(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.
Now I know I’ve made it big. I’m in the latest Daily Candy Weekend Guide. Well, okay, I’m not. The hotel where I am the photographer is… same difference. Click here to view my art. And ahem, I designed the site featured in Daily Candy… so I’ll be sipping, slurping, and spilling some champagne tonight.
I wish you were here, in my dark, for my head and for my heart. I love the taste of miss, the smell of want. I wish tonight I could preserve you, fold you into me like a small square note. You are my cup of tea before bed, my favorite socks, all of my down.
Great Summer Camp. If you are 8 to 16 and need to lose weight try Kingsmont. Have fun and lose weight. Great food, no hunger.
A Sex and The City tour bus unloads streams of people palming cupcakes. Touristas skipped indulging in seconds at Magnolia Bakery. That’s one trick to forgo the hooked line circling back to Bank St. But it feels like spring and smells like winter, so who cares about the lines. The cupcake bouncer cares. Although she doesn’t lift or work out to keep her bouncer title, she’s got a set a lungs to keep the troops in line. “Fights have broken out before, ya know.” Oh, I believe it. Inside are the expected trays of cupcakes, jars of sprinkles, tubs of sugar flowers, bowls of nonpareils. Gobs of pastel icings. Women in bandanas smear it on thick and are heavy-handed with the goods. Old-fashioned jars of enormous cookies make even the lactose-intolerant crave milk. To skip beyond the line, you needn’t show up in a limo or with a gaggle of girls. Name-dropping won’t work. Unless the name is Banana Pudding. If you tell the bouncer you’re there for other treats, beyond the cupcakes, you can saunter right in… let them think you greased her. Click here to view all the pics.
The life of Pi is not an option. I’ve seen it abandoned on too many bookshelves. The Da Vinci Code? No merci. I already tried Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Double no with cream. It’s up there with scrap booking and carpools: book clubbing it. It doesn’t happen in Manhattan; it’s left to suburban women without Starbucks littered on their every corner. Okay, that’s not true, “Fourbucks” is everywhere. Well the buck stops there. 15 of my girlfriends and I are beginning our book club this month (we’ll meet to discuss books in Manhattan over hors d’ oeuvres and cokctails.) I managed to rally up the ladies, but now, of course, it’s time to choose our first book. And researching books online is a bit overwhelming, like picking a restaurant on citysearch.com. There’s a beauty shot, a lovely review, then “here’s what others thought of it.” Books are very personal, almost like buying perfume. I think we need 3 choices, and then we’ll vote. Any ideas?
I spent a summer interning for a Supreme Court justice. She was old, her hands translucent as onionskin, and she told me to think. “I mean really.” I watched closed family court trials in Kew Gardens, criminal cases in Jamaica, and sorted estate papers for an attorney on Fifth Avenue. A man micro waved his baby. The D.A. told me all he did was deal with scum all day. I wasn’t going to be that type. Corporate law, M & A, Entertainment… it’s neat and clean… manicured fingernails. I was certain I would be a lawyer based on the smart-ass, never-mess-with-Stephanie thing I had going on. Teachers tell you. Your parents tell you. Everyone thinks because you’re quick and sass you should be a lawyer. The freedom music swells. Lawyers push papers, spend most of their days trying to find billable hours; some of them go home to sob, dreading Monday. Surprisingly most of my closest friends are now lawyers: my college roommate, my ex-boyfriend, my cocktail chiclet partners (there are at least 5 of them). Some of them hate it. HATE IT. Others are optimistic. I’m certain many law school students are there because they’re uncertain about life. Everyone always told them; everyone can’t be wrong. Cut biscuits. Learning, studying, libraries, essays. I could lick it up, like salt off a palm before the shot and lime. I excelled. So what stopped me from joining the ranks of the confused? A doctor’s appointment… “Okay, now you’re feeling a cotton swab. Just taking some of the cells.” Oh, God. “It might pinch a little, is that okay? You’re going to feel this. Okay, now I’m staining the cervix with acid; it might sting.” Oh, god. “Okay now you’ll feel that 10 seconds of severe cramping I told you about. Are you ready?” Just do it already. Don’t tell me about it. Get this over with. “Yeah.” “Now, you’ll feel quite a few pinches. Those are the biopsies.” Quite a few? Oh my God, that means that there are a lot of abnormal cells. “Okay, here’s the first.” I felt my arms stiffen, pressing into my chest. “You’ll feel a pinch— ready?” I heard a snapping sound, a clip, like a lock of hair out of the way and the sides of the blades clicking back together. It was as if something hard was just snipped away. My legs jumped like they do just as I’m falling asleep at night—quick, involuntary. “Okay, now another.” Oh my god, that was the worst part, like clipping off a fingernail too low, snap. “Now, I’m going to put on this black medicine to stop the bleeding. Your discharge will look like tobacco for the next few days. Okay, you’re all done.” I was shaking, and I wanted to cry. He moved the electronic table to a seated position asking me not to get up too fast. “Are you okay? Dizzy?” No! I’m fine. Get the fcuk out and let me put my pants on. Let me get out. Hurry up and leave already! Get out of here. “I’m fine.” He left, and I was able to finally stand, the groin towel fell, damp with my sweat. Before I sat on the chair with all of my things, I slipped a few pieces of tissue in my underwear and put on my socks. I started gulping in air; I was too nervous to stand. I had to get my pants on before the nurses came in. I was hot and nervous and the next thing I knew, I was back on the table with two nurses, one on each side of me, one taking my blood pressure and the other waving an ammonia packet in my nose. I thought of gray chopped meat that had passed its expiration date. “Her pressure is 75 over 40.” I knew that was low. The nurse that had just taken my blood pressure began to wipe my face with damp gauze. I kept thinking of the fact that she was taking off my make-up and I worried that my skin would look uneven. They asked me how I was feeling, but I wanted to be silent. There was no use for language. I didn’t care to explain to anyone what I just went through or how I felt about anything. I lost interest in speech, nodded my head, and went mute. That cancer scare was as real as a Buick. In retrospect, it was my oars. I turned around, said no thank you to law and decided to do anything creative. Yes, we know, even accountants can be “creative.” I’m talking getting your hands in it, glue, markers, and colors. Thank the governing forces, okay God, that I was fine, cancer-free. I wouldn’t be the writer, photographer, art director…