Tales from my Inbox: Correspondences related to the Restless Leg Committee Spring Fling Benefit

Girl (sent at 10:16 a.m.)

Dear RLS Committee,

I am rather in agreement that the 3 of you leaving your jobs at the same time is a "visual impairment to the halls of New York's top firms". I sadly must remain lest those top firms become devoid of such a nice rack.


In all seriousness, however....I expect to be utterly WOWED by the invite, however you choose to compose it and whichever theme strikes your fancy. My guest list SO FAR (as i expect Miffy's to include all our mutual friends) is as follows:

xx von yy

xx al- xx

et al.

ps I’m left the last 3 slots open for whomever I’m dating at the time of the event.


Bop: (sent at 10:54 a.m.)

Dear Girl,

Please resend your list in English. I can't cope with names that don't end in numerals.



Girl: (sent at 11:06 a.m.)

Dearest Bop,

It sincerely troubles me that you aren't aware of the chicest possible addition to our guest list: oil barons? I trust you may suitably take care of the Tillbot Winston the 6ths.



Token Guy: (sent at 11:08 a.m.)


I do suppose we do need to have a few people at the party who might have something besides great aunt Kiki’s spare china set to donate to Restless Leg.


Miffy: (sent at 11:17 a.m.)


I Concur, though Girl, you may need 5 extra spots for dates. I myself can only handle 2 Tilbot’s during a given hour.



Bop: (sent at 11:30)

Touche. I will see what Tillbot is doing that weekend regardless.

Parenting 101

I find that a significant portion of my days are spent waiting for the elevator; waiting to take a meeting on another floor, going down to Starbucks, grabbing some midday sunshine or a much needed cigarette. Thankfully, my company anticipates our collective boredom and provides reading fodder for the wait. There are sign up sheets for the corporate challenge, booklets on the Tribeca film festival, and anything else that we can direct our focus toward instead of deigning to make conversation with our horrifically boring colleagues.

This week, a flier caught my eye: an Agenda for the Parenting 101-103 Seminar Series. I picked it up.

Scanning the list, I couldn't help pondering what my mother would think of these classes, and this time (unlike countless others) I couldn't silence her hilariously requisite disgust of anything too studied, too complex....too (dare I say it?) serious.

Herewith, the original curriculum coupled with her imagined retorts (a curriculum in and of itself that I strongly suggest {company name redacted} adopt as their own. She did, for all intents and purposes, create me).

Parenting 101-103

Class 1: Confidence, Intuition, and Decision Making

Or, coming to terms with the fact that Dad's decisions trump Mom's.

Class 2: Creating Work/Life Balance

Class 2: Dad works, Mom handles the Life. The rest of you are shit out of luck.

Class 3: Sleep!

Class 3: Get Some!

Class 4: Socializing: Playgroups, Activities, Stimulation

Class 4: Have lots of kids, give them bikes/tennis rackets/ pool memberships, the rest will take care of itself.

Class 5: Nutrition: Easy Food Rules

Class 5: I don't care if Lisa's mom lets them eat Oreo's, you're eating Salmon like a civilized person.

Class 6: Spotlight on the "Terrible Twos"

Class 6: The Death Stare, how to inspire fear in your 2 year old.

Class 7: Care giving: Nanny Issues

Class 7: Just make sure she's legal.



Though naturally, these could all be condensed into a singular session of Parenting 100:

How not to be Billy Ray Cyrus.

Conversations with my beloved guy friends- part II

Guy: So, I'm seeing someone!

Girl: You mean the girlfriend who lives in your apartment, with you?!

Guy: No, not her, she's still there. A new one... She's great!

Don't Believe the Hype

Hey there little Judy,

How did you like ‘Take Your Daughter to Work Day? What? It's take your Child to work day? Thats ridiculous, men don't have to be convinced to go to work, they don't have any other choice! Haha i know, sucks to be them, right? Anyhoo , Daddy took you to his very important office with very important ID cards didn't he now?

I bet you rode on an elevator with the TV inside which was so cool! It was like a spaceship, right? And then you saw all the people he spends time with when he’s not going to your ballet recitals. Were they nice? Most of them don't have hair, and the ones that do talk too loud. Some of the ladies have candy on their desks, but then they expect you to talk to them like all the time. I hope you stayed away from the bad candy people, Judy.

What next? Did he have pictures of mommy in his cube? He usually keeps those in the drawer where his assistant can’t see them….what did you ask?...why would he hide mommy?... no sweetie, of course they still love you- they just don’t really love each other anymore! That’s why they sleep in separate bedrooms. Anyway, I’m just kidding about the pictures, mmkay? Here, have a cookie I scavenged from the conference room. That meeting was over like 4 hours ago anyway.

So Daddy gets to leave the office at noon everyday? That’s so cool, where? Oh, just to the cafeteria?! That's okay too. Were the lines long? They’re always a mile long in my super sweet subsidized cafeteria!

Did he get that mediocre sushi that he’s utterly sick of and pays out the ass for before returning to his desk and fighting back tears to keep his eyes open through the remainder of the day? I do that too!

What did you do next? Did you ride the train with all the crackheads and numerous other suited up wierdos? I know- that’s totally the best part of my day! Did you fight back touching any of them so that when the train car jolts, you made sure not to contract AIDS?!? That’s an important part of the journey. Weeeeeeeeeee work is fun!”

Sign you up, right? Tennis games and sit down lunches are for wimps, Judy.

This sounds SO much better than being a trophy wife.

If Gordon Gekko were around today he'd be on the cover of VF preaching "Green is Good"

This whole going green thing is getting a little out of control. I'm not saying global warming isn't a "real" phenomenon and that I shouldn't be separating the Grey Goose bottles from the old issues of Vogue that comprise the bulk of my trash, but all this other stuff is driving me batty.

Consider energy saving toilets; if I wanted a toilet that couldn't handle the "detrimental" effects of toilet paper, I'd move to Europe where all the toilets are unintentionally this fucking weak and probably a lot cheaper to boot. "Organic cotton underwear" is another one- I quite like underwear that is spun from years of one Nepalese caterpillar's hard labour- it gives me the extra oomph i need to get through the day. And I can't even get really started on sustainable lightbulbs- mostly because I don't change them, the doorman does. And something tells me that despite the ever resplendent smile he's got on, he couldn't care less if the world were going to hell in a hand basket.

Given how outrageous the demands of this whole eco-sustaining organix purification of a mess we've gotten ourselves into, I really shouldn't be surprised then when the demands to go green become increasingly ridiculous. But lo, they have.

From this morning's Shopbop, (a luxury fashion website I bought a singular pair of shoes from, that now spams my inbox on an hourly basis) we get the latest in Declarations of Green: A lookbook of styles that I wouldn't wear at the threat of going naked. Drapey dresses paired with dirty converse, headbands worn across the forehead hippy style, shorts paired with ratty tanktops and vests of varying colors and homogenously hideous fit. It was as though someone rounded up all the dirty looking girls on the lower east side and promised them a line of coke if they could just sit still long enough for the molestor behind the lens to take their photo.

As if the visual onslaught didn't suffice, ShopBop introduces their green store as follows, heralding the likes of "This season's designers who used their creative powers to ease the burden on Mother Earth, bringing us sustainable styles with a couture sensibility and artsy totes that make plastic totes looks positively passe."

All I have to say is, thank you fashion gods, for smiling with such sweetness upon your clueless children, forcing the hobo sensibility down my fucking throat in your effort to capitalize on the whole green trend.

I really don't have many important things to think about on a Monday morning, except for perhaps retaining my clients, but lets be honest, thats not important. Not as important anyway as my buying your "organic cotton" 90 dollar t-shirt that provides about as much coverage as a Hanes undershirt after being taken to with a hose (Guys love boobs anyway! It's a net net win).

Furthermore, I am forever indebted to you for telling me how passe grocery bags are!! I always knew that guy at the supermarket who just automatically assumes I want plastic (even though i like totally would have asked for paper!) was trying to ruin my look. I think an artsy tote would set off my french cuff shirts and pencil skirts rather nicely anyway.

Anyway in short, thanks for saving me from being such a has been. And thanks to all companies that unleash these hideous goods onto the marketplace so that I, ever the "responsible" yuppy, may be forced to consume them.

I hate you all.

Psuedo Pompous Musings

From the esteemed Bop (of Musings on Wasp Parents I notoriety), in response to a query on whether the turtlenecks and J Crew crewnecks of our youth would pass on the inimitable streets of New York:

"Darling, a crewneck sweater from JCrew is a J Crewneck. Double use of crew in one sentence..tsk."

Indeed, Bop. Indeed.

Talk to me Big Guy

Apparently financial analysts at Credit Suisse are good for something more than holding your place in line at Shake Shack. Keith Signer, one such analyst, chose to conduct research on obesity and fast food restaurants by only patronizing fast food chains for the month of April. He is setting out to prove that the stuff doesn’t really have an adverse effect on cholesterol and weight (What would he do if he were covering Phillip Morris?) . Anyway, his daily menu, as quoted by the Post, is as follows:

“Egg McMuffin, no cheese, no margarine; small OJ; half of Domino's hand-tossed pizza with red peppers; 20 oz. Coke; McDonald's southwest chicken salad, lite sesame ginger dressing and an apple pie.”

Major kudos to Keith for trying to garner familiarity with the companies he covers but guy, give me a break. A few points, if I may:

1. If I ate salad for dinner every night (instead of the bloody steaks and 8 bourbons that comprise my typical menu) I’d have Heidi Klum’s body and Lance Armstrong’s lung capacity. That's like me committing to smoking cigarettes in an effort to prove that it doesn't cause lung cancer but oops, I don't inhale.

2. An egg mcmuffin with no cheese or margarine? How does one remove margarine from a pre-packaged sandwich that has traveled cross country in the back of a frozen truck? I’m calling your bluff.

3. How does your girlfriend like eating in restaurants where the chairs are attached to the table? Poor thing is probably counting down the days until her May 1st trip to Balthazar (you have booked that already, right? Right??)

Seriously Keith, I have questions, you’ve got answers. Show me what you’re working with.

Gift Giving Guides for Men- Just in time for the Pre- pre- pre Christmas Season

The other day I recalled an experience taking a friend’s now ex-boyfriend shopping for her Christmas gift. After 4 hours spent exploring every inch of Saks, we’d mutually decided on a pint-sized Prada bag. It was small enough that the price tag wasn’t gasp worthy (for him), but appropriately Label-y to make her gasp (in more ways than one). In other words, it both fulfilled the needs of the giver and the recipient; It was, in all respects, the perfect gift.

“Whatever happened to that bag anyway?” I asked her.

“Oh that? I use it to carry old makeup now,” she replied in a fit of laughter.

“Ha! I thought his slash our taste was pretty nice!” I shot back. “Given after spending a whole day with him I was so frustrated I would have let him buy you a pair of Top Siders… but that’s besides the point.”

This quickly had us recalling all of the “tokens of affection” exchanged between them. First there was the “Please sleep with me” watch, followed by the “no really I meant it, its been 4 months you evil cipher- PLEASE SLEEP WITH ME” handbag. Then there was the “sleep with me in miami?” tickets to miami, followed by the “hey baby lets check out the rooms at the hudson” tickets to new york (note: the fact that the rooms are so small that the shower is essentially IN the bed are either a pro or con, we haven’t decided yet). This was obviously a guy whose generosity knew no bounds when it came to ensuring consistent lerrrrve.

This had me thinking about the last few gifts I’d received from the opposite sex. I must say that I felt rather odd admitting that the majority of them were all books, not because its not my favorite gift to receive (which it is) but because of the blank stares I get when I tell my girlfriends as much. Where was my “fuck me” watch? Because I’d totally lost that one my parents gave me for graduation and could have really used a new one at any rate.

“Oh honey,” my friend assured me “that means they see you as smart! That’s a good thing.”

It then being unanimously agreed that a book didn’t necessarily say “let’s get it on,” the question of what it did say got us thinking. Thankfully, Stuff White People Like sensed my anguish and recently posited rather brilliantly that:

“The ability to entirely craft the literary tastes of your partner is highly desirable as it reinforces your own impeccable taste and allows you to play a literary version of Henry Higgins.”

While I’d argue relentlessly that I’m no Eliza Doolittle and needn’t be schooled in proper English, I do agree that the desire to infiltrate the mind of the book’s recipient is a requisite characteristic of the giver. Herewith, I realized that I need only examine the central themes of the books themselves to crack the message behind them. Let me tell you readers, I think I learned more than I cared to:

1) Crime and Punishment

Focuses on the mental anguish and moral dilemmas of Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, who formulates and executes a plan to kill a hated, unscrupulous pawnbroker to seemingly rid the world of evil.

Translation: I don’t want to take you to another cocktail party wherein you admit to not having read this- it’s rather embarrassing. That said, did you notice I sprung for the hardcover?

2) Stumbling on Happiness

Gilbert's central thesis is that people imagine the future poorly, in particular what will make them happy. The advice Gilbert offers is to use other people's experiences to predict the future, instead of imagining it.

Translation: If you can actually fake liking this book for my sake then you’re really the mindless girlfriend I’ve always wanted. May I also suggest some Ayn Rand?

3) The Line of Beauty

A book about politics, homosexuality, the Conservative party and elite society. Basically there is a lot of coke and vivid recollections of anal sex.

Translation: Are you into the latter? Just getting an ‘intellectual feel’ on the matter.

4) Tiffany’s Table Manners for Teens

Translation: Ha. Ha. Thanks Dad, just in time for boarding school too!



As you can see, these seemingly innocuous tokens of affection are really sordid attempts to normalize, control, and coax me into pioneering dark territory. And I’m standing up to say I’m not going to take it anymore.

Gentlemen, next time you want to get a girl a gift, for the love of God steer clear of these pursuits. Nothing denotes your impeccable taste quite like a Cuisinart Food Processor m500, or perhaps a nice Dyson- you know, things my girlfriends will no doubt look on enviously. Thanks for listening.

Important Lessons learned at the Maritime, Cocktail Hour

1) That Bums are a Crucial Contribution to New York Society

Girl #2: "Is it wrong how psyched I am that the bum outside the hotel just yelled 'Girl, you gotta EAT something!' at me?'

Girl: "No, we're like pretty psyched. Cheers!"

2) That We Spend Too Much Time on the Job

Girl : "Baby, I'm the riskiest acquisition ever to come across your desk"

Girl #2: "Ya, you don't want my assets in your portfolio"

Girl: "God, we really need to stop with this lame finance humour, what the fuck"

Girl #2: Big time, i think we need another (few) drink(s)?

3) That My 2nd grade teacher was right, We're all Like Snowflakes...No Two of us are the Same

Girl #3: "I mean, why can't I just find a guy who will knock me up against a wall and just go for it? Instead of like pussy footing around with all this fucking conversation."

Girl #2: "Um, I think some girls like that whole conversation aspect? Wild guess though."


(Ed Note: Classes are on a first come first served basis...lidurally)

Musings on WASP parents- Part due

"Say we go to an ethnic restuarant, my mother thinks its part of the experience" to order in the appropriate accent. For example, if we're going for Mexican she'll be like 'I'll have the en-cheeee-ladha por favor' with a totally straight face. I'm like Mom, we're downtown, not in Mexico."

I say: Cut Buffy some slack, that mole's a far cry from leg of lamb with mint Jelly.

I heart you, Flava flaaaav....ia

Flavia, I cannot see what lies between your plastic trappings,
Nor what constitutes the “foam” in your cappuccino wrappings.

Your plentiful selection is oft too much for me to bear,
Although I always end up choosing “Columbia Roast” with care.

Your “Choco” does the job when I want something sweet,
But I don’t want to waste calories on something to eat.

You are there for me as a pretty deece last resort,
Even though it is with Illy that I prefer to cohort,

Even though you never fill the cup to its full range,
Please Flavia, don’t you ever, ever change.

Flavia, how I love you so,

Never, ever gonna let you go.

If I didn't face guantanamo time for doing so, I'd have fought back

Right before boarding my flight back to the states Sunday afternoon, I was stopped for the 3rd time in order for my luggage to be checked. The lady with whom I’d struck up a conversation glided on ahead.

“Hey!” I teased the guard. “How come you didn’t stop that lady in front of me?”

“Because madam,” he beamed, “de pretty ones dey is always guilty.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

5 hours later, I landed at JFK. The realization that I was back in this cold filthy city already had my heart sinking, but I did my best to remain optimistic. I mean given the send off I got, I half expected the customs officer to hug me and yell “welcome back to the states, Gorgeous!” for all my fellow passengers to hear.

Instead, he looked at my passport, then looked at me, then back again at my passport and paused gravely. I was half worried he was going to pull some patriot act bullshit on me and take my finger prints, but then I looked down at my blazer and pearls and thought, well that’s just silly. No one arrests a girl in pearls.

“You shouldn’t-ha wown sunglasses,” he scoffed in his I’m a Staten island badass tone.

“Um, Excuse me?” I replied, worrying that I’d missed some new regulation whereby you could now only get thru security complete nude (we’re getting there kids- that woman who was forced to remove her nipple ring at security? Atrocious. Next the alleged terr-rists will be hiding bombs in nipple clamps and vibrating cock rings).

“Ya glasses,” he repeated, “I betchu were wearin’ them big fucking Diors? Look at ya tan- its all uneven- ha HA!” He elbowed his fellow officer in the rib and pointed at me.

This was not the welcome I’d expected.

In fact, I think it deserves a post on the White Graves stall. This is the first one actually directed toward the Po-leece so I think it gets special commendation, like a picture of a bum or something unsightly next to it. I’ll leave the imagery up to you- surely you have sicker imaginations than I. Anyway:

Dear Officer,

Hi!

I just wanted to thank you for the unsolicited advice. I’m glad you failed to notice the pair of scissors, 2 razors, 4 ounces of lotion (4 ounces! Ha! I’m such a badass), cartons of undeclared cigarettes and ounce of ganj I had in my bag because my face was so horrifically discolored that you felt the need to make a joke of it. Thanks for killing my post vacation high you lousy sack of shit.

However, I wanted to commend you on your knowledge of choice luxury brands, even if I do happen to find Dior a little tacky. Your girlfriend must have been that materialistic burnt orange chick on “True Life: I’m a Staten Island Girl,” and let me tell you, she’s taught you well. She also probably has an even tan- because beds tend to give that even sheen- but that’s neither here nor there.

Yours,
Girl

I'll Miss You Too...No, Really

Work is starting to ramp up so I've opted to do the responsible adult thing and skip town lest it begin to require any effort on my part. I'll be thinking of you, my dear readers, whilst doing some much needed Scuba with my friend Luban.

In the meantime soak up the goodness that is F the Police's inaugural posts.

Good day,

Girl