J(s) in the City

J-Men

2006-03-08T21:08:00.000-08:00

One thing that Mr. J and I share, other than our father’s truly unfortunate nose, and our mother’s cheery disposition—is an unhealthy passion for blockbuster movies based on comic books.

Ever on the alert, Mr. J spotted earlier in the week a new trailer for this summer’s X-Men III. We both immediately watched it, and we’ve since been engaged in a rapid-fire e-mail dialogue. We’ve debated the relative coolness of Angel, a mutant curiously blessed with a giant set of feathery wings. (In my book, any multimillionaire super hero is automatically cool. Mr. J argues that wings are lame, regardless of the dude’s day job.) We’ve pondered over who the bald kid in the preview is. (Leech.) And, we’ve come to unanimous agreement that the movie adaptation really screwed Rogue. (As Mr. J points out, in the comic books she could fly. In the movies, the only thing her super powers do is prevent her from getting any ass.)

We’ve also taken the time to consider some more serious theoretical questions, namely, what would we do if we were mutants? Would we feel compelled to fight crime? Or, would we be just as happy to use our telekinetic and flight ability to clean our apartments and beat the morning rush? How would we feel if one of us was mutant, but the other wasn’t? Would the non-mutant feel inadequate? I felt inadequate when Mr. J won the elementary school science fair, how much worse would it be if he could freeze things with his bare hands? Would the mutant sibling be understanding of the other one, or would they just shoot laser beams at him/her?

These are all important questions that will sadly have to go unanswered. Until one of us develops a super hero ability, we’re just going to have to resign ourselves to discussions in the abstract. In the meantime, we’re each crossing our fingers that we’ll be the one to discover the hitherto dormant abilities. Neither of us wants to be the one getting laser beamed.

Ms. J

VIP Only

2006-03-05T14:17:00.000-08:00

On some basic level, everyone wants to be a VIP. Somewhere deep down inside, all of us crave to be on the right side of the velvet rope.

The city’s night life feeds on this secret desire for superiority. Muscle bound bouncers block the doors to even the lamest of clubs. Gaggles of finance types pay into the triple digits for the privilege of sitting on a banquette alongside leggy models. Bridge and tunnel kids stand for hours in the freezing cold, all for the miniscule chance to drink overpriced cocktails with the likes of Paris Hilton.

Perhaps more than any other city, New York is literally flooded with these nocturnal meccas of elitism. In spite of the excess of scenes available, one thing about club land never changes. Club land is always dark. Although the rounded seating may change, the beautiful people will only ever be bathed in the dimmest of lights. Which leads one to the obvious question, why not flip the switch?

Once we give our eyes a minute to adjust, the answer stares straight at us like a cigarette burn on velour. Darkness facilitates our suspension of belief. Just like a five-year-old at Disney World, we nighttime revelers want to believe in magic. We want to feel the steady thrum of an urban life that is as sophisticated and bedazzled as our wildest suburban dreams. In the subtle blue glow of the dance floor, we can imagine that our evening’s compatriots are a glittering pantheon of stars, rather than a sweaty mass of office drones. The chrome is just a little shinier, the suede a little less stained, the carpet nowhere near as worn—and that’s exactly what we want. Without that air of mystery, we’re no longer tres chic. Instead, we’re just…us. We’re mere mortals in a windowless room, with a few tired couches, and a relatively decent stereo system—and really, who wants that?

It’s for this reason that we all make a tacit agreement, to lay low in the black. To light a few candles, turn up the tunes, and allow ourselves to be transported. We’re going to a place where everyone wants to be. A place where the people are prettier, the drinks are tastier, and the music’s always pumping. It’s a place where we belong, and it’s a place that makes it all worth it.

Ms. J

Chance at Gold

2006-02-20T19:56:00.000-08:00

I love the Olympics. For the past week and a half, team U.S.A. has been a prominent fixture in my living room. A pantheon of events whose details I’m only vaguely aware of--curling, ice dancing, snowboard cross, and super g. For this week only, I’m their number 1 fan.

There’s something a little funny about the Olympics. Take figure skating for instance. Every four years, we all tune in to watch skinny little men in sequined bodysuits take turns flinging themselves in time to classical music. We don’t really know the rules behind what they’re doing. We don’t have the foggiest idea how they’re doing it. And, if we’re honest, we don’t even necessarily have any interest in figuring it all out. As my cousin asked during a recent family dinner, “would you rather be a world class men’s figure skater…or, just have a really solid jump shot?” The table unanimously voted for the jump shot.

All of that said, you can’t deny that there’s something uniquely compelling about the Olympics. For me, it all boils down to the simplicity of it all. There are so few things in life that have such simplicity of purpose. Hundreds of athletes from across the globe, all focused on achieving ultimate perfection. Whether it’s the perfect run down the ski slope, the perfect spin on the ice, or even the perfect whatever the hell it is that curlers do--they’re all in pursuit of the same goal. They all want to achieve perfection in this one moment.

Four years of trying to explain to your friends what curling is. Four years of falling on your ass with no audience but yourself. Four years that all boils down to this one moment. This one moment where we’ll collectively hold our breath, as hundreds of athletes from across the world, go for the gold.

Ms. J

By Myself

2006-02-13T11:38:00.000-08:00

Actual conversation I had with a friend the other day.

Friend: So what’re you up to now?
Me: I’m actually just about to go to the MoMA
Friend: Oh cool, who are you going with?
Me: Just by myself.
Friend: You’re not going with anyone else?
Me: Nope, just me.
Friend: Dude . . . that’s really sad.
Me: . . . thanks . . .

So has my life really become that pathetic, or was my friend overreacting? Being in a line of work with high work hour fluctuations, I frequently find myself with lots of free time at random hours. This has led me to try to figure out socially acceptable activities I can do by myself.

In an ideal world, I feel I should be free to do anything without worrying about a lack of companions. I think the problem stems from the incorrect belief that people assume an individual by himself must be completely friendless (a gross exaggeration to say the least). While objectively we all realize how untrue this statement is, it nonetheless permeates our decisions. For example in college, some of my friends were so scared of the specter of eating alone they would plan their meal hours in advance. In the worst case where they couldn’t find anyone, they would grab food from the dining hall and quickly scamper up to their room. Their reasoning being that if they were going to eat alone, they would at least do it in the secrecy of their own rooms.

Yet New York is not college, and I’ve found that for the most part New York tends to be somewhat more amenable to solo adventures, but often arbitrarily so. For example, while seeing movies alone is frowned upon, cultural events tend to be acceptable. Eating out varies depending on the restaurant and the meal. Who decides these things?

Personally for me, the problem is further complicated by the fact that most of my friends in the city are guys, meaning that even when I do find one friend to go out with, we’re limited by the set of activities that two straight guys can comfortably engage in. Yet even despite our precautions, I’ve lost track of the number of times people have assumed I’m part of a gay couple. But I’m getting ahead of myself, right now I just want someone to explain to me the rules on single person activities. Any takers?

Mr. J

Code Name J

2006-02-10T08:27:00.000-08:00

If products are measured by the degree to which they improve your quality of life, then my iPod is the best thing I’ve bought in years. The iPod’s ascent to my most treasured possession has to do with the single fact that it provides a soundtrack for my life. What can I say, everything sounds better in stereo.

I’ve recently taken to techno music during my commute. Although it may seem a bit odd to be bobbing along to club tunes at 9 am, I find that it makes my daily grind seem much more glamorous. It makes me feel more than glamorous. It makes me feel like a spy.

I’ve never been particularly coordinated. Crowded into a subway car, trying not to jostle anyone, and desperately hoping to keep myself upright--I consider it a success if no one loses an eye on the way uptown. Which is why, a Matrix-esque soundtrack appeals to me. No matter how clumsy I may be, the music makes me feel invincible. Forget about the guy who elbowed me on his way in, he’s lucky I don’t whip out a flying roundhouse kick. Throbbing bass in my ears, I imagine myself hovering mid-air, cloaked in a long black trench. Crammed into some sweaty stranger’s arm pit, I allow the music to take me to a better place. It’s a place where I wear dark glasses. It’s a place where I annihilate alien agents. It’s a place where Keanu Reeves hangs out. Overall, it’s a place where I kick ass.

Although I haven’t tried it myself, my husband tells me that listening to music during work has the same effect. He spends a lot of time in front of the computer, and techno makes him feel like he’s breaking enemy code. We admittedly might be escapist, but as far as we can tell, life is much better with a back beat. It’s like being in a movie. The best part being, we’re the star.

Ms. J

Get Your Licks In

2006-02-08T10:57:00.000-08:00

Over lunch today, a friend shared with me an interesting problem. The woman he’s been seeing recently has a penchant for aggressive licking. As he described it, “Imagine someone jabbing you with their tongue.” He then proceeded to demonstrate what a tongue jab looks like. Needless to say, it wasn’t pretty.

The licker apparently explains herself with a giggle, followed by an “I’m just playful.” It wouldn’t bother my friend so much if she reserved this signature move for private occasions. As it is, she’ll routinely use the tongue jab as a greeting. They’ll meet each other at a restaurant, he’ll go to hug her, and she’ll slobber onto his cheek. When I noted that her affection has canine qualities to it, he agreed that it was one small step away from sniffing each other’s asses.

Although my friend has decided to stop seeing this woman for reasons unrelated to her tongue, his predicament does raise an interesting question. When one encounters individuals who seem to have missed the boat on issues of intimacy, do you correct the situation? If only as a public service? If a guy is a crappy kisser, should you try and fix him, before setting him back into the sea of dating? If a girl’s blow jobs border on hazardous to your health, should you raise an alert, before unleashing her on the masses?

It’s definitely awkward. As it is, my gentlemanly friend has responded to Lady Licker with a “That’s sweet, but I’m really not that playful.” In other words, he’s politely told her to take her tongue and shove it. It’s unclear though, if Lady Licker just thinks my friend is a prude.

If anything, these people persist in the pool of singles precisely because everyone figures it’ll be someone else’s problem. Who knows though, one man’s problem could be another man’s dream. Somewhere in this great city of ours, maybe there’s a guy just waiting for that special someone to reach out and lick him. If you are that guy, buddy, have we got the girl for you.

Ms. J

Can I interest you in . . .

2006-02-07T12:26:00.000-08:00

Before I moved to New York, every New Year’s I would watch the ball drop in Times Square. What with Dick Clark and Auld Lang Syne being my main memories, Times Square always seemed like such a warm, family-friendly place. Since moving to New York, I’ve discovered that Times Square is so family-friendly that everyone feels the need to bring their family there, and as a result it is an uncomfortably crowded mass of families. But nonetheless, I still like to believe that one can feel safe at Times Square with the kiddies.

Given this, imagine my shock this Saturday night as I was walking up 8^th Ave, only a block away from Times Square, when a man came up to me and said, “Hey, you interested in any ladies? We got Asians, Blacks, Latinos, Whites, whatever you want man!” While I must admit that I was slightly impressed that affirmative action had spread to prostitution, I was rather taken aback by the boldness of this individual to approach me in such a manner. The man mistakenly took my silence as being on the purchasing fence and decided that he needed to elaborate on what services I could purchase. He then ran through quite an exhaustive list of various sexual acts and their prices, thus destroying any shred of doubt in my mind about his intentions.

Even though I ended up declining his offer that night, I strongly believe prostitution could win awards for their customer service (heck my cable company could learn a lot from them about providing the customer with a wide variety of services and pricing packages). More importantly though, I still am in shock about how this type of activity can take place so close to a tourist Mecca as Times Square. I keep wondering if this is sheer coincidence or if there is actually a reason these two activities are located right next to each other. (“Kids, why don’t you and mom take a ride on the Party Bike? Daddy’s going to go look for . . . umm, Broadway tickets . . . yeah, Broadway tickets!”) At the very least, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to keep a straight face the next time a visitor tells me they really want to see Times Square because they hear there’s so much to do there.

Mr. J

Let's Talk About Drugs (cont.)

2006-02-06T08:18:00.000-08:00

While not really related to drugs, this story was too good for me to not post.

A friend of mine was recently in one of the Northern provinces of Canada for work. Being in a fairly desolate region, he went to the local pub to try to make some friends and whittle the night away. As luck would have it, he got to talking with one of the friendly locals, and they had a few interesting conversations about sports and politics. It turned out this guy had a bus of sorts that he was living in (apparently this is OK in Northern Canada), and when the bar shut down the man invited my friend to his bus out back to continue their conversation.

This is when things start to get interesting. As soon as they make themselves comfortable in the bus, the man says, "So let me tell you, I'm definitely straight, but there are times where I like to suck a mean cock." We'll unfortunately never know the effect that this quote was intended to have, as my friend (already slightly sketched out by being in the back of a bus) decided he had had enough cultural experiences and promptly ran away.

Personally, this phrase has definitely become of my current favorites. The times when you can use it are obviously limited, but each time has quite the dramatic impact. Try it out sometime.

Mr. J

Let's Talk about Drugs

2006-01-30T10:46:00.000-08:00

Fun quotes about drugs:

"My uncle once did heroin. He said it felt like he was cumming for four hours. He never did it again. He knew he'd get hooked."

"What does cocaine feel like? Cocaine makes you feel like you want to do more cocaine."

"We're at a bar, and this girl tells me she's more of a party girl than a pub person. So, on our next date, I take her to a club. Turns out, she just meant that she likes to do a lot of cocaine. We haven't really gone out since."

"She says she's not an addict or anything. For instance, she didn't have any today."

Ms. J

Hover Hazard

2006-01-19T20:22:00.000-08:00

I have a peeve. It’s not just a pet peeve, it’s a real peeve. The kind of peeve that borders from peeved to pissed. Ironically, this peeve of mine is actually kind of pissy, in the most literal sense.

I hate it when people piss on the seat in a public restroom. I don’t know what it is, or why people think they can do it, but it’s just disgusting. Being a woman, I can only speak to the situation in women’s rooms.

I know how it starts. Some women hate germs. Some women believe that sitting on public toilet seats will impart germs to their tushies. Some women may be right about this. This fear of germs results in some women doing the “hover.” C’mon, admit it, you know what I’m talking about. The hover is the bathroom position reserved for the most germy of situations. It’s what happens when the person using the toilet decides to hover their ass just above the seat. My theory is that the vast majority of seat pissers are actually hoverers. There’s really no other explanation.

Which is why, I would like to make a public service announcement to the hoverers. For the good of humanity, clean up for yourselves. You might think, “I don’t use the seat anyway, so who cares if I pee a little on it?!” In short, I care. I care a lot.

It’s a dirty world we live in, why make it dirtier? Don’t let your fear of germs cause you to piss all over things for the rest of us. Thank you.

Ms. J

Lowering the Bar

2006-01-17T07:38:00.000-08:00

I started taking basic pilates today. My husband and I got one of those trial gym memberships, and the class is my first leap into fitness.

Gyms are very intimidating places. The way I see it, one of the pros of modern life is not having to be in good enough shape to catch your own food. The delivery guy has replaced running with a spear, and in my mind, that’s a good thing. Walking into a gym, you’re immediately confronted by hordes of people ready to outrun you for the chicken if it comes down to it. Nothing makes you feel more out of shape than going to work out.

Which is why, I like basic pilates. Unlike my forays into yoga, which were characterized by creative attempts to make the classes increasingly uncomfortable, basic pilates seems satisfied with being glorified lying down. There are no attempts to make the class “power,” nor is their talk of turning the heat up 100 degrees, nor am I asked to chant anything. In fact, my pilates instructor makes my high school guidance counselor look like a drill sergeant. I’ve never met anyone more affirming. Can’t lift your leg that far off the ground? It’s okay, your pushing yourself to where you can! Can’t do a push up? Holding yourself up is just as constructive! Getting winded after trying to touch your toes? Don’t stress, it’s perfectly natural to need a break.

Basic pilates brings something new to my gym experience. It makes me feel like I accomplished something. So what if it does that by lowering the bar? I’ve already coined my new catch phrase. It’s not about strength, it’s about flexibility.

Ms. J

War of the Worlds

2006-01-16T10:43:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, I awoke to my husband saying “Honey, look what happened in the bathroom.” Seeing as we have neither a child we are trying to potty-train, nor a bathroom plant which sprouts money, this morning greeting was going nowhere good.

What had happened in our bathroom can only be described as utterly nasty. Sometime during our slumber, the plumbing had backed up, resulting in a stream of raw sewage seeping across the bathroom floor. Seeing as my husband had to go to work immediately, I was left to deal with the toxic wasteland.

Ever attentive, my super quickly came to assess the situation. As the two of us stood watching the tide ebb further onto the tile, he wisely commented “this is really gross.” Other tenants soon began to call with similar tales, and like a mythic hero, my super fled downstairs to tackle the building’s central sewage pipe. In the interim, I single-handedly prevented the black death from flooding into our bedroom.

Armed with paper towels, our now defiled bath mat, and some flip flops--I stood amidst the rising cess pool, thanking God for the head cold that somewhat dulled my senses of smell. After twenty minutes or so, I was relieved by Alex, who had been sent by my super to help restore peace. Alex came with work boots, an industrial sized mop, and bleach. Taking in my sad paper towels and flip flops, Alex assumed charge with a “ewww.”

A half hour later, after much hard work by Alex and myself, the deed was done. The bathroom had been restored to its former glory. Once we had word that the central blockage had been resolved, we could even flush. Alex and I shared a moment of victory, tried our best not to touch anything else in the apartment, and parted ways.

When my husband came home, he complimented our handiwork. I resisted the urge to tell him to screw himself. Instead, I did the mature thing. I directed him to the flip flops.

Ms. J

Someone's Got a Secret

2006-01-14T09:53:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more irritating than not knowing a secret, particularly when you have a strong suspicion that you are the secret.

The other day, while taking the subway, I had the common experience of riding uptown next to a rowdy group of friends. There were four of them, three men and a woman, talking loudly in a Slavic-sounding language. Two stops into our jaunt, I realized that they were talking about ME. Like most people, I imagine myself at the forefront of everyone’s mind. I therefore initially dismissed the suspicion as another vestige of my own self-importance. The group of co-riders appeared to read my internal monologue though, and they cleared up any confusion by explicitly pointing at me. While I had been observing from the corner of my eye, I decided this development required looking head on. I peered shyly at them across the car. Four heads immediately swiveled to random directions. One of the men became intrigued by the map behind him, the woman scrutinized her nails, and the other two became fascinated with the tunnel wall outside their window. I sheepishly turned away, only to be met by peals of laughter. Amidst busy chatter, the group appeared besides themselves. One of the crew literally shook in his attempts to maintain some decorum. Making a speedy exit at my stop, I slinked away utterly confuzzled.

I have since envisioned alternative endings to the scene. In one version, instead of running away in embarrassment, I wittily respond in their native tongue. This version ends with the group complimenting my impressive mastery of Slovenian. Another version entails them saying, “We just can’t get over how you look exactly like [insert name of super model here]!” I then inform them that I get this all the time, and we collectively remark at the uncanny resemblance. The final version, and perhaps my favorite, involves them saying “We can’t believe it, we came all the way from Kazakhstan, and we discovered Ms. J! Our whole country thinks you’re a genius!” This version ends with my good-naturedly signing autographs.

The unifying factor of my alternative endings is that, in the end, I am not the butt of a secret. I will probably never know exactly what enthralled my audience that afternoon. All I know is that it’s no fun whatsoever to be the unwitting subject of conversation. That, and I’m never going to wear that shirt again.

Ms. J

Gayest (Closeted) Place on Earth

2006-01-13T10:58:00.000-08:00

Some friends of mine from Europe recently came to visit the Big Apple. For their final day of sight-seeing, they elected to visit a bastion of American culture, Abercrombie & Fitch. Ever the consummate hostess, I joined them for this excursion.

For those unfamiliar with its wares, namely those living in Tibetan caves, Abercrombie & Fitch is one of the world’s premier purveyors of overpriced preppy clothes. Targeted mostly at suburban teens aiming to achieve cooler than thou status, Abercrombie has made oodles of cash hawking cropped tees and cargoes. If retailers were high school students, then Abercrombie would be the hunky quarterback of the football team. Which is why, it comes as a bit of a surprise, that the flagship store is so obviously…gay. The four floors are a veritable altar to all things homo.

Perusing through the darkly-lit corridors, loud dance music throbbing in the background, one gets the vague impression of being in a club. Upon closer inspection, one gets the solid impression of being in a gay club. The centerpiece of the basement is a life-size sculpture of a muscle bound hottie wearing what appears to be a thong. Behind thong-man, the walls are adorned with photos of gorgeous men in various stages of undress. Some of these men are sweaty, some are covered with mud, all are languidly draped across one another. The photographs are nothing though, compared to the store’s piece de resistance. Starting in the 50 foot open stairwell in the center of the store, is a large painted mural that sprawls outward onto each floor. Depicted in the mural are half-naked men at the gym, half-naked men at a construction site, and half-naked men in the park. Sprinkled amongst the half-naked men are what at first appears to be women, but upon examination, are really men (with Adam’s apples and all) in drag.

Waiting as my friends shopped, I felt the compelling need to document my discovery. It was like finding Joe Quarterback in flagrante delicto at a bath house. I discretely took a digital photo. Within seconds, sales associates swooped down on me. I was asked to “delete my photo” in front of them. Once confident that no piece of Abercrombieness would leave the store, the associates stiffly informed me that the store “has a policy of no photographs or videos.” There was no explanation of the policy, nor did they appear to find their militant enforcement a bit absurd. I imagined my experience similar to someone who discovers Tom Cruise in a lip-lock with his flavor of the week.

All of that said, I now feel the need to help Abercrombie out of the closet. We all had our suspicions anyway. It’s okay, Abercrombie, we’re here for you. You can finally admit to us what all the farm boys in your ads were doing shirtless in those corn fields. We’ll understand, we saw Brokeback Mountain. If that film teaches mainstream America anything, it’s the need for understanding and acceptance. That, and let’s face it, most straight women still find Jake and Heath pretty hot.

Ms. J

Alien Babies

2005-12-16T08:26:00.000-08:00

In the past month, I’ve had a number of friends share with me news that they’re expecting. I have now officially passed the phase in my life that, when someone tells me they’re expecting, I don’t follow up with “expecting what?” This is probably a sign of maturity, but I still have a long way to go. I’ve tried my best to get over it. I’ve tried to be a grown up. I’ve tried to focus on the positive, but the fact remains. Having babies grosses me out.

Procreation is one of those unique processes that involves lots of unpleasant bodily functions, but is still widely thought of as being beautiful. From the reports of my pregnant friends thus far, carrying a child seems vaguely reminiscent of eating bad Indian food. You’re slightly nauseous, and you might occasionally feel faint. The early stages of pregnancy seem largely characterized by a mild general discomfort. Fun.

All of this is redeemed, however, by the excitement of the ultrasound. Describing her recent ultrasound, my friend Ms. K said “you can see the baby, and it’s moving all around, acting like a baby.” Which takes me to my biggest peeve with pregnancy…something is growing INSIDE YOU. Although some may find the signature pregnancy bump to be Botticelli-esque, to me, it’s like a tumor with its own nervous system.

My pregnant friends thrill at the thought that later in the pregnancy, they will feel the baby. One friend described how, late in the third trimester, you can sometimes see the movement from outside. A vague imprint of a fist, moving across your navel. All of this strikes me as far too similar to the preemptory scenes of Alien. For those unfamiliar with the Ridley Scott cinematic classic, Alien involves Sigourney Weaver bravely battling against a breed of extraterrestrials who procreate by violently emerging from the bodies of their most recent victims. The central image is that of a claw/paw/whatever shooting out the chest of said victim.

For the most part, I’ve tried to keep my distaste to myself. It hasn’t been too hard, as I’m sincerely super excited for my friends. If anything, my aversion to the procreative process has helped me to focus on the crux of child-bearing. Carrying a child is hard, but starting a family is even harder. When two people decide that they're ready to face the challenge because they love each other, and they want to share that love with a little one. Well, that’s something even Sigourney and I can appreciate.

We’ll appreciate that from afar though. As much as my husband and I are enjoying wedded bliss, at least for the time being, we’re both still suckers for those 10-minute abs.

Ms. J

Hallmark Moments

2005-12-12T10:21:00.000-08:00

I decided to send holiday cards this year. Although I’ve always been a fan of cards, I admit that my decision to join the Hallmark masses was largely motivated by my mother-in-law.

My mother-in-law belongs to that rare breed of socially-perfect people. She’s the type of person who never says the wrong thing, who knows the exact nicety called for by any occasion, and who is frequently described as “lovely.” Prior to meeting my husband, I had a vague idea that such people existed. I also had a vague idea that I was not one of these people.

My family is practical to the point of being abrasive. Prior to a recent vacation, my mother e-mailed me: “If anything happens, our attorney is Todd Landsley.” She thought, if she and dad were tragically wiped out, at least I should know who to call for my inheritance. As a family, we’ve generally dispensed of most sentimental trappings. For Christmas this year, Mr. J considered streamlining the process by just asking for cash. It’s only a matter of time before we start buying our own gifts.

If my mother-in-law knew about this, I have no doubt she would balk. Or, more likely, she would send me something heartfelt and handmade. My mother-in-law is the grand empress of heartfelt handmade things. One-of-a-kind jewelry made by local artisans? My birthday present. Adorable frosted cookies from the gourmet store? Every appropriate holiday, without fail. Charming newspaper clippings? In our mail, with a “thought you’d enjoy this” note. The last time my own mother sent me a newspaper clipping, the headline read “Woman killed by flesh eating bacteria.” There was no note.

Like most people, I want my mother-in-law to like me. I especially want her to like me because, well, she’s really lovely. I figure cards are the first step to achieving her genre of zen. In the past few months, I’ve sent cards for occasions I didn’t know they even made cards for. I’ve sent cards for pregnancies, engagements, jobs, moves, and sympathy. The other day, I saw a card for “loss of pet.” I almost bought it just to have one on hand.

Cards are a small thing, but I figure marriage is all about learning to adapt. Come to think of it, maybe I should send my husband a card to express this. I should ask his mom, I bet she has something perfect.

Ms. J

Wanted: Sidekick Posse

2005-12-09T10:47:00.000-08:00

Recently, while watching VH1's "Best of 2005," I came across one of this year's most bizarre cultural highlights. Gwen Stefani's Harajuku Girls. http://www.harajuku-lovers.com/.

For those, like me, who missed Harajuku the first time around--a brief synopsis. The Harajuku Girls are four Japanese women who serve as a posse for pop-artist Gwen Stefani. They appear in her music videos, they accompany her on the red carpet, and they've even been known to vogue a bit behind her during interviews.

When the Harajuku Girls first appeared, they were met with some intense opposition. http://www.salon.com/ent/feature/2005/04/09/geisha/. Rather than get into my personal opinion of their significance, I would instead like to focus on one aspect that everyone can agree on: THIS IS A BIZARRE JOB. How exactly does one interview for such a position? Was there a posting on Monster? Did people send resumes? What do you file as on your tax form?

My parents have a hard enough time understanding my career as it is, I can't imagine trying to sell them on this. I can see my dad now, "So, let me get this straight. You'll wear children's clothing, you'll dance, and your boss will refer to you as 'Angel.'..." I don't even want to picture how that conversation would end.

All of that said, I have to admire Ms. Stefani for her pluck. This just further shows us that celebrities can do just about anything. With enough money, you can even find someone willing to be your "cultural reference." Who knew?

Ms. J

Secret Stache

2005-12-08T19:11:00.000-08:00

My friends Mark and Matt decided to grow mustaches for charity. http://www.m4kny.org. As of now, they have one more week of growing to go.

Favorite of the postal worker and the seventies porn king, the mustache has recently experienced a bit of a revival. Brooklyn hipsters, always on the look out for new ways to be dramatically ironic, have embraced the caterpillar lip as so ugly it's cool. Which leads us to the obvious question, is there really such a thing as ugly cool? And, if there is such a thing, are mustaches it?

Pugs, ugly cool. Tommy Lee Jones, ugly cool. T-shirts with slogans, ugly cool. Mustaches, possibly just ugly. There are very few men who can pull off a mustache. Tom Selleck, Phil Jackson, my father-in-law. Most guys look at best unkept, and at worst, like they're selling a used Chevy. The pursuit of ugly cool has led many a man astray, and I conclude that mustaches should be left to the experts. Unless you're quite the king of hip, I would tread lightly. The other day, I saw an average-looking guy on the subway with mutton chops. It was bad news all around.

Ms. J

Why We Moved to NYC

2005-12-06T19:11:00.000-08:00

Mr. J and I come from a very large family. Like most teenagers these days, some of our younger cousins maintain blogs to generally document their lives. Every now and then, I'll check these blogs to see what the young 'uns are up to.

One of said cousins recently posted some truly rockin pictures. These pictures were all taken in her small town's annual holiday parade.

Exhibit A

This is a tractor. The tractor is covered in twinkle lights. The tractor is being driven by a man in a santa hat. The tractor has on it a sign that says: "This tractor was confiscated from a drug dealer in Marion County." Just say no, kids.

Exhibit B

This is the Neuter Commuter. It drives around the county, sterilizing animals. There is a real need for such a service in this community. Apparently, the other side of the Neuter Commuter says "don't litter."

I would usually make some witty comments at this point, but let's face it, these images speak for themselves.

And to all a good night.

Ms. J

Where to?

2005-12-05T12:12:00.000-08:00

I don’t ask a whole lot from my cab drivers. I want them to not get lost, take the most efficient route, and not try to lie to me about how much change they’re carrying in order to swindle more cash from me. Is that really that much to ask?

I was running late yesterday and hopped in a cab to take a quick ride uptown. I gave the driver a 20 and asked for 15 back. He looked at me as if I had insulted his mother and told me that he had no change and needed smaller bills. When I told him this was all I had, he started to lecture me on how for such a short cab you need to bring change. I replied that while I was sorry, my ATM unfortunately did not give me smaller bills for cab rides. Just when things were about to turn ugly, he magically produced 15 dollars and said that was all he had and now I was leaving him with, “Nothing, nothing.” I passed up the opportunity to point out that since he had taken my 20, he was actually 5 dollars richer than a few minutes ago.

After relaying this story to a friend, she shared with me a very similar cabbie experience. If fact it seems that it is not uncommon at all to have a taxi driver-passenger standoff- where you clearly have no intention of leaving a 400% tip and you both sit there waiting for the other to produce the change they’re secretly hiding.

It’s sad that our society has degenerated into one where we attempt to scam each other by being dishonest about how much change we’re carrying. Oh well, I guess it's just one more way that New York has made me bitter and jaded.

Mr. J

Holiday Cheer

2005-12-02T12:33:00.000-08:00

I’m so jaded right now.

When I moved to New York, I thought it would be a great opportunity to participate in all those holiday events you see on TV. Just in the past week, there has been the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and the Rockefeller Tree Lighting. Being the ever eager New Yorker, I bundled up and went out for both things, only to find a much grimmer picture than the winter wonderland that Katie Couric and Dick Clark always broadcast.

For starters, while I’m not a terribly claustrophobic person, I nonetheless don’t appreciate having someone cradled up in my armpit. Unfortunately, tight bodily contact seems to be a prerequisite for these events. The Thanksgiving Parade passed uneventfully enough, though it gave new meaning to the term “Love thy neighbor.”

However, things got much worse for the Rockefeller Tree Lighting. After work, a friend and I tried to get over only to find that the police had blocked off the roads around Rockefeller center. After quite a bit of fruitless searching for an unguarded entrance, we almost gave up when a friendly police officer noticed our plight. He asked us if we wanted to see the tree lighting, and when we replied in the affirmative he asked us our age. Noting our quizzical expressions, he quickly followed up with, “Well if you’re over 21, you should try to go to one of the bars along 6th Avenue. They got TV’s set up there and you can watch the whole thing.” I think he was offended that we seemed a little under whelmed by his hot tip.

The worst part about all these events is that it seems 90% of the people at them are tourists who have no problem sitting outside all day for seats. While I always welcome visitors to this city, it nonetheless annoys me when they preclude me from enjoying it (I have to pay taxes here damnit, I feel like I should get some type of consideration). But it’s ok, since it’s the holidays I’m trying not to be bitter. In fact, come New Year’s, you’ll find me in a bar waiting for the ball to drop.

Mr. J

Back in the Day

2005-11-29T06:56:00.000-08:00

This past Thanksgiving weekend, my sister-in-law had her 10-year highschool reunion.

There are so many people who look back on highschool as the "best time" in their lives. Which makes me wonder: was highschool actually that good, or do most of us just not remember it correctly?

Highschool definitely had its highs. Who can forget graduation, getting your license, or meeting your first love. On the other hand, it was definitely not all roses and ice cream either. There were curfews, teenage angst, and zits. In many ways, it was a wash.

Perhaps the most charming thing about highschool though, was its sense of excitement. Everything seems possible when you're 18. You could be an astronaut, you could make a million bucks, and you could find Prince Charming. It's not that we all become cynics, it's just that reality starts to tarnish the hope a little. You decide you hate astrophysics, a million seems like an awful lot of work, and it turns out that Prince Charming is gay.

My sister-in-law ended up having a great time at the reunion. It's nice to take a trip down memory lane, to remember the days when your biggest problem was getting a date to prom. It's still nice to come back to the present though. To reflect on all the things you've learned since then, and to appreciate the fact that you no longer have that truly horrible spiral perm.

Ms. J

Visions of Sugar Plums

2005-11-28T10:20:00.000-08:00

I'm presently glued to the t.v. watching "Visions of New York" on PBS.

"Visions of New York" is basically visual ecstasy. In a stroke of programming genius, someone at PBS decided what people really want is a glorified screen saver. Rhapsody in Blue lingers over idyllic images of the city, while a soothing baritone occassionally comments with such witty reparte as "Here we have historic Coney Island, better get a hot dog! Yum."

Needless to say, I'm hooked. This is the city as it was meant to be seen, from the calming cockpit of a helicopter. Gone are the ever present tourists looming near Times Square. Gone are the pushy corporate types getting in your way downtown. Gone are...well, pretty much everyone. "Visions of New York" doesn't appear to have any visions of people. It's what the city would look like if the Giuliani administration had finished removing all the homeless people, and said "Hey! Why stop there? Let's get everyone out!" The people have all been replaced by subtle narration that describes evening as "that magical time where the city goes into her nightly dance."

For a mere $79.95, one can own this world where "city lights flicker until dawn," where even the Staten Island Ferry is made to look like a wonderland cruise. Ahh. Who says reality programming is all a bust?

Ms. J

Love Thy Neighbor

2005-11-23T06:25:00.000-08:00

More than the denizens of any other city, New Yorkers fantasize about apartments. We read the Times' profiles on celebrity brownstones, and we have dreams where we miraculously "find" another room in our current studio. Yesterday, engaged in this New York occupation, I found myself leafing through online real estate ads. That's when I found this, http://www.elliman.com/Listing.aspx?ListingID=725119&SearchType=sale. What appears to be a relatively normal ad for a 3 bedroom on the Upper West Side, is actually evil cleverly masked as optimism.

The ad reads: "Looking for more? You have a prospective future opportunity to grow by purchasing the apartment next door. There is currently a RENT CONTROLLED TENANT occupying 14G, however, you can invest now and start planning for the future!"

I probably wouldn't even have noticed this, if it hadn't been for RENT CONTROLLED TENANT in all caps. The most obvious subliminal message here is, "buddy next door is gonna croak!"

Just when you thought New York neighbor relations couldn't get more strained, this ad is encouraging people to move next door to someone they literally WANT DEAD. Exactly what would that relationship even look like? "Hello Mrs. Stevens! Do you mind if I take a peek around? We're figuring out how big a T.V. the future rec room needs!" or "Merry Christmas, Mr. Jones! I made you some fudge for the holidays, extra butter for your hypertension!"

All in all, the whole thing is creepy. I've actually seen the Law & Order where the real estate agent murders the rent control tenant, and this ad just seems to set up the episode. Besides, everyone knows the real reason people are against rent control, we all wish we had it.

Ms. J

Uncharted Territory

2005-11-20T10:16:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I went to see Miranda. Miranda is a pretty special person in my life. Miranda is my waxer.

Like teen pop, body hair is generally considered an inevitable yet undesirable occurrence. Salons all over the city exist for the sole purpose of helping New Yorkers deal with unavoidable fuzz. Perusing the list of services that Miranda provides, I've realized that people apparently need to eliminate hair in places I had no idea you could even grow hair. From the backs of your knees to the space above your ass, for a small fee, Miranda and her colleagues will happily yank away.

I'm not a particularly hairy person, so my wax experiences are normally limited to shaping my eyebrows. The one notable exception occurred prior to my honeymoon in Costa Rica. It was then that Miranda waxed my bikini line. Up until that point, my bikini line was pretty much uncharted territory. I had a live and let live attitude towards it. I left it alone, and it basically kept to itself. Like most New York neighbors, we had a peaceful co-existence of ignoring one another.

Upon realizing that I was about to spend a week in a bathing suit, however, I decided that perhaps it was time to have a bit of an intervention. That's how I found myself one afternoon lying bottomless on the waxing table in Miranda's clinical cubicle. Feeling a bit like a character from X-rated anime, I tried to ignore the awkwardness that typically results when you find yourself naked from the waist down. In spite of my timidity, Miranda did not seem phased. With the dexterity of a neurosurgeon, Miranda got up close and personal with my bikini line. She went where no woman had gone before. Had she wanted to plant a tiny flag to commemorate the occasion, it would have been appropriate.

After a few minutes that felt like an uncomfortable eternity, Miranda's work was done. She gave me a mirror and motioned for me to examine her work. "What do you think?" she asked. Given that I had never really looked at my own bikini line, let alone anyone else's, I had no idea what to say. What adjective can you possibly use to describe a bikini line? Cute, pretty, svelte? I ended up just muttering, "Um, yeah, it looks...very clean." This appeared to satisfy Miranda, and she nodded her head briskly in agreement. She then gave me my pants and told me to pay on my way out. I felt like I needed a cigarette afterwards.

Since then, Miranda and I have reverted back to an eyebrow relationship. She doesn't seem to mind, and I think my bikini line is much happier for it. The three of us have slipped back into happily ignoring eachother's existence, and let's face it, that's really where you want to be most of the time anyway.

Ms. J

Excuse Me

2005-11-18T21:27:00.000-08:00

I generally make it a rule to not horribly embarass myself in public. Although this has overall been a solid policy to follow, there are still occasionaly moments when I blow the rule out of the water. Tonight, I had one of those moments.

Harkening back to the days when we tried to impress eachother, my husband and I decided to spend the evening going out on a traditional date. We had dinner followed by a movie. Along with other consumers of mass culture, we decided to see the new Harry Potter flick. Three quarters into the movie, there's a critically dramatic scene. For a movie that's filled with explosions and cheering, it's an eerily quiet scene. This, of course, is when I uncontrollably had to fart.

It was the kind of loud fart that cannot be ignored. At that pivotal moment in the movie, the stars of the movie were Harry Potter and me. The movie goers in our section looked around, people nudged their dates, there was some snickering, my husband quietly died with embarassment in the seat next to me. I did what farting people have been doing since the dawn of time, I looked around and pretended it was someone else. The moment then passed. Harry continued on his adventures, and I thankfully did not make a reappearance for the remainder of the movie.

I pride myself on not usually being a gassy person. If there's a smelly kid in every class, I have never been that kid. Which is why it was even more mortifying. All I could think of was that everyone in my section now thought of me as being a gassy person. I was worse than the smelly kid in class, I was the smelly adult in the theater. Before the lights fully came up, I scrambled out with my husband in tow. I wanted to vindicate myself. To say, "No! I know what you're thinking, but this is not me! Maybe I ate something funny!" Instead, I bowed my head in shame. I was an outlaw.

The experience has led me to believe that, as a generally non-gassy person, I can no longer stand idly by when others are publicly ridiculed. They can't help it! Sometimes, these things (literally) slip out. We've all been there, why make a big deal of it? It's a new era of understanding for me. The flatulence-challenged and I, we will all stand as one. Brothers and sisters are we. United against oppression. Those people who don't wash their hands after using the bathroom though, they're still lepers in my book.

Ms. J

Mood Music

2005-11-15T07:54:00.000-08:00

Why is it, that wherever you go, they’re playing the same terrible music?

I had my teeth cleaned yesterday. I’ve never been a huge fan of the dentist. It’s an odd social construction, that we’ll pay tons of money to allow a stranger to take what is basically an ice pick to our gums. If someone came up to you on the street, and started to clean your teeth, you would call it an assault. The fact that it takes place in an office, with a bright light shining in your eyes, and terrible music playing in the background; somehow moves it from the realm of violence to hygiene.

As Donna reclined me back and started to busy herself with my molars, Celine Dion wafted over me. Like most people not addicted to crack, I can only take Celine in small doses. The last thing I wanted to listen to, lying flat on my back with Donna diving into the nether regions of my mouth, was “my heart will go onnnnnnnnnn.” It turned what was already an unpleasant experience, into one of Dante’s lesser known circles of hell. The worst part was that the dentist’s office, perhaps filled with crack addicts, had decided to play Celine’s ENTIRE ALBUM. For those unfamiliar with Ms. Dion’s “Let’s Talk About Love” album, a simple search on i-tunes will reveal such hits as “Where is the Love,” “Just a Little Bit of Love,” “To Love You More,” and of course “I Hate You then I Love You.” It’s so much love that you want to strangle the ever-loving shit out of Celine before she tries to love anyone else. Needless to say, in spite of Donna’s very kind attempts to chat with me (why do they do that?), the dentist’s visit was torturous.

Which is why, upon leaving the dentist’s office, I was stunned to find that the melodious “my heart will go onnnnnn” had in fact gone on to follow me out of the dentist and into Whole Foods. My theory is that Celine Dion is putting crack in the water. It’s the only explanation.

Ms. J

Home Improvement

2005-11-12T15:17:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, needing some screws to hang up a curtain rod, I went to the mecca of home improvements- none other than Home Depot. Whenever I go to Home Depot, I find myself closer to understanding the feminine psyche than at any other place. I’ll go with a specific purchase in mind, and yet inevitably end up spending hours just roaming the store looking at all the new stuff they’re selling. Back in high school, my mom would send me off to pick up a fresh propane tank so she could grill steaks for dinner. When I still hadn’t returned home later in the night, she would frantically call my cell figuring I must’ve gotten in a car accident.

Anyways, I was wandering around the store when I decided to ask one of the sales people for help (if you’ve never been, there’s not a greater resource than Home Depot workers, trust me). He was a nice enough fellow, but you could tell he definitely got way too much pleasure from working in the power tools section of the store. In his enthusiasm, he ended up trying to sell me a $100 hammer drill (keep in mind this occurred right after another employee had already told me all I needed was a $30 one). When I pointed out the $30 option, he replied, “Well you could get that one . . .” and then gave me a look that said, “but I would never have any respect for you for the rest of your life.” Logic like that is what makes it so hard for a guy to make prudent purchasing decisions (as evidenced by the fact I routinely buy electronics roughly 3 times more expensive than I need or that every time I go to Hooters with my friends we get 50 wings when 30 would do just fine).

Seeing that I was still wavering in my decision, the employee pulled out his trump card, “If you buy this drill, you’ll never need another one for the rest of your life. Heck, you’ll teach your kids how to use this drill in your home.” All of this seemed like a fairly convincing argument until it dawned on me that I’m single, in my early 20’s, and living in a rented apartment in the city. Suffice to say, the white picket fence surrounding my house in the ‘burbs is still a quite a ways off. I politely declined his offer only to watch him use the same line on a couple in their late 20’s standing right behind me. Apparently those extra years were the difference, for they gladly picked up said drill and left with wide smiles on their faces, clearly thinking about little Billy happily drilling away before he could walk.

Unfortunately, you’d be sadly mistaken if you were thinking my purchasing restraint lasted the entire trip. When it turned out there were different two methods to attach the curtain rod to my concrete ceiling, I debated as to which I wanted to use. I ended up just buying enough materials to do both, with the rationale that whatever I didn’t use I could always return. And this no-questions-asked return policy is single handedly turning young Americans into a generation of impulse buyers. Of course, that’s another story for another time; right now I need to go return a drill set.

Mr. J

You Look...

2005-11-11T15:03:00.000-08:00

It’s inevitable. You can go through your whole life well coiffed, sharply attired, and wearing an acceptable amount of make up. You’ll waltz through the city, the most presentable version of yourself, and you won’t see anyone. You won’t see family. You won’t see friends. You won’t even see the homeless guy who usually pan handles on your street.

The minute you decide to emerge from a full day of working from home, you’ll see someone. You’ll be scruffed out in sweats and a ratty t-shirt. Your eyes will have dark circles under them. Your hair will look as if you’ve traded your conditioner for lard, and you’ll smell vaguely like gym socks. You will emerge from your apartment, walk to the bodega around the corner, and you’ll see someone. More specifically, you will see an old crush from college, who you have not seen in over five years. He will look even hotter than he did in college.

You will smoothly blurt out, “You look great!” You will apologize for what a wreck you must seem. He will politely not say anything. He will laughingly comment on what a blast from the past this is, how he almost didn’t recognize you. You will privately curse yourself for not at least putting on some lip gloss before leaving the apartment.

He will be friendly and charming, mentioning that he bumped into your husband recently. Your husband who is the world to you, your husband who you adore, your husband to whom you are blissfully married to. You will deftly mumble that said husband mentioned that. You will privately think said husband forgot to mention how good Mr. X looked. He will gracefully give you an exit with a comment to your grocery bag. You will nod in acknowledgment and smilingly part ways.

You will schlep home to prepare dinner. You will wonder if Mr. X still found you attractive. It will perturb you a bit that he might not. You will call your husband to retell the story. He will laugh. You will laugh. You will decide together that dinner is at 8. He will tell you he loves you before hanging up. You will say it too.

You will start dinner, and you will put on lip gloss.

Ms. J

The first rule of . . .

2005-11-10T23:22:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I went to visit the lovely Puritan city of Boston, Massachusetts. Doing what many Boston visitors do, I then proceeded to get into a street fight in the middle of Chinatown. Now before you start saying to yourself, “That Mr. J is nothing but a hooligan, that’s the last time I ever visit this blog!” hear me out.

On Saturday I went with some friends to a club and after the club shut down we decided to get something to eat. Being Boston, everything was closed by this point except for Chinatown, so off we went to get some dumplings and scallion pancakes. Shortly after arriving, I decided to call it an early night and grab a cab home by myself. I literally took about 20 steps away and was standing in front of a nice shabu-shabu restaurant when 5 guys walked by me. The last one threw his shoulder at me and then started cussing me out. This is the point that Ms. J feels I should’ve swallowed my pride and just walked on, but for whatever reason I turned around. As I turned to face him, he shoved me hard and continued his curse filled tirade.

As I stood there trying to figure out exactly what was going on (said events not being a usual evening activity) he approached me again, but this time swung at me. Not knowing what plan of action to take, I was inspired by a brief flashback to my high school wrestling days and proceeded to tackle him. We then both started punching wildly at each other in the middle of the street. His friends, being the ever alert group, finally realized something was amiss and swarmed back at us. It was at this point that things really took a bizarre turn.

While one second I was alone thinking I’m going to get the crap kicked out of me, the very next second a whole makeshift posse comprised of random passersby appeared behind me. Hoping that cooler heads would now prevail and I could avoid the embarrassment of having to call Ms. J at 3 in the morning to bail me out of jail, I was shocked when someone yelled, “One on one! Let the two of them work it out!” I briefly thought of pointing out the fact that I had only just met this guy and had absolutely zero issues to work out with him, but his friends apparently had watched West Side Story one too many times and pushed their buddy back into the fray (keep in mind that the guy by this point had a bloody nose and his face was pretty messed up, but I guess such details can’t be bothered with when there’s things to be worked out).

Anyways, we scuffled around for a bit until it finally occurred to his friends that since we were fighting in the middle of Chinatown, we could easily get arrested (as I said, they were an alert bunch). They proceeded to pull their buddy away with the consoling words of, “C’mon, you lost. Let’s just go.” They then faced me and told me that, “It’s cool, it’s cool.” While I stood there thinking that the last time I thought I was cool I didn’t have a random guy’s blood on my shirt, my posse congratulated me on my win, handed me a cigarette, and then left. And thus the night concluded with me once again walking alone in Chinatown looking for a cab, one ripped shirt down, one cigarette up, but overall none the worse for wear and tear.

Many friends have since given me their take on the night. I’ve had lots of people tell me how lucky I was things ended ok and lots of girls tell me, “While I don’t approve of violence, I’m glad you won.” I’ve also discussed with everyone the importance of always going out with a posse (“Leave the cards at home, ‘Posse- the new Mastercard!’”) While opinions have varied on how unusual the night was, the one thing that still surprises me is how eager most guys are to turn a random street fight into entertainment. Perhaps Brad Pitt was onto something . . .

Mr. J

Yuppies for Hire (Payment Optional)

2005-11-09T18:48:00.000-08:00

Mr. J recently went to his first "guest bartender" event. Having also attended this genre of New York party, I agreed with him that it's an absurd concept. Only in New York will people invite all their friends to watch them work for free.

Where we grew up, bartending was kind of a craptastic job. This was largely because, where we grew up, there were no real bars. The nearby large city had somewhat of a nightlife, but suburbia is not exactly a drinker's paradise. Whether it was the local Chili's or the dingy "pub" where the alcoholics hung out, the establishments had a hard time getting patrons to spend their birthdays serving up Bud Lights.

This is not the case here. In this city, we have a world of not-quite-chic bars ready to embrace the Cocktail fantasies of investment bankers and consultants alike. For shockingly no money down, these watering holes will open their doors to yuppie dreams. One need only look at the "real" bartenders glaring at their "guest" counterparts though, to realize that the whole thing is but a mirage.

To you, our dear friends who aspire to pour, we bring this reality check. For the ladies with the spaghetti tops and glittery eye shadow, you are in fact being looked at like a prime rib. For the guys with the button downs opened up, no one actually thinks this makes you blue collar. And to all those who lead us down this wayward path of the pseudo-party, we don't think we should have to tip. Our presence at this shit hole should be gift enough.

And, before you even ask, we don't want to go to your "guest stripper" party either...or at least, I don't. Mr. J might be willing to support you on that one.

Ms. J

I Hear Ugly People

2005-11-04T13:00:00.000-08:00

One of the things you get used to in this city is noise. You can't help but be inundated with all types of noise. Which is why it's especially unsettling when you find yourself put off by a noise.

This afternoon, I had the misfortune of sitting next to someone emitting this type of noise. He seemed like a perfectly normal person, which somehow made it even more uncomfortable. During the extended period which I sat next to him, he would periodically grunt. Initially, I didn't even realize it was him. Once I did realize it though, it became impossible to focus on anything else.

Comparing the grunts to other noises, I first thought of pigs. This wasn't particularly unpleasant. I rather like pigs. Upon discovering that the noise was my very un-pig-like seat mate though, this image flew out the window. I then focused on the grunt frequency, which made me think of people moving pianos. Although a definitive drop from the pig imagery, this was also not horribly unpleasant...and that's when it happened. It occurred to me what the grunts really sounded like. Sex.

From that point forward, I couldn't stand it, nor could I remotely concentrate on anything else. Everytime I heard one of these low short grunts, all I could think about was the 30-something unattractive dude sitting next to me engaged in various sexual acts. This is not to say that I visualized myself in any of these images. If I had been even remotely attracted to him, that would've arguably been an improvement. No, I had the sort of nightmarish flashes that one associates with mentions of your parents doing the deed. Accountanty-looking guy jerking off. Accountanty-looking guy with Paris Hilton. Accountanty-looking guy in leather, with Tom Cruise.

It was one of those truly disturbing moments where, you desperately don't WANT to be thinking about something, and suddenly you can think of nothing else. The absolute worst part was, I soon realized that Accountanty-looking guy had absolutely zero control over the grunting. Although I couldn't exactly ask him, it appeared to be either an anxiety or respiratory tick. All of this combined to make me both horrified by my own imagination, and incredibly shamed at the apparent perviness of my subconscious.

The moral of this story is that I have since purchased some ear plugs. I plan on wearing them whenever I leave the sanctity of my apartment. There is the very real possiblity I may be hit by an errant taxi, but if it will keep the bad people out of my head, it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

Ms. J

I Heart Moldova

2005-11-02T08:12:00.000-08:00

And now, for a completely random post...

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine sent me this link. http://www.big-boys.com/articles/numanuma.html. Mr. J tells me it was all the rage a year ago. I'm a little behind the times. Like most people, I found the singing fat guy hilarious. Who says there's no real artistic content on the web?

Unlike most people though, I have since decided that this song "Dragostea Din Tei" is the BEST SONG EVER. (Or, it is this week, for my feeble attention span.) I am such a huge fan, that I managed to find a link to this: http://www.yatv.com/video/yatv2_video_n_249134_1.html.

There are a number of things that make this video a musical triumph in my mind. Firstly, there's the fact that they appear to be dancing on the wing of a plane. Second, there's the beefy anime men who last appeared as backup for the Village People. Third, and perhaps most importantly, they're singing in Romanian. My working knowledge of Romanian is currently limited to the lyrics of this song, but thus far, I like it lots.

I also find it fascinating that this group emerged from Moldova, which is apparently one of the poorest countries in Europe. Which thus leads us to the obvious question of, who discovered these people? Is there Moldovan Idol? Were these guys minding their own business in their absurdly tight clothes, speaking Romanian, when someone was like "Hey! What the world needs is Moldovan Pop!" Or, is it simply like Mark has suggested, "The music industry has a long history of taking advantage of poor countries." All very real possibilities.

In the meantime, I am starting an O-zone fan club. Knowledge of Moldova is optional, although obviously preferred.

Ms. J

Hey Baby

2005-11-01T08:20:00.000-08:00

As I walked home from buying groceries last night, a couple asked me out. The man initially reached out to me with a "Hello there!" I ignored him. The woman then said "Excuse me.." Since couples don't usually try to pick you up, I stopped thinking that they were tourists in need of directions. She then said "Are you free this evening for a date?" Bewildered, I shook my head in the negative and quickly shuffled off. This particular event had never happened to me before. Which is not to say that it's a totally absurd occurence in this city.

Growing up in the burbs somewhere in the middle of America, you don't generally get hit on in daily life. Bumbling along within the safety of an armored SUV, everyone pretty much minds their own business. I'm not even sure how to hit on a random-passerby in the burbs. I suppose you could roll down your window and gesticulate at them from your car? Most likely though, they would be too preoccupied with their cd changer/cell phone/GSM tracking device to notice. Either that, or they would think you were pointing out a flat.

In the city, on the other hand, getting hit on is an every day occurrence. When I first moved here, I thought myself quite the hottie. Now, I realize that it's definitely not me. I've emerged from my apartment, with eye crust and drool remnants flaking my face, and some dude will still say "hey beautiful." There are two responses to this. The first is the obvious that it's incredibly demeaning. New York men should not feel it their duty to haggle anyone without a Y chromosome. The second is that, though annoying, it's somewhat validating. Like most people, I've never been hugely confident about my looks. In some ways, it's nice to get a thumbs up, even it if is by a passing food delivery person.

All of that said, if there ever comes a day when I don't get harassed, part of me will likely welcome the triumph of not being viewed as a piece of meat. The other part of me will probably just bawl my eyes out.

Enron in Training?

2005-10-31T16:03:00.000-08:00

Through the goodness of my husband's heart, I found myself volunteered this evening to hand out candy in the lobby of my building. Having lived in the city for a number of years in apartments that didn't lend themselves to small children, this was my first face-to-face encounter with real trick-or-treaters in a number of years.

Fifteen minutes into my shift, I pondered over the predictive power of trick-or-treating behavior. When instructed to "take two or three," some kids carefully select out a few, before shyly saying "thank you." Others decide to interpret the instruction broadly, and they take two or three handfuls. Still others ignore the instruction altogether, and those tykes fill up until you actively put a stop to them. There are the kids who wait patiently in line, and those who elbow to the front. There are shy Carebears, and pushy Darth Vaders. There are even princesses who take a few choice pieces before asking "do you also have any money for hurricane relief?" Perhaps my favorite child though, is the small but noble enforcer. Lacking the guts to assume this role in my own childhood, I stood in awe of the cowboy who reprimanded a particularly bratty vampire with "it's not very nice to take more than everyone else, you should put it back."

I've always been a sucker for the strong kind types, which is probably why I allowed myself to be volunteered. As it is, I'll try not to be too mad at my own cowboy once he gets home.

Ms. J

Getting Your La Las

2005-10-30T16:54:00.000-08:00

Last night, Mr. J and I participated in one of the city's great institutions. We sang karaoke in K-town. Although Mr. J and his posse only joined us for the tail end of our singing excursion, I like to think that a grand 'ol time was had by all.

Plied with liquor and a healthy dose of weekend-humor, I generally like karaoke. Not the kind of karaoke where you belt out Blondie at a bar full of strangers, but Korean-style karaoke where you belt out Blondie to a room full of people you'll inevitably have to face again. It occurred to me last night, while Ms. L performed an admirably accurate version of 99 Red Balloons, there is something bizarre about karaoke in general.

Like most people, I can't sing. I occasionally sing in the shower or alone on the elevator, but even then, I'm aware of my serious lack of talent. Similarly, as much as I adore them, my collection of friends aren't exactly song birds either. Which is why it's absolutely mystifying that I inevitably find myself every few months in a dark room on 35th Street, trying to figure out how to get "American Pie" onto the play list. Within the safety of our karaoke suite, my cohort and I will wail to our hearts content. Not only do we treat eachother to truly astonishing Guns and Roses hits, we generally hoot in appreciation. When the karaoke gods will it, we also beat a mean tambourine. In our everyday lives, you probably wouldn't be able to pay any of us to (1) sing or (2) listen to exceptionally chilling renditions of 80s ballads. Which of course leads us to the wonder that is karaoke, where WE dole out $10/person to subject ourselves to both (1) AND (2).

Some may say that alcohol can lead a horse to pretty much anywhere, but I feel that's an oversimplification. There are a variety of other generally undesirable activities that have not taken off as weekend diversions. You never overhear drunken hipsters say, "Let's go downtown and take practice SAT exams!" No, there is something magical about karaoke that wins over the most resilient of us. If one could somehow distill down exactly the motivating factor, think of the possibilities. In the meantime, I will stick to my closeted renditions of Acqua's "Barbie Girl" in anticipation of my next moment in the spotlight.

Ms. J

Episode VI - Return of the J

2005-10-30T12:11:00.000-08:00

In a moment that most of you have been eagerly anticipating, I, Mr. J, have finally returned for my follow-up post. Now I'm sure most of you were wondering, "After such a wildly successful first post, why would you wait so long before posting again, thus destroying any positive momentum this blog has developed." However, remembering that absence makes the heart grow fonder, I have purposely delayed my subsequent post to build hype. By this point, I'm confident that most of you are practically salivating over the prospect of this post. See, there is a method to my madness! (Alternatively you might think I just got busy with work. I'll try to be better in the future, my apologies)

So the other day I was reading the paper and they talked about a "groundbreaking study by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention" in which they apparently found out that younger generations have an increasingly casual view towards oral sex. Not to discount anything that the CDC does, but if they find out something that the average high school senior already knows, can we really classify that as “groundbreaking?” Even more mind-blowing though was the fact that said study cost 16 million dollars. I’m still unable to grasp how it would take that much to find out about people’s sexual attitudes. The other day I went out for drinks with a few friends, about 7 rounds in, I was hearing the craziest stories about their late-night escapades. Now while I know New York is expensive, I think our tab still came out to significantly less than a few million. Perhaps it would be a tad unethical, but I propose the CDC takes a similar plan of action for their next study. At the very least, I’m sure it’d give them some good stories, and at the end of the day, we all know that’s what’s really important.

Mr. J

Shit for Sale

2005-10-28T11:10:00.000-07:00

I will buy anything on sale. I grew up believing that paying full price is akin to dumping food as starving children from China stand tragically next to you, their drool pooling onto the floor. We were the kind of family that never ordered soda at restaurants because "For that much, we could buy a whole six pack at Wal-Mart!" Since leaving home, my greatest moments of self-assertion have been ordering diet cokes with my burgers.

Raised with this mentality, I spend countless hours delving through bins of clothing that others have wisely rejected. All for the triumphant moment in which I can say "I paid 50% off retail!" Recently it occurred to me, however, that I have become addicted to the bargain. In the pursuit of savings, I recently purchased some truly hideous sweaters. Sweaters that look as if I knit them myself, blindfolded. Sweaters that my husband looks at, and says "that's interesting...is that the top?" I then shout from the tire-sized neck with a random shard of ribbon emerging from it, "Yup! And it was 50% off retail!" After returning an armful of said sweaters, I have learned some important lessons about market economies. If no one but the legally blind would pay the retail price for something, it doesn't mean I should pay 50% off retail for it.

I think this is an important life lesson. Now if only I could figure out how to return the single ply toilet paper that my husband refuses to use, even though it was 2 bucks cheaper than the Charmin...

Ms. J

Playing to the Masses

2005-10-27T08:34:00.000-07:00

Thus far, having a blog has been pretty interesting. Perhaps the most difficult parts have been (1) finding the time to post, and (2) figuring out what to post. I have clearly surpassed my brother in (1). This is largely because Mr. J has a real job. It's okay though, our four readers are primarily my friends anyway. Mr. J informs me that his friends read, but I think he's making it up. If he's not making it up, that's just depressing. As it would mean that, not only is my younger brother cooler than me, all his friends are cooler than my internet-obsessed friends. There's only one solution to the "coolness" question, and that would be to get more people reading. Don't ask how the logic flowed there, just trust me on this.

Mark has suggested that more people would read if I had links to freakish things on the internet. Having googled "weird shit," I have come up with the following websites. The first one is http://www.drunkbastard.net/weirdshit.htm. This website largely has X-rated humor videos, including one very disturbing video of a penis singing soft rock. The second Google link is http://www.blowfish.com/catalog/videos/surreal.html. I'm not even sure what that is, I think it has something to do with porn. All I know is that the opening line is "Finally, a movie for electric chair fetishists!" Finally, we have this very unclear link http://feministing.com/archives/002026.html, which appears to be an article about left-handedness. Apparently, left-handedness has alot to do with being weird. Who knew?

All of this said, let's see if Mark's theory will hold true. Although, now that I think about it, I'm not sure if we want those electric chair fetishists reading. That's a little too weird, even for this internet-obsessed loser.

Ms. J

Starstruck

2005-10-26T11:44:00.000-07:00

Walked past a movie filming this afternoon. Something called "Margaret" starring Anna Paquin. It seemed like an interesting scene. They were filming someone getting hit by a bus. According to the tech guy preventing me from crossing the street, the bus driver is not paying attention because he is watching Anna Paquin.

Anna looked very pretty. She basically looked the way she does in this picture. Watching the scene, I came to the following conclusion "Anna Paquin has a good gig." Let's face it, being a movie star is a sweet job. You don't appear to have to do a whole lot. Stars bitch and moan about how filming is so difficult, how they're up all hours, how they have to deal with adverse weather conditions. For instance, today it's rather chilly. The scene calls for Anna to wear a mini skirt and a flimsy looking top. This seems unpleasant. You almost sympathize with the stars until you realize, "Wait! My job can be unpleasant too!" Having this epiphany, most of us come to the conclusion that we would rather make the gajillion dollars that Anna is getting paid to wear the mini skirt, than the mere piddling that we get paid to deal with all the bullshit that our current job entails. Don't get me wrong, there is the whole lack of privacy problem. Although Anna had to deal with the fact that I was walking down the street thinking, "Hey! There's Anna Paquin filming a movie." Anna was likely not watching me and saying "Hey! There's Ms. J!" This seems like a small deal though. After all, from the number of applicants for reality t.v., people across the country are dying for us to notice them.

For all of these reasons, I am considering abandoning my current career trajectory and becoming a movie star. If anyone has any leads on this, let me know. I can even bring my own mini skirt.

Ms. J

Little to No Clothing

2005-10-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

As Halloween fast approaches, I am struck with the perenial problem of what to wear. Or, as I frequently find to be the case in New York, what not to wear. I am 100% supportive of people asserting their identities, and I also believe strongly that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. All of that said though, I think it probably wouldn't hurt for people to wear a little more clothing.

Just from a practical standpoint, clothing is a good thing. Especially on a chilly fall evening like this Halloween promises to be, one may want to keep all their especially sensitive parts under wraps. It would also frankly help the prudish types like myself feel a little less awkward. There's nothing weirder than getting bumped in a bar by a free breast. What do you say? "Excuse me, your nipple dunked into my beer?"

Somewhere along the line, someone decided that pasties counted as clothing. This is just not true. My general rule of thumb is that if you can see the underside of a boob, it's out there. If you want it out there, so be it. I just want to make sure you haven't misplaced it.

One of my male friends this year decided he would take the typical Halloween cross-dressing theme one step further. Instead of dressing like a woman, he's going to dress like women dress on Halloween. He says he's going to be a "sexy leopard." There's apparently spandex and feathers involved. This will likely be horribly frightening. I guess it's appropriate though. What would Halloween be without something to strike fear into the hearts of innocent bystanders?

Ms. J

You're (insert identity here) too?

2005-10-20T20:07:00.000-07:00

There’s nothing more irritating than the identity group set-up. This is when a well-intentioned friend sets you up with someone who you have virtually nothing in common with, other than your shared membership in an identity group. The internal logic is “Dave’s black. Carla’s black. They should go out!” The inevitable result of 99% of identity group set-ups is:

Dave: So…I see you’re black?
Carla: Yup.
Dave: How’s that working out for you?
Carla: Well, and you?
Dave: Good here too!
Carla:….

My own theory as to why the identity group set-up persists is the common misconception that being a member of an identity group is like having a hobby. If you have two friends who appear to like skiing, you figure they’ll have lots to talk about. If you have two friends who appear to like being Latino, you figure they’ll have lots to talk about too. As a few model conversations will demonstrate, this type of thinking is obviously flawed.

Allen: Are you still actively gay?
Scott: I played varsity in college, but now I just play in the company intramurals.

Rachel: How often do you get to be Jewish?
Dave: I try to at least once a week, but the office has been crazy this month, so it’s been tough.

Aileen: When did you first get interested in being bi-racial?
Brendan: It’s funny, I don’t remember, it’s just something I’ve always been into.

Kevin: What equipment are you using these days?
Tiffany: I’ve really been liking the Asian American 400 series, but I still feel that the Titanium Yellow is better for my short game.

All of this is not to say that people can’t and don’t have very successful relationships with members of their identity group. They can, and they do. It’s just absurd to assume that two people in the same identity group will automatically have lots to talk about. That said, stop the insanity. Put an end to the identity set-up.

People you meet as friends on the other hand... "Oh, you're from Minneapolis? I know someone from Minneapolis! Do you know Karen Smith?"

Ms. J

Introducing . . .

2005-10-20T09:55:00.000-07:00

Greetings! Before I begin, I’d like to correct a few statements my overly anxious sister made in her excitement.

1) Now that I’m a writer, I feel it’s a tad unethical to count myself as a reader as well. This unfortunately drops us down to 2 actual readers of our illustrious blog. However, keeping my mom’s teachings in mind, I’m remembering it’s not how you start but how you finish, and so I valiantly troop on with visions of one day building a blog empire (think Jerry Maguire minus the fact I don’t get Renee Zellweger and ideally I won’t turn into a crazy Scientologist in 10 years). Speaking of our mom, once she figures out what the internet is, I’m sure she’ll log on and we can get our membership count back up to lucky #3

2) I actually have not yet learned what a blogosphere is. In fact, my knowledge of blogs is even more limited than my sister’s. While some may perceive this to be cause of alarm, I like to think I can bring a fresh perspective to the world of blogging (at least that’s what I tell myself, humor me).

Anyways, the question on everyone’s mind must be, “so why are you here Mr. J?” Aside from the obvious one that I was suckered here by my sister under the pretense of “it’ll be a bonding experience,” I also have a purely selfish one. Namely, I secretly aspire to be a humor writer but have heretofore lacked an audience for my wit. And that’s where you come in, you lucky dog you.

So what then will this blog be? I envision an environment where I can muse on what it’s like to be a new resident of this fine city, perhaps engage in witty banter with my sister, and finally post a few longer pieces that will be the beginning of my soon-to-be-famous writing career. Of course that’s all in theory, and even the Hindenburg sounded good in theory, so we’ll just have to see what happens in the end.

Mr. J

How bout them Knicks?

2005-10-20T08:58:00.000-07:00

This morning, the guy in front of me was painfully trying to engage the deli dude. It was like watching a first-date, where one of the participants has been forced at gunpoint to show.

Random Guy: Are these scales new?
Deli Dude: No.
Random Guy: I've never noticed them before.
Deli Dude: We've had them for over a year.
Random Guy: Oh...What do you think of the Knicks this year?
Deli Dude: I really don't watch basketball.
Random Guy: ....
Deli Dude: Is that it?
Random Guy: Um, yeah.
* Random Guy then slinks away into the cream cheese section.

From the deli dude's perspective, I can see how you just lose patience at some point. If I had to have 40+ conversations every day on the Yankees, with people who are secretly glad they don't have my job, I would be pretty surly too. I might even go postal. On the other hand, I felt sorta bad for the random guy. Public rejection just blows. Which then raises the question? In an uber-classed society like New York, is it better to make lame attempts at friendliness, or to just tacitly acknowledge the status quo by doing your business without meaningless pleasantries?

It's like I recently saw a couple say to their doorman "we're so glad you're here tonight!" The doorman rolled his eyes at me, and was like "duh...where else would I be, it's my frickin job." Similarly, during my short-lived stint as a bar back, a patron commented that "you're really good at opening those bottles, do you have to practice?" Since I figured he was a nice person on the inside, I refrained from replying "It's funny you should ask! It took me a while to figure out how to do it without the two brain cells that I need for breathing!" As it was, I didn't.

He left me a big tip.

Ms. J

A Tale of Two Js

2005-10-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

In a stroke of genius, or perhaps laziness, I have once again decided to make a change to this blog's format. So many changes, so little content.

Everyone (i.e. the three people who read) meet my brother, Mr. J! **Mr. J waves happily from the the sidelines of cyberspace.** From now on, my brother and I will share this blog. Yes, our parents gave their children alliterative first names. Too cute indeed. The benefit of this is that we only need to slightly modify my original title for the blog, and there is also that lovely symmetry in our nomes de plume.
We figure that with two of us, there will be more postings. As far as we can tell, more postings = good. This is the extent of our knowledge of the blogosphere though.

We only just in fact learned the word "blogosphere." We have high hopes though, and we hope you do too.

Ms. J

What to say?

2005-10-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

I was taking the train this morning, and someone tried to steal my iPod. I wouldn't have noticed it, had an elderly couple sitting across from me not whispered "she's in your bag." I turned to my right, and sure enough, a rather large woman had her hand in the pocket my iPod was tucked into. Caught a bit off guard, I let out a bit of a yelp. The would-be thief hastily removed her hand. She then looked at me and said "you scared me!" Instinctively, I mumbled "sorry..." and stared at her dumbly. She then got off the train at the next stop. It occurred to me later that I had just apologized to someone who attempted to steal from me. This once again confirms that there are certain social situations that happen on the train that you can never be prepared for. Ex-boyfriend, highschool teacher, old boss, pickpocket--all situations that Miss Manners never addressed.

Rats with Tails

2005-10-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

Do you ever notice how foreign tourists in the city love to take photos of squirrels? It's like they don't have squirrels in their country. Come to think of it, maybe they don't? I've never noticed squirrels when traveling overseas. To be honest, I don't really miss them. Squirrels are basically rats with tails. If they didn't have the cute fluffy tails, most people would think they were gross. Once again proving that good hair is the key to success, it can even take rodents farther in life.

Truly Disturbing

2005-10-17T14:27:00.000-07:00

Like the Sistine Chapel, this next post in my innaugural blog has been a while in the making. I've made a decision to post more frequently, but to have each post be shorter. I've also decided to make the posts more commentary oriented, as opposed to narrative. Finally, I've decided to join the technological age and include pictures whenever possible. Just because, let's be honest, everyone appreciates pretty pictures.

What better to celebrate this change in format than a toothpaste-poop reference! In a stroke of genius that will likely soon be regretted, Charmin has introduced baby wipes for adults. One of the good folks at Charmin apparently woke up and said to themselves "what the world really needs is a flushable, premoistened, adult wipe."

And to launch off this groundbreaking product, Charmin has released a truly disturbing commercial. Following some animation of a cuddly bear taking a dump behind a tree, there's a zoom in on a hand with toothpaste inexplicably smeared on it. The hand then tries to wipe said toothpaste off with a piece of regular ol' toilet paper. The toothpaste just sort of smears. The hand then reaches for a new Charmin Fresh Mate! Who woulda thunk it, the tooth paste smear is wiped totally off! Yay! For those (stupid people) who don't see it on their own, I'll elaborate as to why this commercial is just shockingly vile. The toothpaste is a stand in for POOP! Ewww!!! I don't know what's more disgusting, the fact that they DEMONSTRATE for us why a wet wipe would be more useful in those solitary moments, or the fact that they have now forced us to associate a daily use oral hygiene product with shit. Yummy.

Oh well, at least we still have Potty Palooza.

http://www.charmin.com/en_us/pages/offers_ploza.shtml

An (Until Now) Unexamined Life

2005-09-11T10:39:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to find even more unproductive things to do with my time, I have decided to follow in the footsteps of so many in my generation. I am turning to the internet in an attempt to find an audience for my own brilliance.

At the same time, I have considered two initial questions that so few in my generation do. Namely, "who on earth would want to be my audience?" and "exactly why do I need an audience?"

Regarding the first question, I too am intrigued by the prospect that there are actual readers who would want to further perpetuate the waste of time that is this blog. Who these people are, I have no idea. My precursory perusal of the blogosphere has convinced me though that these people are out there. My precursory perusal has also convinced me that these people are much hipper and more urban than I. That aside, I believe that my marginal wit and insight into life in this fair city will be an attractive draw, and it is simply a matter of time before my audience materializes. I am completely aware that my attitude may be inspired by the fact that, like so many others raised in the "everyone's good at something" period of American education, I may have a misplaced confidence in my own abilities. That is a topic for another time though, so why rain on the parade that is this inaugural entry?

In considering the second question of why I even need a proverbial crowd on which to stand before on my proverbial soap box, I have come to an easy answer. I would like to become rich doing as little work as possible. Just like the would-be actors who eat poisonous maggots on national television in the hopes that it will lead to a sitcom pilot, I aspire to greatness. Having been born only semi-attractive and with no vocal talent whatsoever, I have decided that the life of a writer/columnist is my easy street. My plan is that somewhere in this mythical universe of readers is an agent/editor (likely hipper and more urban than I) who will happen upon my blog and be blown away by the marginal wit and insight. Said agent/editor will then give me a very lucrative offer to share my untapped talent with the masses. One may wonder why the masses would feel the need to give me a lucrative offer when this blog currently allows them to imbibe of my untapped talent for free, but as I said before, why raise these questions that will only bring "cold pricklies" to this quintessentially "warm fuzzy" moment.

That said, I now embark on what is sure to be a rewarding enterprise! My current plan is to share my musings on the trials and tribulations of life as a twenty-something in this city. All the while sharing as little personal information as possible with a colloquial "girl next door" tone that attempts to inspire a meaningful sense of intimacy with the reader. Good times will be had by all.

Ms. J