBY and had some fro yo...

RTW © 2005

Posting from the RTW archives

When I was a kid, er, until I was like 17, I went trick-or-treating with pillowcases... in multiple neighborhoods. I acquired so much candy, that I emptied out one of my desk drawers and stashed it all in there like a squirrel collecting and hiding his take for the long winter. Then I would consume it in reverse preference order. All the crappy candy went first, all the favorites (ie, kit-kat, reeses, mounds) were saved for last. It was a joyous time of year. Candy rules.

Volume CCXLVII - Don't take Pretzels from Strangers

One could argue that Halloween is the best holiday. It definitely ranks right up there in the top 5. I can see strong cases made for Chanukah/Christmas/Kwanzaa solely based on the gift platform. I'll give you that much. Presents are pretty sweet. Wait, do you get presents for Kwanzaa? If not, you're fully missing out... you should convert... And soon. I suppose if you really like starch, you could put up a fight for Thanksgiving. Mashed sweet potatoes are pretty delicious too, especially with marshmallows. And yes as usual, I've found a way to talk about food. New Years is always way too hyped up to ever be as fun as you want it to be. St. Patty's has green beer, Easter has an egg laying bunny, Sukkot has outdoor camping... But Halloween has identity avoidance and candy. How can you beat that? What other day can you be anyone you want to be and consume 400 million grams of fat in chocolate? When else is it socially acceptable to wear a French maid's costume to a bar or have a tail? These are all solid arguments. Don't try to tell me that the sweater you got for Christmas from your Great Aunt, fruit cake and 12 hours of the Yule log is better than girls wearing fishnets for fun and a Snickers. People dressed like idiots and free candy from strangers! That is quite the concept. Killer holiday idea...

There are two places you can be sure there will be candy every Halloween, besides Duane Reade. Those would be your office and your parents house. It's almost certain that some pesky co-worker is going to show up on November 1st with bags of leftover candy just to torment and torture you. I will not be that person, because I will not be getting candy this year. If it's in my apartment, I will eat it. I could tell myself that it's not for me, it's for the little kiddies... But I would no doubt convince myself that there are no little kiddies in my building and eat all of it. Therefore if there were little kiddies in my building, they would have to make do with English Muffins or whatever other surplus goods there happened to be in my apartment. I mean hey, if my mom is planning on giving out pretzels for Halloween, I can get away with some hearty nooks and crannies. Yes, I really thought there would be candy in my parents house, but I came home to find a Costco container of pretzels in orange "boo" bags. Clearly unable to hide my disappointment or fearfulness that my house will most likely be egged, I inquired as to why we were shunning actual candy this year. My mom replied that they don't get many trick or treaters so she didn't want candy left over... Hence the pretzels. Pretzels? On Halloween? Ain't no little kid that I know who wants to see pretzels being tossed into their goody sacks. If you're gonna put on a costume and walk miles around a neighborhood in the freezing cold, you're doing it for Reese's or Kit Kat... Not pretzels! What a slap in the face of everything Halloween-ey! Even doctors give out lollipops... Jesus Mom! You might as well hand out pennies...

RTW © 2005

Good Vibrations

I wish I knew why for the life of me I cannot remember to DVR Saturday Night Live. Luckily you can watch the skits online, and I encountered this one... and basically just peed my pants at my desk...




Say hi to your mother for me...

(p.s. it seems mirror blog for Facebook doesn't support the video links, if you can't see the video in the post, to watch the clip visit my blog at http://rtweb.blogspot.com/ or click the link at the top of this page...)

Tennis Camp 2: Hit me baby one more time

I was shy when I was younger. I gather that may be a little bit hard to believe at this point, but it’s true. My sorority pledge name freshman year of college was “Phantom of the Opera” because basically all anyone knew about me was that I sang. I never spoke and I never caused any trouble. Oh how far we’ve fallen. These days, it seems I have inadvertently blasted open the dam between my brain and my mouth and let the floodwaters of things I probably should have thought in my head but not said out loud... Flow. Sometimes I get myself into trouble, sometimes it’s funny... But always, it’s remotely entertaining. More so when Trouble 1 (that’s me), is accompanied by Trouble 2 (my Tennis Camp better half, Meredith “Merbear, Carebear, Naughty Bear”) and the rest of the usual suspects, LeeAnn, Dirk, Rita, and Mayor Vic. As was evident all over again this past weekend when we stormed into Saugerties, NY (well fine maybe crawled would be the correct term for Meredith and I, since I was driving and not allowed to go faster than 55 mph lest receive another speeding ticket and have my license confiscated) to take over Total Tennis with our sparkling personalities and jewels. So without further ado, I present to you, some of my favorite “Tennis Camp 2: The Reunion Special” memories...

Dude, have you seen my room?

After pulling into the parking lot and laughing about how upon our first arrival Labor Day weekend we wandered around lost and aimless, like John McCain at a town hall debate, looking for the office, this time we proudly headed straight there (since we knew where it was already, or because there happened to be two huge signs). Please, I spent 4 days here a couple of months ago, I know this place like the back of my hand... Do we know where our room, 41, is?, the lady asks, YEP of course we do! So we schlep all of our stuff toward the vicinity of where I’ve determined our room should be (keep in mind I couldn’t find our room last time either), I climb up the stairs, see room 45, and hang a right. 44, 43, 42... Uh??? Ok maybe it’s not up here, it must be that little cabin next to 42. Back down the hill we go, with Meredith insisting on accidentally dropping all of the things that are stuffed into her hands, every 10 seconds. We are literally causing a scene with our incessant dropping and subsequent cracking up, when we learn that the cabin definitely has a letter D on it (clearly not 41), and inside resides one of the cooks who is now staring out the window secretly fitting us for straightjackets. We eventually found room 41, which was apparently located somewhere in the universe between AREA 51, and Cook’s Cabin D, after Meredith dropped her stuff a couple more times and I took two more steps to the right of room 42.

Not so silent Jessica and Bob J.

Labor Day weekend, we spent our entire time with our Pro Vic. We were completely spoiled. As much as he tries to lie about it, we are the most awesome group he’s ever had and it doesn’t work any other way but “Mayor Vic and The Viclets”... with sometime special guest appearances by Guillermo. However, on Saturday it poured. Not like a drizzle or shower, more like a monsoon, causing us to play on the indoor courts which happen to come in the not so accommodating quantity of 5. In the morning, our group was paired with another group who’s Pro’s name was Bubleau (totally butchered the spelling of that, I think I just tried to make him French), but I called him Boobie. In the afternoon, we were stuck with yet another group and Bob J., who after Vic introduced our group to, said that he would let his group introduce themselves, prompting Ms. No Filter over here to blurt out “oh why, don’t you know their names?” Which he didn’t. Yep, I make friends wherever I go.

The great indoors

But we did make friends. Our Total Tennis posse grew to include Lauren and Daniel who witnessed our complete debauchery more than once and still like us (I think?). Friday night, at Vic’s weekend indoor tennis “party”... We decided to show up and bring a little life to it. If you define party as stolen cream puffs from the kitchen and experiments in the art of walking on people’s back massages. Vic, who was supposed to be watching people play, was instead on the floor with me walking all over him (in the quite literal sense). When a group of ladies went to leave, Vic said, “you had some great shots guys”... Prompting Meredith to point out the obvious after they were gone, “You weren’t watching them, you were on the floor...”

Dirty “Dancing”

And of course, no weekend at tennis camp would be complete without a dance party in the barn. Whatever composure we had attempted to keep the first time around (that would be none for me and my pole dancing), we willingly lost this time. There was drunken indoor tennis with Lauren, followed by drunken dancing to some song about a tractor, drunken foosball, drunken pool, drunken dropping my drink on the floor, drunken feeding Vic pretzels like we were at a petting zoo, and the inevitable being completely hung over. Saturday night was so much fun in fact, that it couldn’t have been more obvious judging by both of our first words Sunday morning. Mine were... “must have coffee and BACON”, Meredith’s were “I don’t think I brushed my teeth last night... (how do you know?), the taste of wine, cigarettes and half a bag of cheesey curls that is still in my mouth”

Can we go back next weekend????? :-(

Not a complete wash

New rule: Check in pockets before doing laundry. Not sure why that wasn’t an always rule, seems logical enough, but after two mishaps, I am now enacting it. A couple of weeks ago I washed a bus ticket that I had literally purchased mere hours prior. Miraculously the paper didn’t fall apart, but you couldn’t read a word printed on it. $7.10 down the drain, or more accurately, in the spin cycle. Then last week in a moment of complete moronicness (not a word), I washed and dried my iPod shuffle. {cringe}, I know. I couldn’t understand what the heck was clanging and banging around in the dryer, until surprise!, I realized it was my $70 piece of electronic equipment and favorite gym companion. Nothing could match the trauma and sheer disgust with myself evident on my face when I pulled that poor pink rectangle from the dryer and attempted to unsuccessfully turn it on. It is actually really hard being this stupid.

Since it helped me fix my crackberry, I decided that the all knowing Google may have some suggestions or potential sob stories related to my plight. I came across a posting instructing me to put my shuffle in a ziploc bag with some silica gels (the packets that come in shoe boxes and say do not eat) overnight and then charge it up. I held vigil over it for a couple of days and then mustered up the courage to plug it into my computer. After a few seconds holding my breath... The light came on and all my songs appeared! Phew... I almost had to sacrifice 7 more manicures...

Gee Officer Krupke, Krup You

It’s always hard to cope when something happens that forces you to change your perception. You’ve conditioned yourself to think one way, it’s almost impossible to imagine feeling the opposite. When this happens, it really makes you do some hard thinking. Take for example John Edwards. I volunteered for his campaign a couple of times last year, thought he was inspiring and had really great hair. I even had an autographed copy of his book “Home” on my coffee table, that I now use to kill bugs because.... I found out he cheated on his cancer-stricken wife. I want my time back.

Or the more recent example of my elicit love affair with driving. I never realized how much I would miss it when I moved to the city. The freedom, the great acoustics for belting along to the radio, the zoom zoom. I love driving. When I’m at home, sometimes, I’ll take the long way to places in order to just keep driving. And then... On my way to play tennis with Meredith this past weekend in Morristown, cruising on 287, rocking out to Ne-Yo... I got pulled over. I hate driving.

Over comes Officer Asswipe, oh I’m sorry I meant, State Police Officer Asswipe to tell me there he was driving along in the right lane while I passed him going about 70 in the posted 55 mph speed limit. Based on pace (translation: perception), he has pulled me over. Where am I going? ...To play tennis, I’m not from around here, I have my GPS, wasn’t really sure where I was going. Maybe confused and lost will get me off? Not so much. He spies my tennis racket in the back and must know I can’t get “whoosh” when I swing, so therefore I am not much of a threat to him for assault with a deadly racket. Did I know the speed limit was 55? ...No, honestly I didn’t see a sign, I just got off Rt.80 and it was 65. Maybe dumb half-blonde will get me off? Yea no, and if it was a 65, my fine would be doubled. Didn’t I see him when I passed him? ...Actually no, I only saw you when you pulled up behind me. (I was too busy pretending I was Ne-Yo to bother with other cars on the road.) Maybe Ne-Yo will get me off? Really, Ne-Yo? That’s my argument? I should have just cried.

Basically at this point, I just want to pay the fine and forget about it. The faster I pay it, the faster I erase it from my collective memory. Trust me, I would have offered to hand Officer Asswipe cash through the window right then and there if that would have made the whole thing just be over (or if I wouldn’t have spent the night in lock-up for intent to bribe an Officer of the Ass). Unfortunately I have to wait until Monday to find out what my penalty is. And it’s $105. Ugh. In my sick and twisted way, I have equated that to 10 manicures that I will be sacrificing in order to teach myself a lesson. Now when my cuticles are rotting, I will remember not to break the law and maybe try to love driving again. I seriously need to stop being so hard on myself...

Smokin the Crackberry

Emergency. Like of epic proportions. Stop the presses. I am not getting my emails to my blackberry and the hourglass of doom keeps popping up every 10 seconds. Um, panic. What is wrong with my baby berry?? Is this happening to everyone’s phone or just mine? What do I do? Help! Wait a minute here... I have “the network.” I should be able to turn around and see “the network”... You know, that guy with the hard hat and clipboard and 1,000 other people who are supposed to constantly follow me around in order to comfort and assist me? Where is the network?? Sadly this occurrence does not seem to be a simultaneous Verizon wide meltdown and apparently it is only isolated to my poor berry.

So in between the hourglasses, I send out a few panicked messages to my fellow blackberry users. Meredith instructs me to remove the battery. Um... Excuse me? You want me to disassemble my blackberry... By myself? By my very un-techy self? Ok I can do this (maybe). I take off the back, pry out the battery, wait a couple seconds and pray that reassembly goes almost as smoothly. Not gonna lie, but that whole experience was just a bit traumatic. Problem solved? Not quite.

Next up in the queue, the all knowing Google. Carefully selected keywords: Chronic hourglass (yes, it’s quite clear I work in Pharma), no email, blackberry, please someone help before I cry. I land at the blackberry forums where it becomes apparent that what is causing my issue is none other than the Facebook for Blackberry application. Seriously? Couldn’t it have been like, I don’t know, the alarm clock, or the memo pad??? Now I am at a unique crossroads. I have to choose between two opposing things that I love. If I want to resolve my issue, I must delete the Facebook application. But berry is significantly less cool without Facebook. What if I delete it and then re-install it??!! Ugh I know... What is it “they” (you know how much I love quoting they) say about being insane is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome....? I swear one of these times, that damn network will be there when I turn around...

Diggin on Diggs

Picture this... Strolling down 5th avenue in the 20’s on a beautiful Sunday afternoon with my friend Mara. Deep in conversation describing the circumstances under which myself and two of my friends would climb into a tub in the bathroom of a Japanese restaurant, when all of a sudden the most delicious man passes me on the left. He is ripped as hell, wearing a flannel shirt and hat, and looking FINE. We lock eyes, I stop breathing, and instead of speaking, I start incessantly smacking Mara’s arm as he passes. We both turn around and Mara says to me... “was that...” and I nod, “...Taye Diggs?” and we both stop walking, and watch him walk away for two blocks (secretly contemplating running after him... Because I would really like him to privately practice on me...) I need to come up with a better plan for celebrity sightings, clearly what I’m currently doing, the patented (clam up, stare, and hate yourself a minute later) is not working for me. Did you know Taye the hotness that is Diggs went to Syracuse?? Did you know that I went to Syracuse??? We could have had so much to discuss... Sigh...

Four, four, four, four

So since I have about ZERO time (or if it was possible to have negative time, I'd have that) these days to post anymore to my poor blog... I thought since Mara sent me this forward and put that I would most likely respond, I wouldn't want to let her down. Nor "spoil the fun"... cue the FWD...

Here is a fun and quick way to stay in touch. Let's see how many posts I get...

Four, Four, Four, Four...

A) Four places that I go to over and over.

Work, Gym, Home to my family in Jerz (therefore subsequently Port Authority, the worst place on Earth), Does work count again?


B) Four people who e-mail me (regularly)

Leah, Jaime, Michelle, Do work people count?


C) Four of my favorite places to eat.

LEMONGRASS, Mizu, My bed, this game would be more fun in 3's

D) Four places I would rather be right now.

On a beach, Driving a car, In Target, Anywhere but my desk...

E) Four people you think will respond.

Kevin, Ben (the only people who ever post comments on my blog!), maybe Mara because now she owes me one

F) Four TV Shows I watch.

My DVR wishes I only watched 4 shows...
All My Children, Lost, The Daily Show, Family Guy

Here's what you are supposed to do...and please don't spoil the fun...
Hit forward,' delete my answers, type in your answers and send it to a bunch of
people, including me. It's SIX questions. Take the time.

Seriously, don't spoil the fun...

The EYE

Katie: do u want to know my worst nightmare
Jess: k what
Katie: the LONDON eye
Katie: I would DIE
Katie: no way in hell could u get me on that thing
Jess: why does it look like it's going so fast???
Katie: i dont know
Katie: its like the biggest thing i have ever seen
Katie: it takes 30 min to go around
Jess: haha and when u got to the bottom and cried.... another 30 minutes before they let u off

Man oh man

I love The Daily Show so much...

that I'm not at all bothered that when I went, we saw some dood who writes for the Washington Post. The next consecutive guests were, Ricky Gervais, Charlize Theron, Tony Blair, and BILL CLINTON. God hates me.

The best f'ing fake news show ever

I love The Daily Show.
I love The Daily Show so much, that I didn’t mind waiting on 11th avenue for 2 hours just to get within 100 feet (lord I’m bad with distance estimations, but that’s what the restraining order said) of Jon Stewart.
I love The Daily Show and yes, my t-shirt, which was a gift from my brother, says Stewart/Colbert '08 and it's AWESOME.
I love The Daily Show enough that I didn’t mind following the barrage of rules that the 20 year old kid on his first day of work yelled at me, which included turning off my cell phone (ugh annoying I never do that), going to the bathroom before the show (do you need a sample as well?), not asking for autographs or photos with Jon and generally “not being weird” (umm... Yea, that might be a problem).
I love The Daily Show for September 15, 2008 that literally almost taped in one take, was funny as hell and forever will include my laughter... Yes that’s right, the sounds of my unique laughter that were captured just for Jon... CRAP I broke rule #3 again...

I drove all night

If there's a Celine song, I've sung it, or considered it at some point and therefore associate it with a very specific memory. "If that's what it takes" was what I was listening to on my Walkman while riding on a tour bus junior year of high school in England with some of my closest friends. Celine sang that Friday night in French. "My heart will go on," which we were all pretty sick of 10 years ago but is likely one of the most beautiful songs ever, was the song I performed as my first big solo at a concert senior year of high school. Celine closed the show with that Friday night. "Because you loved me" I sang at my high school graduation, "To love you more" I performed at Syracuse and recruited one of my classmates to play violin, "The prayer" I duetted with another voice student, "Alone" a Heart cover on her lastest album has always been my go-to karaoke song, "Have you ever been in love" I sang at both of my best friend's weddings, and "I'm your angel" which was also part of Celine's set list Friday night, was one of their wedding songs.

Needless to say, I will take all the jabs anyone wants to send my way about Celine, because I can admit it, she’s a cheeseball, but Friday night was incredible. The woman is an animal. Almost every one of her songs has at least one ridiculous note in it and she hits them all like it’s easy. Nothing short of amazing. Luckily for everyone surrounding me, I had somehow misplaced my voice so I had to let Celine sing most of them herself this time. Basically the concert was perfect, minus the fact that it took me 45 minutes just to get out of the parking lot and then I somehow managed to get lost in Newark thereby making what should have been a 20 minute ride home, into a 2 hour ride home. Celine is worth it though.

Five straight for Federer, straight jacket for me

I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?

Bad news is that as I was running out of work yesterday in an attempt to not miss the entire Federer championship match, Cameron Mathison was coming into my building. Basically business as usual, I stare into his eyes and try to form words, he walks by and instead of finally speaking to him like I vowed to do last time, I smack Caryn’s arm so hard that she probably has a bruise. I am now a shameful 0-3 in Cameron conversations. Embarassing, this has got to stop.

Good news? My Rogy poo won the US Open! Roger easily took care of Andy Murray who should immediately go home, find a razor and shave his gross dirty neck. The day before, Andy took care of “Rafa” (whenever I hear that I think of Raffi), who should immediately find some alternative bottoms to wear in match play because I personally am tired of watching him pick his wedgie every time he goes to serve. He could wear any pants he wants in the entire world and he chooses to wear pairs that creep up his ass? I refuse to understand.

Tropic Thunder and a Tropical Storm

A couple of months ago, Katie and I were on one of our summer adventures downtown when it started pouring. I of course had no umbrella, because the story is much funnier that way, and ended up standing in the 6 train station at 77th street for a half hour, running to 79th street and standing under a bank awning until the bus came. Not shockingly the second I got home, it stopped raining. I hate irony.

Luckily today I learned my lesson and decided to take along my umbrella on my escapades to brunch and a movie. Unluckily, even though I have the largest umbrella known to man, I somehow still ended up soaking wet. WTF? People walking next to me with much smaller inferior umbrellas weren’t half as drenched as I managed to get. My jeans were soaked up to my thigh, my bag was like a sponge, and my flip-flops were showing off their unique hydroplaning abilities. I looked like one of those lunatic Weather Channel reporters getting blown around while sprinting across 34th street in an attempt to not miss the heavenly dry bus that was pulling up. As soon as I got on, I started cracking up. Hurricane 1, Jessica 0.

T-minus 11 Days

In honor of my extreme excitedness (not a word) about going to The Daily Show taping on September 15 (yippee, yee-haw, hellllllsss yea!!!!), I have carefully chosen one of the many, many clips that made me crack up uncontrollably from last week's coverage of the DNC. Classic.

40-LOVE

I know some of us were getting a bit tired of the Phelps entries... you know who you are... so why not go back to the old standard. Oh Rog, I heart you. Now that I've perfected my form at Tennis Camp... I really think it's time for us to hit around, or whatever the kids are calling it these days...

Paris and Nicole go to Tennis Camp

In high school I was on the track team for a day. I wanted to be a sprinter. I also wanted to be Mariah Carey, and yes as you can tell, I was delusional back then as well. You can easily ascertain how well the track team went for me based on my first statement, so instead I decided to stick to my musical talents and leave sports for another day. That fateful day, was this weekend... As Meredith and I stumbled into Tennis Camp with our McDonald’s bags, large dark sunglasses, and platform heels half an hour late because we were busy shopping at Woodbury Commons. Priorities people! First we couldn’t find the office to check in, then I couldn’t find our room. Basically as we walked up to the courts for our first afternoon of instruction, late and still wearing our obnoxious sunglasses, right past all of the pros, I only wish I could properly describe to you what their faces looked like. Some kind of awesome mix of horror, amusement, curiosity, and comedy. Or maybe they’d just never seen anyone with the audacity to wear shorts, which according to my brother is against ladies tennis etiquette. I actually do own a tennis skirt, however I purchased it many years ago because I thought it was really cute as a skirt and proceeded to cut out those pesky shorts that came sewn into it. Yea, I was pretty much regretting that at this point. However after my weekend at the most awesomest place on earth, I feel like a kid again on the last day of summer camp. I miss my friends (LeeAnn, Dirk, Andrea, Rita, and the posse from Staten Island), I miss my counselor (that would be our super cool pro Vic) and I miss camp. In an effort to keep the spirit alive until we hopefully return in November, I give you my Top Five Total Tennis memories from Labor Day weekend.

5 – We desperately needed bug spray, shampoo, snacks and other assorted pharmacy merchandise. Vic offered to bring bug spray because he didn’t want to give us directions to CVS because he thought we’d get lost... Which, we did. Even though we told the people at our dinner table that we were fine because “we have GPS.” Once we finally located the CVS, because the GPS led us to an Eckerd that was no longer at that location, we decided on the fantastically healthy snacks of Pringles and Oreos to go with our McDonalds from earlier in the day. You’d think we were at Fat Camp instead of Tennis Camp. Arriving back at camp, we watched the US Open and saw a big Oreo logo on the backboards... Turning to Meredith I said “OMG look, we’re sponsored by Oreo too!”

4 – The tennis racket that can technically be called mine is metallic blue with multi-color strings and designed for a 14 year old. So naturally I decided not to show up at camp with that hot mess and bring rackets that belonged to my Mom and Dad. On the first day while learning how to serve in my private lesson, Vic noticed that the racket I was using had a huge crack in the frame. I contend that the crack was most likely already there the whole time, even though it could have happened minutes prior when Vic asked if I could swing fast and get that “whoosh” sound... And I whooshed the racket right into my left knee. I probably would have been better off with my child size racket! Luckily Vic didn’t fail sharing in kindergarten and allowed me to use his extra racket all weekend.

3 – After 5 hours of tennis a day, honestly the only thing I can say I really wanted to do more than anything else in the world was watch more tennis on TV. Or not. I missed the Obama acceptance speech because the one TV at camp was playing the US Open. Then the next night, Steve-o from Scarsdale was none too happy about missing the Mets game seeing as Beltran hit a Grand Slam in the ninth with two outs to give them the lead. However, we were once again forcibly watching the US Open. Steve-o was monitoring the game on my Blackberry... That he refused to give back to me for 20 minutes even as Meredith and I repeatedly told him we wanted to go to sleep and his wife scolded him “Steve, they want to leave.”

2 – We went there to play tennis and play we did. When I wasn’t eating net, and hearing Vic repeat my mantra of the weekend “get out that net”, both Meredith and I hit shots that went hole in one right back into the ball hopper. I hit almost every part of poor Vic’s body, including one shot that may or may not have made him sterile. But the best was when he hit a couple straight to Mer, then one off to the side that she watched go by in shock and said “I have to run? A little warning would be nice...”

1 – Saturday night we had a dance in the barn. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say! Apparently while I was busy auditioning for The Grind and dragging along unsuspecting Vic to get low, low, low, low, low, low,... Meredith was playing pool with some guy named Mark and Winston from Jamaica, who said things to me that were vastly inappropriate and will not be repeated. Later in the night when we were introduced to Vic’s secret dance move... That should really remain a secret, I decided that maybe we could trade tennis lessons for dance lessons and that way he’d have some tips to use when he, as Meredith proclaimed “practices in front of his dolls”...

Greatest weekend ever.

The AARP hates me

In my continued effort to offend everyone and/or highlight the ridiculousness of the majority of people in our society, I’d like to focus today on the third tier of people who seem to think they can do whatever they want... Old people. Yesterday while I was waiting for the bus, I chose to sit in the last of three seats at the bus stop. Some of the newer bus stops have a bench that is designated, with partitions, into three separate seats. I was sitting near the edge of the bench with my purse next to me on the seat, when an older woman walked over, eyed my bag and said “is that your purse”? When I went to move it, she motioned like she was going to sit down. Let’s stop here and review a couple sentences back when I mentioned that the bench is partitioned into three seats. Was I supposed to let her sit basically on me, in what was designed to be ONE SEAT? Sorry Charlie. So of course, as these situations tend to go, the other person is the clear rude one, but somehow you end up being the bitch... I said to her “yes, but it’s one seat...” You can imagine to yourself what my face looked like.

Example 2. Today while in the Duane Reade downstairs with my co-worker Caryn, we were patiently waiting on line so that I could purchase my Goldfish crackers, because apparently as of recent I only eat snacks that are in the shape of fish. An older gentleman was milling around the checkout area and fully cut the entire line. He was lucky he had a cane... (not because I feel bad for him not being able to stand around and wait in line, but because I was scared he’d beat me with it if I said anything to him...)

I swear I really do like kids and animals...

This post is bound to offend someone, but hell, it surely wouldn’t be the first time...

It seems that if you have something smaller than you that is generally considered cute, for example a kid or a dog, you are somehow excused from normally acceptable courteous behavior. One would never think to get on a crowded subway or bus, find no seats available, turn to a friend and whine “I want to sit dowwwwwnnnn” and expect anyone to actually get up. However when a kid does it, that’s somehow okay? I find this so perplexing. Your kid’s rough life consists of attending preschool, finger painting all day and going to bed at 7pm, he definitely has more energy than I do, I’m pretty sure he’ll be fine standing. I’d get up for the elderly dude with the walker or the preggers lady, but that’s about it. Are we really expected to forfeit our seats and therefore teach your child that whining can get him things that he wants? Why don’t you instead politely inform your child that we do not behave like that in polite society? Oh that’s right because everything kids do is precious.

Dogs are cute too, so by this rule it’s okay when walking yours to criss-cross the entire sidewalk like you were impersonating a drunk, have the leash extended to roughly 5 feet so that if anyone wanted to actually pass you, they’d have to jump rope, and randomly just stop short. All of that ridiculous behavior is somehow okay because you have a fluffy dog? I f*&king hate people.