If you want to read just my posts on the new site SelfAbsorbed.me select "Miss Model Behavior" from the drop down "read by author" tab. All my archives have been transferred as well. Please update your links! Thanks and enjoy!

Doesn’t moving stink? The painful sound of sticky packing tape, the boxes, the lugging, the temporary feeling of homelessness? Forcing things to fit in your trunk?

Well, this move won’t involve any of those things.

Model Behavior is moving to a new address and a new format. Don’t freak – it’s going to be great, and this domain will automatically be forwarded to our new location. That’s right, I said ‘our.’ I’ve joined forces with four other talented girl writers and we’re pooling all our archives at a new site starting Monday. You’ll still have the option to just read my posts, although I’m guessing you’ll fall virtually in love with all of us. The quality of writing will stay the same (or who knows, maybe go up – five brains are better than one!)

This is a big change and in the coming weeks, we’re really going to need readers’ support to

1) spread word of the new site and

2) update our new address on your blogrolls, feeds etc.

More news on how to do that next week. For now just sit back, relax and let the magic happen this weekend. I’ll see you all at the other side on Monday! Have a great weekend.

-- mb

As I’m sure you can all see, I’m the process of a make-over. It should be done soon. Hopefully, it will be fab. Some of you may hate it. Others may fall even deeper in love. Feel free to leave your opinions and bear with me today as I transform. Content-wise everything will stay the same. The appearance will just be even sexier (I know, we didn’t think it was possible.)

More later…

I call Christmas Stress-mus. And my Holiday wish it that would cause us angst every other year instead of every eleven months.

Wouldn’t that be great?

If Christmas came every other year it might help the season actually feel ‘authentic’ and ‘special.’ The idea of gift shopping might evoke emotions of love and charity instead of nauseating visions of shoppers sword fighting each other at Macy’s and even worse –
trying to find parking at the mall. I realize some people like the inevitable strain, travel, traffic, fake cheer, financial exploitation and family time that comes with Christmas, but I’d even vote for celebrating it every four years. Like the Olympics! Then I’d get really excited about it!

It’s my belief the hullabaloo that comes with the holidays is just too much for us frail human beings to handle every single year. I think medical authorities would back me up on this. Don’t we deserve a break? If Christmas came less often, heart attacks and other stress related illnesses might go down over twenty percent! Who needs Christmas every year?

My life’s frankly quite fulfilling without spending hours locked in my family’s basement like an Indonesian child laborer wrapping a stack of presents higher than the fire’s mantelpiece. My life’s fulfilling without pretending to enjoy decorating a perfectly good fur tree that belongs in a forest with chirping birds and sun. Ultimately, it’s the shopping and commercialization of Christmas that gets to me – not any of the Holiday’s underlying values. And then we get to the worst part of all…Pink Elephant’s attempt at December decoration:




Is this really necessary?

Even a miserly, non-charitable establishment like Pink Elephant had to get on the Holiday bandwagon?

Is there no sanctuary?

Karaoke

On Wednesday, I hustled myself into the cold, intent on reporting what was to be the SoHo club’s Upstairs’ first Karaoke night. Sound like a carbon copy of Giuseppe’s ingenious idea to turn Sunday nights into a festival of alcoholism and embarrassment at Cipriani’s Upstairs?

It is.

Those you who’ve watched my video footage / soundtrack of Cipriani’s on karaoke night can understand why I kept my iPod buds handy while climbing the staircase to Upstairs – karaoke in New York clubs is like audible shit. If you’re eardrums aren’t completely desensitized from drunkenness hearing it may make you shriek. Yet as I entered the club, I saw a DJ, heard normal music, and saw no one slobbering over a mike. The karaoke screen hung at the very far end of the bar, stark white and barely visible.

Apparently, Upstairs had experienced “technical difficulties.” Karaoke was nixed and it was a night like any other. I let out an audible gasp of relief.

Sure I’d been lured out of my house on a Wednesday night under false pretenses. But Cipriani’s is bad enough. The last thing this city needs if for the clubbing karaoke idea to spread like Christmas decorations.

Oh! And are you short on Christmas gift ideas? How about getting your favorite douche or douchette this delightful Pink Elephant snow cap?

Boyfriend, lover, pet or best friend letting you down?

Not to worry, as all these emotional relationships can be successfully replaced by the shiny delightfulness that is an Apple iPhone.

I used to make fun of people who had iPhone’s for sport. Especially when they first came out and people paid $600 plus to be among the first elite owners of Steve Jobs’ latest technological love child. I taunted these folk…whether out of hate or envy, I don’t know.

As a Mac user, my interest eventually rose to a level beyond torment. I proceeded to play with the iPhone when out with friends who owned one, usually at dinner parties, and usually inebriated. My manicure would prevent me from properly tapping on the virgin-level sensitive keyboard and I’d end up spelling things like:
Odsyagh iz szdgh

And I’d think: $600 plus for this? Morons!

Well, I’m prepared to fess up that last week I became the ashamed owner of an iPhone. My demise was that I got my hands on one sober, on a bus trip in New Jersey no less (don’t ask) and managed to reply to several emails and comment on three blogs during the trip with minimal typing difficulty. Somewhere between New Orange and Newark, I fell in love.

Passionately.

I’m the type of person who visits a $100 dress in a boutique three times before purchasing it. I’m the opposite of an impulsive shopper. In fact, I’m so cheap it sometimes scares people. Yet that very day, I found myself at the Cingular store on 23rd street pondering what credit card to put my $200 less than its release price, but still unaffordable, iPhone on.

My mental justifications: (Feel free to use them on yourself)

1. I own a three-year-old iPod mini that needs to be replaced soon anyway

2. I’m a Mac user

3. Yes, the next generation will be better, but that excuse goes on to infinity…technology just changes too fast

4. I can do more blog reading / commenting, especially in those awkward twenty minutes when I’m stuck in a car or alone at a table being stood up on a dinner date

5. I can answer all my email while on-the-go. So when I return to my desk and need to start writing, I don’t have to lose an hour of creative time answering emails from my dad and deleting spams about penis enlargement

Point number five turned out to be the kicker.

I’m a master at manipulating myself.

But this justification actually worked in real life:

EXAMPLE:

When I was at Pink’s Wilhelmina party and bored before the man-meat arrived, I sat on a banquet and answered FIVE work emails.

Productivity IN Pink Eleplant!?!?!?!?

I thought the ether might split and angels glide down onto the disco ball to honor me.

Who knew you could get work done at Pink?


After usuing the iPhone for two days, there were some features lacking I wished it had.

Well guess what?

I actually watched the informational instruction video Apple emailed me, and all those features existed, I just hadn’t yet learned how to use them! Like the iPhone headphones have a built-in mike, so if you’re listening to your iPod and someone calls you, your music fades (fades, not drops) out and you take the call without having to pick up the phone or take your ear buds out. And you can play, pause, and switch between songs by just squeezing the ear phone’s white string in different beats. The predictive text is amazing, and capitalizes everything I need.

My iPhone’s so smart it tickles me. And when it automatically zooms in when I'm filling out online forms or plays my favorite song, I realize it understands me better than any human in the world.

True love doesn't equal flawlessness. Yes, the Internet is sometimes slower than ideal, but that’s to be expected: It’s not 2015 yet. And yes the battery isn’t as strong as it should be, but this is Apple: all their batteries suck. What do you expect?

So my initial review: Four Model Behavior stars.

This Sunday I got to be the moron who fails to properly adjust to daylight savings. What’s amusing is that this didn’t occur because I was unaware of the switch. On the contrary, I was hyper aware of the switch and therefore naturally got confused in my own vast, muddled, seriously math-challenged brain.

Sunday morning I had to be somewhere at six thirty A.M. Sound sketchy? It’s not. Emails about the meeting time had flown out the day before warning everyone about daylight savings. “Some devices will change automatically,” the email warned. “Other’s won’t.”

Question: How the Hell am I supposed to know which gadgets are smart enough to change themselves and which will need manual assistance?

The answer is that there’s absolutely no way of knowing.

I use my cell phone as an alarm clock. To be extra super-duper sure about my wake-up time I purposely stayed awake till 1 A.M. to see if my cell had the smarts to change itself. It didn’t. So I set my alarm for an hour later in order to wake up at the correct time.

Needless to say, my cell phone somehow magically did change over the course of the night and I ended up sleeping in an extra hour. My Sunday plans were foiled and I was left behind.

Lesson?

I don’t know if there is one. Considering my phone has a calendar I guess I should have assumed it would make the switch on its own. Then again, considering my cell phone is a cell phone you’d also assume it would get reception in the center of Manhattan – but it doesn’t. And now the whole mix-up has become fairytale-like in its mysteriousness. I felt like a little kid trying to get a glimpse of Santa as I stayed in bed awake till one in the morning, hoping to see 12:59 become 12:00 A.M. again, catching the thrill of daylight savings on a digital monitor. Now I want to know: When did my cell permit the extra hour? At two? At four?

On Fashion

I’ve developed a seriously unhealthy obsession for a dress my roommate Tatas bought at Guess Marciano. The gown has a stunning cut, is eighty percent sequins and scandalously short while remaining elegant – an impossible combination to find. It kinda looks like the dress version of a tux, with a truckload of sparkles.

Tatas brought the beloved dress home in a state of shopping euphoria and told me to try it on. I did, and the experience was similar to that of a drug abuser taking their first serious hit of crystal meth. As I added black heels to the outfit and analyzed myself in the mirror, I knew I would gladly give away my first-born in exchange for this piece of Guess clothing manufactured in China. I loved it.

I praised Tatas selection and wearily gave the dress back to her, all the while secretly planning when I’d be able to sneak into her room and sit in her closet to stroke the fabric and hold the sequins to my cheek.

I want to make it clear that Tatas is an extremely generous girl, willing to lend me anything and everything at all times. The dress however, she’d bought to attend a particular December event. The tags were staying on until then. And while I may be crazy, I’m not so insensitive that I’m going to ask a fellow female to borrow an event dress they haven’t even worn to the event yet.

So while I had no doubt that Tata’s would gladly lend me the garment after she débuted it in December, the idea of waiting till December to dawn the outfit made me tear up and shake like someone going through withdrawal. And there’s another, much larger predicament in this tale of hidden passion for a piece of sequined fabric: Tatas and I aren’t the same dress size. While we’re both thin, Tata’s was blessed with an amazing rack (hence her nickname) and I was, well, not. The dress was too big for me.

The fact that I loved the dress so much and it didn’t even fit me properly made me orgasm in my thong about how utterly amazing it would look if in my proper size. The size dilemma only served to fuel my obsession.

After I came up with every piece of jewelry, hair accessory, hair style and shoe I’d wear with the dress and settled on the perfect combination, and after I’d had the same dream three nights in a row about me wearing the dress and meeting my future husband, I knew it was time to tell the Tatas the truth:

I was having a clandestine affair with the event dress in her closet.

To Be Continued…

Those of you interested in reading more about Made in Italy’s weekly party can do so here at a review I wrote for PMBuzz.com, complete with pictures.

Recently, I was taken aside by a friend who pointed out that considering the title of my blog, perhaps I should attempt to party more at model hangouts as opposed to places where I can ogle hot foreign guys. Business over pleasure. I begrudgingly agreed. I mean, I can’t write about Pink Elephant forever. Speaking of which, Pink’s celebrating its three-year anniversary this week – details below.

So last night I veered away from my normal stomping grounds. Being out on a Tuesday was a kind of novelty in itself. First we hit Cipriani’s Upstairs, where don’t worry – absolutely nothing has changed. Giuseppe was there with his usual mix of businessmen and models (with out his son this time). Foreign promoters were there, most of who passed the night nervously rearranging everyone’s seating arrangement at their table, attempting to showcase hot girls in front and an appropriate man-woman ratio. What happens to these poor promoters if they have one too many men too near a bottle of champagne? Are they instantly fired? I wouldn’t be surprised.

Next we swung over to Goldbar. It was still early, so I enjoyed viewing the establishment’s stunning art collection for the first time sober.

In broad terms, Goldbar pisses me off. The door’s extremely tight and the place is never packed. They’re super snoody and won’t let patrons take pictures inside, and no, I don’t think this is to protect the artwork (I really doubt they’re hanging paintings that valuable in place where people come to get shitfaced and often climb/fall into the walls). I guess Goldbar’s just really paranoid someplace else will copy their gold skull décor, really the only thing Goldbar has to distinguish itself from every other wanna-be bar in the city. I also happen to think Goldbar’s music sucks, and the DJ works purely off a little Apple computer similar to mine. You’d think if the place could afford a thousand gold skulls they could scrape together the money for a decent DJ booth and stereo system, but no. And considering the outrageously overpriced drinks, you’d also think they’d be able to hire a real DJ, someone who knew how to play something other than bad eighties pop tunes. I’ve just never been a fan of Goldbar’s energy. Granted after enough champagne I was doing the ‘head nod’ dancing in my chair thing a bit. Still, I wasn’t sad to leave.

Our last stop was Tenjune. Tuesday’s apparently the ‘it’ night and when I entered, I was blown away. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a party playing hip-hop music that the whole clubbing experience began to feel like a novelty. Literally everywhere I go out in the city plays house or a house-based mix with rock. At Tenjune, everyone was rocking out to Kanye West and clearly loving it. It was just so…American. And as we all had predicted, there were models everywhere. You could round up various ‘looks’ by the dozen. So men in search of models, your quest ends here. Tenjune’s door also didn’t seem particularly strict to me, so even if you’re not a model I don’t think you’d have any issues getting in. The place was annoyingly overcrowded, but the energy was noteworthy. And when you’re being forced to rub against a lot of six foot one Slovak girls, who’s complaining about being shoved around a little? Everyone seemed generally good-natured considering the lack of space, definitely a friendlier, younger atmosphere than Pink.

Tenjune’s music quality actually surprised me. I thought hip-hop tunes would dominate all night, but the DJ actually mixed in some Motown, excellent eighties remixes and even a few of my favorite house tunes. Yes, I still bailed at 2 am. But at least I attempted to broaden my horizons and managed to have some deep conversations about New York relationships with an older and wiser friend. A report on that part of the evening is to come…

***

From wholesale handbags one often ends up with exemplary handbags. Even in jewellery, sometime fashion jewelry is right under the heap in from of you. Learn from this and do go to the sales of bras and other lingerie.

So you have a relationship that’s all about fun and all about sex. You don’t share problems. You don’t share morning coffee. And you especially don’t share distressing life information. Weighty words like ‘girlfriend,’ ‘boyfriend,’ and ‘commitment’ don’t exist in the stratosphere of this non-relationship. It’s that fake grey relationship that I’m perpetually harping on about, primarily because I’ve so many times been a willing victim of it. The only requirement in this self-indulgent love affair is to revel in each other while partying like rock stars. It’s childlike. It’s sexy. It’s simple. And by not adhering to the rules of a real relationship, you still have tons of free ‘single’ time to be an ambitious workaholic, get your laundry done, and watch tons of bad TV while giving yourself at home facial treatments. Life is near perfect.

And then something terrible happens.

A teeny tiny section of your sternum (yes, I truly believe this particular sentiment originates in the sternum) begins to wonder: ‘What if?’

What if this person (who I don’t even really know), who I always have so much fun with (mainly because there’s a lot of alcohol involved) is actually boyfriend (What? Who said that?) material? What if this grey relationship was just a romantic detour and our lifelines are actually leisurely converging? The slow but steady blossoming of something wonderful. Wonderful in the sense that we massage each other’s feet while commiserating on our taxing work-party schedule, not so much wonderful in the sense of kids and a white picket fence (come on, I’m delusional not insane).

All the questions and comments above exist in a realm I like to call ‘Wow That Girl’s Totally Deluded’ or charmingly abbreviated, WTGTD. I can be aware of my mind creeping over into WTGTD territory, yet somehow still slip into this not-so-even-appealing fantasy until I feel like a woman possessed by the object of my affection. What spurs this dreadful sickness nastier than a full-on flue? What upset the ‘no strings attached’ equilibrium my grey relationship existed in so healthily before?

In my case, it happened over early morning / late night (think 4:30 am) breakfast with me, Mr. Grey, and two friends. Why we were even having breakfast together was inappropriate to the nature of our dysfunctional relationship in the first place. Thank God we had other people with us so we couldn’t be mistaken for an actual couple. I guess we let the intimacy of the situation slide since the sun wasn’t up and we still both had house music echo ringing through our ears. Club? Restaurant? What’s the difference.

The four of us were laughing and drinking. My emotions were intact and everything was going swimmingly until my pizza arrived, which had been mistakenly covered with anchovies. I hate anchovies. And I didn’t order them. But I guess waitresses who work at five in the morning think an error on an order here and there won’t come back to haunt them since the majority of patrons in the restaurant are too drunk to form sentences. Yet before I could politely bitch about the mix-up, our uniformed server had spun on her heel to attend to some gorilla-like men by the bar. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the problem. The problem is what happened next.

In a quick moment, Mr. Grey somehow understood my anchovy predicament, even though I hadn’t the time to fully voice my complaint to our waitress. He slid the pizza toward him, and painstakingly embarked on the mission of removing each anchovy from its bed of cheese. All this without a word. And when he finished, he sprinkled some Parmesan on the pie to kill the anchovy flavor. He proceeded to methodically cut the first few slices for me as if I were an incapable little girl. He then returned the pizza to me with a smile.

Now don’t get me wrong, time did not stand still and romantic music didn’t suddenly swell. During this surprisingly affectionate moment, conversation continued between us and our friends as usual. But as I started eating, I knew something had changed. It’s not just that Mr. Grey and I aren’t tender with one another; I don’t think he’s tender in general. I’d never seen him do something so simple and yet so caring with anyone. Ever. And it got to me. It got under my skin just like that whole pizza got into my stomach. And from then on I knew I was screwed.

Why did he have to be nice, and by consequence, three-dimensional and attractive? When our relationship functioned so splendidly on uncomplicated bouts of random fun? The whole thing got me thinking about him in sappy WTGTD language. And I really wish that acronym had vowels so I could effectively chant it to myself on a day-to-day basis as a reminder not to act like a total douche. Because it’s in those moments that you realize you’re not in a super part-time relationship that leaves you oodles of “you time.” You’re in a truly real grey relationship: despite how much your psyche may protest, emotions are involved.

For the ladies and gents who can keep this stuff super straight all the time, my hat’s off to you. But I have a hunch that for most of us, it’s never than simple. At the end of the day, if you’re lucky, you can console yourself with the fact that your partner’s probably just as confused as you are.

Saturday night something magical happened. I walked to Via Della Pace for dinner (an Italian restaurant I highly recommend, the lobster ravioli’s sinful and affordable – just be prepared to pay in cash) and then (surprise surprise) danced the night away at a cheesy club. At the beginning of the night, I strolled to the east village along with a warm breeze. My body was comfortable sans jacket. Some people were enjoying pasta and red wine outside. This was around 10 pm.

A mere six hours later when I left the anonymous cheesy club at four in the morning, New York had been possessed by a different spirit. That formerly calming breeze had turned cold. The temperature had plummeted. Skimpily dressed partygoers were forced to cling to one another not just out of drunken horniness, but out of a genuine need for body warmth. I’ll admit I both hid in a phone booth and later hugged a pudgy man I didn’t even know while waiting for the arguing members of our group to disperse into cabs. The wind was that frigid. Those of us still standing at the end of the night proceeded to go have breakfast, but I didn’t really enjoy my meal. Summer was officially over. And we all know since global warming, fall and spring have practically disappeared as concepts. It’s either humid or freezing here in the city. So I don’t feel I can really console myself with the fact that a lovely autumn is in store and going to make this traumatic transition much easier. To cope with this revelation, I’ve compiled a list of why we should be excited, not suicidal, about the fact that winter is just around the corner.

1. Hot chocolate: Dark chocolate perks me up when I’m feeling depressed. It suppresses my hunger when my stomach’s growling. Melted and applied to the skin, it makes all my clubbing-incurred bruises fade in twenty-four hours. It wakes me up when I’m ready to crawl back into bed. Dark chocolate is my cure-all product. Did I also mention it’s yummy as Hell? I also compulsively consume tea like some people down Starbucks coffee. Now put the two elements of choclately goodness and steamy liquid together, and you’ve just created my own personal version of heroin. Winter means I can consume vats of hot chocolate without looking like a weirdo. And I’m totally fine with admitting that the hot cocoa with mini marshmallows is my personal favorite.


2. New wardrobe: I had so much fun getting dressed yesterday because I got to open my sweater drawer for the first time in months. At this point, I’ve recycled my warm weather closet more than twice. If I have to wear another tank top I might spit at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. The best part about getting to utilize all your stored away winter clothes (and rediscovering the discount Cavalli turtlenecks from Century 21 you forgot you had) is that you also get to incorporate your summer wardrobe as layering pieces. So the amount of clothing you have to work with doubles overnight!

3. Jackets: Every girl is a sucker for something. Some do the shoe obsession thing ala Carrie Bradshaw. Other stock up on cocktail dresses. Others have a compulsive buying problem with lingerie. For me, it’s always been jackets. I love jackets, mainly because I’m always cold. Also because when I lack the energy to get properly dressed (or decide to wear yesterday’s clothes) I just throw one of my many jackets on top of my messy self and no one can tell the difference. The fact that I’m wearing a sweater my cat chewed without a bra becomes my dirty secret. My jacket collection takes up half of my ridiculously tiny Manhattan closet. I have long, short, sport, peacoat, down, elegant, jean, suede, leather (oh my god the leather)…I’m getting too excited I better stop.

4. Cuddling: Who wants to cling to their partner post-coital when its ninety-five degrees outside and humid. Usually you just lie on opposite sides of the bed, both trying to convince your bodies to stop producing sweat. Showers are mandatory and your sheets are gross. Yet in the colder months, snuggling under feathered comforters together is actually a turn on. There are all sorts of new reasons to touch each other with the excuse of ‘warming up.’ Plus you don’t want kick your partner toward a soapy shower the minute they’ve crawled off you. Instead you can relax and pass out in each other’s arms.

5. No more air-conditioning: America over air-conditions as if it were a matter of life and death. Recycled freezing air makes you sick! Plus it’s damn expensive. In the winter my ConEd bill doesn’t only lower dramatically, I no longer have to organize where I sit in an indoor restaurant based on how far away I can get from the industrial strength air vent that’s blasting virtual snow on people. A friend told me about a colleague of hers at Bear Sterns who brought a space heater to work in the summer months to warm up her office. I understand companies wanting to keep employees alert, but think of the money they’d save if they just air-conditioned down to 75 instead of 60. In the winter we just have to bundle up, and heat is always welcome.

6. Fur: I love fur. I love the way it looks, I love the way it feels against my skin, I love the way it keeps me warm. Now don’t load your water guns with red paint and spray me just yet. I don’t wear real fur. Who can afford it? And who wants to have the guilt of having killed an innocent Bambi-like creature on their hat or earmuffs? Some synthetic fur looks great. An example: One of my favorite leather jackets has a tasteful browny-black fur collar. One afternoon at Astor Place, I actually had an executive women take her snarly lips away from her cell phone for two seconds to bark at me, “You should be ashamed!” before returning to her phone call. As we crossed the street, I racked my brain for what on earth she could be referring to. Had I stepped on her foot? Accidentally pushed her? Then it hit me, my fur looked that real. I watched the woman click away from me in her high-heel genuine leather boots (hypocrite) and smiled at the compliment.

See, even when in the midst of unjustified verbal abuse winter can be a fun season. Bring it on.