Confessions of a Product Junkie - Part One

I worship in the church of Sephora where a girl can be a whore (of the product-whore variety, that is) without risk of damnation.  It’s a Mecca for junkies like me.  When I walk through the doors I feel a little bit lighter and a little bit higher.  It’s a feeling I’d bottle if I could.

I vividly remember my virgin trip to Sephora.  I was literally drunk with happiness thanks to some “signature” cocktails at the Rainforest Café in the Burlington Mall.  It’s a given that shopping while drunk is dangerous, but in a store like this, it’s downright lethal.  A basket of make-up, moisturizers, perfume, hair products, make-up brushes and about $400 later, I left Sephora and I’ve never been the same since.

I can trace the whore/junkie behavior back to when I first discovered make-up. My mom would pass on those “gift with purchase” freebies to my sister and me and I’d relish in them.  My mom took me to the Clinque counter in junior high to help me find a skin regime and I was amazed at all the make-up counters department stores had to offer. 

Visits to Rock Bottom (a pharmacy that, you guessed it, sold stuff for *rock bottom* prices) followed.  And when I had to get a job to learn a little something about responsibility and earning my own money (thank you, mom), I chose a part-time career at CVS and I’m not ashamed to admit I loved it.  Products + a job that required organizing shelves + getting to play with a real live cash register = a happy me.

These days Sephora is the lure, but I will also satisfy my cravings at everything from Duane Reade to drugstore.com to Bliss to CVS (I can never seem to get out of there without spending $25).  I’ve curbed my department store make-up counter habit, after many years of living at Trish McEvoy.  (Still love her but needed to broaden my horizons a bit.)  And so it will come as no surprise that my cabinets are bursting with products.  In the grand tradition of if at first you don’t succeed….I try and try and try again.  Any product is fair game and while there are some misses (law of averages, right?) there are definitely some hits.

So on this Monday, which is kind of like my normal Sunday (love holidays), when I typically perform some of weekly beauty rituals, I give you some of my current hits. 

My fan favorites. 

My obsessions.  (Love an excuse for an 80s song link).

1.  A bundle of Bliss:

As if the clever names weren’t reason enough to try these products, they smell great, work great and are reasonably priced.  I’m very careful about what I’ll use on my face thanks to my sensitive skin, so when Bliss worked for me, I never looked back.

I’m not a fan of facials. I don’t like having other people mess with my face.  But the Bliss masks make me feel like I’m getting all the perks of the in-spa without the anxiety that goes with it. 

First up is the Steep Clean Mask – Every Sunday night, like clockwork, I slather this on.  A blue and yellow gel get blended together and smoothed on.  The mask smells like heaven, doesn’t get all hard and crackly like some other brands and my face feels amazing in 15 minutes flat.

Triple Oxygen Energizing Mask – this orange scented mask comes out as a gel and turns into a foam on your face.  There’s a hard-to-describe bubbling feeling as the mask works its magic.  In just five minute my face is brighter and has a great glow.  On special occasions I’ll follow it with the Energizing Eye Mask.  

Youth As We Know It – I admit I tried this line when it came out based on the name alone.  I was getting a little, ahem, older and I’ll happily admit I am trying to fight the reality of aging.  I tried the whole product line but narrowed down my loves to the eye cream (so rich, absorbs well, no irritating fragrance) and face moisturizers.  The SPF version is a new purchase, just in time for summer.  Brilliant!

I go back and forth on the need for toners – are they necessary or just a ploy to get people to spend more money?  I used to use Sea Breeze, which smelled like alcohol and kind of burned and dried my face out.  This was back when I was shopping at Rock Bottom and technically I think this was considered an astringent (which just sounds painful).  But I had faith in Bliss (and I’m pretty sure there was some sort of 20% off promotion) so I took the leap and got the Detoxifying Facial Toner.  I typically use it at night – post wash or mask and pre-moisturizer and I’m pleased.  This one stays in the rotation.

I’m also devoted to the Cleansing Milk, Pore-Perfecting Face Polish and Fabulous Foaming Face Wash (in my shower where they are in daily circulation) and to the Body Butter.  I’m partial to Vanilla Bergamot in the fall/winter and the Blood Orange for spring/summer.  And then some days I just have to go Naked, so it doesn’t compete with my perfume.  Baggage Handler ensures I look like I got a good night's sleep.  Problem Salved is great for everything from taming my eyebrows to softening my cuticles to soothing my skin post-tweezing.  And No Zit Sherlock gets it done. 

So yes, Bliss, I bow down to you every day.  But I do have one little smidgen of feedback that would make me the happiest girl in all the land.  Please please please resurrect the Spearmint & Sweet Orange scent from about five years ago.  I die for that scent and it was discontinued.  I was devastated when I found out.  Like when Dylan picked Kelly over Brenda. (Brenda was your soul mate, you idiot!)  I beg of you, Bliss, bring it back!  For me!  Please!  I’ll buy it in droves.  Promise! 

Photo Courtesy of http://thanksgiving.phillipmartin.info
/thanksgiving_turkey1.htm

And I must give a shout out to that little bottle of Olay Regenerist that snuck into the picture.  I tried the Bliss Thinny Chin Chin, which is supposed to help prevent that whole I’m-getting-old-and-therefore-getting-a-turkey-neck, but it was pricey and I didn’t really feel like it was doing anything.  But I’m still vain and don’t want the turkey neck, so when I read the amazing reviews on Olay, I decided to give this product a go.  Love it.  It’s a fragrance free, smooth gel, and it does the trick.  They have a whole line of products, but this is as far as I’ve ventured. 

2.  These nails were made for polishing…

I’ve been obsessed with painting my nails for as long as I can remember. I even painted some of my dolls and Barbie’s nails.  Constantly changing my nail color, I’ve always had a rainbow colors at my disposal.  And just like I don’t have the patience for facials, I really don’t have the patience for manicures. 

I got acrylics for a wedding way back when and stuck with them for about a year.  My manicurist was a little reminiscent of Ursula from “The Little Mermaid” except instead of being a singing sea witch, she was a chain-smoking, schmatta-wearing gypsy, who doled out advice on my life and my relationship (it often felt like I was paying for therapy and not a manicure).  But then she had a heart attack and quit the biz. 

And I quit the acrylics.  So these days I’d rather save my money for the full body massage and do my own nails.  And if I do say so myself, I’ve gotten really good at it after a couple decades of practice. 

For years I was a lot of a nail polish snob and only used OPI.  I frequented beauty supply stores, and stocked up on colors, until OPI became available in chain drugstores.  Its accessibility has become the death of me. 

I want to note that I’ve been partial to dark nail polish since before Vamp hit the market in the mid-nineties and I didn’t jump on that bandwagon.  I did however go off the OPI path for this amazing chocolate brown Essie polish.  I wish I knew the name, but it was one of those colors my manicurist used to pull from her purse when I came in, so it was like I was getting some insider color.  Loved it, but in hindsight I should have demanded to know the name.  Grrrrr!

But I’ve sworn by the dark polish for ages.  Light colors just don’t work for me. The lightest I’ve gone recently is OPI’s You Don’t Know Jacques, which is a great greige, but I have to be in the mood for this one.  And I absolutely don’t believe in certain colors for certain seasons.  My nail colors have certainly earned me some snide comments. Sticks and stones. So long as I don't break a nail!

One of my all time favorite colors (another case of the discontinued) is OPI’s Massachusetts Mulberry.  It was a sort of red/brown shimmer and I’ve never found a color to hold a candle to it and replace it.   When Sephora started their OPI line I was over the moon with new options. (I’m With Brad became the color I wore into the ground starting in the summer of 2008.)

These days I’m broadening my horizons and am having a love affair with the Sally Hansen Complete Salon Manicure. It’s the base coat, polish and top coat all in one.  Genius!  And as a girl who does her nails at least twice a week, this is a huge time saver. Plus I cannot stand chips so the all-in-one formula makes touch ups at work that much easier.  I go back and forth from Haute Chocolate to Navy Baby on my fingernails.

For the toes I’ll hit every color of the rainbow.  I was wearing some Navy Baby on my toes, but I'm a fan of matchy-matchy, so swiping it off and changing it to Sephora by OPI Ms. Can't Be Wrong.  Shimmery, hot pinky/purple will keep me happy for weeks to come.  And I suspect will look amazing on the beach on Portugal!

3.  Head to Toe.  Or Hands to Feet, actually…

And when the hands and nails are done there’s only one thing left to do – moisturize.  As you can guess I’ve given the Bliss hand and foot creams a go and they’re definitely keepers.  But then I read about the brand, Cake, in Real Simple magazine.  They had me at “spearmint and peppermint” for the foot cream so I promptly hopped on Sephora and bought the set:

Love them both.  My feet are happy and tingly and my hands are smooth.  The hand cream has a slight scent that isn’t at all overpowering – I can’t quite put my finger on it.  The ingredients say shea butter, mango, milk and marshmallow extract.  Sounds weird, but I swear it’s ahhh-may-zing.  So worth it.

And with that I’m off to unwind.  I have some mellow music to listen to and a face mask to indulge in.  

This is the place, where everything's better...

I’m the first to admit I can be pretty negative about things.  When I’m struggling or frustrated or so tired I can’t fathom doing anything beyond crawling into bed, my mood and my outlook get all sorts of dark and cranky.  What can I say?  I’m human.  And there are some days when it’s just too hard to put on a smile and try to find that silver lining. 

And then something happens that reminds me that life is way to short to be a cranky ball of bitch and moan.  No body wants to hang out with that.  Or be that.  Just like the chicken pox, I fully believe toxicity is contagious.  I work with it all day long and well, I don't want to turn into one of those people.  So I’m consciously flipping the bitch and moan switch off (at least for today) and instead focusing on things that please me.  Things that lift my mood.  Things that, dare I say, make me smile.  So here goes…

Vacation!  I just booked my tix for a girl’s trip - two weeks in Portugal.  We went last September and it was amazing.  So excited for another chance at an adventure.  And to dance until 7 a.m. to 90s music in literal dark, underground clubs that let you put your drinks on a tab that you pay at the door to get out.  And while I remember getting drinks (some sort of Fanta orange and liquor combo) I don’t remember ever paying on the way out.  Hmmmmmmm.

Fresh strawberries.  Peanut butter.  Ice-cold Diet Coke.  Starbucks Peppermint Mocha.  Flatbread pizza. Breyer’s Mint Chocolate Chip ice-cream. Always.  And forever.  But not all at the same time. 

The fact that The City is now available for streaming over Apple TV.  I plowed through the first six episodes of Season 1 yesterday.  Oh how I missed Olivia’s puss and Whitney’s “job” at DVF.  And any show that showcases Kelly Cutrone’s filter-free moments and tosses in an LC cameo for good measure is high on my list. 

Orchestra tickets to see “Anything Goes”.  Again.  So. Damn.  Good.

Rediscovering an old song that I forget I loved.  This one popped into my head on Friday when I was heading home for work.  Suited the day perfectly.  This clip doesn't do it justice.

My new carpet!  I can’t help it. I still get excited every time I come home and see it.  I know…talking about my carpet installation makes me sound very old.  And boring.  And like I have no life.  (I do.  Swear.)  But you have no idea what I was dealing with here, so allow me to illustrate:

(To note, I should probably be more ashamed of posting this, but oh well…)

Before: (also known as “ick”, “gross”, “bleck”, “oh the shame”)

During: (Less than 24 hours with those rolls and I probably tripped over them twelve times!  Life in a studio.) 

 After: (Hello, lover!  Walking barefoot has never felt so good.  And a heads up for potential visitors…yes, you will have to lose your shoes on the stone floor at my front door.  Clean feet and socks only!  Nothing gives me an excuse to be high-maintenance like new carpet.)

Which leads me to,  my new Electrolux vacuum.  I ditched my upright for the Rolls Royce of canister vacuums.  I am a changed woman.

When my internet shopping stuff comes in the mail and opening every package is like Christmas morning.  Even if I do wind up returning half the crap. And possibly forget ordering a quarter of it.  And I’m fairly certain my doorman judges me, not only by the amount of clothes that show up, but by the cases of wine that have recently arrived.  Whatever.  It’s been a rough road.  And hello, this is all about what pleases me! 

Bliss.  Sure, the feeling, but also the place.  The massage.  The products.  The little brownie squares in the lounge.  Even when I’m forced to cut back on the luxuries in the not-so-distant future, I refuse to give up my Bliss. 

Baseball. 

I said it before and I’ll say it again…I find so much solace in music.  In my head there’s always a soundtrack playing. Sometimes I pretend I’m living in a movie sequence or in the coda of a One Tree Hill ep and I pick out the songs that would be playing, fully capturing the moment.  Right now my random soundtrack includes “The Gift” by Angels and Airwaves, “Steal My Sunshine” by Len, “You and I” by Lady Gaga, “Walk On the Ocean” by Toad the Wet Sprocket and “Praise You” by Fatboy Slim.

“Somebody told me, this is the place, where everything’s better and everything’s safe.”  See Toad, above.

Kate White.  I just starting rereading Over Her Dead Body.  I think she’s such a cool chick and have total career envy.   Am bummed I’m going to miss the launch of her new book in August, but then again I’ll be on a beach in Portugal, trying to get a tan, so I’ll find a way to deal.

BBM.  IM.  Video chat.  Life changing.

The fact that I discovered Desperate Housewives so late in the game.  I quit back after Season 1, but have now worked my way all the up to the last episode available on Netflix. I almost don’t want to watch it because then what?

Stumbling upon a really good blog.  My latest find (by which I mean addiction) is  http://itakephotosinthebathroom.blogspot.com/  1.  What a genius idea.  2.  I’m a big fan of her color combos.  3.  Reading blogs by people who are committed to what they’re doing and who I can relate to inspire the hell out of me. 

Clean laundry. Fresh sheets.  Warm bath towels.  Jeans that fit perfectly *after* you wash them. 

The Rachel Zoe Project.   I downloaded the whole series from iTunes.  Bananas.  Shutting it down.  I DIE!  You get the idea.  Another case of career envy/inspiration.

Yoga pants + a tank + an oversized hooded cardigan sweatery robe thing = my home uniform.

This picture.  It makes me happy and a little sad. But almost a happy sad, if that makes any sense.  Oh, Kermie!  I was just talking to my friend at work about how I grew up watching The Muppet Show.  I would say I was generally a pretty happy, self-contained and self-entertained kid and this just reminds me of being a kid vs. the Nana I am now, who talks about her carpet like other people would talk about their child.  Don’t judge.  It’s damn good carpet.

They call me Chumbawamba

Now anyone worth their salt knows where I’m going with this.  “I get knocked down, but I get up again.  You’re never gonna keep me down.”  Oh, how I do heart a one hit wonder!

Many moons ago when I was belting this song out, at the top of my lungs, at some random Boylston Street bar in Boston, I doubt it ever crossed my mind that it would become my theme song all these years later.  But here I am.  Waxing poetic about a band that probably got called "Chewbacca" a lot. 

What can I say? It’s been a bad day/week/month/stretch.  And just when I thought it was getting better, well, you guess it…I got knocked down.  And sometimes I stayed down.  Because when you’re in the middle of a hurricane it’s hard to see anything clearly. (How’s that for epic imagery?)  I'll admit I can get caught up in the minutiae.  I’ve been here before and sometimes, to be honest, I can't see the forest for the trees.  Can't figure out what I want to do, even when I know what I need to do.  Or figure out what my first step should be.  Or know for certain if I'm ready to take that next leap of faith.  (But is anyone every *really* ready?!?!??!)  

And then comes the “a-ha” moment.  And the feeling that my horoscope is speaking directly to me.  Now I’m the first to admit I read a lot of daily horoscopes.  It’s ritual.  There are three sites I’m pretty much faithful too.  And no, I don’t keep reading until I find one that applies.  I just like to cover my bases and be prepared for what’s to come.  Some days it’s a big old case of “say what”?  And other days, like, oh I don’t know, say today for instance, it’s a case of hello, nail. I’m going to hit you on the head. 

“You have arrived at an important starting point. Set out on the path that you have always wanted to take. You are in the perfect position. The road may seem long, but it doesn't have to be daunting. You need only take one small step at a time.”

Now it hopefully goes without saying that the path I’ve always want to take, that the big dream, is to be a writer.  I never set out to have a corporate job, despite my childhood love for 9 to 5 and the fact that I used to make chocolate milk and pretend it was coffee while I “played” office.  (I was never one for playing house.)  But by high school I knew that writing was what I wanted to do.  I had so many fantasies in college about writing novels from the comfort of my couch in my pj’s, noshing on Cheetos and Diet Coke.  (It goes without saying that I would magically not gain any weight or turn my computer keys orange from Chester Cheetah’s heavenly treat.)  I could make up stories and weave in pieces of my own life, getting revenge on ex’s, respect of my favorite authors and having a happily ever after in my books and in my life. 

But then reality came crashing down.  And writing internships at magazines in Boston don’t pay.  (Though I did get some bylines which was cool.)  And rent checks bounce.  And I temped my way into a full time job where I stayed and stayed and stayed.  Several writing classes and groups and stories and contests and one novel (as yet unpublished) later and I was back in New York, ready to start over.

And then mortgages and the last of student loans needed to be paid.  And I enjoyed my corporate job, until I didn’t.  And then more writing classes and a mystery novel and more contests.  And then rejections and revisions and the job plummeting downhill into a whole new level of rock bottom, fifty feet of crap, then me. (Thank you Rachel for feeling miserable when Ross comes back from China with Julie and uttering one of the best lines EVER!) 

And then there was settling.  UGH!  What an ugly frigging word.  To settle.  Just writing it makes me shudder.  But I gave up.  Gave in.  I stopped working towards something more.  And I know how pathetic and cowardly this all sounds, but what can I say?  Sometimes it’s easier to stay when you know you should go.  So I settled.  I bitched and moaned and complained my ass off about work.  And got seduced by the money and the security.  But it has nothing to do with writing and at the risk of being dramatic (I’m getting in the mood for disc one of Dawson’s, Season 5, that just arrived from Netflix, so drama is in order), this job is completely eating away at my soul.  I’m unhappy all day and then unhappy for part of my night.  I’m just a big old ball of settle. 

And then came today’s horoscope and it was like Moses parted the Red Sea and I could cross over.  (These analogies seem to be taking a weird turn.  And I’m sure my religious naivety is showing through.  Nativity?  A non-church-goer say what?  Don’t shoot the writer.  I worship in the aisles at Barnes & Noble.)

But I digress.  And I have seen the light.   Cue me some Green Day.  

I had this same epiphany four years ago when my company got sold to a shit-tastic company full of pompous, condescending, very short men.  I am better than this!  I deserve better!  I will leave and they will be sorry!  (Yes, I have revenge issues).  And here I am, in a similar looking boat, knowing that my destiny is not to work at this company anymore. 

And then I had a dream.  Literally.  I was hiding out in a house with two other people and there was some murderous creeper outside who was shooting at us.  (There’s a chance that my recent obsessive Murder, She Wrote watching slash I’m-reading-an-amazing-new-thriller may have also contributed to this theme).

But, anyway…

So in my dream we’re all crouched on the stairs and rather than run down them we just keep hunching down when the guy shoots at us.  And what pray tell does all this mean, you ask (and should I be embarrassed that I had to Google “pray tell” to find it how to spell it properly?):

To dream that someone is shooting you with a gun, suggests that you are experiencing some confrontation in your waking life. You feel victimized in some situation.

We were never shot, but the bullets were lodged in the wood next to me (for the record I jotted all this down very sloppily sometime after midnight when I woke from this weirdness which is why the details are vivid).  So dreaming about seeing bullets pretty much means anger, aggression, or just needing to “bite the bullet” and accept a difficult situation. 

Ah, how wonderful to have a dream telling me to suck it up. 

And maybe I do.  Maybe I’m being just a big, whiny brat.  It seems like everyone I know is unhappy in their job.  It’s an awful time to be unemployed.  And it’s a hard time to be working.  It seems like none of the old rules apply.  Any ounce of fun is long gone.  And while I don’t need ass-slaps and high-fives all day long, a simple “thank you” on occasion would go miles.  Though I’d settle for being treated with respect.  I’m crazy like that. 

If money wasn’t an object (or health insurance for that matter) I know what I’d do – I’d walk in heartbeat. I would stay home and put all my time and energy into writing.  I read about so many authors who hated their corporate day jobs and it drove them to write and they landed agents and are now free to write full time and do what they love.  I can relate to the drive, but lately, with all the distractions, I can seem to get my ass in the chair. Or if I get it there I wind up shopping and buying crap I don’t need.  Filling a void, much?

But in reality I’m scared.  Scared to stay where I am and let it eat me up inside.  Scared to leave and struggle and not have a job or security or money to pay my mortgage or to travel or to buy crap I don’t need.  The proverbial Catch-22 and what feels like a classic case of damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

And just like the horoscope rang true, so did the words of Hercule Poirot in Death on the Nile. 

“Look only forward.  Remember time heals everything.”

(Have I mentioned my obsession with mysteries?  And my love for Angela Lansbury who is a wonderfully funny, always drunk, eccentric novelist in this one?)

So I’m trying to do just that.  And when I do get back up again, I turn to another old friend.  One who has gotten me through many runs on the treadmill, when I’d rather be laying on the couch, with or without the Cheetos.  

Very Superstitious...

I’ve spent a chunk of the past week in a drug-induced haze, logging lots of time in bed and on the couch though sadly, not in a fun way.  Blasted spring cold and worst allergy season EVER.  But I’m dragging my ass back into the real world, rolling the dice by deciding to do this on Friday the 13^th, when my gut tells me I should probably log one more day in bed, just to be safe. 

I’ve downgraded my daily pill intake from Nyquil (makes my legs feel numb in an oddly good way) to Benadryl (gives good sleep).  I’ve managed to show up for work (more so physically than mentally).  And now that reality is coming into focus and I have a vague memory of the past week of my life, I realize I’m suddenly facing an enormous mental to-do list that I managed to compile in the drug haze and a hard deadline of getting my entire apartment packed up for my carpet installation on Tuesday (more on that later).

First things first.  The dreaded Friday the 13^th. 

Anyone who knows me knows I’m superstitious.  No stepping on cracks.  I only pick up pennies that are heads up (tails up is bad luck).  I won’t walk under ladders.  Breaking a mirror means seven years of bad luck.  I make wishes when all the numbers on the clock are the same, on the clasp of my necklace when it finds its way to the front, on birthday candles and on stars.  I knock on wood.  I have a horseshoe necklace for luck.  When I get chills it means someone is walking over my grave.  When my ears ring I know someone is talking about me.  If my nose itches I’ll either kiss a fool or get in a fight.  Plucking out a grey hair means ten more will grow in its place.  I rubbed some random monkey statue in Belgium that was supposed to bring good luck (and, bonjour, I would say it did).  And opening an umbrella indoors and raising it over your head…well, now you’re just asking for trouble.    

And once again, a vivid Friday the 13^th memory comes to mind (and not just the nightmares after I had watching that friggin movie when I was all of 12 years old.  Brilliant idea, Kiki.).  But this memory is of the kinder, gentler kind, though I may shame myself in the process.  Many moons ago I used to worship the TV show Rags to Riches.  It was definitely a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of show and there’s a fairly good chance it only aired in the 10570 zip code.  It was sort of a new twist on Annie where these girls from an orphanage were “rescued” by an obscenely rich, fortysomething playboy (who was not supposed to be creepy despite the fact that he was a playboy and he opened his home to teenage girls).  The story was he wanted to improve his image so in came the orphans.  Add in a butler for comic relief and some musical numbers and you’d think instant hit, right?  Not quite.  So it was like a bad rip-off of Annie.  Except it was the 60s.  In California. And he adopted five girls, who differed in age and race and were in no way related to each other, but good God didn’t they just love each other.  And more importantly they loved to sing.  And they weren’t even rehearsing for a glee competition.  Sure they’d change up the lyrics so that it fit with the show, but I didn’t care.  It was genius.  (And I was young.  Sort of.)

Anyway…there was one episode (see video above...and I can sing all the words...still) where they all head to Vegas to ask Elvis is they can have one of his guitars for an auction (don’t ask) and one of the girls boasted about how the Saturday after a Friday the 13^th was always a lucky day for her.  I’m not sure why I thought that was such a cool concept or why I vividly remember it until this day, but here I am, talking about the details of a Rags to Riches episode as if the show was as brilliant as Mad Men.  I always manage to forget about this until a Friday the 13^th rolls around and then I catch myself wondering….Hmmmm, I wonder if tomorrow will be lucky for me too.  Only time will tell, but I’m keeping a good thought. 

And in the meantime, while I did manage to watch all of Veronica Mars (Season 3), and get knee deep into Desperate Housewives, (Season 5), while being resigned to my bed and couch (did I mention how much I worship my Apple TV), this weekend promises a whole different kind of entertainment.  As I mentioned earlier I’m having about 400 sf of wall-to-wall carpet in my apartment changed on Tuesday.  In my fully furnished, wonderfully pack-ratted, I store-boxes-of-boots-and-shoes-under-my-dining-room-table-because-there’s-no-other-place-to-put-them studio apartment. 

And I’ve been saying for weeks, hell, months, that once I get the place repainted (check) and re-carpeted (almost a check) I will clean and purge and organize like never before.  Now I’m a girl who likes to clean.  Loves an organization system.  I’m by no means a minimalist.  I love to have evidence of my life and my interests around me.  But I also like to have a place for everything and have everything in its place.  But then life takes over and buying clothes I don’t need happens and there are magazines I keep meaning to read and financial paperwork that I don’t think I can get rid of yet.  I’m not in the hoarder zone or anything creepy like that, but I have a lot of stuff and not a lot of space.  (Excuses.  Excuses.)  But when I’m in the right frame of mind, I can clean and purge like a champ.  So this weekend my dream is to harness that frame of mind and like the Nike ad says, Just Do It!

So I have to pack up my place (I did a smaller version of this pack-up for the painters and that was awful.  But at least I could stash stuff in the closet and under my bed.  Not so much this time.)  I also have a bunch of clothes I need to return.  Yes, I get a high just hitting the “purchase now” button even though I know I don’t need another cardigan sweater or pair of workout pants.  Don’t judge.  It’s been a rough year.  And I send a lot of crap back when it arrives and I realize I don’t like it or, worse, can’t even remember ordering it.  Oops!  But to note, you can never have too many purses. That’s just fact.  They always fit.  They don’t pinch your pinkie toes.  The more the merrier.  I’m a proud purse whore.

Back to reality (again), I thought I’d go balls to the wall and get some groceries delivered, hit the gym and drop off a bunch of dry cleaning because that’s one less thing I’ll have to empty from my closet when the carpet guys come.  (They are going to HATE me by the way.  And I mean ragingly HATE me.  And all my crap.)  On paper, this is really shaping up to be the single girl’s sad sitcom weekend.  I just need some cats and some Cheetos and maybe a depressing song playing in background on repeat.

Except that I’m not sad. (That’s a lie.  I’m super sad about the fact that this week was the Bethenney Ever After finale.  Thank God I have A Place of Yes to keep me company for the time being. But beyond that I’m not sad.).  And if I do need a happiness kick, there’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer.  And the last two episodes of Castle on my DVR.  I mean, I am coming off a week of sickness, I should probably take it slow.  I’m just saying.

And now for something completely unrelated to everything I’ve written…there are moments in my job that are brutal.  And some that are fun and downright rewarding.  And every once in a while I come across something that makes me think, “only in this job and only in this office.”  Today I was lucky enough to have one of those moments that makes it all worthwhile.  Long story short (too late!), I was reviewing our office lease to see if we could hold the landlord’s feet to the fire for failing to do something (outlook not good) and came across an entire section of the lease entitled “Pornographic Use Prohibited”.  Now I’ve worked in some combination of Corporate Real Estate and Facilities for over a decade and read more leases than I can even begin to tell and can say, in all honesty, that I have never, ever come across even a version of the pornography clause.  You would think that it would go without saying that your office space is not for pornographic use, but I guess when you rent an office in that black hole of 34^th and Tenth, some things need to be spelled out. 

So not only does our lease stipulate that we are not allowed to bring any obscene or pornographic material onto the premises, but further goes on to say, and I must quote for the sheer hilarity of it – “shall not permit or conduct any obscene, nude, or semi-nude live performances on the premises, nor permit use of the premises for nude modeling, rap sessions, or as a so-called rubber goods shop, or as a sex club of any sort, or as a “massage parlor”.”

I don’t even know where to begin. 

No rap sessions?  So I should cancel the upcoming Jay Z concert that I booked for our next in-house Happy Hour?  Or does no “rap session” mean no more idle chit-chat around the water cooler to help pass an already painfully slow day?  This lease is so specific, yet so damn vague.  

Then there’s the “so-called rubber goods shop”. Rubber like bands?  Tires?  Gloves? Cat suits?  (Meow).  And give us a little credit.  As if we would open a place that only *supposedly* sold rubber goods. Oh, we would SELL rubber goods.

And I LOVE that “massage parlor” is actually in quotes within the lease.  It’s like they knew we’d try to pretend to open a legitimate massage parlor (I do heart my trips to Bliss!) that just *happens* to offer up happy endings and then some.  I mean not for nothing, but we are far far on the west side where trannies and sketchiness make frequent cameos.  A massages-plus establishment wouldn’t be out of the question. I’m fairly certain I pass a few on my way home. 

So that’s my story.  Sickness and superstitions and no salacious behavior in the champagne room.  Or the workplace.  Rags to Riches and packing and purging.  Hopefully I won’t run into Jason Voorhees in the laundry room tonight, because you know that’s where I’ll be. 

And to end on a high note, I give you this….a song that just makes me happy.  

Read What Happens - When Peeps and Foo and Jesus Collide

I’m catching up on my Real Housewives and Watch What Happens (it’s about all I can manage on a Monday night) and decided to take a cue from Andy Cohen. (Love him.  I think we could be fast and fun friends.)  His after-show completely cracks me up and who am I kidding? I totally want to be a guest so I can have drinks with Andy and play games and tell the whole world what *I* think of the Housewives.

So to keep myself amused tonight I’m going to pretend I’m on Watch What Happens and play the role of both Andy Cohen and myself.  Take a sip from your cocktail (which is required for being a guest on this show) and then maybe this will seem a little less inane.

For starters, my thoughts on the most recent RHONYC episode:

1. The Countess telling Kelly to “swallow” and not “spit” was classic (even if she was talking about wine).
2. Alex’s modeling sequence made me cringe.  She wasn’t channeling Swan Lake or a ballerina or anything remotely graceful.  She’s still just trying to be something she’s not.
3. At the wine tasting party when Cindy meets the 23-year-old and laments that she’s been out of the dating scene for eight months “and this is what I’m left with”.  LOL!  Right there with you Cindy.
4. I didn’t miss Jill even a smidge.
5. Simon's single, which they previewed on Watch What Happens, belongs in the discard bin along with Danielle Staub's foray into the music studio. Please stop singing people!  You're not good.

I'm ashamed to admit I haven't seen last night's Orange County yet, so instead I give you some of the many things I’m obsessed with right now:

First up, I downloaded Foo Fighters’ new album Wasting Light on release day, and I just can’t get enough of it.  There’s musical genius all over it, but from the second I heard the song Walk I was obsessed. 

It’s already joined the ranks of “Home”, “Times Like These”, “February Stars” and “Everlong” as a song that absolutely brings me to my knees.  It’s the kind of song that inspires me to write and makes me wish I had as good of a way with words as Dave Grohl does.  Kudos to the whole band (I’m not sure who writes what but thank you for writing!  And singing!  And being rock Gods!)

I’ve been in full-on spring cleaning mode and after a really long, difficult year am finally ready to press the restart button on my life.  My mom actually called it a “renewal” which made me feel very Ramona Singer, which in the case of this post of apropos.  But whatever you call it, I’m learning to walk again.  The lyrics are just screaming in my ears.

I’m also fairly obsessed with “Bridge Burning” if for no other reason than it contains the line “oh won’t you let me twist your fate”.  Brilliant!

My second obsession needs little introduction:

Hello, luvah!

As far as I’m concerned there are two types of people in the world:

1. Those who know that Breyer’s Mint Chocolate Chip ice-cream  (aka MCCIC) is the end all/be all. 
2. Everyone else.

I’ve tried every mint chip on the market and nothing even holds a candle to Breyer’s.  I love, Love, LOVE it!   This was a staple of my childhood and somewhere along the way we fell out of touch.  I cheated on my Breyer’s and had affairs with Ben & Jerry’s and JP Licks.  And while we had some good times together, there is nothing quite like your first love. 

But when I was finally ready to be reunited (and I knew it would feel so good), MCCIC was no where to be found.  I checked every grocery store…every Duane Reade…every bodega.  But just like OPI’s Massachusetts Mulberry (yet another obsession) I feared my ice-cream was discontinued. 

But then fate stepped in.  I made a random stop at D’Agostinos (I’m a Food Emporium girl, but needed to pick up some milk) and as I browsed the frozen food aisle, I saw it.  Like a beacon in the night.  This was about a month ago when, dare I say, my bad year started to come to a close.  Yes I’m that superstitious and I considered my finding the Breyer’s MCCIC as exciting as Columbus discovering America.  (I’m a bit soft on that holiday since it’s my birthday.  Yes, I’m starting to sound really crazy right now, so keep drinking that cocktail.  Then I may just be funny.  Or weird.  Both cool with me.)

My third obsession is the new Duane Reade that opened up across the street.  They transformed it from shabby (not even a little bit chic) to ahh-may-zing, bright lights/I will spend big money.  They sell everything from Klorane Dry shampoo to Drano (don’t tell my building super I used it tonight).  OPI nail polish to orange juice.  Kashi Go Lean to Kleenex.  Band-aids to body lotion.  The food is cheaper than in the supermarket and while I still skeeve the “fresh” fruit (even I have limits) I can browse a Duane Reade like I can browse a Barnes & Noble.  So many aisles.  So little time.  Maybe it’s the years I spent as working at CVS but what can I say?  Obsessed.  

Number four is this KIA commercial.  It's sooooo last season but it also plays non-stop during Yankee games.  It reminds me of a lost youth moment where as a preppy girl from Westchester I somehow found a way to sing "you can get with this, or you can get with that" with little-to-no shame.  But come on.  Hampsters in toasters.  And in washing machines.  It cracks me up every goddamn time.  

Doo-dah-dippity.

And because I can’t even pretend to not be obsessed with more music, I finally found the download of Adele’s cover of "Natural Woman".  Just when I think she can't get any better, it does.  

And now for my Woohoo of the day. 

One of my friends was trying to get his son, Matthew, to go to bed Saturday night. He explained that the Easter Bunny couldn’t come unless Matthew was asleep to which Matthew proudly told his dad what he learned in school about Easter – that Jesus rose from the dead and came home and put on his bunny suit to deliver candy.  Not sure what this says about the Catholic School system in New York, but my woohoo goes to Matthew.  Matthew later confessed he made up the “bunny costume” part of the story but I rather like the idea of Jesus dressing up as a giant bunny.  (Sorry, mom!  But it’s all in good fun.)  I was a storytelling imaginative kid so fully appreciate where Matthew is coming from.  And again...Jesus in a bunny suit.  LOL!

And now for today’s biggest loser. 

To keep in the Easter theme, I popped in Duane Reade on the way home (shocker!) and as expected all of the Easter candy was marked as 50% off.  It made me a little sad for those Peeps who didn’t have a home, but I have no use for the sugar/marshmallow combo (no matter how cute they are) so I walked on by.  However the woman in front of me in line was apparently stocking up for next year (or a really bad binge) and had a basket full of Peeps, Cadbury eggs, and lots of pastel-colored wrapped things (think Reese's cups, Hersey Kisses and the like).  When the cashier rang her up the woman launched into a tirade that the candy was all supposed to be 50% off and everything was ringing up full price.  She was one of those customers that would test even the best cashier’s patience. 

And as Little Miss Bad Binge berated the cashier, another employee retrieved the sign from the Easter candy that read “50% off.  As marked.”  What sugar-coma skank didn’t realize is that those Peeps were ON SALE for $2.99 and those bags of pastel delights were originally $5.99.  Well that shut her up in a heartbeat.  So then she awkwardly stood there (no apologies btw) now with a bag full of candy (all rung up at half off) and had to decide if she was still in need of all that candy or if she was going to cheap out.  She quietly swiped her credit card. I’m not sure if she was on sugar-overload or having a sugar crash, but either way, what a mean peep. Hope she enjoys those not-so-just desserts.

Doo-dah-dippity.  

Weekend Warrior

Like most people, I look forward to my weekends and all the promise they hold.  By the time Friday night rolls around I often have these big aspirations that go far beyond being excited about being able to sleep until I wake up.  Alarm clock be damned!  But my weekends aren't quite what they used to be.

A few Fridays ago I got an email from an old friend, who I recently got back in touch with.  She was home, working her way through episodes of Damages while her hubby was sick in bed.  I was voluntarily enjoying good conversation around my parents’ dining room table.  And on these very crazy Friday nights, my friend posed the question - what happened to our wild and single nights back in Boston?  It’s true.  We had *a lot* of fun back then.  I definitely went out more nights than I stayed in.  Unless it was a money saving girls night in, that often involved poorly made cocktails and snacks from Trader Joes. 

But these days, I get home from work, on average, around 7 p.m. and the last thing I want to do is battle in the laundry room or clean my bathroom.  So my weekends are usually a mix of chores and wish lists and to-do’s and hopefully something self-indulgent and fun.  (Just to keep it all in perspective “self indulgent and fun” can be fulfilled with a Murder, She Wrote marathon or by popping in a DVD from my The Hills box set.) 

And by the time Monday morning rolls around I’m usually coming off a restless night’s sleep (so tired, yet so wide awake on Sunday night) and I’m irked that I didn’t make a dent in the planned to-do’s.  Or, after a good weekend, I’m feeling very “I rock” considering how much I got done, though still wish there was one more day before I had to go back to work.

Two Friday’s ago, New York City had that fluky, freakishly spring day.  It was sunny and in the 70s and women everywhere dusted off their flip-flops and minis and hit the streets.  What horrible snowy winter? we all mused.  Flowers were in bloom.  People were giddy.  It was the dawning of a new day. 

Now don’t get me wrong, I love me some spring fever, but I’d just dodged the St. Patty’s Day debacle the night before.  (Been there.  Done that.  Ironically have a 2011 t-shirt that I got the week before in a drinking-thinking extravaganza).  But I was on a mission and on this gorgeous spring night I couldn’t help but do the math:

Friday night + Unseasonable warm temperatures = Empty laundry room

Anyone living in an apartment can appreciate the struggles of doing your laundry when you either 1) share washers and dryers with 100 other apartments or 2) don’t even have a laundry room in your building.  It’s a battle.  Reasonable people get crazy competitive over machines.  And invariably there are those awful ones who yank out someone else’s laundry the second the machine clicks off.  Don’t get me wrong – I’ve certainly taken clothes out of a machine. But I do like to give at least a 3-minute grace period.  The elevators can be slow.  I tried to show some respect (do unto others and all that). 

But not the machine-stalkers.  Respect is not a word they know.  They’re like those people you see at casinos who stalk the slot machines that haven’t hit and when the frustrated player gets up, the stalkers pounce, banking on the fact that a machine was overdue.  The washers in my building are like slot machines.  It’s no joke down there. 

So two Friday nights ago (and again two days ago – I have no shame) – I did five, that’s right, I said five loads of laundry.  It was way overdue (the previous two weekends were reserved for fun as evidenced by the St. Patty’s tee).  But I have to say, there was zero competition on the laundry floor and I was in h-e-a-v-e-n!  It was like having my own private laundry room (one of my many dreams bee-tee-dubs).  And while my laundry is cooking I usually knock out some other cleaning.  I’ve said it before – when I’m in the right mood I genuinely like to clean.  Maybe it’s a control thing.  Or just the satisfaction of crossing something of my list.  Or maybe I’m just procrastinating from all those things don’t want to be doing.  So yes.  My name is Audrey and I can be a clean-a-holic.

I know laundry is a time suck and sure I could send it out, but nothing skeeves me more than the idea of someone else washing my clothes.  In my entire life, the only other person who has ever done my laundry is my mom.  I know it’s the control freak thing, but I can’t help but wonder if they even wash the clothes (I’ve had friends get their sheets returned with big yellow stains that look like cat pee).  And I don’t want strangers touching my towels or sheets or ahem, unmentionables.  Call me a snob or whatever, it’s just not for me.  Maybe it would save me time, but the anxiety I’d have in exchange doesn’t make up for it.  And I’m not sure that I could argue this as a cause for a bottomless Xanax prescription.

So once again, this Friday was a quiet and successful night in.  But tons of clean laundry wasn’t enough for this girl (though the pile, strewn all over my bed, along with my clothes rack which was bursting at the seams with the stuff I line dry and my ever-growing ironing pile, made me feel a bit like the mom in Johnny Dangerously).  For my nightcap I cracked open some wine and hit my DVR.  (DVR and Apple TV have pretty much ruined me.)

I caught up on two episodes of Bethenny Ever After.  What can I say?  I just capital “L” Love Bethenny.  I read an interview with her where she said that five years ago she was $50,000 in debt and couldn’t even pay her rent.  Now she’s a brand.  I find something inspiring about her story and her success.  And I think she’s just hysterical. Have to love a girl who acknowledges that all the hair and make-up and the fancy dresses aren’t who she is on a daily basis.  That she’s a girl who sleeps in coffee-stained flannel pants.  So I watch the show.  Have the yoga DVD.  I actually planned to tackle her chocolate chip brownie recipe this weekend (I know…I should have been writing).  But that plan sadly fell apart.  Divine intervention?

Now it should be said that I’m in a no way a cook. (Though I do make a damn tasty coffee cake).  But I survive.  I can bring home the bacon.  Fry it up in a pan.  But I won’t be hosting a formal dinner party any time soon.  So back to the cookie sheet sitch.  As I mentioned before, last summer I was in the process of buying a new apartment and it had a gorgeous kitchen.  Custom drawers and cabinets.  Granite countertops.  All new appliances.  The place actually made me want to learn how to cook. 

So I decided to prepare for the apartment by buying a few news things for my fab new kitchen, like cookie sheets.  The ones I was using were hand-me-downs from mom and I had very vivid memories of making cookies on them throughout the 80s.  So like any wannabe cook, I hopped on Crate & Barrel and ordered up some new sheets. I was going to start this new phase of my life right and promptly dumped the old ones in the trash.  The first thing I planned to make with the new ones was nothing more interesting that a frozen pizza, at which point I learned the cookie sheets didn’t fit in the friggin over.  They were too goddamn wide!

WTF?  

Since when are all cookie sheets not created equally?  I mean it’s not like I have a freakishly small over.  Apparently I just don’t have the skill set to think to pay attention to dimensions of things that I assume are standard (I’m sure a real cook would’ve known better).  So just like the apartment deal, the cookie sheets didn’t work out.  And I didn’t quite make it out to get new ones so my Bethenny brownie cookies were a no go.  Best laid plans.

And then it’s as if I blinked and it’s Sunday night and all of a sudden I have a daunting week ahead.  And in a world where these kinds of things only happen to me I woke up this morning, to the sound of my heat pipes banging, despite the dial being turned off.  Though this was way better than the jack-hammering outside my window that woke me up way too early yesterday morning.  Anyway…..I rolled over and saw it was barely 7:30 so I happily went back to sleep.  I woke up about an hour later, and in an effort to get a jump on the day, decided to get up (early morning = afternoon nap in my book).  It wasn’t until I got the paper, put on the coffee and flipped on the TV that I realized it was 7:30.  Wait?  What?  Oh, yes, my wonderful alarm clock has one of those auto daylight savings things so it “sprung ahead” this morning, which was the original daylight savings.  Seriously? 

So being up Sunday at 7:30 a.m. certainly wasn’t part of the plan, but I managed to roll with it.  I didn’t get everything done I wanted to – does anyone every knock everything off their list?  But I’m feeling good and totally took that nap and am winding down and am completely sucked in the Law and Order:SVU Killer Blondes marathon.  Amazing how that “self indulgent and fun” thing came full circle!

And the song of the post is one of many I was playing during the cleaning spree - this whole CD sounds so much better louder!