Beat Me With Bay Leaves, Baby

Why enjoy a traditional massage with aromatherapy candles and elevator music when you can get the shit beaten out of you by a Russian sumo-wrestler in two-hundred degree heat?

I’ll explain.

This past weekend, my friend Jewel took me waaaay downtown on an adventure to a banya, the Russian version of a hamam or Turkish bath. I was full steam onboard with this plan since I’m a steam room junkie. Nothing feels as fabulous as sweating out your toxins before catapulting yourself into freezing water, then slowly getting warm again. Since I have zero circulation and am chronically cold, the steam room’s extreme temperatures actually serve to help me normalize. And let’s not forget my ultimate fantasy is sweaty, slithering sex in Turkish bath, an unfulfilled daydream that I imagine works infinitely better in my imagination than in reality.

So Jewel and I slipped into our bikinis and began exploring the spa like curious children. There was a dining area, a lounge, a billiards table, an area to watch sports, a swimming pool, Jacuzzi and then steam rooms, saunas and baths all of varying temperatures. Essentially an adult playground.

We lounged in the steam and then the sauna gossiping while sprawled out like infants until it was time for our massage, by massage I mean beating.

Jewel is already deeply addicted to this ritual so tried to prep me for what I was about to experience.

“You’re in the hottest sauna of two-hundred degrees and they beat you with hot, wet bunches of leaves.”

Me: “Does it hurt?”

Her: “Yeah.”

Me: “Why leaves?”

“It increases circulation. It’s also a purification ritual.”

Back in the day, the bath houses were apparently all about religious practice and spiritual cleansing. Don’t ask me for details since I’m clueless, and Wikipedia and I are on a relationship break this week (we had a fight). But I find the whole topic fascinating. We decided Jewel would go first so I could watch the whole process from start to finish before being subjected to it myself.

A very large Russian man in a bathing suit and what looked like a straw elf cap laid Jewel down before beating the crap out of her with two fists of leaves. He was pounding away as if she were a pair of bongo drums. Soon, I was subjected to the same thing and flipped over so he could pound my front side as well. My thought throughout the whole thing:

“It’s really hot; if I don’t pass out and have to have a stretcher take me out of here, I’m a winner.”

Because it is really hot. When your massage (I mean beating) ends, you’re so dizzy your Russian wrestler has to essentially carrying you to the freezing water pool as if you were blind. Getting dumped into a vat of ice cold acqua is subsequently the best feeling on earth. You get out quickly though, because your skin is tingling on a painful level.

My Russian then grabbed me by the back of the neck and forced my head under a cold shower for a few minutes. Then he instructed me to lie in one of the cooler steam rooms for ten minutes.

Those ten minutes may have been the best of my life. You know how in drug movies you see people shoot up heroin and then just pass out in ecstasy. I felt like I finally understood what they were going through. My head pounded with perhaps the largest endorphin release of my life. My body tingled. I could feel my circulatory system actually functioning. I could feel the blood gushing through my veins. Honestly, I could’ve probably laid there looking at that wooden, dripping ceiling till 2010, but my body eventually instructed me to go get water.

So we sprawled out in the lounge area hydrating and munching on delicious watermelon. My glow lasted for days and I left the place revitalized, healthy, and feeling like someone in a Neutrogena commercial.

Cost of the whole Russian bath day, entrance to beating to food…around $75. When you consider one facial in Manhattan is $100, this could be an affordable addiction.

Solution Blonde

It’s not unlikely that around this time of year you may start to feel those cursed A, B, C, Ds:

Alone

Bothered

Confused and

Depressed.

The winter work crunch is on, the carefree days of summer are a distant memory and to make it all worse you have the elves, wreathes, shiny holiday bells and obnoxious carols to remind you that the financial and emotional evil that is Christmas lurks just around the corner. As the East Coast weather hops from mid-sixties, to thirties, back to sixties, you may find your constantly wearing the wrong jacket and in a kind of emotional schizophrenia. You may find yourself:

Becoming absurdly tired from a simple night out on the town…

Eating tyrannosaurus rex portions of pie…

Lying listless by an open fire…staring at a spec of chipped paint on the wall…for hours…

Curled up under your comforter in the fetal position with all your apartment lights on…for hours…

Buying leather dominatrix boots you don’t need on whim because they were Steve by Steve Madden and $100 off…

Agonizing over holiday plans and what to do on Christmas’ bastard stepchild of a holiday, New Years.

Wait. Who are we talking about again?

Anyway. Rather then deal with the fact that my emotional and mental stability is disintegrating, I’ve decided to ignore the fact that it’s winter and add some sunshine to my life by going blonde.

Super blonde.

Yes, I’m already blonde, but the ‘I-was-white-blonde-as-a-child, my-hair-got-darker, I- used-Sun In-in-middle-school, and-now-get-partial-highlights-twice-a-year-that-look- miraculously-natural’ kind of blonde, which translates to dirty blonde. I want to take the ‘dirty’ part out of the equation and return to that blinding white blondeness that is such a challenge to maintain.

Maintenance is currently the least of my concerns. I want to get high on highlights. I want to have so much tin foil in my hair that I run the risk of brain damage via peroxide.

That’s how gloriously blonde I want to be.

Hopefully, it will trigger some sort of attitude reform. Maybe I’ll get more attention. Maybe more people will treat me like I’m a moron. It’s my personal hope that my unsavory nightlife acquaintances and the drama-inducing Mr. Grey will no longer even recognize me. Maybe the peroxide will kill enough of my brain cells so that I can become an actual ditz and stop being so damn self-aware.

Who knew hair dye could be the solution to so many problems?

Since I absolutely refuse to have my hair cut by anyone who claims to be a ‘stylist’ or works in a salon (stories about my hair dresser-phobia here), and have begun mistrusting colorists as well (not to mention it’s a rip off), I’ll be getting my do-up on Friday at my wonderful Brazilian friend’s Upper East side apartment. She’s colored my hair before and does a fantastic job (note: Brazilians are really good at anything cosmetic related). It’s way more pleasurable than going to Licari for example since we chill, talk, watch TV, and gossip about our entire group of friends uninterrupted without house music blasting in the background or vodka in our hands. I shower post-treatment at her place, give her eighty bucks and we call it a day.

Reports on my transformation to blonde swan this weekend….

Ugly Betty & Dressing-Up Drama

The inevitable, annual, insane pre-Thanksgiving workload has made life crazy busy. So busy, in fact, that I wasn’t able to watch last Thursday’s Ugly Betty on my DVR until today. If you’re an avid watcher of the show, I approve. If you’re not, this week’s past episode is perhaps the one episode you should carve time out of your schedule to see. It was off the wall hilarious. Becki Newton who plays Amanda stole the entire show: After being asked to sing for the church when Wilhelmina’s wedding ceremony was interrupted by Betty in typical soap opera style, she busted out this song. I fell onto the floor laughing, especially when we cut back to the scene and the organ and church choir is backing her up and the Upper East Side audience is doing the wave.




For those of you who followed my unhealthy obsession with my roommate’s sparkly black dress, you’ll be proud to know that I fessed up to being a closet stalker, and was generously given permission to purchase the dress in my size. I plan to wear it this weekend, get the fashion fantasy out of my system keeping the tags on, and avoiding any clubbing collisions, most likely return it sometime next week. I’ve personally never played this ‘debut it’ and ‘dump it’ upscale clothing return program. But according to my sources, some girls work this system to the max. They buy five hundred dollar gowns, tuck in the tags, party like a rock star and return it with the receipt a week later.

Is this genius? Gross? Conniving? Acceptable?

I have no idea.

Clearly, my Barbie doll mother condemned the idea as ‘not classy.’ “The salespeople know exactly what you’re doing,” she said.

Agreed.

But how many times does one realistically wear the glitter-fabulous dresses in our closet? And isn’t it so much more fun to always wear something new? This system allows for constant novelty, and you get your money back at the end of every night. So barring any extreme accidents, I’m going to try the unclassy returns route just this once.

I’ll keep you all posted.

What’s Up Down There

I made it a special point to TiVo Ms. Banks’ ‘Va-jay-jay’ episode of her Oprah-like talk show ‘Tyra,’ figuring it would be such a goldmine of hilarity that I’d have enough material to mock for weeks.

The show didn’t disappoint.

Tyra created this special va-jay-jay episode because she feels women need to have a ‘vagina dialogue.’ According to her, the fact that most women are private about their private parts (shocking, right?) means that we’re ‘in denial.’ In denial about what exactly (the fact that we don’t have a penis?) remained unclear.

Apparently only 11% of Tyra’s audience (an audience of gap-toothed, bootylicious women who I think were paid to sit and endure the show) could properly label a diagram of the female anatomy. There’s a lot technical doctor jargon for those parts, a vocabulary most of us haven’t utilized since Sex Ed in middle school. I don’t think I could properly label an empty map of the USA (the mid-west is a mystery to me). Does that make me ‘in denial?’ I think most women are too busy living their lives to spend daily quality time with our va-jay-jay and a hand mirror. So I think 11% is pretty damn good.

To help us better understand our anatomy, Tyra produced a ‘Vulva Puppet’ that looked like a lumpy beige sofa cushion gone wrong. The doctor demonstrating didn’t make the vulva puppet talk (thank god), because if it had happened to sing happy birthday or something I would’ve laughed until peeing my pants (pee which comes from my urethra, NOT from where I have babies – Tyra clarified this, God bless her).


Next, the show followed a twenty-eight year old woman with gynophobia who’d never been in the stirrups or gotten a pap smear. No one likes the gyno, but it’s just something you suck up and do. In short, we got to see Tyra hold this woman’s hand as she got her first pap smear on national television.

Inspiring? Gross? You pick.

Next, we dealt with women who have fear of inserting tampons. I just don’t get it. Don’t these women realize the va-jay-jay is a hole that’s meant to have stuff stuck up it. The thing’s actually designed to be penetrated.

Tyra’s Four Prong Attack of the menstrual cramp proved disappointing. She came up with:

1. A pain killer
2. Hot bath
3. Heating pad
4. Hot tea

Really? That’s the best a national Tyra-led committee on cramps could come up with? If a hot tub and a tea cup of English Breakfast does the trick for Tyra I think it’s safe to say this diva’s never experienced real coat hanger-like abortion cramps in her life.

Despite the comical nature of Tyra’s show in general, and the wealth of hilarious email questions about ‘heavy flow,’ Tyra did answer some relevant, practical, nether-region questions and discussed cervical cancer while promoting the new HPV vaccine. And that’s commendable.

For me, an actually useful question came from an audience member who asked, ‘What’s the difference between those 1, 3 and 7 day yeast infection packs?’ My roommate and I immediately turned to each other:

“What is the difference?”

The answer is none. It’s just a marketing gimmick by people over at the yeast factory to mind-fuck women shopping at Duane Reade. And that’s good to know.

So you know what, Tyra?

Thank you.

Aghast at Abercrombie & Fitch

Friday I found myself in the unusual position of being above 14th street in the heart of enemy corporate territory – the 50s and Madison. I’d had to attend a meeting at 30 Rock, naturally scheduled at an ungodly early morning hour. The good news is that I was liberated by 11 a.m., and as I bee lined for the nearest express subway stop to take me back to the haven of downtown, I started to see an disproportional amount of yuppies carrying black and white Abercrombie shopping bags. I sniffed the foggy air (which smelled like burning dollar bills), looked to the sky, and realized I was on 5th Avenue and 50th street, just blocks away from Abercrombie’s ginormous New York six-floor headquarters which had taken every unemployed model in the city and half the student population of NYU to staff.

While usually I would’ve blocked all uptown stores out of my line of sight, sporting an imaginary human version of those equine visors they strap onto the abused carriage horses in central park, on this particular morning I did not. Just a week before, I, a girl who hasn’t set foot in an Abercrombie store since age fourteen (and even then thought it was pretty lame) was actually searching for an Abercrombie establishment near Washington Square a mere week prior. I only succeeded in finding a Rugby (sort of the same thing), and called a girlfriend to ask where the hell Abercrombie was downtown and why I was too stupid to find it.

“There is no Abercrombie downtown,” she replied. “There’s only the mega store on 5th and 55th.”

“Really?!” I was dumbstruck. “How could the corporate Nazi’s at Abercrombie forgo putting a store near NYU…easily a third a their clientele in Manhattan?”

This made no sense. And I was peeved. While I generally dislike Abercrombie and don’t own any of their clothes, I recently abducted one of my roommate’s tank tops that fit me notably well. It was just the right length, the right amount of elasticity around my chest, the right amount of support so that I didn’t have to wear a bra and the proper transparency so that forgoing lingerie would not be inappropriate, just slightly sexy. I quickly turned the tank inside out, and my mouth gaped open in astonishment when I saw the oversize Abercrombie & Fitch label on the back, followed by the delightfully sick ‘Made in Vietnam’ tag.

Hence my quest for an Abercrombie store. It was my intention to sprint in, and sprint out with the same style tank top in two basic colors.

As I approached 52nd street, I began mentally preparing myself for what treacheries might await me at this fabled Abercrombie Disneyland. I’d never been, only heard it was massive, and that Abercrombie’s corporate office were stacked about the five-floor store. That’s a lot of Ambercrombie energy for a sixty-meter radius. I’d also recently read guestofaguest’s blurb about the Abercrombie male sales reps who were ridiculed last week for working sans-shirt.

“This shopping experience is probably going to be horrific,” I cooed to myself while forcing down deep breathes. “But I can do it.”

* * *

No amount of mental training could have prepared me for the shit show I witnessed the moment I entered this store. There were two models at the entrance; the girl in a bikini top and yes, the guy was actually TOPLESS, but not nearly attractive enough for me to be okay with it. I think they offering perfume samples or something. I honestly have no idea since I ran away from them as fast as possible.

I then entered the first room of the first floor: a miniature model zoo. The model workers stood behind registers and booths like animals in pre-assigned cages. Most were folding clothes; some were just staring wistfully into space, perhaps fantasizing about freedom.

Two things jumped out at me immediately as odd. One was that the store was darker than a basement. How were you supposed to shop when you needed a flashlight to see the clothes? The second was that the music was at a decibel level I’d be comfortable with if at a club like Marquee, but absurd for a store in the daytime. It was remarkably loud. And peppy. I almost left right then because it was taking my ears an unusual amount of time to adjust to the abuse. Then a saw a male model worker at a jeans display who I swear I know from Tenjune, so I rushed to the next floor before we could properly make eye contact.

If the store had any kind of organizational structure, I was too inept to figure it out. I kept looking for those signs that most department stores put near stairs and elevators that inform you that ‘the first floor is Women’s, second floor Men’s, the third floor Accessories etc.’ At Abercrombie, every floor looked exactly the same…the displays were similar and sported the same clothes. Men’s and women’s were mixed together throughout every floor. As I rushed up and down staircases and circled stacks of clothing, I couldn’t help but feel I was seeing the same outfits over and over and over again. I was beginning to feel mildly insane so contemplated asking someone for help. Then I realized that doing so would force me to scream at the top of my lungs over the techno remix of Beyonce they were blasting, so I didn’t bother.

I later caught a glimpse at the changing room line, which looked twice as large as the usual morning stack up at the Starbucks on Astor Place. The registers were clogged as well. And it was eleven a.m. on a Friday.

What was this jungle like on a Saturday at noon?

That thought, coupled with the Justin Timberlake spunked-up glitter music that was now pulsating through the stereo confirmed that I had to leave this store immediately for my own well-being – despite the fact that I had miraculously located the tank tops I wanted. I ditched them at a men’s display and fought my way out of the store like trauma victim.

On my way out, the topless male model tried to approach me with some sort of flyer and I almost screamed in panic, in part because his chest was hairless and clearly waxed (men without chest hair frighten me) and in part because I recognized him from karaoke night at Cipriani’s Upstairs.

To the Abercrombie store: never, ever, ever again.

Home is Where the Heart Is (Question Mark)?

I actually saw and spent time with the entities that gave birth to me this weekend, something that doesn’t happen too often since accessing them is similar to trying to get a direct call into the Pope. They travel frequently. By frequently I mean like three and a half weeks out of the month. They have a lot of phones. By a lot I mean like six. A completely futile system since they never seem to answer any of them, and when I call I’m never sure if the cell’s going to ring American style or beep and inform me that they’re in Europe or go static and inform me they’re probably in Asia and I should use the Asia mobile number I’ve failed to program into my phone despite the fact that I’ve had it for over seven years. Don’t get me wrong; we all love each other (with the assistance of consistent therapy). Our paths just don’t cross as much as some ‘more normal’ families (in my words) probably do.

Seeing them was all the more poignant because our reunion took place in our home. And because of unusual circumstances, I actually stayed with them, in my old bedroom – an event that hasn’t occurred in ions. I utilize our house. It’s empty three hundred and twenty days a year, in a fantastic location, can hold a great party, and has a lot of bathrooms, something a cramped Manhattaner especially appreciates. I love washing my face in one bathroom, filing my nails in another, showering in the master and putting on make-up in my mom’s. For someone who lives in New York-size apartments, the sense of this extensive hygienic space is oddly orgasmic. The point is that it wasn’t weird being at home. What was weird was being there with them. Sitting in my bedroom, hearing them chat a floor below me, I felt like a high schooler again.

I’ve found family visits such as these seem to follow a distinct pattern. You arrive with a really expensive bottle of Napa wine in hand, enjoy fab hors dourves, stake on the grill, and alcohol and you think, ‘wow, I feel really grounded. These people are great. We’re getting along well. Maybe they see me as an actual adult now instead of the unachieving moron they happened to spawn. I should come back more often. The free gourmet food is abundant. And they really know how to marinate meat!’

Then, much later…just when you’re glowing in your newfound familial happiness and are at ease at your laptop, feet up, finally with your guard down, they say the comment. A comment that references the biggest mistake of your life, a snippet from your dirty past, proof that they haven’t forgotten: You’re still the irresponsible girl who absentmindedly drove her bike into a tree, smashed the car diagonally into the garage, dyed her hair black and looked like a heroin addict – and they’re never going to let your forget it, EVER. They will hold all relevant information against you in a court of emotional blackmail whenever need be.

It’s around that time that you want to S.O.S. in a helicopter and get out fast.

I really can’t complain. This visit was conflict free, and it remains comforting to see them. Some other pluses from the trip:

1. I gave myself my most successful at-home mani pedi EVER utilizing my Barbie doll mother’s insanely extensive beauty tool kit.

2. I rediscovered some lovely/creepy childhood objects in my room such as my senior year prom beer mug, my high school eye glitter, and platform sneakers (who allowed me to wear those!!!)

3. I received a pile of new trendy clothes and super cute fuzzy warm ski pants from my mother. No one can say the woman doesn’t shop for me.

4. I remembered that since the great Model Behavior laptop crash of last year, a lot of old music is missing from my digital collection. I transferred all of my CDs home three years ago when they were taking up space in my Manhattan apartment I needed for shoes, so I got to flip through these albums again and re-install the childhood songs that brought back good memories. This included a lot of Italian pop, especially Nek and Eros, The Calling, All American Rejects, and yes I’ll admit it, one song by BBMak.

In the sprit of remembering memories through music, I leave you perhaps the most ridiculous song in the history of our planet which I re-discovered on a middle school mix CD of mine. Bartok and I used to sing this to cheer one another up in times of teen angst, because you literally can’t be sad and listen to Humpty at the same time. The lyrics (which, by the way, I know by heart) are just too funny.


For those of you with more romantic sensibilities, I leave you with another favorite I rediscovered. Nek’s Sei Solo Tu. I don’t even want to get started on my Nek crush since I feel he merits his own blog entry in which I properly worship his fabulousness complete with pictures, but I will say that while this may not be his best song, I felt like I’d been punched in heart when I heard it again.

Huh. Maybe that means there’s hope for my jaded, game playing, Manhattan heart yet.

Musings While in Hibernation

Since I’m still too ill to go out and party, I’ve resorted to the next best thing – stalking the web for photos of myself partying. Sound pathetic? It is. So I came across a bunch of photos taken on one of these recent evenings and to my dismay found that I look absolutely horrible in every single one (um, no…I’m not providing the links).

WTF?

Usually these semi-professional event photographer people take good photos. Usually I’m out in a place that’s dark enough with such an impressive amount of make-up on that I always come across looking acceptable. Usually, I pass for having a sense of style.

Not on the night these photos were taken.

First of all, I’m wearing a top and leggings that don’t match. Two, the top isn’t a top anyone should wear with leggings. Three, I’m way shiny, and silly, and look lost. Four, my hair looks drier than hay, and fake.

At the particular party where these photos where taken, there happened to also be in attendance a young woman I especially dislike. Everyone has people in this world we scribble on our imaginary hit list, either because they trash talk our friends, are clueless about proper social behavior, are extremely enviable, or have fucked the guy we like (in my case with this woman, all four). The worst part about this group of online photos is that however much I look awful, my nemesis looks fabulous. She’s a knockout in every frame! I’d say we’re tied for the number of photo opts, but while I look impressively undesirable, she’s glowing like a Victoria’s Secret model. Her outfit was also casual, classy, and…perfect.

Guess you can’t win ‘em all.

Other Discoveries…

Milano cookies. They’re great. I vote them Pepperidge Farm's greatest invention, although everything that company flings out the oven is pretty damn good. I’ve had a thing for Milanos since fourth grade. By the time I hit middle school, some crafty market analysts looking to suck more money out of the average American shopper came out with the idea of Mint Milanos, Double Chocolate Milanos, Strawberry Milanos and now in a diet conscious age, Sugar Free Milanos. I’m not a huge experimenter and I hate mint except for when in toothpaste or breath deodorizers, so I’ve been a solid Double Chocolate Milano cookie eater ever since the multi-branding.

So why Milanos and not Chessmen?

Milanos have the prefect amount of sugar in them. They taste great with milk and they’re not large, so you don’t have the mental responsibility of consuming a whole cookie. Plus the package seems to last forever. There are three layers of crunchy vanilla chocolate morsels. So your stash never seems to end. This cookie is the perfect pick me up, not to mention it’s named after one of my favorite cities. Wow. I just realized I’m blogging about cookies. I blame my Dayquil. Moving on…

Not looking forward to…

Halloween. When I got my fist New York apartment I stalked up on candy hoping to coo at some cute kids dressed up as ladybugs or Sponge Bob Square Pants.

No one came!

So staying in isn’t a fun option. Even less of a good time though, seems to be going out. The city’s a madhouse, and that parade is insane. Are throbbing crowds of drunken freaks dressed like Lord of Rings characters people’s idea of a good time? We all know I like an excuse to party, I’ve just never got on the Halloween bandwagon. I hate dressing up. I hate playing pretend. I loathe haunted houses, creepy music and I really, really don’t like being scared (Jodie Foster’s movie Contact terrified me, okay? I’m a wimp). I also feel Halloween has lost a lot of its charm (assuming it had some) and has become an excuse for girls to dress up like especially ostentatious prostitutes and not be properly ridiculed for it. For more visual costume examples, I refer you to Take a Memo’s blog entry here.

So what are you all doing for Halloween? Is anyone feeling the ‘come up with an amazing costume to get into to [insert friend’s name]’s slamming Halloween party’ pressure?

Isn’t life stressful enough?

Between Diddy’s white party, Planet Pink’s silver night and the various Italian toga parties it’s like every evening requires its own special ensemble. Doesn’t the universe know that outfit selecting process for females is intrinsically complex as is?

That’s the end of my rant for now.

Time to sedate myself with more meds…

Spreading a Little Food Knowledge

Two years ago, when musing about various elective course options with a group of college friends, I was made aware of a class called ‘Nutrition and Health,’ which according to my sources made “everyone who took it anorexic.”

Paradoxical, right?

And since I spent too many formative years in the sicko fashion world, where anorexia is considered a necessary evil, like a fortuitous strand of the chicken pox, I was instinctively drawn to this idea. A class that made people loose weight? A class that didn’t involve annoyingly fit motivational teachers, weights, yoga mats or crunches? My friend assured me, “Yes. Once you learn what truly makes up the food we eat, you’ll never want to put anything in your mouth again.” I was simultaneously enamored and horrified by this concept.

Now, years later, I’m finally taking a nutrition class. And not in order to lose weight, but rather to make more informed choices about the food I put in my body on a daily basis. Eating right can save you from a lot of scary, deathly diseases down the line. And I’ve noticed that I truly feel better when adhering to a healthier diet. I posses more energy, I write more; I’m more inclined to workout. I’m also generally nicer to everyone I interact with, as I’m not experiencing the emotional pitfalls of ‘sugar high’ and ‘sugar low’ (a big plus as I’m a pretty emotional personal in general, without adding caffeine.) Besides, if we are what we eat, I definitely want to make sure I’m a sleek banana rather than a squishy Big Mac. And if eating right keeps me from snapping at my roommate or swearing at my alarm clock, all the better!

One of the first topics my professor addressed was the amount of mixed messages we receive about food over the course of our lifetime. Newspapers and magazines generate most of this food propaganda, and these sources usually don’t take into account ‘the big picture.’ One day Atkins and his diet are in, the next he’s out. One week Vitamin B supplements are the secret to clear skin; next week it’s fish oil capsules. Right now carbs are bad for us, in two years, they probably won’t be anymore. The media takes a subjective stance on food the same way it does on fashion. Only what we consume has serious long-term ramifications on our health (while the once-stylish orange halter top we wore can only really damage our egos). With the trends constantly changing, even conscious eaters with the best of intentions are being misled. How does the average Chipotle craving, Glamour reading, health conscious girl know who to trust? I really doubt health and beauty magazines are an authority. They’ve been publishing those failed ‘how to have an orgasm’ articles month after month for years.

Those of you interested in eating right read on. Here’s some of the fascinating stuff I learned. I was blown away on the first day!

1. Start thinking in terms of ‘nutrient density.’ Huh? What does that even mean? It means you’ve gotta start thinking proportionally. Choose foods that give you the most nutrients per calorie. Like skim milk instead of ice cream for calcium. An orange instead of orange juice for fiber. (Apparently, juices aren’t even that good for us. It’s way better just to eat the actual fruit and have a glass of water. Who knew?) A can of tuna instead of beef for protein. The goal is always to get more nutrients for the same amount of calories. For me, this way of thinking was revolutionary.


2. Get salad dressing on the side. I almost fell out of my chair when the professor announced that the number one source of fat in a woman’s diet was salad dressing. All the naïve women dieters think, ‘oh I’ll just have a salad,” without analyzing what actually goes into to that yummy mixture of mesculan greens.

3. Diet soda is baaaad. It can’t be rationalized. Diet soda drinkers had the same amount of diabetes as people who drank regular soda. The fake sweetness in diet soda messes with your palate, and your body reacts to it as if it were real sugar anyway. Diet sodas have also been proven to make you crave more sweets. They also limit you from getting good, healthy sugars. Like how many of us have ever downed a Diet Coke and then craved the nutritious sugary goodness of an apple? Yeah, it’s never happened. Instead, we crave salty chips or fries.

4. Fiber is fabulous, but not without water. I pop fiber pills and invest in whole-wheat products all the time. We all know fiber is invaluable to our digestive system. What I never knew though is that fiber can’t be digested by itself. You need to be super hydrated in order for it to work. So start downing water.


5. Dried fruit is not necessarily our friend. Grapes and raisins have the same amount of calories, but raisins contain no water, and therefore aren’t as filling. So you eat way more raisins than you would grapes, consuming perhaps twice the amount of calories, while grapes would have made you full ten minutes ago. Dried fruits also tend to be artificially sweetened (more bad news).

6. Occasionally indulge in the unhealthy things you like rather than eating the ‘low fat’ equivalent. I wanted to kiss my nutritionist professor on the mouth when she announced that if you’re obsessed with Ben and Jerry’s, it’s A-okay to enjoy a small portion every once in awhile. A large, low fat tub of frozen yogurt won’t be as satisfying, usually resulting in eating a lot more of it. And eating more of something that’s theoretically ‘low fat’ isn’t necessarily the best route. She pointed out many eaters view a ‘low fat’ label as an excuse to over-indulge. Most of these ‘low fat’ items aren’t that good for us either!

So I’m no health expert, but my professor is. And I think I’ll be a lot more informed by the time this course comes to a close. I now also understand how ‘Health and Nutrition’ got its anorexic reputation. It’s because as homework we’ll be calorie counting our own diet and writing a report on where we’re lacking nutrients. That means I’ll be literally dissecting all my favorite foods, nutrient-by-nutrient, calorie-by-calorie, and probably tissue-by-tissue as I imagine there will be a lot of farewell Snickers and Pepperidge Farm Cookies tears shed along the way. I’m quaking in my sneakers to dissect my guilty, hangover pleasure food, the Fajita Burrito with guacamole and extra sour cream at Chipotle. Rumor has it that those flour tortillas have more calories than a cup of chocolate mousse. So wish me luck, and happy eating!

911 & Stretching Out the Birthday

No one (especially me) is over the fact that the birthday is over and life has to now resume seeming normalcy. In an attempt to stretch out the birthday madness as long as possible, I encourage you all today to check out Ha Ha Sound’s especially humorous recap of the party.

Last night, Bartok and I spent an hour getting pedicures in an attempt to revive our feet from the brutal treatment they’d received the evening before. We then foolishly entertained the idea of going out before passing out on my futon with Chipotle burritos watching reruns of 30 Rock and Entourage. Now that I’ve had a reasonable eight hours of sleep drained into my abused bodily system, there’s no way Bartok’s letting me keep my ass on the couch tonight. No official plans have been made but I have a hunch we’ll end up at Pink (Cajun, feel free to grab a gun, hunt me down, and shoot the heels off all my stilettos. I deserve it. I’m a full blown Thursday Pink addict.) The good news is the club’s ridiculousness never ceases to amaze me, and I only gain delightfully absurd story after story when I attend. Tonight Bartok and I plan to shake things up at the club by pulling out some of these new super sexy dance moves we’ve learned from James Brown’s instructional video.



I think the men are going to go gaga when we start rocking this stuff on the table banquet. Depending on how much energy and how much liquor we’ve consumed before going out, we might even practice the moves at my apartment so we can perform them in unison. So I’m going to leave you with that visual. If you want more entertainment check out these real 911 calls for a chuckle. Reports about tonight’s outing tomorrow…

BELIEVE it or not, these are REAL 911 Calls!

Dispatcher : 9-1-1 What is your emergency?
Caller: I heard what sounded like gunshots coming from the brown house on the corner.
Dispatcher: Do you have an address?
Caller: No, I have on a blouse and slacks, why?

Dispatcher : 9-1-1 What is your emergency?
Caller : Someone broke into my house and took a bite out of my ham and cheese sandwich.
Dispatcher : Excuse me?
Caller : I made a ham and cheese sandwich and left it on the kitchen table and when I came back from the bathroom, someone had taken a bite out of it.
Dispatcher : Was anything else taken?
Caller : No, but this has happened to me before and I'm sick and tired of it!

Dispatcher: 9-1-1 What is the nature of your emergency?
Caller: I'm trying to reach nine eleven but my phone doesn't have an eleven on it.
Dispatcher: This is nine eleven.
Caller: I thought you just said it was nine-one-one
Dispatcher: Yes, ma'am nine-one-one and nine-eleven are the same thing.
Caller: Honey, I may be old, but I'm not stupid.

Dispatcher: 9-1-1 What's the nature of your emergency?
Caller: My wife is pregnant and her contractions are only two minutes apart
Dispatcher: Is this her first child?
Caller: No, you idiot! This is her husband!

Dispatcher: 9-1-1
Caller: Yeah, I'm having trouble breathing. I'm all out of breath.
Darn....I think I'm going to pass out.
Dispatcher: Sir, where are you calling from?
Caller: I'm at a pay phone. North and Foster.
Dispatcher: Sir, an ambulance is on the way. Are you an asthmatic?
Caller: No
Dispatcher: What were you doing before you started having trouble breathing?
Caller: Running from the Police.

The Birthday Recap

DISCOVERY: Plastic glasses are not champagne flutes. Despite what I wrote in jest yesterday, last night on my birthday I, a stunning model of good behavior, intended to remain cool, calm, collected and not drunk like a proper hostess my mother would be proud of. This quest was thwarted: Why? Because plastic glasses are not champagne flutes. This may seem self-evident, but allow me to explain. When drinking in a club or bar one can at least attempt to keep track of how much alcohol they’re consuming. Theoretically at a house party you can do the same. Yet the liquid volume of a champagne flute is miniscule compared to the volume of an even half-filled house party plastic cup. Hence we can construct a mathematic formula that goes something like “every 1 glass of house party champagne = 3 glasses of champagne if we were measuring in flutes.” Unfortunately, the average party-goers brain is not aware of this discrepancy, causing them to think they’ve had 5 glasses of champagne when in reality they’ve had 15. I was a victim of this logic. What can I say? I never made it past pre-calculus. Throw in 3 Bacardi mixed drinks and the occasional shot and you have my mental state last night. I’m actually listening to throbbing house music right now on my iPod to prevent myself from falling asleep over my desk and to wean my body off the party train / the reality that I’m no longer mistress birthday girl of the moment. Even with the music it still feels like midgets are building a fortress with electric drills in the back of my brain.

Flashback to yesterday: After coming home from work, stopping to get another round of liquor on the way (and haggling the price of my Malibu down $2 – go me) I hoped into the shower and began a lengthy beautification process. The majority of this process is always taken up by deciding what to wear. During our pre-party lunch conference, Bartok and I deiced that we wanted to go casual: jeans, a nice top, maybe heels. I even managed to fit in time for a power shopping spree on my lunch hour to purchase a new top. Our overall outfit goal with the casual route was to send the message, “This party is no big deal. We throw fifty-five person soirées all the time, no sweat.” Needless to say, we began trying stuff off and ultimately were both dressed up enough to go pick up Oscars on our way home. Tatas and Bartok ended up in fancy black dresses and somehow talked me into this obnoxiously shiny gold mini-skirt my that (surprise surprise) my Barbie-doll mother bought for me when I was sixteen. Jeans. Who were we kidding?

Since the party was at Mr. T’s place, next we had the delightful challenge of transporting cake, ice, cases of beer and liquor and mixers for fifty-five people to his house without the aid of professional moving men. Tatas had the genius idea of using this ginormous suitcase I keep hidden behind our futon. I only use it when moving between New York and Italy. This suitcase could fit furniture inside. So all the booze and mixers were stuffed into this enormous wheeling duffel bag, which Bartok and Tatas later told me they took TO the liquor store earlier that day to wheel all the gin, rum and bottles of champagne back to my apartment. I’m really sad I was at work and missed that visual.

So we loaded all the stuff onto my building’s bellhop wheeling transportation device and somehow talked a cab into taking us, with all our luggage, just five blocks up into Soho to Mr. T’s. Men on the street would happily approach us eager to help lift the duffel bag (thinking it we were traveling and it was filled with clothes) and then reel when it weighed more than six human bodies. That was highly entertaining.

Only the ever gentlemanly Classic and his friends arrived at the scheduled party start time of nine p.m., but by ten we had a pretty full house. Perhaps the most delightful surprise is that my fabulous girlfriend Safari solved all my woes about whether to serve food or not / what was cheesy and what was not (see yesterday’s entry) and arrived with an entire gourmet rotisserie chicken, couscous, arugala salad, dill, French bread, potato salad, salmon and chocolate meringues. Talk about a good friend! We set up an entire top notch buffet.

A lot of my college friends, most everyone from the New York clubbing circuit, and even a few fellow bloggers were in attendance – the majority of whom brought champagne. At around eleven p.m. we had a vodka shortage, at which point Safari kicked in yet again with a forceful champagne PR campaign. I literally think we had enough champagne to fill the Hudson. Some guests even splurged on the nice stuff – Moet, Veuve and crazy French names that I can’t pronounce. My childish ice cream cake was presented with the appropriate number of candles which I managed to blow out in entirely after having happy birthday sung to me in both English and Italian. Needless to say, the Italians were the life of party with friends of friends of friends from Sicily in continual arrival. They also orchestrated multiple encores of happy birthday and popped a lot of champagne. The Brazilians played their part as well, especially when my friend Classic force fed everyone in the kitchen tequila shots at around eleven thirty. The party plundered forward into the early morning and according to my cell phone text messages, I got home at around two thirty. Many guests headed over to The Box at around one a.m. Thank God they couldn’t convince me to go with them. My night was spiningly joyful enough without getting lost in the vortex.

My First Celebrity Crush

I’ve never understood girls fawning over actors and musicians. I’m guess I’m just way too practical. Why waste your precious seductive thoughts and energy on someone who doesn’t even know you exist? On someone you have no hope of succeeding with? The superstar is unavailable, out of your league (sorry to be harsh), but seriously – save your screaming for an emergency fire and your wall space for a global cause that actually matters.

1. I never been into the ‘hot actor’ because we all know attractive male actors are five foot two in real life. Face it: These are men who were forced into the theatrical path as a kid because they were too small to succeed in sports at school. Do you think any good-looking guy who was large enough to be the star quarterback in high school would choose starring as Willy Wonka in the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory instead? No. No, I think not.

2. I’ve never been into the ‘hot drummer / guitarist / boy band guy’ because I’m really not a fan of concerts or live music (I know, throw rotten fruit at me. I’m a weirdo). Since worshipping such musical stars usually involves paying exorbant amounts of money to attend their ‘live’ usually lip-synced performances, where you battle tens of thousands of other people in a mosh pit for oxygen and have to listen to female tweens shrieking bloody murder, I’ve always passed on the whole ‘band fan’ idea.

3. Lastly, I’ve never taken interest in a molebrity [that’s a model / celebrity] male model crush since having worked the biz in Milan I know that 80% of guys in print ads secured the job through sexual favors to powerful male photographers. This puts a large, dark, homosexual cloud over your fantasy of you and the Calvin Klein underwear model in a field of sunflowers together. Uugh.

So there you have it. I’ve never been into celebrity crushes … UNTIL NOW …

Monday night I went to see Rescue Dawn at the Angelika and fell in love with Christian Bale. It wasn’t just his boyish charm, humbling good-looks, longish hair and radiant good nature. This guy’s a fucking fantabulous actor. He MADE the movie. I was ready to watch him struggle through the jungle of Laos for another four hours, just because he did it with such charisma in an utterly believable, blended performance – humor mixed with unrelenting hope. And this is coming from a girl who’s not a huge fan of Vietnam movies. Rescue Dawn is worth seeing. The POW camp was a fascinating and incredibly written study of human nature that utilized black comedy in an amazingly realistic way. Besides, how many men can look sexy and have a sense of humor while eating a strangled water snake with heir bare teeth for survival. I’m one hundred percent positive that only Christian Bale could pull it off.



Like any new fan, I came home after the movie and googled the shit out of Christian. My love for him only grew. He’s a serious Method actor known for his pursuit of intense acting jobs and his willingness to gain or loose weight in order to best personify his character (he gained 100 pounds in 6 months before filming Batman). He’s also actively involved in the world of independent films, which means he’s maintained artistic integrity. He’s also an accent expert, so could woo me with heavy British slang one day and a rough Greek accent the next. I’m ready for him to star in every screenplay I’ve ever written. We could be a dynamic duo – entertainment partners. I think we’re meant to be!

Too bad he’s already married …