C & The Amazing Three-Button Nineties Suit

The morning after C and I arrive in Florida, we look out the window at cloudy skies, look at each other, and say one word: "Aventura".

A trip to Florida is not a trip to Florida without hitting Aventura Mall. It's our version of vacation crack - if we have not ventured forth into this gleaming biodome of a mega-mall within 48 hours of our arrival, one of us starts twitching uncontrollably while the other is taking down little old grannies for their Big Brown Bags. They just don't make malls like this in New York.

So there we are in Macy's, laden down with purchases and still going strong. My pupils are dilated from a shopping-induced high brought on by the fact that:

A) It's Memorial Day Weekend. And on Memorial Day Weekend, there are sales. Compute.

B) I have arrived at the Bloomingdale's the morning the sale has started. No slim pickings for this biatch. It's mine, aaaallllll mine!

C) I have a member card that gives me an additional 20% off all sale items. BOO-YAAAA!

In the midst of searching for my dad's birthday gift, C waves me over to show me a suit. I follow him into the dressing area and while he's trying on clothes, I'm ferretting through my bags and mentally planning my wardrobe from here until September.

"What do you think?" I look up to see him sporting the aforementioned suit. The pants are great. The jacket, however, is not. It's just not okay, it's more than not okay. It's like a bad acid trip and I'm hurling back through time to Mr. Refkin's Geometry class, Z. Cavaricci pants, and Marky Mark the Calvin Klein Model, not Mark Wahlberg the Actor.

C sees the look on my face. "What?"

Heavy D called and he wants his look back

"No." I failed to remember that a sale in Florida, as opposed to a sale in New York City, are two very different things. If I'm not careful, that jacket could take over and my husband could walk out of here looking like an extra from Beverly Hills, 90210. "I don't like it."

"What's wrong with it?" He gets a defensive look on his face and I see he really likes it. Oh dear. Is it just me or is that a bolero tie sprouting around his neck?

"Come back to 2007, babe. Seriously? That's a three-button suit straight out of the 1990s and it's not a good look."

"I don't care about fashion, I just like what I like." Now I just saw a hoop earring grow through his left ear.

Because Milli will not rest until he has his Vanilli

"C, please." I cringe at the thought of a certain 90's pop group who were the poor cousins of Vanilla Ice. At least Ice wouldn't have been seen sporting that jacket hanging all the way down to his knees - it would have clashed with his Fade. I drop the bomb on C. "You look like a member of Color Me Badd."

C's eyes widen and I realize I've made contact. He pouts a little. "No, I don't."

Fashion police says: Color Me Blind with a no, no, no and a big fat NO (that's you on the right I'm talking to there, Mr. Pirates of Penzance)

Time to bring out the big guns.

"Ooooohhhh, ooo oooo!" I watch his ears turn a little red. "I wanna sex you up! All nighttttt, oh woahhhhh!" What the sales clerk outside must think, but I. Am. Not. Letting. C. Leave. With. That. Suit.

"Stop that." He shrugs off the jacket.

"I wanna sex you up! Woo hoo!" I do a shimmy in the dressing room. "We can do it til we both wake up." What kind of line is that anyway??? I'll keep on shagging you no matter how bored you are, until you wake up dammit! Someone please explain.

C hangs the jacket on the hanger and I can see he's at that fine line between putting back on the bar or taking it with him to the register. He gives me a look. "Oooohhh!" And he hangs the relic from the past back up.

Never underestimate the power of Color Me Badd when settling a fashion dispute.

Houston, we have a problem on the landing strip

So, I'm leaving for Florida tomorrow on a well-deserved break. This calls for pre-beach grooming. I'm talking about getting the nails did and a visit to the waxing lady.

Because right around this time, people tend to mistake me for a certain pre-historic creature

It was time to get everything looking pretty and nice for my week on the beach.

Well!

Since I had no time except on Monday to go to this appointment - the day my usual waxing lady is off - I opted for one of her co-workers. Bad idea. Bad, bad, BAD idea!

I go in, I go out. I'm happy. My legs and bikini area are smooth and hair-free. I go get my nails done and then head home. Florida, here I come!

Then, I'm packing and doing that thing girls tend to do when they pack, which is basically try on every outfit to see if that's even what we want to take. And since I have a full length mirror...well, while I was in the midst of changing vacation outfits, I noticed something was not right.

"Heh?" I waddle up to the mirror, with my beach pants still around my ankles and get a closer look. "HEH?!?"

"Someone call air traffic control - this runway's no good"

I run into the bathroom and get the portable mirror we have in there, check things out, and proceed to scream for my husband. "Ceeeeeeeee!"

C comes running in. "What?!? What's the matter?"

I point down. "The waxing lady made my vaja look all lopsided!"

He looks down and sees what I see - a nearly perfect bikini line with the exception of one big deviation from what should be a straight bikini line. A half-arc of well, okay I'll say it - hair, looking like it's trying to make a break for freedom. How I missed this, I don't know - but now it's like I paid a visit to Mrs. Magoo the waxing lady. C starts laughing. Not just a little, a lot.

"Don't laugh! This isn't funny!" I huff. As I stomp off, I hear him start laughing even harder.

Yeah, you laugh, buddy - my wonky vaja and I aren't speaking to you until you apologize!

You're never too old to have a crush

Confession time: I have an itty bitty crush on Anthony Bourdain.

"M, look into the eyes of man who only wants to cook for you"

Yes, yes, I know. Me and my wierd celebrity crushes. No lusting after Brad Pitt or George Clooney for me. Oh, no. From Ted Nugent to Donald Sutherland (pant, pant) to Patrice O’Neal (but only when he was hosting Web Junk), I love me some wierd crushes! I almost had a crush on Tom Petty, but now that just would have been too wierd.

I don't know what it is, but Ah like Tony Bourdain! Hey, who doesn't lurve a man who cooks? But not just that, he's from Jersey. This badass is from my neck of the woods in New Jersey and therefore gives instantaneous credibility to my much-maligned home state. I can walk with my head a little higher and give a little lip back to anyone who gives me shit for it, because Tony Bourdain is a Jersey Boy and that's all the back-up I need.

When I first saw him, surrounded by a halo of smoke at Siberia Bar in 2000, I'll admit it: I was a little scared of the guy. He looked so grouchy, like he just wanted to be left the fark alone and not deal with drunk, loud twenty-somethings like me going up to him and trying to hang. I hated Siberia Bar, but I always found it interesting just to watch him. He was so...watch-able.

And then I'd spot him all the time on 7th Avenue in later years, it was uncanny. Thousands of people walk right by me on the streets, but like a heat-seeking missile I always seemed to spot him when walked down the street. And it wasn't like I was crushing then, he just seemed to gravitate to wherever I was.

Could it possibly be that Anthony Bourdain is following me?

Yeah, in my dreams.

Ironically enough, just when C and I starting becoming compulsive fans of the show No Reservations, the live sightings stopped. The more we watched Our Man Tony travel and eat his way around the world, the more we got glimmers of the person behind that steely facade I saw years ago, he virtually disappeared off the streets. And the more I started harboring a big honking crush on the dude.

But such is life and I've got a great guy at home. And we all know there's nothing wrong with having a celebrity crush. Even if they're chain-smoking, thrill-seeking men with a death wish and nearly twice my age.