Chanel #461

I just picked up the LAST coveted bottle of Chanel's Le Vernis Blue Satin (number 461) nail polish at Saks. (the sales lady told me so) After dreaming about it all last night (comparing and contrasting the new navy spring color made by Chanel and Dior), I felt sure I might have a breakdown if they didn't have it this morning. I was so happy with my new purchase that I pranced out of Saks Fifth, splurged, and hailed a cab back to work. Can I expense that?

I'm taking it to my nail appointment tomorrow night at Dashing Divas (they serve martinis while they paint) in preparation for my upcoming wknd in South Carolina - where I'll be joining my beloved LT at the horse races. Now all I need is a hat!

dripping sweat

I was exposed to hairy men with beer bellies this weekend. My newest experience was taking a dip in the Russian baths on the lower east side. They've been around for over a century, and are a germaphobe's worst nightmare. (although I was assured of their cleanliness multiple times)

Faded pictures of celebrities and magazine reviews were absentmindedly plastered across the walls. A wrinkled woman sat behind a counter serving unpronounceable bottled beers and was curiously licking her fingers while she cooked soup. I wrapped a tattered navy tunic around (what I thought was) my very appropriate metallic gold bikini and joined the two boys who were seasoned veterans to this whole experience.

The first room was insufferable. I forced dramatic attempts to breathe and watched my skin glisten and moisten to the resemblance of a wet seal. The second room was dry and arid to the point where I felt my hair crisping like straw. I attacked our liter of water bottle and gulped with the ferocity of a Saharan nomad. Every minute. Replenish. Quickly. For every minute you didn't replace, your fluids were being sucked from your pores.

And then there was the water. Coming down over my head and bleeding through my tunic and making my breasts feel alive. I must have had an expression of complete horror, followed by immense relief, as bucket after bucket was poured over my thirsting hair and skin. The regular soakers sitting around me grinned and judged as they watched me learn.

When we emerged, a Russian man urged me to try the 45 degree pool of ice water. I succumbed to peer pressure and got in line to walk in, and felt the heat being sucked from my fingers and toes. He said it was good for the joints.

We replaced our drenched tunics with fresh ones and split a large bottled beer on the unkempt roof deck above. I instantly became sleepy as my newly detoxed body embraced the torturous temperature changes. Even the slight New York breeze sweeping through the cracks of the deck didn't seem to bother me.

If you get the chance to visit a Russian or Turkish bath, I would highly recommend it...especially on Sundays when Colin Farrell is there - sweating out his weekend antics.

plum wine and raw meat

Last night was one of the most extraordinary dinner experiences of my life. It is common in this industry to have sales reps take our team out (mani/pedis, dinners, broadway shows, concerts, sports games, etc) - and last night was no different.

I chose Jewel Bako (which means "jeweled box" as the decor supports). Someone recommeneded it, in addition to being Critic's choice by the Times. The reps arrived at our offices in a limo, with bottles of Veuve Clicquot. We arrived at the restaurant on the lower east side, only to discover it's very intimate, glowing space. We were invited in, and I started to realize that maybe our group of eight (predominately fun-loving advertising women and a gay man from LA) might be a handfull for the local Manhattanites to our left and the kissing couples on our right. No matter. There was only one thing to do: slosh down 3 flutes of sparkling plum sake per course to numb the social faux pas.

There were 5 courses of raw rish. I was officially in Japan. We ordered omakase (at the suggestion of our LA friend who spent several years in Japan) and the tailored waiters brought us endless plates of raw meat to the point where I thought I might lose it entirely. My mouth was gaping when I saw the black, beady-eyed shrimp tragically looking up at me.



Big surprise, the night became even more bizarre, as do most of these drunken, dinner debacles. Someone took their fake teeth out at dinner (almost choked on the plum in my glass). We discussed the Morman religion, sexual pleasure, and how hungry dogs are.

*Verbatim quote*: "My dog is so hungry, when I unzip my pants, he thinks it's a zip-lock bag".

I'm still not sure what that means. I feel like death warmed over this morning - but I'm glad the sugar plum rush is gone.

the eastern epidemic

I'm convinced that Asian people are really tired. I live in Queens, so my commute on the subway is like a (what's the term these days?) melting pot, salad bowl, bread basket - whatever. I look around and - yeah I'm always tired...but - the majority of these Asian folk have their heads bent over like a damn corpse. I swear I saw drool dripping on a stranger's shoulder this morning. Poor guy, he was way too into that book to notice.

That's not the only strange thing I've concluded with my asinine generalizations. They really like to work out whenever possible. This could take place just about anywhere. Let's take a parking lot for instance. For the first few months here in NY, I commuted via bus to work. (yeah it sucked) Without fail, the bus would pull up to the park-and-ride and all passengers sprinted off the stinking bus (I once had an Asian chick fall asleep on me by the way - just remembered that and wasn't even planning on putting it in here - but more cause to my point). There was an old Asian woman who lived in the parking lot (my personal conclusion) and when the bus pulled up in the evenings, she was always there, swinging her arms around. Sometimes she had weights. I don't know why, but it annoyed the hell out of me. I always wanted to run up and scream "what are you doing?!". Shoulda coulda woulda.

go with the flow

Women really got the short end of the stick when it comes to bodily functions. I mean let's consider menstruation. Dude, that's messed up. Essentially, it stresses out a woman for half a month - more or less. It's really a fear factor. Which in turn, leads to a stress factor. With my rationale on stress, women are technically entitled to 2 whole weeks of irritability and mood swings. Take full advantage of this, ladies.

At one point or another in our lives, we're afraid of our periods. Afraid it will come too early ("BUT I'M GOING ON VACAAAAAY"). Afraid it will come too late (*self-explanatory*). Afraid to get it (since when were 11 year-olds admitted into the "women" bracket?). Afraid to lose it ("my biological clock is tick-tick-ticking").

**Interject fantasy story of mythical man land, where bodily functions are reversed**

"Coach, I don't think I'll be able to practice today. I'm just really tired and a little nosh."
"That time of the month, huh son?"
"Yeah, these cramps are killing me and on top of that, Veronica didn't call me back last night. I'm just fed up with these games, man."
*starts sobbing uncontrollably in front of sympathetic male onlookers in locker room*

Yeah, I think those two weeks of menstruation dedication could be the source for many predicaments the fairer sex tends to find themselves in (i.e. drunk dialing, crying in public places, letting the "crazy" out too early in the relationship, etc).

It's really unfair, and I don't want to solve it. I just want to whine about it. ...Typical...

ketchup

I've been neglecting my blog. One thing about living in NYC, is that you will never find yourself asking OTHERS if they'd like to visit. I don't mind having house-guests, but I've been neglecting myself, as a result.

Last Sunday, I dedicated a day to restoring my soul. I was just finishing my all-time favorite book ("The Picture of Dorian Gray" - by the wonderfully witty, Oscar Wilde) for the fifth or sixth time. This book explores how a person's soul is affected by the choices they make in life and the good or evil things they do. In short, a British artist paints a picture of a narcissistic young man who secretly makes a wish to remain beautiful forever, with the painting aging instead.

As you might expect, the narcissist evolves from a naive, doe-eyed boy, to a prisoner of his own self-destructive immortality. The ending is really spectacular and the book is horrifying and brilliant from start to finish - Wilde being a mastermind at developing characters, and cleverly piecing together thoughts and words.

This led me to question myself. If your soul had a face, what would you see? Though I won't go into detail of my own personal conclusions, I think it is worth bringing up for the sake of anyone who hasn't recently taken a look at their inner reflection.

So last Sunday, for my own personal satisfaction and validation of the idealistic good I proclaim, I took a day for invigorating my soul. I did this with three of the only ways I know how: endorphins, books, and church. This may seem simplistic to some, but it was effective. I ran through Central Park. And when I was weary, I climbed up a curving, green hill and absorbed the sun. I found a church, and I went. Faith and hope being one of the predominate sources of my inner strength, in addition to my naturally undying optimism. And finally, I spent an hour or so, perusing through the bookstore - turning pages and fondling raised titles. I found a new book and I went home and filled my head with as many words as I could until my heavy eyes fell.

my favorite accessory

Have you ever done something common, alone? It's one of the most liberating feelings in the world. I'm talking about something you might usually do with friends. Seeing a movie at the theater. Going out to eat. To a park. The mall. Church. Moving to another state.

It simultaneously induces fear, independence, and a sense of abnormality. It's going up and down, without the uppers and downers. You can't buy that kind of drug cocktail at a frat party.

I remember girls in high school and incredibly, college - whose shreds of remaining self-confidence, wouldn't allow them to go to the bathroom without another person. While we chose our evening apparel (with each other's approval) and painted on our make-up, we were dialing our cells to assure that everyone would arrive to the party on time. It would be a complete disaster if one of us showed up before the other. Girls couldn't arrive at a party alone. It instilled a most primal fear in the shallow pools of their hearts. God.for.bid.

I had the sweetest girls stay with me this weekend - my cousin and her three girlfriends (all sophomores at CofC). And they said to me:

"You are so mature. Were you this mature when you were our age?".

And I laughed, partly so I wouldn't cry that college sophomores were referring to me as being infinitely older.

But it isn't my maturity, so much as confidence, that they were noticing. Why are young women in today's society so void of this attribute? I could start a laundry list of cliche reasons: the media, lack of parental guidance, etc etc. It makes me very sad to see that (especially Southern) young women tend to fall into a sort of naive, spiritless existence.

Confidence is rarely inherent. You have to find it, mold it, substantiate it. From my personal experience, this is (in part) achieved by doing things by yourself. It's okay to be the lone person sitting in the window at Chipotle, looking out at the passing crowds. And when you walk out of that door, full and content, knowing that you've done something that SOME people are actually afraid to do, you will find your confidence meter twitching.

Who knows - you might even have a Mary-Tyler-Moore moment.

And that feeling is just great.

do you like what you do?

Probably not. I'm not going to lie, I've become calloused and cynical in the last six months towards the advertising industry in general. This may be hard to believe, but I CHOSE to be in this industry! I was an Advertising major/Business minor and not some cop out Communications failure who fell into the Ad pit. Looking back, I can't completely beat myself up over this, since there are more ridiculous things I could have done - like getting a pointless masters in "Advertising", but damn - I am starting to feel like a HACK.

When I was growing up, I took art lessons, piano lessons, horseback riding lessons and stole my parent's old-school video camera to film/direct countless movies and commercials of my sisters and friends. I wanted to be in Advertising because it combined two of my favorite things: shopping and creativity. Naturally, the creative side of this industry is competitive, and honestly, I would have probably felt like an even bigger hack, had I gone this route. There's my consolation.

Having your ass kissed gets old. And now I'm finding that all I want to do is write, paint, create, destroy, photograph, sing, film, act, scream, dance, laugh, and lie in the clouds and drink Bellini's all day. Yeah... I think that's what I'll do.

the most recent soundtrack to my life

indie lullabies for grownups...i fall asleep to it at night



if nothing else:

a) moldy peaches - anyone else but you
b) cat powers - sea of love

you want more fans, i want more stage