Everything about the sneak preview of “13 going on 30” was just that—sneaky. It was raining, and I looked too fabulous to stand in it, so I cut the line. Like, duh. Michelle was running on filippina time—gorgeous, but late. So, Smelly and I had to procure a seat for her since the admittance process to the screening was hardcore. Yellow passes collected, green tickets administered. Very grade school. We covertly smuggled in the Philippine goods: enter Michelle. The girls laugh at my suggestion of tissues. “Oh no, not me, I’m way too tough for that crap.” “God you really think we’ll need tissues for this? I mean, it’s Sony not Hallmark.” Yeah, whatever, I got some tissues. In the land of Scratch & Sniff, “13 going on 30” is definitely watermelon. It’s about that boy, the chubby nice one who was just a friend despite all his romantic attempts. He’s the one who, now, when men don’t call or stay out later than promised, you think of fondly as you hug your pillow. Through “13 going on 30” ran a thread of regret; it was pink and satin and perfect. Regret isn’t always a catalyst for change. The movie’s theme was more about growing up and learning to fix your mistakes, rather than stewing in the what ifs and what could’ve beens of regret. As I watched it, I wondered when it would be released on DVD. I had to own it. Now. “13 going on 30” will make you crave cookies and milk, crawling into your parents’ bed, sleepover parties, and watermelon gum. It goes beyond #44 lipgloss, E.G. Smith socks, rubber bracelets, Z. Cavaricci pants, and lace leggings with Keds. The movie is a fuzzy polka dotted heart, which reminds you of the long nights spent wishing you were older. Upon watching it now, you’ll long for roller-skating dates, gobstoppers, Punky Brewster & Silver Spoons, Garbage Pail Kids, florescent tops, rhinestone denim jackets, and young sweet love. The kind where holding hands and kissing was a really big deal—and it makes you realize it still should be. Tissues, you ask. Like, oh my God, duh!
Before even asking her name, men in the Mandarin Oriental New York Hotel MObar talk about living on 5th Avenue, but only between excursions. “See, I love the warmth.” He means between her thighs; she thinks South Beach. He writes big ideas on napkins, communicating in squares, pushing clever paper like plastic pieces in a Cracker Jack box game. You’ve got your heart on your sleeve; he’s got his initials. Well, it’s rare to find real in a New York where the wine is $14 a glass, the lighting is scarce, and all the boys are necked out in Hermes… and occasionally Zegna. But only if he’s in a suit because Zegna neckties are all about the suit. But you knew that. Okay, no you didn’t. When another man approaches Ms. Wow-I-love-your-watch-what-exactly-do-you-do-for-a-living, Mr. Hermes Monogram man rises to the challenge like foam. “May I offer you both a drink?” He looks into his eyes; it feels like war. So she has a boyfriend, but please, every attractive woman in this city is attached. Boyfriends are not deterrents; they’re accessories.
I had to keep checking the foil packet to recount the remaining pills. With all this crying, I was certain it had to be PMS. I’m in a theatre filled with women, weekend relief dads, and gobs of girls. Third grade girls, chomping popcorn despite their orthodontists, show one another their new sneakers, kicking their feet in anticipation of “Jersey Girl.” Girls with small earrings, thin long hair swept into ponytails, sit on their booster seats squealing. Before the movie begins, I ask the eight year old beside me to please watch my things as I run to the ladies room. “Oh sure. No prob.” No prob from an eight year old at a PG-13 film. I return with tissues, a necessity for a chick flick of this magnitude. The music twinkles, the light dims, everyone shushes everyone else. A quarter of the way through “Jersey Girl” I had to share my tissues with little miss no prob. Why do all women crowd theatres for mediocre linear movies? Why bother with the god-you-already-know-exactly-what’s-going-to-happen flicks? Lean in, I’m going to tell you. The strory arc of “Jersey Girl” isn’t surprising; how much it touched me was. See, women cry because we can relate to what’s going on, or more likely because we desperately want to. We want those lives where eyes lock and acoustic music replaces all doubts. He gives the girl that look, the one every girl wants someone to have just for her, like a name. And when we see it on screen, we hold our breaths a little. Anything evoking a memory you thought was only special to you, but then you realize, wow, it was special to him too. Enter the tears. He noticed. He remembered. Then they start in with the music. It’s not about what’s happening on screen; it’s about what we want in our own lives. It’s our heart up there. Jersey Girl will make you cry, in the way you want. View the trailer >> Now, I can’t wait for Raising Helen, 13 going on 30, Mean Girls and Laws of Attraction to make me cry some more.
I’ve been weeping during movies, even the previews, and I can’t go anywhere near Central Park. Pregnant ladies, fathers pushing strollers, a little girl with a balloon tied wrist, families huddle on picnic blankets, a boy tests training wheels. Friends jog and gossip. New lovers lick each other in violet shadows beneath ancient trees. This weather makes me feel alone. Where’s the rain? Everything living runs from the rain… I wish it would. I would stand drenched and smile into clouds. I’m wearing lament, buttoned it on like a shirt. I’m not sad; ironically, maybe that’s why I’m crying. It makes me feel alive. Though, I’ll tell ya this, my face can’t take the saline. If you cry, laugh, and think every day you’re doing something right. I heard that once, and I really believe it. Call me drama. Go ahead. I know. Yes, I worry my life isn’t charting the right course. I worry I talk too much, or I’m too confident, or too self-doubting. I worry about contradicting myself, about being messy and unsure. I fear I won’t make my dreams happen, that I won’t have the courage, or the strength. I worry I am going to die alone. Then the tears stain everything, leaving rings, like the insides of ancient trees.
When you really know a foreign language, you think in it. Idioms, turns of phrase, mannerisms. Words make sentences, but now they’re ideas. New ways of thinking. You learn to pout and please in a gesture. Doors slide open, as spring licks your manicured toes. Ruffles now become you; what the hell, so does a coral flower in your hair–and it has never been your color. You’ve got moves now, that went dormant. Someone found them, blew off the slump, revealing a bare shoulder, and a grin. Flirt. I know spanglish, but the closest I come to thinking it is pondering those Latina gold bangles. Last night I dreamed European. I awoke; had a cafe o lait, and wore open-toed heels to the dog park. Crazy? No, just a new way of thinking. And coral is so my color.
I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes. At my isolated desk all day wearing headphones like a headband, I don’t hear the gossip. I listen to Pedro The Lion (you should all download the free MP3 off the site… so damn good), and I wait for our Thursday nights out to get clued in. Welcome to the corner of Gossip and Yenta. Everyone is soused to the gills, and the stories spill over in slurs. Over his Jameson and my Jack Daniels, Chris taught me something interesting. A Cleveland Steamer: when someone takes a dump on your chest. A Dirty Sanchez: when an index finger is swiped along or inserted in the ass, then wiped across your partner’s top lip for a lovely whiff… leaving a Mexican moustache… or a “Dirty Sanchez.” A Jersey Turnpike: a finger up the ass, then inserted in your partner’s mouth. (If you accidentally pick your nose at some point with the abusive finger, it’s called, “Getting off at Newark.”) A Felcher or Felching: when cum is slurped from an asshole post anal seex (sometimes with a straw). As slow on the uptake as I am, I’m not polluting my blog with trash talk without an end in sight. Enter Reebok. During the Super Bowl, Reebok aired a commercial featuring Terry Tate, the Office Linebacker, titled “Sensitivity Training.” The commercial includes subtle references to everything foul listed above. Okay, not the Jersey Turnpike. I threw that in for good measure. It’s hysterical of the art directors to call the guy Felcher. The seexy woman headed up the Cleveland Steamer Corporation. They have that dude with the Mustache named Sanchez. They subtly worked in all these dirty references into a commercial aired on NATIONAL TV.. and the CEOs weren’t clever enough to pick up on it. Or were they??? What’s that? Any publicity is good publicity… The commercial isn’t gross; it’s funny in a fart-joke kind of way. You must go watch it.
(Top Shelf: Rachel, Steph, Jen Choi; Bottom Deck: Lauren, Samantha, Birthday babe Kim) View all the pics of the pretties from the night >> I’ve hit a new low. It’s 4:03 am on Sunday. I can’t go to sleep yet because there is eye makeup to deal with, water to be had, a pill and a helping of Advil to be ingested, and most importantly images to be uploaded off my Nikon. Somehow my hair still smells like smoke despite Bloomberg. An infomercial keeps me company: The Slimming Pants. They show a bunch of fatties with bulges squeezed into product like swirled sausage meat in thin casing. Then the craptacular before and after, and guess what? After ain’t lookin’ so good. Ladies, invest in a padded bra; divert attention from the thighs. Next. My highlights of the evening… finding a top to match my necklace, hair highlights, drinking tomato soup from a glass, Kim’s sentimental dinner toast, watching Suzara stir her drink with a lollypop, feeling envy for Choi and Richard, helping Hanser decide between bare legs or lace beneath her leather hotpants, hamburgling in my Gucci, catching up with Rachel & Witts, sweeping my finger into cupcake icing, cabbing home with my UWS buddy system Monique, donning a clear plastic head cap in the rain—I’m so ghetto, girlfriends. I just love the birthday babe, Kimberly. She includes everyone in her conversations, sweeping her manicured nails across your arm. Regardless of subject, whenever Kimberly speaks, she is all class, distinction, and sophistication. Yet, she envelops with her touch; her laugh is as warm and inviting as fire. Everyone is a sweet lovie to my sweet lovie Kim, except when we can’t stand someone, in which case, she’s always got a reserved seat beside me. View all the pics of the pretties from the night >>
I’m trying not to be an enabler of bad habits, but I simply have to talk about this because I’m sitting at my desk covered in disbelief. Did you know anyone can order diet pills online, and I’m not talking over-the-counter Ephedra stuff. Forget Diet Fuel and Trimspa. Anna Nicole Smith conveniently lost 69 lbs. 69 and Anna Nicole isn’t so far fetched a sentence, but Trimspa and weight loss–pahleeze. The Internet enables anyone who claims she is over 18 years old to order up pills one normally needs a white pad and bad handwriting to get–and all as easily as ordering a book on Amazon. My mouth is still shocked open. I am not writing this so you google diet pills and then order up a stack yourself, and I’m not telling you what I am (and am about to) to enable bad habits and unhealthy behavior. Coming from such a webhead, I can’t believe what I’m thinking or saying or writing, but the Internet is making me nervous. I’m biting my nails between paragraphs. I need a nazi to yell at me weekly. Someone real and alive needs to know what I weigh, what I really weigh and write it down as proof. Yesterday I got on the scale and became afraid of myself, my lack of control, my weakness. That was it, my moment. That moment you have when you know you’re out of control. Everything stops spinning and you’re left with a quiet truth that weeps and hangs on your insides. After leaving the doctor’s office this morning, I headed toward Starbucks. I gave up coffee a long time ago, when I gave up dieting. Coffee makes you shit and forget about food; it’s a dieter’s best friend. Today I ordered my iced grande skim latte, flanked it with Splendas and headed to the office. The taste of coffee tastes like dieting to me, so Pavlovian. The Weight Doctor of the Upper East Side is my new enabler of good. He should wear a cape. He didn’t yell at me. “I’ll see you next week, same time, same place, only thinner.” Now I’m off to Starbucks again to tote off apple crumb muffins in my green City Harvest bag for drop off at the Grand Central Partnership. See, even when I volunteer, it involves food.
Green food didn’t mean green beer and no. 5. Guacamole, salads, shiny granny smiths courtesy of Power Foods filled the lobby of Avalon (formerly slimelight). Paper shamrocks, rockers, lots of photographers flooded the “No cameras permitted in the club” venue for photographer Patrick McMullen’s Annual St. Patrick’s Day Party. Mr. North, an Irish band, rocked the house… the place was jammed with beautiful people, peppered with ugly oldies that must be important…just not to me. Overall, it was one of those nights where I should have a crazy story to tell, but the truth is, I would have done better at home, in bed, reading Middleseex. View photos from the party >>
It was chilling enough approaching The Women’s National Republican Club, never mind the idea that a building with this name even exists. Then go ahead and add some snow, pile on the slush. Architect Rem Koolhaas believes in the idea of societal improvement. The quick pulse of global change energizes him, leaving him confident and optimistic. Why, for the love of god, was the launch for his new “book” Content (hosted by Jeff Koons) housed at the Republican Club, a club chockablock with Christie Todd Whitman look-a-likes? Hemlines never rise above the calf; ankles are crossed, just like the women. Can you smell the Pledge, and yes, that is a portrait of Nancy Regan. I didn’t “get it.” Any of it. When Koolhaas addressed the audience of cheese-cube-popping-personnel, I made certain to grab a good look at the steely man. His nose was a wedge of sharp cheese, and everything about him was gray, even his eyes. I studied him to ensure I wouldn’t end up spitting out a shoelace if I put my foot in my mouth later in the evening by speaking my mind, “Yeah, this is all a bit too affected, wouldn’t you say? I mean, really, what’s up with this pseudo political architecture zine? Just do me a favor will you? You’re tall. Let me know when you see the Spanikopita lady? Enough with the Satay sticks already, right?” Thankfully, the only words passed between us were please and thank you, the before and the after extended as he signed the Prada advertisement, Page 1 of his book. However, the opportunity yielded offline chats with Jen, Dahlia, Rion, Michael, Tony, Rob, Phobe, and of course Matt Caldecutt, who was my ticket to ride. The most interesting groove of my evening was meeting bloggers in person. “Oh my, I know you. You just commented on my site today!” Indeed I had, and today all I want to do is download Tony’s tunes. More on this event: Tien Mao on Rem Koolhaas Dahlia on Rem Koolhaas Book Launch Tony on A Huge Portrait of Nancy Regan Filled My Dreams Last Night Ron on The Fast-Paced Life of the Litterateur
Friday eve I hit The Hotel Gansevoort, camera in hand. Scope New York, the international art fair, landed on the roof. Lines were the theme, and we’re not talking drawings. Lines of patrons in the cold hoping to squeeze through the immense revolving door, lines for the elevator, lines for the bathroom (not IN the bathroom), and long winding lines for the booze. Half-naked women clad in clear plastic clothes handed out cum shots, which tasted of diluted sugar, not chicken soup. These women reminded me of a passage that has to be written somewhere in some instructional love book, “How to please him every time–wrap it in Sarran Wrap.” or something lame like that. Plastic clothes should remain on hangers, should be yellow, and worn only with duck shoes and accompanying umbrella. Tsk, tsk. Take a look. I was just informed by a dear friend that Photographer Patrick McMullen kept touching my hair saying, “You must come to my St. Patty’s Day Party with that red hair.” Why do people always have the need to touch my hair… and now I’m beginning to remember, I had to keep telling him I wasn’t Irish. “So what, no one will know.” This is true. I always make out with the adult beverages on that holiday. So look forward to that post. Yum.
This morning I opted for black, all black, even my socks. And when I crossed the street for the subway, you called to me to kiss you good-bye. I hadn’t realized you weren’t coming with me. And once I did finally cross the street after our good-byes, I leaned on the lamp post and watched you. I kept hoping you’d turn around to look back at me. Even when I knew you wouldn’t be turning around, I watched your head and your black shoulders disappear. I was so full of love and want for you; in that moment I loved you as my own, like watching a child walk to school. I wanted to keep you safe and kiss your head. I wanted so much for us and for you…all in such a small moment. It’s the last time I saw you, and in a way, it’s as if I knew it would be.