I got laid..

...off, that is.

This monkey wrench in the wheel that is my life is just another statistic, however, in the numbers rolling out of the mouths of D.C. babes. This title for a news article pretty much sums it up:

Unemployment high in March, Officials Say

Brilliant in its simplicity or simple as in Billy Bob Thornton in Slingblade simple? You decide.

In the wake of this occurence, I had two options: A) Treat it as the earth-shattering, traumatizing event that this was supposed to be and go unwashed for the next three months or

B) Carpe Diem! Seize the opportunity with Robin Williams dancing on my shoulder blathering "O Captain, my Captain!" I'll take life by the horns! Make lemons out of lemonade! Yeah!

I chose neither of the above, because C) a girl needs to eat.

I'm not kidding. Maybe not my first thought, but one of my first thoughts upon receiving the news was "Maybe now I can finally get to try The Little Owl?" Seriously.

Before getting laid off, it was clear to me impending changes were going to happen regarding my incomings. Thus began a loosely orchestrated Plan B. Here's what I know:

1. Contrary to my glorified image of new motherhood, where I snuggle with my newborn daughter in her Baby Bjorn during maternity leave and sip cappucinos at cafes while chatting with friends, I was the post-natal, sleep-deprived equivalent of Pig Pen from The Peanuts Gang up until the day I returned to work. The day before that, I took a shower.

2. While on maternity leave, the world fell apart to which I was oblivious.

3. In my return to work, however, it became abundantly clear that juggling new motherhood and the increasingly strained work environment was going to be a wee bit of a challenge. Therefore, work stress and new baby combined meant I did not have the wherewithall to live what is commonly known as A Life.

4. My net income on unemployment benefits would exceed that of what I was making at work after deductions for childcare each month. This is New York City. Believe it.

And in general, life was sucking a lot more than I had hoped for being a new mom.

So Plan B was kicked into gear and I got my ducks in a row. My desk was cleared out two weeks before they gave me the boot (hence the modicum of satisfaction derived from watching The Snake's face when she escorted me to my desk to Voila! There would be no joy had in watching me pack up an already threadbare cubicle!) Our apartment has been put up for sale. I paid off certain bills, while scooting down to the minimum on others.

And breathed a sigh of relief.

Now, a month after being laid off, I'm less gray, less stressed, less irritable. (Note: not completely without irritation, but less so. I don't claim to be a saint.) And A From LA, who actually is no longer A From LA since she's back in New York, is, well, back in New York! And we have planned jaunts to local dining establishments that we have been dying to try but previously had no time to do so. We may not have the money either, but we'll work that out. Sharing is caring, ya know.

All that with a baby in town while I look for a new job, along with the apparently 13 other million people who are doing so as well.

So...watch this space. (I really mean it this time!)

The Perfect Christmas Gift

Since I presumably celebrate Christmas now on behalf of my daughter, I've been immersing myself into the mindset of Christmas shoppers, scanning the retail horizon for what could be potentially perfect gifts. Consequently, my eyes have been opened to the absurdity of what actually passes for desirable purchases out there and the fact that people actually buy them. Let's begin:

Snuggies - otherwise known as The Blanket With Sleeves aka the bastardized version of what is commonly known as a Poncho. It's so monk-like, too. What happens when people put it on? Do they start chanting?

"IIIII....ahhhhhhmmmmm.....the suckkkkerrrrrrrr....who bought Snuggiesssss....the blanhhhhhhhn-ketssss.....with shleeeevessssss!"

But that free book light offer, that's what gets them everytime. The Slanket didn't stand a chance.

FlowBee - the home haircutting system. I have never been an advocate of DIY haircuts, having been the victim of some horrific efforts on behalf of my mother. And for some reason, these exercises in humiliation always had to take place right before school photos were taken and said haircut was recorded for posterity.

So this, to me, just has WARNING!!! written all over it. Plus, the fact that it's called a vacuum haircut is worrying. Because things can go seriously awry when introducing a product like this to market, there is a simple equation at work here:

FlowBee + a bunch of drunk frat guys = YouTube history

You know I'm right!

Although...if you do buy the FlowBee, you can be like Cloris Leachman here and suck out whatever was left of your brain that led you to buy the thing in the first place

Adirondack Ski Chair - You have to click the link to see what I'm talking about, but it looks comfortable, no? And there's an ottoman! At $500, it better come with some lift tickets too! Just think of all the stories this chair has to tell. I think I recognize one of those skis belonging to that guy I completely wiped out at Killington in 1989.

Lucky Golden Poo - I kid you not. It's a charm in the shape of Poo. But it's Lucky. And it's Golden. Therefore, that makes it the perfect gift to give at Christmas. Ah, what the heck, make it any special occasion throughout the year.

It really says "You mean so much to me", don't you think?

Enough said. Merry Christmas.

And bebe makes three...

So, it's like this - I'm a mom now. Which doesn't excuse why I haven't written anything for at least 5 months, but I was kinda busy harvesting the child that is now sleeping at all hours of the day, while I'm...not.

As I have the baby monitor parked besides me, practically in fear that she will wake up after I just put her down, I consider the fact that this morning at 5 am, I was completely wasted, uttering jibberish with spit-up in my hair. Which goes to show the wierd trajectory of my life since the last time I found myself in this position was in my college days, stumbling out of a club.

I could tell you all about the joys of motherhood in the month since she's arrived or even the excitement of awaiting her arrival while pregnant, complete with birds singing around my head and bunnies hopping around my feet, just like in Disney films. But this is Moi we're talking about. So let me lay out it out like this:

1) I had a pretty easy pregnancy, only exacerbated by the fact that I worked with crazy people. Given the situation of her mom's co-workers and bosses who Simply Did Not Give A Shit what condition she was in, I'm relieved to say my child was born healthy and, from what I gather, relatively unaffected. But anything that she throws at me - even if it's twenty years from now -that's easy, I will blame it on my current job.

2) Ladies, no amount of preparation can ready you for the actual delivery of a child. Nothing. Nada. So the next time you're sitting in your birthing class that you plunked down your credit card for and they do you the injustice of whipping out a video (yes, as in VHS, not DVD) from the 1980s...call Bullshit and demand your money back. You do not want to suffer through watchng a husband-and-wife team with matching mullets going through the process, he in parachute pants and coaching her to "ride the waves" up until the baby's born. Yes, that's right. He said that. But when he's talking about riding the waves, he means the waves of PAIN.

Hey, at least I'm being honest and MY advice is free.

3) When they say, pack your bag and have a plan, they mean it. You do not want to be me like me and find yourself in labor a week before our due date, parked on the sidewalk in an office chair at 4 in the morning, while your husband runs a 2-block radius around you looking for a cab, any cab. John Travolta is practically begging for this to be written into a treatment of Look Who's Talking 4 for the shot in the arm his career so badly needs.

Doing that Scient-ah-lagy hoodoo he loves so much

What is true is that nothing prepares you for the arrival of your own child. Especially if you were not really a Baby Person like me and can only handle kids after the age of 2. Like a heat-seeking missile, your own kid will come into the world and pretty much blast through all the defenses constructed over the so many years you've existed before they graced this Earth.

Which is why I am completely wasted and uttering jibberish with spit-up in my hair at 5 am in the morning. And, for the most part, loving it.

This is your sock. This is your sock on drugs. Any questions?

The things that inspire me to come out of my blogging doldrums.

So I'm folding laundry this morning in utter exhaustion having come off a whirlwind business trip when I smacked in the face with a Crime of Fashion, courtesy of C. I have avoided addressing these Crimes of Fashion out of respect for my husband's privacy and somewhat dubious choices of attire. Until now. The gloves are off and I'm comin' out swingin'!

At first I'm disbelieving, not sure that this is in fact what I'm actually seeing. But this is C, he of the Amazing Three-Button Nineties Suit, and I realize that something has gone terribly awry if I let this one get by me. I present to you Exhibit A of what is now becoming a long laundry list of questionable items of clothing populating C's closet:

For starters, something is not quite right when the insignia on any sock deviates from the innocuous logo or symbol variety. But when I start seeing construction symbols on a sock, no matter how sleep-deprived I am, that's a flag-waving, siren-blaring Red Alert to me! It's a construction symbol for "this is so not okay!" However, further inspection of said sock has me disturbed, perturbed, and aaaaaallllll of the above.

That's right, ladies and gents, there lies a construction symbol of a man lifting a beer with the inscription "Men at work!"

What? How? And more importantly, why?!?!?!??! It is clear to me that I have slackened in my fashion-enforcing, clothes-monitoring wifely duties if my husband was able to slip this by me. Obviously, C's judgment has been impaired during the purchase process of this particular item, as he obviously did not see the "DO NOT BUY IF YOU'RE OVER 21 AND YOUR BEER PONG DAYS ARE A THING OF THE PAST" warning sign flashing above it. I have an inkling that a recent visit to England and the encouragement of a particular best friend may have something to do with this.

You may be thinking "It's a sock. So what? Nobody will know it's there". But you're wrong - I know it's there. And there ain't no shame in saying I am that particular. So if it means having to do a trade-off with him and throwing out a pair of my Granny Underwear that he hates so much, I am quite ready to do it.

So it's like this...

I'm pregnant. Three months, to be exact. I'm thrilled, but you wouldn't be able to tell since I've been basically asleep ever since I found out. Like, I've been known to nod off while at the dinner table or when I put my head down on my desk at work. Which doesn't go over so well, considering I still haven't told my boss yet.

See, my boss isn't exactly the model of thentitivity when it comes to this kind of news. Flashback to when someone else was expecting in the office and he asked them when the parasite was due.

Yeah.

So I'm trying to keep this on the downlow and just let him think I like my food. Which wouldn't be hard to deduce considering my regular tops are starting to look snug around my middle and I'm prone to mid-morning refills of my Honey Nut Cheerios, which have made a serious comeback into my life after I stopped eating them since the 4th grade. At the rate, I'm going to turn into one big, round Cheerio.

But aside from the sleepiness and occasional mood swing, I'd like to think my disposition hasn't changed much as I haven't been too affected by the customary symptoms of pregnancy. Granted, some lifestyle changes have been in order, like the absence of sushi, beer, rollerblading, roast beef sandwiches, turkey subs from Publix, nova lox on a scooped-out everything bagel with scallion cream cheese, tomato and onion...

So yeah, I'm a little cranky, but hey - no projectile vomiting...yet.

And with the absence of the aforementioned items comes the introduction to my life of Tums, a squishy middle, maternity jeans, crying at Charmin commercials, and flatulence that can send even my dog running for the border.

So...am I glowing yet?

So I have to go to my cousin's son's bar mitzvah in a few weeks and I was looking forward to it. It meant we get to see our favorite other cousin and chill out on a three-day weekend in Montreal. C and I would have time to check out the Underground City, have brunch at our favorite spot, and take advantage of a three-day weekend.

My cousin, however, had other plans as per her e-mail. My wedding wasn't even this mapped out:

"Just a reminder that A's big day is fast approaching.

Here is the schedule for the Bar Mitzvah weekend:
Friday: casual supper at our place so we hope you can all join us !
Saturday: we will be busy having our hair and make-up done in the morning and the photographer will be at our home in the afternoon....
Saturday Night: cocktails at 6, ceremony at 7.....
Sunday: Brunch at our house ( details to follow ) and you're all expected of course !
Monday: no plans yet !!"

Don't even think of making fun of the yarmulke

New Year's resolutions

As I managed to escape moments after posting the last addendum to my previous post, I never really did get to finish on a thought that began that day. And that would be my New Year's resolutions. Let's go:

1) To stop shopping as a recreational sport. Window shopping, online shopping, whatever - you name it I love it. And C is my partner is crime. And most of the time, nothing comes out of it because I really don't have the cash flow to actually be buying anything. So what's the point in that??? I need to be more productive with my time.

2) To clear up any debts we have left as a result of our move and shopping as recreational sport. Which means I need to go hide in a bunker somewhere until 2009 if we're hoping to see any results.

3) To learn Photoshop. Mostly because I can't wait to clip and post a photo of Zoe Dawg wearing a turban in India, just for laughs.

4) To get back on skis this winter. Seriously, I need to break this streak or else I run the risk of doing the involuntary Triple Lundy somersault that I did in Crested Butte one time after a long dry spell. While I'm sure bystanders remember it fondly as "Remember the time that chick just went flyyyyyinnng over that mogul like a cannonball shot?", my back has still not forgiven me for that.

5) To wish all of you a happy new year. There, done.

Post-Christmas mini-hangover and sleep deprivation diary

9:42 AM - I am one of those sad suckers at work today, watching the tumbleweeds go by. Everyone is either sleeping off last night's drinks or eating bon bons in bed, as far as I'm concerned.

10:04 AM - A From LA is in town, hence the mirth and merriment that kept me out past my self-imposed 11:30 curfew and had me holding up my finger, saying "Just one more". Twice. At Niagra Bar of all places.

10:51 AM - I love how I'm on the phone with my mother and she starts launching into a big diatribe about my relationship with my brother. But after I tell her this is not a conversation to have while I'm at work, she keeps repeating back to me "Like I said, this is not a conversation to have while you're at work". Grrr.

11:41 AM - As we're watching my parents' neurotic dog, Jaxon, while they're away, we've been overly concerned with his well-being. He's depressed, he misses them, and being a country dog, he is very confused as to life in the big city. So his toilet habits are serious indicators of his well-being during his stay with us. This is where shrubbery comes in, essential in order for him to successfully execute. So we patiently search this morning at 2 am, for that one perfect shrub in the caverns of Wall Street. And thankfully, we do eventually find it.

Which is why my last recollection as I fall asleep is C saying to me, with his eyes closed and a smile on his face: "I'm happy because it was good to hang out with those guys again. And I'm happy because Jaxon pooped."

1:50 PM - I'm back from an extra-long lunch break that included stops to the library and checking out the post-Christmas sales, all necessary to recharge my tired batteries. And not one e-mail, not one stinking e-mail. Remind me why the office is open again? Thus, the plotting to sneak out early begins.

2:32 PM - Sending e-mails to myself has not improved aforementioned situation.

3:07 PM - Did I mention the in-laws are coming tomorrow? And did I mention that originally they were talking about doing Times Square for New Year's?

Oh. Yes.

Thankfully, we were able to convince them that this was an irrefutably bad idea, well in advance, but I could never perfectly sum up in words why. But now, having come up a well-put summation of those feelings, I can present this to you feel and vindicated. This, my friends, is why.

And this totally has nothing to do with the year I was mistaken for a prostitute by a tourist while I was trying to find my friends at some bar in the area. Because obviously, a short dress and knee-high boots on New Year's Eve can only mean just one thing.

Calling Savion Glover

So this past weekend, I’m watching an old Alanis music video. No, I wasn't breaking out the plaid and thinking about dreading my hair; the only reason I’ve just discovered this video is because there’s a Six Degrees of Separation thing going between this music video from the 90s and the movie I Am Legend, which we just saw on Friday night. Don’t ask.

So….anyway! I’m watching this video, getting really into the vibe (and what are you doing to do about it?) when I notice something which I had hoped was banned around the start of the millennium. And that would be The Tap. Do you know what I’m talking about? It’s those tap-dancing sounds employed in videos and films when they're trying to convince you that the people are actually tap dancing. Here…a perfect case in point – Paula Abdul in "Opposites Attract" at timestap 2:57 when she does that little pas de deux with Mr. Cartoon Cat:



Now we all know that cats can't tap. But we do know Paula Abdul can. Paula has made abba-solutely, pah-ha-sitively sure that we know she can tap. See the beginning of "Straight Up", hence a surge in the rate of broken toes in 1989 (including mine) from little girls thinking they could be anything close to the tap-dancing fool that was Paula Abdul. Hey, that rhymes!

So why is The Tap being employed here? To make it more…tappier? Paula Abdul don’t need no help tapping!

Fast forward to the Alanis video. She can dance, right? Considering all the moaning and groaning she does when she sings, literally and figuratively, so heavy was she with the philsophical musings on life and love, I’d never have guessed she was that light on her feet. I’m suitably impressed. And then at the timestamp of 1:27?

I present to you The Tap



At first, I’m looking over my shoulder like “Where’s that sound coming from?” And then it’s like “Aw, man! Is that The Tap?” The whole thing just becomes so fake. Faker than fake. Because you can't just pretend to tap! You must feeeeeel the tapper tapping, seeeeee the tapper tapping!

If The Tap is the audio version of steroids, that would make Alanis Morrissette the Jose Canseco of tap dancing.

Balducci's = Doesn't get the several thousand years old memo

Just in case you were wondering, this is a promotion not customary for the Festival of Lights.

I don't know what's funnier - this or the fact that the blogger who stumbled upon this has now turned this into a cottage industry replete with shirts and magnets on Cafe Press. No wait, the funniest would be the people who actually click to BUY the things. Click here to read more.

Happy Hanukah

Xena Dawg joins me, her owner J, and our fellow Chosen Peoples in wishing you a Happy Hanukah.

S.O.S. from M

"I work with crazy people"

Mini-hangover diary

This falls under the “mini-hangover” category, as my hangover is neither here nor there. Because although we had another Bitchfest (read: work happy hour) last night, it wasn’t a Booze-a-palooza. So this is what I get for trying to go home early and getting into bed early, thinking I can sneak one past the Hangover Monster. Instead, he kicks me in the ass by waking me up at 5:30 am this morning, reminding me that I can’t sleep with any kind of alcohol in my system.

9:10 am – I have walked into the office. I have worn brown today. Brown is the color of our cubicle walls. Hopefully, I blend in and no one notices me here.

9:11 am – Someone noticed me.

9:13 am – Someone else noticed me as well.

9:20 am – This is getting to be a problem

10:38 am – Unfortunately, the Jedi Mind Trick is not working and people are penetrating my Invisible Wall, feeling the urge to converse with me today. This does not make me happy.

11:25 am – I wonder if anyone would actually say anything if I unfolded a cot underneath my desk and decided to chill out there for a little while?

12:01 pm – The Big Man wants me to go to a lunch meeting with him last minute and give the rundown on a big event we have in September to a dude I’ve never met before. I lie like a dog and tell him I have a conference call at 1. Maybe that’s when I’ll unfold the cot.

12:15 pm – Time to sneak out and pretend to get lunch before my "conference call" (air quotes!) at 1. Even though I brought lunch with me.

12:52 pm – Oh, what the hell. That noodle soup looked good, so I wound getting that. I’ll save the other lunch for tomorrow, which is also soup.

1:00 pm - What do you know? The conference call was cancelled!

1:25 pm – That other lunch turned to be pretty good as well. Love me those lentils.

1:52 pm – But those lentils don’t love me. I’ve been walking around smiling at everyone with a lentil skin covering one of my teeth, until someone was kind enough to point it out.

2:12 pm – I pretend to work on my computer. What I’m really doing is impersonating a snake and sleeping with my eyes open.

2:49 pm – Happy Halloween by the way.

3:52 pm – I’m so out of it, I forgot to post this live and keep it running throughout the day. But I’m doing it now?

4:40 pm - Actually, the day is ending on a high note with this photographic missive from C:

Because I'm not the only dog who had her day

Gawne baby, gawne!

So I overdid it over the weekend. Rather than having a nice relaxing weekend in Florida, we met up with A From LA at the Hard Rock hotel and I proceeded to get very schnockered on Guinnii Sunday night. Olympic sprints in the casino optional because I'm such a klassy gal.

So I wasn't looking forward to coming home on Monday night, given my thentitive condition and having to return to work on Tuesday. Add to that a barfy, poopy puppy waking you up at 5 in the morning and it can only go downhill from there. However, while I'm wheezy with a cold due to all the fun and games, there is actually a light at the end of this tunnel.

But while we're on the subject, it's no fun being Wheezy

Let me start by telling you that hell indeed has frozen over! That pigs are flying out there doing loop-de-loops over the Empire State Building. And yes, we have discovered that the pope is in fact Jewish!

"Shalom, my peoples!"

Why? Because they fired Mr. Incredible. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, Goldenballs Has Left The Building! We now have a kinder, gentler environment in which to work in! You know the lil' song and dance the Munchkins do when the house falls on the Wicked Witch of the East?

Ding dong, the ding dong is dead!

They describe rapture as a mixture of "all your birthdays and Christmases rolled into one". (In my case, that would be a whole lotta Hanukahs!) Well, this occurrence is those two things aaaa-haannd...

The day I met C

The day I got married

Getting my driver's license

Some other days that shall remain nameless in this family-friendly blog

And the birth of my future child. (No, I'm not pregnant, but my guess is motherhood ranks pretty high up there.)

It's aaaaalllllll that and more! Although I was not in the office at the time it happened, I can live with the fact that I never got to say goodbye. Yeah, sure. That and the idea that I will never have to look at his smug, bad-writin', Verdana-lovin’ mug again.

What am I saying...I don't wish unemployment on anyone. And I really should not gloat at someone else's misfortune.

Oh, who am I kidding? Payback's a bitch, sucka! Yeah, I suppose that means my soul needs some saving, but I'll worry about that later. Right now, all I want to do is gloriously roll around in this feeling like Zoe Dawg does in other dogs' scat when we go to the park.

C'mon Wheezy, let's dance!