The Endorsement: Strawberry

I shacked at N's house last night on the spur of the moment, and because he and I live a good distance apart (we're talking boroughs here), I decided there was no way I was going to make it to the Upper East Side to change/shower/primp before work this morning.

On a tip from Sunny, I decided instead to stop by Strawberry, the poor woman's H&M, before work this morning to find myself something fabulous yet inconspicous that...wasn't my outfit from the day before. I hadn't been in a Strawberry since, oh, 2003, because, well, we all outgrow sequins sometime, but I have to say it: I love Strawberry. Not only did I find myself an adorable gray babydoll dress and inexpensive black tights for roughly $20 altogether, there was absolutely zero judgment from the gray-haired 50-something cashier as I politely asked her if she could please remove the tags and the security sensor from the dress as I was wearing it.

I received at least eight compliments from my co-workers on my attire today, all of which managed to detract from any residual feelings about my harlothood that my religious upbringing instilled.

So, New York ladies, if you're feeling slutty in the a.m., a trip to Strawberry is practically a visit to confession. A guilt-free trip to confession (financially, anyway).

Changes

Whenever I type that word, "changes," my mind involuntarily starts humming the opening bars to that Bruce Hornsby song "That's Just the Way It Is," which was sampled in that posthumous Tupac video/song tribute. Eh, that's not too bad of a thing. Eighties music has its place.

Without seeming exceedingly self-indulgent (um, too late...?), it never ceases to amaze me how life can turn on a dime -- how everything that seemed one way can suddenly look different.

I'm moving. I'm stripping myself of my oft-bitchy roommate and her social rules, and I'm moving to a hella expensive place of my own uptown. I'm so sad to be leaving the convenience of my Midtown neighborhood, but moving is key to my self-preservation. The less stressed I get about the apartment transaction, the more excited I get about everything else: the solitude, the space to write, the space to be totally naked in my living room whenever I want. My life is moving onward.

I think that when life starts pushing to break its self-imposed, temporary mold (my current apartment situation, for example), it forces a lot of other things out, too: The N thing is going well -- too well, I'd even venture to say, which leads to me waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to get tired of me. For me to say something extremely stupid. For this all to go up in a puff of fairytale-cloud, sparkly smoke. But it hasn't yet, and that's something to be grateful for.

I have to divorce The Bar that Shall Not Be Named. I haven't been there in a while (see other life changes, above, which have prevented me from putting "getting soused" at the top of my to-do list), but I went tonight, because I felt I owed it to my present self and my future self to remind all of my selves of what went on there -- the regressing and the desperation and all of that fun stuff that no one likes to talk about. I had a few beers and waited for the locals to show up, but they didn't. The Bar that Shall Not Be Named has a new laminated, professionally printed menu, though, and near the top of the specialty cocktails list was the Brazilian bartender's caiphrinha. I laughed out loud when I saw that. It reminded me of what he made for me the first night I met him and fell for him despite my best (sober) intentions. I thought about telling the bar manager, "Um, if you WANT people to get hammered off of one beverage that's essentially rum and crushed ice, go ahead!" The Brazilian bartender never made good drinks. But he did have a way about him.

What was great about seeing that menu was that it was all full-circle: I'm leaving. The Brazilian bartender is staying. I'm pushing on with my New York life. Everyone else there is stagnant, for now, until they receive their gusts of wind from the cosmos. I'm already more positive. I'm already writing more. I'm already hoping for things I didn't believe existed six months ago. It is progress. Progress is something everyone can at least appreciate from afar, even if it isn't happening to them.

Someone Great

I'm couching this post in terms of an LCD Soundsystem song, because I'm unsure of how to categorize all of this.

N is the man that I'm dating. It's weird to say that, because I have been -- and sort of am -- dating several men. I won't stop handing out my card unless I'm exhorted to. I won't stop playing these boys until I'm explicitly instructed not to.

But there's something about N that makes me talk frankly and forget all of my practiced lines and my perceived coolness and all of the Rules bullshit that I've played for these past six months.

I asked N out impromptu today, flouting the Rules, and he dropped everything and came. That was nice. He likes me. I like him. We sat at a banquette at a Thai place in my neighborhood that I wasn't sure still existed, and I heard the background music clearly.

"This is the song my parents danced to for the first time," I said, sipping from my glass of very decent Cotes du Rhone.

"That's weird," he said.

"Oh. Is it?" I said.

"It's a good omen," he said.

And he kissed me.

Swoon.

It's strange to fall for someone again.

You Can't Have It All

I was with one of my amazingly glamorous and talented friends tonight -- we ate dinner and drank wine down in the West Village. (I had an amazing veal-and-risotto dish. This is why I'm fat in New York City.) Over several glasses of an amazing red, we dished and bitched as only single New York City women can: We talked about our recent dates that went badly, the sex that wasn't all we thought our partners promised, our ex-boyfriends who are clearly either clueless or assholes, and our careers that are not quite what we want them to be. Yet.

That all might be true (or it might be a bit of embellishment), but in the middle of all of it, I noticed her newly glossy brunette hair and heard her speak about her latest projects, and I looked down at my middle-of-the-road designer bag and remembered the somewhat prestigious place that I work, and I thought, "You know what? Being able to afford to bitch and be fabulous over dinner in the West Village every month or so ain't half bad." Because I remember a time that I couldn't afford a stale cookie in a deli window, let alone dinner, and I will appreciate that now. Even though I'm in my late 20s and nowhere near as hot as I used to be, I'll take it, lovehandles and earned wisdom and all. New York skews your sane-person perspective somehow. Bearing that in mind, I wouldn't trade tonight and my fabulous girlfriend for anything offered to me. I walked up the stairs to my apartment happy.

We have $50, Do I Hear $55?

Who doesn't love the "date auction" convention in most early-1990s sitcoms? "Saved by the Bell" had one. "Blossom" had one. "Full House" had one. Who can forget refined Rebecca Donaldson offering up the contents of her entire checking account to win a date with Uncle Jesse? Any sitcom that was worth its salt had a dating auction that caused at least one cast member to reveal his or her feelings for another cast member.

That rampant plot-point success is what Dr. Blogstein and I are striving to bring to you, with Blogstein's (rather clever) campaign to sell me out. Well, in not so many words. Check out Blogstein's campaign to pawn me off on eligible bachelors in the tri-state area with The Dating Jane, which will come to fruition on Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour once we have enough outstanding bachelors to vie for my affections. So, guys, if you've ever pined for my verbage, please send an e-mail and a photo (natch) to Dr. Blogstein telling him why you're the one for me.

If you like early-1990s sitcoms, I know you love "The Brady Bunch," which is why you should absolutely tune in TONIGHT at 9 p.m. EST to Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour. We'll be interviewing "The Brady Bunch"'s lesser-known Cousin Oliver, who's sure to have insider info on the sitcom we've put in the American television canon. (If there is such a thing.)

She Got Game

Being successfully single isn't something one can just swoop right back into after years of being part of a couple. Or so I learned this past weekend.

I traveled to Maryland this past weekend to visit my friend J (and say hi to Neil) and attend one of J's legendary parties. She's quite the socialite, and a diverse crowd always turns up at her soirees. The evening began, and I started talking to two cute cops. They were men of few words -- tough guys' guys who were kind and shy and sweet. I loved that because the men I tend to meet in New York are creative types who talk a lot about concepts and ideas. The thought of conversing with men whose job it is to hustle and protect and do was incredibly hot. So I tried to flirt. And failed. Miserably. Instead of coming up with witticisms or cute questions to ask them, I clutched my cup of Yuengling and shifted from foot to foot in my bright, crazy-print new dress (which I realized too late is a little more Paris Hilton-esque than I had intended), trying to think of something to say.

Then it hit me: I have no game.

I think I lost a bit of moxie somewhere in that stretch of time in a relationship when impressions and appearances don't matter as much, so you say what you want and do what you want and generally backslide into being a regular gal, minus your usual dose of sparkly wit or biting humor. I'm gonna have to get that back at some point, but it'll happen. Incrementally, but I'll get there.

Also, I want to update my Typing Pool Breakup Song List, which -- thanks to all the incredibly smart, sympathetic, and music-savvy people who read this blog -- has become what I like to call "awesome."

Here's the new rundown:

1. "Here I Go Again," Whitesnake (a surprisingly good breakup song)
2. "Greenville" Lucinda Williams
3. "On My Own," Peach Union
4. "Smile," Lily Allen
5. "Song for the Dumped," Ben Folds Five
6. "Ex-Girlfriend," No Doubt
7. "More Adventurous," Rilo Kiley (courtesy S in Minnesota)
8. "Don't Stop Believin'," Journey (or any Journey, if you get right down to it) (courtesy Dr. Blogstein)
9. "Wang Dang Doodle," Koko Taylor (courtesy Phil)
10. "Alone Again, Naturally," Gilbert O'Sullivan (courtesy Dave)
11. "Message in a Bottle," The Police (courtesy Neil)
12. "Erased," Annie Lennox (courtesy Madame X)
13. "Kiss You Off," Scissor Sisters (courtesy Anndi)
14. "I'm Coming Out," Diana Ross (courtesy Tisha)

Consider my iPod filled.

To cap this list off, I was listening to Tori Amos's (quite decent) new album, American Doll Posse, today, and these lines from the song "Bouncing Off Clouds" seemed appropriate:

"Make it easy, make this easy, it's not as heavy as it seems...
Well, you can stare all day at the sky,
But that won't bring her (him) back,
That won't bring her (him) back
You say you're waiting on Fate,
But I think Fate is now
Waiting on us."

Four Fundamentally Wrong Aspects of the Movie "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days"

Chick flicks are really not my thing. I like them if they're well made (see: Working Girl), but if they're thrown together and cliched, they're reeeeeaaaalllly bad. And unfortunately, that definition comprises most of the genre (see: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days).

I settled in with a bottle of red and the remote this weekend only to find How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days playing on the We network. Considering my mental state (not totally balanced, but more on that much later) and my unwillingness to rise from the couch and my wine glass to pop in another DVD, I made the decision to watch it despite the fact I absolutely hated it when I saw it the first time. Choosing to watch the movie was much like confronting an old foe: "Ah, subpar chick flick. We meet again, yes? You want to convince me of your quality, you say? We'll see about that. Oh, yes, we'll see about that." Do I need to mention that I'd been into the wine already?

What I found surprised me a little. The movie wasn't quite as bad as I'd remembered, if only for the mildly entertaining performances by Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey, who is apparently required to ride a motorcycle in every leading-man role he signs on for. Actually, it's not hard for me to watch McConaughey in anything. You could sit me down in a dark theater to view a film of McConaughey watching paint dry, and I'd probably still consider it $11 well spent.

That is not my central point, though. My central point is that the first time I watched HTLAGITD, I did not live in New York. Now, I live in the city and was able to spot the wild inaccuracies that dot the movie. I'm not even talking your standard "Friends" inaccuracies, such as renting a huge apartment on an out-of-work actor's salary or the fact that everyone, including extras, is model-attractive. Let me break it down:

1. Kate Hudson's attempt to write "serious articles" for Composure magazine
-There is no way in hell that any woman working at a women's glossy in the city would whip up a little Word document on "serious issues" and try and give it to the editor in chief like there's a place for it in the mag. "Hey, Kate White, here's a little piece on genocide in Darfur I've been knocking around for the past week. Wanna put it in the mag, maybe next to the teal-bracelet roundup?" (This problem was familiar to me. See: Thirteen Going on 30 and her crazy ideas for the magazine.)

2. Depiction of Staten Island
-In the movie, Matthew McConaughey is supposedly from Staten Island. I sat up when I heard that, because I didn't remember that detail from my first viewing. So he takes Kate Hudson there (across the Verrazano on his motorcycle, natch). In movie-speak, "Staten Island" must mean "West Texas," because his entire family has a Southern accent, is white, and is playing cards on the back deck over some nice brews. What the hell? Even saying he lived in Jersey would have been slightly more believable.

3. Composure magazine's printing schedule
-I rolled when Kate Hudson waltzed into the editor in chief's office and said, "I can't do this article." As. If. She. Had. A. Choice. And then EIC Bebe Neuwirth said something like, "The cover is already at the printer, so have a draft on my desk in 48 hours." From what I understand of the magazine industry, there is no possible way the cover could be "at the printer" before stories were even in. Doesn't work that way. Also, giving Kate Hudson TWO DAYS to write the rest of the piece? That's an eternity in medialand. Bebe would have flipped out and made her turn it in in 15 minutes. And then, the "article" she finally turns in? Notsomuch a service piece. At all. Especially for a "how-to" reporter. (This problem was also familiar to me. See: Never Been Kissed and what passes for immersion journalism at the end of the film.)

4. Use of taxis
-Apparently, Kate quits Composure, and, the very next day, goes to Washington for an "interview." What kind of interview? We can't know. But I certainly hope it's for a "serious journalist" position. That's not even the problem, though. As Matthew McConaughey chases her down (on his motorcycle, natch) she's in a taxi. A taxi? To Washington, D.C.? That'll be $5,000, please. And even if I misunderstood and she were on her way to La Guardia, that doesn't make sense, either. She'd obviously take the train or bus rather than a plane. But the train wouldn't make for a very good McConaughey-on-motorcycle scene, now would it?

So, after my movie-viewing death match with HTLAGITD? Yep, it's still awful, just in different ways.

Me: 2 HTLAGITD: 0

My intelligence: 0 HTLAGITD: 2

My Financial Accountability: Day 4

Newbie to NYC's Spending Journal for Mid-April (cont.)

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Breakfast, two hard-boiled eggs and a cup of grapes: $3.16

Lunch, delicious curry with chicken: $9

Two Bud Lights: Free, courtesy of very cool friend A

Pilsner Urquell: $8 at a semi-chic West Village haunt

Cab back from semi-chic West Village haunt: $10

Total for 4/12/2007: $30.16

I'm getting too old to be cute about this: I'm frittering away my money on alcohol and cab rides, but that's sort of the New York way, is it not? If one does not drink, one does not socialize-slash-network nearly as much. And therein lies the rub. I sometimes wish I had either the inner confidence or the disdain for society that would enable me to be a hermit.

Refreshingly Alcoholic

For some reason, tonight it's just too late for my brain to get up and running to blog about anything of substance, so I'll just say this:

In New York, there are few bars that I feel have restorative properties. Most of the time, bars here take my money, my brain cells, and my dignity and leave me in excruciating pain the next morning. And then I kick the bartender out of my bed. Just kidding.

Still, when I need some sanctuary in the city, I go to KGB Bar in the East Village and down a bottle of Baltika beer while either listening to a reading or hanging out with some old friends. It's moderately quiet there and has the faint air of pseudointellectualism, so of course I'm right at home. The one caveat: You might have to listen to some bad music. Really bad music. They played Fergie tonight, and I'm not sure I'll ever view the bar the same way again. Oh, who am I kidding? You know I'll always love you, KGB.

Classin' Up the Joint

Taking the Greyhound bus round-trip from New York City to Baltimore isn't the classiest voyage, but that's how I roll. Today, on the trip back to the city after a fun stay in B-more, I was reminded of exactly how posh Greyhound can get when a busty thirtysomething woman with a young baby stood up near the front of the bus and turned around. The following phrase was printed in black on her tight white T-shirt (original punctuation and capitalization retained):

If you think I'm a Bitch, you should meet my Mother!

"Luxury coach," indeed.

Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child

Okay, I was going to spare you all from my usual stupid-rich-people rant and not blog about this story, a Times Real Estate feature on parents who "help" their children buy fancy New York apartments. But then I saw that Madame X blogged about it, and she has real class, so I decided to follow suit.

Whenever I read stories like this, about parents giving so much to their children, or meet people who have had extraordinary help from their parents in their adult lives, I get ever so slightly angry. Is it because I'm jealous? Hey, maybe I am. If, upon my graduation from college, I had had a set of rich parents who offered to buy me a studio in the high-rise Manhattan sky, I would not have had to endure nearly as many hardships -- financial and interpersonal -- as I did trying to get here.

On the flip side, if I had acquired that fancy, free apartment...I would not have had to endure nearly as many hardships -- financial and interpersonal -- as I did trying to get here.

Let me explain:

At twentysomething years of age, I have been through deadbeat subleasers, insane roommates, disrespectful roommates, dirty roommates, credit-card debt, three dollars total in my wallet, asshole temporary friends, a move to a strange post-industrial town all for the promise of a short-term job, and general despondency in Jersey while looking across the stretch of the Hudson River at everything I could not have. But I survived. I figured shit out. I saved my pennies. I worked hard. I suffered in silence. I acquired a thicker skin.

But most importantly, I acquired some semblance of self-respect that I don't know that I could acquire otherwise. I call bullshit more often. I don't trust as quickly as I used to. I obsess over my financial accounts. I still choose generic groceries over name-brand products because it just makes good sense. I know in my heart that I got here, mostly* on my own, all the way from a lower-middle-class family smack dab in the middle of Nowheresville, Midwest. That makes me less willing to give it all up, be it for a shaky new job, a man, or a whim when I hear California whispering to me. And it makes me love New York and appreciate good restaurants, diversity, and the way the sun glints off of skyscrapers' windows that much more.

The people I've met who have had a lot of help from their parents? They're worldly in the materialistic ways of the rich but naive when it comes to picking their acquaintances. They spend too much money. They don't quite understand the value of a dollar. They have no backup plan.

But they don't need a backup plan because of their family's money. Unless, of course, something bad happens. But they can't see that, either. Dare I say it, when bad situations arise, they might not have the wherewithal to manage themselves in a time of personal (or financial!) crisis.

It is my view that if I ever have children (God forbid), I will teach them to be independent. That if they fuck up, there will be no hammock woven out of hundred-dollar bills to cradle their fall. That if they spend all their money on booze and coke, there will be no reservoir into which they can dip. That is they can't afford a fancy New York apartment, guess what? They don't get one. Unless, of course, they save their pennies, suffer in silence, work hard, and buy generic groceries, and even then, there is no guarantee.

The downside of working for what you have is that you become just a tad bit bitter.

If you liked this rant, you're gonna love the ones here, here, and here.

*I did have a minimal amount of post-college help from my parents, but we're talking a few hundred dollars when I was working two part-time jobs and was still unable to pay my rent for a month, not a few hundred thousand for a sweet penthouse.

Not Suitable for Children

Last week, Jerry, one of my favorite bartenders in Midtown, recommended a delicious wine. He has a knack for pouring velvety, spicy, rich reds that taste expensive and chic. When we all had received a glassful, he unveiled the bottle's label and everyone I was dining with smiled:















Only a person with the hardest of hearts couldn't appreciate the whimsy of this Walla Walla, Washington, brand. I didn't realize it until I went to the L'Ecole No. 41 website later that day, but this red is a mix of several different wines: 42% Merlot, 22% Cabernet Sauvignon, 21% Syrah, 11% Cabernet Franc, 3% Petit Verdot, 1% Carmenère. How's that for an intriguing table wine?

Gentlemen reading this blog: I don't mean to sound condescending, but I think this wine is a sure bet if you're having a lady over for dinner. The flavor is rich without being overpowering, and the label is funny and sweet enough that she'll see you for the good-hearted suitor you most certainly are. Click here to buy straight from the winemaker.

Corner of Margarita between Booze and Sauced

I had a couple (okay, a few) margaritas after work with my awesome friend N tonight. We left the bar and parted ways, and about halfway home, a woman asked me where Lexington Avenue is. "That way," I said immediately, motioning to the left. "It's two blocks down. One, two." She bounced off happily.

Then I realized something: I never give the correct directions when I am sober.

Usually, I'm trudging up the steps from the train around 7 p.m. sober as a judge, in my usual routine, thinking things about work like, "Why, God, hast thou smote me so?" so when some 21-year-old blonde forces me out of my reverie by saying something abrupt like, "Excuse me. Where's Madison?" I say, "Uhhhhhhh. Uhhmmmmm," and then, puzzled, I stare at the intersection next to me, almost as if I've licked my index finger and have raised it straight upward to see which way the wind's a-blowin'.

One time, I said, "This is Madison." The young lady looked at me, and then she looked at the street, pointed to the telltale grassy median, and said, "This is Park." I muttered something about "long day" and "ask someone else," and then I tried to pretend the incident had never happened.

I should set up some sort of a directions booth in Midtown around 1 a.m. on a Saturday and charge for my stellar map services. Payment in booze, of course.

Sarasongs

I saw a great musician tonight: Sara Bareilles. She's a singer/songwriter/pianist, and I was hooked from the first note. It's hard to describe how she sounds. As I was standing at Hiro Ballroom, watching her, I came up with "a cross between Fiona Apple and Billie Holiday." That's moderately accurate. You can hear her songs at her MySpace page, but her official website is here. But trust me: The recordings don't do her voice justice.

I'm a sucker for female singer/songwriters anyway, so it's no surprise that I like her. Strangely enough, a man -- the Boyf -- introduced me to her.

The thing about hearing an artist perform or reading something meaningful is that it takes me aback a little. As adults, we're so good at pushing away our feelings in favor of stoicism, keeping the peace, or simply surviving. When I heard Sara's voice tonight and listened to her lyrics, something was peeled back -- one of those New York onion layers that I've wrapped myself up in. Sometimes we need a nudge in order to cry.

(Also, please tune in tonight at 9 p.m. EST to hear Dr. Blogstein and me spout off our opinions on such things as March Madness and the Barbie Bandits on Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour. Just click here to listen.)

The Age Divide

I'm twentysomething. I'm holding onto that, no matter whether age ain't nothin' but a numbah or youth is prized above all else. But when you're twentysomething and not doing exactly what you love but a whole bunch of little things that kind of surround that thing that you knew you wanted to do above all else at 16 years old, well, sometimes time seems limited.

I look good on paper. I've worked hard, I've struggled, and I've done all those cliche Midwesterner-turned-New Yorker things. ("Oh, but Mr. Pendleton! I thought we were just friends! And don't you have a wife? Please put your hands back in your pockets!" Yeah. Me. Sad, but me.) But I haven't made it. I don't feel I have. Or maybe I have, and I just don't know it. Maybe I'll look back and say, "Damn, girl. You had it so good, and you didn't even know it at the time."

Maybe no one really "makes it" in New York. I'm forming a personal theory that the Achievement Demons feed on New York life. They whisper in your ear after you've received a promotion or scored a big account or landed an assignment you dig. They say, "It's not enough. You should do more. Look at everyone else around you: They're all doing more. And they're all younger than you."

Maybe it will never be enough. Maybe nothing in any aspect of New York life -- work, apartment, boyfriend/girlfriend, life, income, achievements -- will ever be enough.

Dreams Can Come True, They Can Happen to You

It's finally happening! I will have the chance to meet my absolute favorite money guru, Suze Orman, in NYC on Tuesday, February 27. She's coming to the Union Square Barnes & Noble to promote her yet-to-be-released book Women & Money.

I am totally geeked. Not only is she coming to my city to speak (for free), but she's publishing a book (well, Random House is publishing the book, but you know what I mean) that I am already immensely interested in. If Nice Girls Don't Get Rich was great, imagine how useful this book will be!

I'm already mapping it out in my head: I'll get there at 6:45 p.m. -- no -- 6:30 p.m. Maybe 6:15. I'll ask to leave work early and haul it downtown as fast as possible. I will resolve NOT to merely say what I always say when I meet celebrities: "You're great." (See: The John Stamos Incident of 2002 and/or The John C. Reilly Incident of 2006.) I will work up something witty and intelligent to say. I will tell her how I've been counseling some of my girlfriends on money. I will tell her she's doing great things for women. I will tell her I have a 401(k) because of her. Or...I will only manage to squeak, "You're great."

Either way, I will meet Suze Orman. Hoo. Ray.