CheapThrills

Girl Date

  

My first night in Chicago, I rolled 2 suitcases into an empty apartment that was somehow “mine” and promptly freaked out.  I couldn’t stay there alone, on a sofa I’d just bought off a stranger (the only piece of furniture in the apartment at the time). So I ran to a friend’s house – a girl from Boston who came to Chicago for a 2-month project – and crashed on her couch for the rest of the week. At that point, she was my only friend in the city.

When she left, though, I was on my own to meet people. And can I just say, traditional ways of “making friends” (especially girlfriends) is WAY harder than you’d expect. It sucks. Bad. It sucks so bad that I’m going to write a whole separate post about it sometime.

That’s why last week I asked out my waitress. I was at a bar feeling pretty outgoing after a few too many Bombay-and-Tonics. She was serving my table trying to get us extra food and drink deals. She mentioned she just moved from Brooklyn and had a thing for dead birds… and I was sold. A girl at my table and I asked her out on a “friendship date” – just 3 East Coast gals on the town! - and the coolest part about it was that she didn’t find the proposition weird at all. She seemed flattered, in fact. We exchanged numbers, a few fun-loving texts, and next thing I knew I had plans for the following Tuesday.

What an awesome time we had.

If you’re a young woman living in a new city, I highly recommend this mode of meeting new people. Making girlfriends is so hard because – it seems to me – women are far less likely to put themselves out there for other women. We chitchat and exchange numbers and go out on dates with guys, but we don’t put that same energy towards making girlfriends… which is infinitely more important than wasting time worrying about guys who turn out to be pathological liars or self-obsessed sommeliers or – God forbid – BOTH (that actually happened, thankfully not to me). Forget that. Right now, I'd much rather enjoy an al fresco brunch and people watch with a gal pal.

Happy Friday

Spinal.

Brooklyn, we go Mars

Anyone else noticing how the late 80's/early '90's are making a comeback? Just yesterday, I found myself rockin' out to Written All Over Your Face by Rude Boys (what happened to those guys??). Then I went and downloaded some Guy, some Take 6, then some Pharcyde.

And today a friend sent me a link to this Nike site, Become Mars. Apparently they're bringing back the '88 Air Jordans, complete with vintage spokesperson Mars Blackmon. Go check it out when you get some down time... though it's another "Insert Your Face Here" app, the templates are hilarious and silly in that classic late '80's/early '90's sort of way (they also allow me to channel my inner Rosario Dawson). 

Dave Chappelle is a funny, funny dude

I caught Dave Chappelle's 2007 stand-up act Killing Them Softly on Comedy Central over the weekend. For all the feigned LOLs in this world, it's seldom that you actually "laugh out loud" - especially when you're alone. But this part did it for me.

My New Year’s resolution…

...is to stop being a social media hermit.

So I deactivated my Facebook about 10 months ago because it worsened all the already painful problems in my life. Kinda like putting a magnifying glass to an ant on a sunny day.

Then I stopped blogging. I don’t know why. A friend of mine once warned me to NEVER blog about how you don’t blog enough, but I’m doing it anyway. Because it’s actually hilarious, when you don’t keep up your blog it becomes the spawning ground for spam comments (who knew?!). Comments used to give me a thrill. But then I wrote this one really upsetting post awhile ago in which I basically just sobbed all over the internets, and the first comment I got was from Viagra Online. That really messed me up. Now I get comments DAILY from oh, I dunno, maybe “Free Cambodian Dating”? Or, better yet, just plain 'ol “Boobs”? It just feels so violating, like someone spray-painting your baby’s face.

Then I tried to replace blogging and Facebooking with Twittering. It didn’t work. I’m going to say something now, something that may shock and offend. Twitter sucks. It’s boring and stupid. I have an account, I guess I’m pretty active on it or whatever, but it’s useless. If I’m going to blog, I’ll blog. If I’m going to write status updates with links for my friends, I’ll do that on Facebook (or even AIM for that matter). Twitter just adds nothing. I got jazzed about Twitter exactly once, and that was when Robert DeNiro responded to one of my tweets. But then it turned out it wasn’t the real Bobby. Of course it wasn’t. Freakin’ Twitter.

So here’s the part where I admit some hard truths. Here we go:

I get lonely without social media. And not just any social media. MY social media. Twitter never felt like mine, but rather a hodgepodge of many people’s one-liners. Flickr was never mine either—I don’t want my photos searchable on Google Images. LinkedIn has always been fine, but that’s my WORK place, ya know?

I miss blogging. But when you stop, it’s really hard to start again. It’s like, if you haven’t written in awhile you feel like your next post has to be THE BEST. And then you get freaked, because you have no ideas that can live up to that. And then you feel like you just have no ideas AT ALL. I guess that’s called writer’s block, or blogger’s block, or something.

And, yes, I miss Facebook (picture me cringing as I write this next bit, ok?). The truth is, I’m severely saddened that no one knows my favorite movies anymore. Or my favorite quotes. They’ve changed in the last 10 months, and no one knows because I don’t have a stupid Facebook account. Also, I so much miss exclaiming “new profile pic!” after a fun night out. And speaking of photos, my new ones have no home without Facebook. They sit in iPhotos, all lonely and lifeless with no comments or thumbs up. Poor photos. Maybe it's juvenile, but it’s almost like deactivating one’s Facebook profile disappears a huge chunk of one’s social life.

So I’m going to start blogging more. About whatever. Even if I have no ideas, I’ll just write about Tiger Woods or something.

I’m also going to reactivate my Facebook account sometime soon. It’s so scary, because I deactivated during one of the hardest times of my life. So my profile is like a time capsule of crap-land. But I gotta get over it. Not to say I’ll never deactivate again (I most certainly will if I feel the need), but I think now it’s about time I reentered the social media world. Because these late-night convos with my plant (it’s a her and she has a name and she’s brilliant) are getting pathological.

With Michael Jackson's death, so too ends my childhood

My mom made me take dance lessons from the ages of 2 to 15. I started actually enjoying them in 1991, the year Michael Jackson's Dangerous album came out. I was 8, taking Jazz and Tap classes at the Wissahickon Dance Academy in Philadelphia.

I knew lots of people in the classes at Wissahickon. My mom took adult Jazz lessons with the other “old ladies,” as she put it. My best friend took intermediate Jazz with me (even though she had two left feet). And so did my ultimate frenemy from school, S.

S and I had a very peculiar breed of friendship – one based on competition and jealously. I’d buy MC Hammer pants, and she’d have to get a more expensive pair. If she wore a brand new Cross Colors outfit to school, I had to outdo her with an even hipper ensemble. And when it came to boys, there was only one guy for us. His name was Ian and he was the cutest boy in 2nd grade – and maybe even all of Greene Street Friends School. So and I raced during recess – to the gate and back – and whichever girl won “got to be his girlfriend.” I had long, gawky limbs, which came in handy: I dusted her.

When it came time for the Wissahickon Dance Academy recital, our amazing Jazz teacher Leon had a vision: Good vs. Evil. The entire Jazz company danced in vignettes to two songs: The Pressure by Sounds of Blackness and Will You Be There by Michael Jackson. In our dance to first song, “Evil” kills “Good” and the world is a mess. Leon, perceptive as he was, cast S and I as leaders of two warring gangs (think Beat It, except swap the actual gang members for 8-year old Quaker School girls). In the second song, “Good” resurrects herself and shows “Evil” that he too has love inside of him (in the form of a skin tight white unitard).

I keep coming back to the final portion of the dance.

Evil is now wearing that white unitard, and he’s realizing his power for good. He’s doing these incredible leaps and spins across the stage, as the rest of the company configures behind him in a diamond shape. We’re actually all wearing white unitards, marching and doing simple hand movements in unison.

When I watch the VHS tape of the performance, I can always pick out my mom because her arms are 10X longer than everyone else’s. And I can always see my best friend, because she’s a few beats behind everyone else. And S, my frenemy, she’s easy to spot, because she's dancing right next to me.

And then there’s the presence of my childhood. That’s easy to find too. It’s spoken by Michael Jackson:

In Our Darkest Hour
In My Deepest Despair
Will You Still Care?
Will You Be There?

In My Trials
And My Tribulations
Through Our Doubts
And Frustrations
In My Violence
In My Turbulence
Through My Fear
And My Confessions
In My Anguish And My Pain
Through My Joy And My Sorrow
In The Promise Of Another Tomorrow

I'll Never Let You Part
For You're Always
In My Heart.

With MJ’s last words, the song ends. We configure in our final pose, and bow our heads.

I'm now 26. I have a “real” job, a couple bank accounts, a heart that knows how to ache, stress-related muscle spasms in my shoulders, and beer in my fridge. My mom is older. My best friend is married. My frenemy's father recently died. And now, so too has Michael Jackson.

We configure in our final pose, and bow our heads. Childhood is over. But never forgotten.

CONTEST! Tell me a memory, win a fab skin care product

Update: Contest Closed! Stay tuned: I'll announce the winner on Tuesday, June 30th

I think when people look in the mirror, they’re searching for memories. They want to see in their reflection something that makes them feel radiant – whether it’s a memory that makes them smile, smirk, giggle, maybe even blush.

So when the folks at Perricone asked me to host a contest for a bottle of one of their best-selling anti-aging skin care products, Advanced Face Firming Activator, I knew immediately how I’d judge it. Especially after reading this bit from the product description: it will “…reveal a radiant and healthy complexion”.

Here’s the deal:

1. In a comment on this post or in an email to me, tell me a memory that makes your heart race, your face glow, and your eyes light up.
2. I’ll read them all and select a winner (and commenters, feel free to weigh in on your favs as well).
3. Winner will receive a bottle of Perricone’s Advanced Face Firming Activator – worth 120 bucks!

*The contest will end Friday, June 26. And the winner must live in the U.S (for shipping purposes).

Product Details:
Advanced Face Firming Activator
Corrects imperfections for smooth, youthful, radiant skin
With Alpha Lipoic Acid and DMAE
59mL / 2 fl oz

And a user review (because that’s all we trust on the interwebs, right?):
“I use this product every day and I think its amazing for all ages. Ive noticed a difference in [the] brightness of my eyes.”

For the sake of transparency, I haven’t yet tried the product. So if you win, send me a review and I’ll post it to this blog as well.

Can’t wait to read your memories!

(This is my memory. When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with The Wizard Of Oz. So when I was 5 or 6, my mom dressed me up as Dorothy - though Dorothy didn't have a wand... or crown... but whatevs - and we went to a Wizard Of Oz parade in Springfield, Mass.
- sidenote: who knew Wizard Of Oz parades even existed? Such a specific cause for celebration, right? -

Anyway, that day I just knew that I met the REAL Dorothy, Scarecrow, Lion, and the positively dreamy Tin Man... I was in love with the Tin Man and his little funnel cap. Well, they seemed like the real deal to me at the time. So I glowed for weeks and weeks after that. My mom always did have a knack for making my dreams come true.)

Pain = Art?

I was watching the So You Think You Can Dance auditions yesterday, and a girl auditioned whose father had recently taken his own life. Obviously, she was heartbroken, but the affects weren’t apparent. She said she could state the facts – mainly, that it had all happened, but beyond she couldn’t really talk about it. However, she could dance about it. And it’s strange – from the smooth pirouettes to the jerky head bobs, her pain was completely palpable in each step she took.

She was brilliant.

They say when you’re feeling pain, you should turn it into art. They say pain makes for best kind of art. Or something.

I guess I fancy myself an artist. But the awful pain I’ve been feeling has completely stifled my art. My writing. I feel that my fingertips are friends with neither my thoughts nor my keyboard. They’re not even friends with my pens. In fact, they cut off all the terrifically terrible thoughts that circulate through my head every single night before I sleep and every single morning before I wake. I want to write it all down, but my finger say no. They break the story – stop it before it can make it to the page.

So what’s a writer to do?

Because now I’m just stuck with the pain in my head and my heart and my stomach... and anywhere else one can feel anything. The pain's got nowhere to go but in. Like it's being driven in deeper by a knife wielded by an eager and angry hand.

So perhaps what they mean when they say turn pain into art is to escape that mean hand and let yourself bleed all over the page. Maybe that’s the aim of my So You Can Think You Can Dance friend, who will open herself up on a stage in front of millions.

But what does that mean for me? I can cry and cry, but those are just tears. Not blood. I know I can’t bleed here, on my blog. I’m somehow guarded here, you know? Maybe my next step is to go ahead and let my words splatter out that deep wound, soaking a larger canvas.

An article? A short story? I’m not sure. But I know that pretending my hurt doesn’t hurt won’t work for too much longer. Something’s gotta give. Artistically, of course.

Flashback: New Years 2007

I’m an extremely nostalgic person. What does that mean, you wonder? Like, for example, you know those movies that portray a progression of time, and then at the end flash back to when things were good and everyone was happy? (like Brokeback Mountain, for example). Those movies KILL me. Like, rip me apart.

But anyway, I got myself into this really nostalgic mood today. A nostalgia-tizzy, if you will. It ended with me looking through the first blog I ever kept, on another Six Apart platform called Vox.  I noticed so many curious things... My writing style was SO different. All my posts were so personal. I couldn’t really believe it.

Then I found a post from almost 2.5 years ago, which made me feel even more nostalgic. But in a good way. I wanted to share it here with you, as kind of an ode to friendship. Because – and it has become increasingly clear with every day that passes – without my friends, I’d be completely lost. I'd be a totally different person.

In any case, here's the post.
Dated January 2, 2007

____________

I believe that life is based by and large on luck.  Sure, we've got some say in how everything turns out, but you'd be surprised how much of your life is really dictated by the randomness of the universe.  Your freshman roommate, summer reading list, crappy 4th grade teacher, parents... all these key factors in life come to you by chance.

Most people believe that great friendships spring from college dorms, but with luck on my side my soul mates came to me much sooner.  They all showed up somewhere between 7th and 8th grade at a Quaker friends school in Pennsylvania.  As time has progressed... through semesters abroad in Senegal or Barcelona, years spent in Japan, messy hook-ups and break-ups, jealousy... we've managed to become closer over the years.  Imagine that.  And here's why:

My friends don't give a damn.

They are the funniest people I've ever met.  Here's a few tidbits from the archives:

• At a talent show our senior year, my four closest friends and I sang an a capella rendition of "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair."  In the middle of it, my friend L stopped singing and hollered "POOP!" and then we all ran off the stage.  No one really laughed or even clapped for us, but that just made it funnier.
• My friends L, J, and I came home early from school one day to "record our tracks."  We sat in front of my Super Woofer boom box, and then and there L and I created the worst freestyle hip-hop tape of all time.  We called it The Cup and here's a line from it:  "I get my candy from Willy Wonky, my ass is a donkey."
• The nicest thing my friend C ever did for L:  Drive her crappy 1988 Honda Accord (which L named Sheila) in a blizzard so that L could stick her naked butt out the window.  As L put it, it was "the most refreshing feeling" she'd ever experienced.

The most recent stunt occurred 2 days ago as we rang in 2007 in NYC.  Everyone primped and primed and greased up to fit into mini-outfits.  We all emerged to take on the town smelling great and feeling even better.  And J - the person who's laugh makes me convulse with giggles - claimed his outfit was by far the most stunning.

I am so lucky to have a friend so wise, so manly, so secure that he revels in the opportunity to wear a dog suit through New York on New Year's Eve.   And even luckier to have a group of friends who encourage such unabashed personality.

Cheers to a New Year!

____________

Oh boy. 2007. So long ago. So much has changed. So many things are different. But one thing has remained the same: when it comes to my friends, remembering our shenanigans will always bring a smile to my face.

So I guess some nostalgia doesn’t kill me. Sometimes a “flashback scene” has the power to remind me how awesome life can be when I find myself forgetting.

I broke up with Facebook

As if going through a break-up isn’t hard enough, now we have to experience it all double-time online.

When I got defriended by him, my heart sank. And then, when his relationship status changed from “In A Relationship” to “Single”, something inside of me died. Just a couple clicks of the mouse, a few taps of the ‘ol keypad, and suddenly…  1) My life has been “redefined” and 2) Everyone knows about it. Which is silly, right? It’s all “virtual”, right? I mean really, such weight we put on the little broken heart icon Facebook uses to symbolize a broken relationship.

But see, the problem is, that stupid icon gets broadcasted to everyone—and, in the end, this ridiculous piece of crap broken heart icon is the thing that sums up the 4.5 years you’ve spent giving your actual heart to the person you’ve loved all these years.

I just could not do it. I could not allow an icon define all the complexities of my botched relationship. It felt so petty somehow. So, instead of following suit and letting all of my acquaintances, co-workers, friends-of-friends, middle-school classmates, etc. in on my excruciating break-up, I called it quits.

I deactivated my account. 

I think it’s better this way. Judging from the amount of time I spent/wasted on the site – not to mention the eminent harmful ramifications of one click, one “new life” picture uploaded, one drunken wall message posted – I think it’s safe to say the relationship became unhealthy.

Maybe we can work it out. Maybe with distance will come understanding. Or acceptance. But, for now, I can’t feel anything past the twists in my stomach. So, for now, Facebook will have to remain something everyone else is raving about. A little bit like love, I guess.

Mad Men's Joan Holloway: Jessica Rabbit reincarnate?

Oh, Joan Holloway. Clearly everyone’s attracted to you. Even straight women. Even me. And I think I’ve discovered the reason why. You are the character who shaped my youth. The one whose super-slitted red dress I’d always try to find for my dress-up bin. The one whose pursing lips and smoky voice I’d impersonate with my friends. The one whose sashaying, high-heeled walk I’d imitate down the halls of my apartment.

You are Jessica Rabbit.

Obviously, Who Framed Roger Rabbit's Jessica Rabbit oozed sex. But not in a vapid, Playboy Bunny sort of way. There was always something more to her. Something captivating and calculating and titillating and tragic all at the same time. Let’s look at some of those Jessica/Joan similarities that push the characters into the realm of the untouchable ultra-babe.

1. The feminine figure. Men do it all the time. They embrace their masculinity at the workplace as a source of power—whether it’s in a meeting or on a conference call. Women, on the other hand, cover up  their natural feminine qualities with hunched shoulders and pipsqueak-ed voices. Joan and Jessica? No way. They push femininity to its peak by accentuating the attributes many women try to hide. They walk chest first. They talk in their natural low, raspy voice. While most women (myself included) try on an outfit and then ask whether or not it makes their boobs/butt look too big, Jessica and Joan wonder if it makes their curves look too small - and if so, out the window the outfit goes! 
2. The know-how. From the real world to Toon Town, Jessica Rabbit could play the game better than anyone else. She held all the keys, she knew all the answers—effectively, Jessica was the center of the action… all masked in a sly side-smirk and a sleepy gaze. Similarly, Joan rules Sterling Cooper. Without her, the whole operation would fall apart. And even when she's tasked to help out in the T.V. department, she's, as Boston.com points out, a natural. And not because she's playing by the "male" rules. But rather, because she creates her own.
3. The vamp red. It takes a lot of chutzpa to full-on rock out with your red out, because peeps LOVE to hate on redheads. There's even a term for it: Gingerism. How do Joan and Jessica respond to this? Red hair. Red lipstick. Red dress. Red shoes. Red cheeks. Red, red, red. In your face haters!
4. The dudes. What do I love most about these two? They don’t swoon for the typical hearththrobs. Joan behind-the-scenes dated a few of the Sterling Cooper guys, but she’s never so much as winked at hunk-of-the-office Don Draper. And as for Jessica… well she baked carrot cakes for hubby Roger Rabbit. ‘Nuff said.

Related:

What Would Joan Holloway Do?

MSNBC: Men Rule - At Least, in the Workplace

iVillage: How to dress sexy without looking slutty

That time I was on The Price is Right

Don’t believe Tony! Toni! Tone! for a second. It definitely rains in Southern California. And it was on one  particularly flood-watered January day that my BF and I found ourselves on the CBS lot for a Price is Right taping. Because really, what else is there to do in LA when the sun's hiding?

After waiting around for a couple hours with some insane Price is Right fans (you know, those weird matching T-shirt peeps, or worse yet, the older people with “I Love Bob Barker” face-painted to their cheeks), we finally got lined up to enter the studio. On the way in, a few producers took groups of 20 for quick interviews.

I basically acted like a lunatic during that interview. Somehow, I knew that would get me called down.

And then the luck just kept rollin’ my way. Which I found infinitely hilarious.

Most random showcase EVER. Seriously... a saxophone? What would you have bid on all this?

Grand finale, complete with Grandmommy shout out. She watched the show every day of her adult life.

And there you have it. Feel free to make fun… I know I looked psychotic. Happy Friday!

Cute boys, the boring lives of 12 year-olds and Barack Obama

With all the “That boy is sooooo fine!” “I’m going to sneak behind my mom’s back and start shaving my legs” “I can’t believe my best friend is going to try smoking… now I have to try too” “I think Bobby brushed my hand in Meeting For Worship (Quaker School, gotta love it) moments, being 12 was internally both exciting and excruciating.

But outwardly, it was boring as hell. Couldn’t date, couldn’t drive, couldn’t see any good movies, couldn’t party. The best option was to walk around the neighborhood (or, on your lucky days, the mall) and semi-flirt with Starter jacket clad boys / talk about the things you wish you could be doing if you were allowed.

And of course, there was always the option of sitting on the floor in a bookstore, drinking Café au Laits and riffling through magazines... which is what I did practically every weekend with my best friend in the whole world (who I just found out is moving to Ghana!!!).

We’d always go for the Big Three: Bop, Tiger Beat (which now appear to be one in the same) and the (apparently now defunct) Big Bopper. We’d spend hours crouched in the brand new Borders at the top of Philly’s Chestnut Hill, searching for posters of our favorite guys. Both of our bedrooms were wallpapered, floor to ceiling, with these touched up glamour shots – I even had my walls sectioned according to the crush.

I also kept a scrapbook, entitled (fittingly) The Cutest MEN of 1994. It housed all the greats of my time: Matthew Lawrence, Mike Vitar, Gabriel Damon, Luke Perry, Boyz 2 Men and my mega-crush, the late Jonathan Brandis - who actually signed my scrapbook after I stood in line for hours to meet him at the Philadelphia Car Show (I had the image to the right plastered on my wall for years... sigh).

Anyway, this Tiger Beat cover shown below is from ages ago, I know, but that doesn’t really matter for the purposes of this post because I’m still thinking about it. The whole thing is hilarious, no question, but isn’t it also borderline inappropriate for a teen (really PREteen) rag to feature a 47-year old man? With a caption placing him in his shower? NAKED? And the promise of MORE PERSONAL facts?

It’s too easy to imagine myself meticulously cutting out Obama smiling faces from magazines, taping them into my scrapbook and scribbling the caption “Obama is SO fine!” in purple marker next to each one. Because, for realz, that Giant Obama Poster would have definitely made it to the wall. Which is ridiculously ridiculous and just a tad terrifying.

Related:
The Black Snob
The Onion