it's the little things...

Stopped by Henri Bendel today, simply because it was an awful, awful New York day. I felt nauseous and miserable most of the day and, holy fuck, what was up with the weather? I dressed for snow, then it up and switches to rain. And more bad news anywhere (side story: I've been nauseous all day and then read the "Baby Grace" article and nearly puked with horror). So, naturally, I decided I wanted to look at some beautiful things.

And I tried this nail polish, Flatte Black, by KO Knock Out Cosmetics. It was designed by Mike Potter, the master behind hair and makeup for Hedwig & the Angry Inch...it's so pretty. Just paint on one coat, no top coat, and this gorgeous, matte black comes out, no shine, lusterless. I thought it'd look kind of weird but I loved it.

And the bottle's pretty, too.

I also swung by Oscar de la Renta...but with regard to him, words fail me, always.

It's on.

Daydream Update (just so someone knows):

For those of you who are curious (and I presume there aren't that many of you that invested in the inane details of my boring life), my fake relationship with Fake Boyfriend At Work is soooo back on. Why? I caught him in the middle (literally, also) of the up 'n' down eyes. And as his eyes came back to eye level, there I was, eyebrow half-raised with a slight, bemused smile on my face.

I win.

But he also cut his hair. I mean, it looks fine. Just not as good as it used to be. And I would not have let that happen. I mean, it even bothers me when Lemony Snicket cuts his hair and fails to notify, at very least, me beforehand. Considering I've spent a good chunk of our wordless work relationship admiring his hair, I feel like my favorite work activity now has been challenged, defeated and semi-permanently disabled. It'll grow back, I know, but it means his hair isn't always perfect and he doesn't just exist in this office and has to do very real world things like get his hair cut.

So I guess, I kind of lose.

England has a Crotch Crescent

Read this New York Times article all the way through: British people are hilarious. I thought it was just kind of funny at first but the shit the people who live in these weird towns have to deal with is awesome. I actually spit up coffee at one point.

Fake beginnings

The Roommate and I have this habit of adopting what we call fake boyfriends. Sounds a little insane and stalker-ish, I know. The reality of it, however, is that we have fake boyfriends all over the place, we rarely talk to them and the true function of these many, unknowing men is to provide us with something to think about during the day. In fact, more often than not, we would absolutely never consider actually dating any of these men. We simply like to daydream and it's easier to do so with a person who already has a face and body, rather than starting from scratch. I don't think this is habit any straight guy would understand, but ladies and gays, you get it, right?

Since I spend more time at work now, it only made sense that I would adopt a new Fake Boyfriend. The scary thing though, is that since we do work in the same office, it is inevitable we physically encounter each other, as much as I avoid doing so. Having to talk to him means a destruction of the delicate balance [aka across-the-office eye sex] we've created in the past few months, one that now hangs precariously on a thread of minimal-interaction. In a daydream, Fake Boyfriend can be anything and everything. In reality, he can only be who he already is.

When the office expanded upstairs and desks were moved around, trouble began brewing. For two weeks, as the intern, my life lay in the hands of the accountants in charge of the seating arrangement. And in those two weeks, there were so many people crammed into the office that people were setting up laptops at any available table and my fate was thrown to the wind. Would I be put right outside his office or safely hidden far in a corner? Drum roll, every morning.

Then, we were thrown into a meeting together and I had to sit across from Fake Boyfriend. I don't know his name, I don't know shit about him and I sure as hell did not want to be this close to him when we've had silent eye sex for months. On that fateful day, I began to suspect his Canadianship and then lo, I got put into a desk that isn't right in front of his office but close enough that the eye fucking became obvious on both ends and a slight awkwardness was added to the equation.

Since, I've made a series of poorly calculated decisions and have now run into him in the elevator, lobby, break room, outside and then the first time he spoke to me, I don't know what happened exactly, but I couldn't respond at all. fake laugh, yeah, sputter, silence. Don't believe my denial about this being a crush, because that exactly how I would have handled it in high school.

Anyways, the point is, on Tuesday, I was inspired by Inauguration Day/Obama and the concept of new beginnings. I decided this was ridiculous and that even if I have to give up my fake boyfriend, I can very easily pick up a new office buddy and not just that, an office pal with amazing hair. So, I decided to stop daydreaming and just talk to him. Hooray, right?? Let our real relationship commence.

Our first exchange involved me apologizing for rushing him and him saying that the stirrers needed to be refilled and then me responding with a what? that really meant 'what the fuck?' and then him apologizing for saying that and refilling the stirrers. The second, I was cooler and said I liked his mug and he smiled and if we were two normal people, that could have been it. That could have been one successful, albeit very short, exchange. But no, I had to say that I liked its orangeness, which he thought over for a moment and then, out of fucking nowhere, exclaims, "Jamaica!"

I look at Fake Boyfriend, eyebrow raised. He turns the mug around and sputters a bit and, "Jamaica. See, I got it in Jamaica."


Congratu-fucking-lations; we are now the most retardedly awkward people in the office.

Mayor Bloomberg visited the office today and, given that I'm teetering on the edge of overdue-vomit, I'm finding it difficult to rev myself up. Everyone else is dressed up, cheery and presenting, for the mayor's sake, the appearance of looking hard-at-work [though they usually are, anyways]. On the other hand, I decided to wear blue/white-striped ribbon and I have spent my morning smoothing it out and trying to tie the perfect bow...While dodging the photographer's shot, because, fuck me, I sit in the center of the office and I keep getting caught in the shots.

And it's not like I wanted to be tying that ribbon, but every one of my bosses were in a meeting and now, there's a press conference downstairs and well, no one's doing anything. So, I'm going downstairs to watch this conference.

Gossip Girl

OH MY GOD, I LOVE CHUCK BASS.

His character is, oh man, so amazing. He's the asshole with the heart of gold [tarnished, albeit], thrust too quickly into the man he will undoubtedly become, but assumes the responsibility with grace, nonetheless. He's not ready, but he can take it.

I love him.

Gossip Girl

Lily (reading Chuck's plans): "Crash Jack on plane."

I so wish that could one of mine daily "to do" memos.

When the Action Moves On? It's not going anywhere.

I came across a NYTimes article, written a few days ago, titled "When the Action Moves On". It's a verbose piece that doesn't quite say that New York is over, because it ends on a positive note [we've still got Joan Didion], but it's got this smug, preemptive attitude. Like, I can hear the wheels turning in the Style editors' heads..."well, we're not too sure, but just in case 2009 is the downfall of the world's greatest city, we've got this article to prove to the rest of the world we knew before anyone else. And well, yeah, it also reserves our right to say, 'I told you so.'"

Look. It's the New York Times and I respect them immensely. But instead of perpetuating this fucking New-York-is-over theory, why don't you work on the very real The-New-York-Times-is-fucked problem, and leave the City to us?

What pissed me off the most was the audacity of a 23-year-old advertising assistant account executive, Haley M. Rubin: “It feels as if a layer has been peeled back on New York. When I’m out in bars and restaurants, there is a sheen that is missing...it feels a little grittier; there is a sense that the thrill of paying $20 for a cocktail is over. I find that my friends are still going out and want to have fun but their tolerance for the ‘price of exclusivity’ has waned.”

There is no thrill in paying $20 for a cocktail. Ever. It has been an annoyance for everyone; I sincerely doubt there are Upper East Siders rejoicing at how expensive their apartments have gotten. They can afford it, yes, but no, they are not thrilled. That is not the 'price of exclusivity'; it is merely the price.

More importantly, let me lay this out for you, Haley M. The sheen you're talking about, that glitz? That sheen doesn't lie in how expensive your Cosmopolitan is, that sheen belongs to the artists, the writers, the filmmakers, the entrepeneurs, the restauranteurs, the designers, the broke-as-fuck New Yorkers who take what they've got, work their asses off and make this City interesting for wannabes like you.

If anything, the sheen of New York City and its very essence lies in its undeniable grittiness, so Haley M, if you don't like it, try some place else.

And what's even more frustrating is that the New York Times knows that, so I don't know what they were thinking when they published this article and this quote. Reminder to the editors at the Times, this is your City. This is New York City. It's Inauguration Week, yeah, a lot of people are travelling D.C. and your point? Even if you have this sneaking suspicion that New York is waning, what good does it do to do nothing but declare your hunch and walk away? Do something about it, find the redeemable talent in the City, broadcast them and revive wavering faith. It's in your power, NYT. If nothing else, Obama has inspired us to hope and along those lines, just because things are different doesn't mean things have to be over.

And FYI to Haley M. Rubin:
The real thrill is going out with your girls, sneaking into a party you shouldn't be in, drinking for free at a bar that serves $20 cocktails and then running down the middle of Broadway, because a homeless man whipped his dick out after lecturing you on how great crack is. It's gritty. It's glamorous. It's exciting. And you didn't have to pay for anything.

Sleeping Asian Baby

Did anyone else notice the chubby-faced Asian toddler passed the fuck out behind Obama today? I've been trying to find one of the great shots, where she takes up all the space between Obama's shoulder and the frame and she is just unconscious! Like, did nobody in Transition Team Oh-Nine notice this?!

Until a better picture comes up... [click to enlarge]

BedStuy Idiotic

Currently, I'm ready to kill Nicholas Cage. I'm incredibly irritated by him, so this might be the beginning of many posts about him.

Bear with this inane list of shit I do with me for a minute:
On the days I work, I wake up at 6 am. It's no fun. On average, I spend fifteen minutes trying to get out of my bedroom. After finally stepping outside of my room, I tend to find it too cold to continue, so I retreat to grab a blanket and go into the bathroom. Then, I brush my teeth, wash my face and turn on the shower. As the water heats up, since it takes a few minutes in the morning, I go and I check my e-mail, weather and the NYTimes headlines. Then I shower, turn on NY1, spend way too much time deciding what to wear, get dressed, put on make-up, do my hair, pack my bag and I go out the door. I don't make coffee because we lack a coffeemaker and I pick up something to eat on the way into work.

I've adopted a pretty set list of things to do every morning before work. The lack of coffee and the fact that I'm awake at 6 am already sets my mood points back an automatic 15 points. I'm not happy. I have a hard time even being nice to the Roommate this early in the morning, who I'm capable of spending days [ literally ] with on the couch, watching stupid sitcoms.

So you can fucking imagine the flurry of annoyance and anger I felt Thursday morning, when Nicholas Cage was passed out on the leather sofa, with my blanket, TV still on and my computer still open.

I mean, come on. You're unemployed. You do nothing, as far as I'm concerned. You do not pay rent. You lack the ability to comprehend most films and create such retarded titles as, "Bangkok Dangerous", which is a fragment, a fucking fragment a child would say. You are dumb and you piss me off. I hate your laugh and your idiotic perceptions of love. You went out the night before after spending days at home and really? Really? You couldn't make it to your fucking bed, that's like, what, five feet away?

Mornings, for me, are ritualistic. I complete specific tasks, which, if not completed, prevent me from leaving for work. I like my mornings alone, I like running back and forth from my room to the full-length mirror, trying on new outfits. I mean, think about your mornings and then imagine an overrated Hollywood wannabe passed out in the middle of your space. Yeah, he's asleep, but he's still the center of attention and in the way of everything you wanted to do. And he's silent, but that makes him so much more annoying.

Like the time we watched the Notebook with Cage...
(end credits)
Cage: "...wait. What happen'd? Hol' on. Was that them?!"
Brooklyntact: "Was that who?"
Cage: "Th' old folks! Was that them?!"
BT: "..."
Cage: "O mah god, that was them! Oh, tha's so sad! They kill one another?"
BT: [walks into the bathroom to giggle]

Or like the time,
Cage: "I wan' see that Dakota Fannin' movie. Looks sooo good."



Or like the time I ripped your fucking Face/Off.