Lather,Rinse,Repeat.

It smells like a fart and the woman next to me is swaying her head to the scratchy, amateur melody of "Lean On Me". Either that or she is bobbing in and out of sleep. I can't tell and would quite honestly rather not make eye contact. "Please don't lean on me", I silently wish. I can barely stand the irony. She is periodically scratching her weave and I suddenly wish I had made the decision to stand. Too late. In the distance, another man joins in, "Call meeeeee, ohhhh just callllll me." "Sing it brother!," yet another proclaims.

Am I in hell? Try the 4-5 Express. The driver of this particular subway train is a real prankster and keeps pressing the button instructing everyone to "leave the train immediately" in between stops. No one is amused.

My half hour journey through crackieland commences, and its now time to navigate the endless stream of cigarette smoke and bus exhaust that is 57th street. I make my way to the end of my tour de filth; the express bus stop. Where I wait for 20 minutes to an hour for a bus that is sometimes full; all the while getting blasted with exhaust that seems to get hotter as the minutes tick by. Today I am particularly lucky, as several people on the bus are sitting in the aisle seats,with no one next to them, pretending to be asleep. I want to hit them with something. Of course they miraculously wake up the moment everyone is seated. Degenerates. Has no one ever informed them that character is defined by who you are when no one is watching?

Yap, yap, yappity yap. Someone's on their cell phone again! "Let me keep this short since I'm on the bus and hate people who talk on the bus". Newsflash lady, YOU are that person. Why does it always seem less offensive to people when the actions are their own? And the conversation continues for a good 20 minutes.

5 days a week, 52 weeks a year. 180 minutes of my life that I will never get back. Eat, sleep, lather, rinse, repeat. It's enough to make a person go mad. Maybe that explains the crackhead singing a capella on the train. Full circle, people. Maybe we're all just a bad commute away from "Lean on Me" and a tip cup. At least he's having fun.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful...

There's a famous line I remember from one of my favorite iconic 80's movies ( I think it was Weekend at Bernie's) where the "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful" Pantene commercial airs and an average looking girl subsequently screams "I don't! I hate you because you're a bitch!" and hurls something ( a slice of pizza? a drink?) at the TV.

This topic was explored on CNN and several other sites this week, http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/personal/09/28/tf.friends.with.pretty.women/index.html?imw=Y&iref=mpstwhere the self proclaimed "average looking" author explores the difficulties she's had with "pretty friends"and admits the resentful feelings she harbors toward them. Her main gripe with beautiful women is that they aren't used to hearing the word "No", as they've often wielded their beauty to gain power and influence over their less attractive friends.

She may be right. But then again, how many times do beautiful women get stuck with "the bitch" label for no other reason than outright jealousy?

It's easy to label a pretty girl as a "bitch" and make her an outcast, because then people can justify their feelings of jealousy and insecurity, instead of dealing with the origin of those feelings. A majority of the most beautiful women I know don't have very many female friends, and that's probably no coincidence. What if "average girls" received "the bitch" label because of the lack of male attention they receive? Would they be exiled in the same manner? Not likely.

No one feels sorry for the pretty girl. Maybe they should.

Surely a Hot Babe...

The following post comes to you courtesy of a friend that was kind enough to share one of her MySpace messages ( yes, I said MySpace- it apparently still exists). The following dialogue needs no introduction, but does come with a subtle warning of the urge to vomit all over your keyboard. You have been warned!

"HI Sexy - You look so sexy, seductive and Beautiful that i cant stop gawking at your pics...Your sex looks and sweet face and hot figure... You are a tease.. surely a HOT babe..Burning hot.. And of course an angel.. I honestly adore the body.. the face , the baby.. what a turn on You honestly are , i cant even describe in words...please be my Babe..

You are so amazingly awesome and beautifully beautiful babe.. i donno why am just drooling on & on... but u really are the best n hottest n sexiest n most gorgeous n most beautiful babe if not on planet earth then on this site for sure babes... such a burning smoking hot chica who can make jaws drop to floor with adoration and adulation. I am sure that you must get tons of messages like mine, from guys interested in u and probably u might not even respond to me, but i wanted you to know that beauty doesn't gets better then u hunny and good luck in life.. Though we deep breath i request this hot angel to talk to me? can we talk hunn?? will u be my babe .. can we chat sexy Girl?

I would love to get to know the hottest chic on this site... plzzzzzzz sweeeetsss, i would be your slave for life for sure :) write back babe... am waiting... p.s. - you turn me on so much and are so beautiful that i don't even have enough words to compliment your sexy looks, wish i had more compliments for this hottiee.."

Besides the fact that he likes her "sex looks" and"adores the body, the face, and the baby" (she doesn't have a baby), his use of alliteration alone impresses me. I'm now 100% confidant that social networking will be the end of the human race one day. Someday, we'll all have weddings via Skype and use the"remove husband/wife" tool on Facebook. Until then, let us be grateful for the poetic genius of the MySpace Romeo above and his letters of online love.

- KJ

There's a bug in my Red Velvet...

Red Velvet and I have a tumultuous history. At first bite; just a few short years ago from a bakery named Buttercup, there was love. "Love at first Bite?", catchy eh? I swear that wasn't done on purpose.

Like all relationships, this one evolved. Commitment was the next step, as I chose Mr. Velvet to be the guest of honor at my wedding. The guest of honor that everyone eats. I remember sitting in the catering hall office, asking if there was anything at all that could be substituted for the traditional (yawn) fondant and buttercream. I could easily have paid for a cake at an outside bakery, however when you are building a bar from scratch, complete with lighting technicians and mini palm trees, cake gets moved to the back of the priority list pretty quickly. And so, Red Velvet, my catering manager promised me, was "Not a problem, not at all". Trust was born.
So much so, that I didn't even ask for a tasting.

Mr. Velvet and I had a good run, and as the wedding day approached, we were on very good terms. Until the cutting of the cake. The happiest day of my life had one glitch, my cake tasted like a type of tropical fruit. What kind? I have no idea, it was that ambiguous. To quote my grandmother, "Beautiful Cake, so many FLAVORS!" Need I go on? That's what I thought.

I swore off Mr. Velvet and his undelivered promises. I considered myself lucky to have the cake be my only problem on my wedding day, and "cut" my losses. (there I go again!) We immediately broke things off and hadn't seen each other again until yesterday afternoon, when I decided to give him another chance. I didn't realize Mr. Velvet had a vengeful side, until I found a piece of a creepy crawly in my "Crumbs" cupcake.

If there's one phrase to sum up how indescribably shiteous this week has been, "There's a bug in my Red Velvet" would be it. Yes, this week involved the severing of important relationships in my life, some that will most likely leave a wound forever. I say, you have no choice but to let go of relationships that cause you nothing but grief. Goodbye Mr. Velvet, I'll miss you.

-KJ

The Chiquita Bamana

Happy Friday! Meet the Chiquita Bamana. Brought to you by the crazy streets of New York and lots of illegal drug use.

Chiquita Bamana struts around in a fire engine red thong and give a whole new meaning to the term boyshorts. The cornucopia of fruit on his head complements the vibrant colors of his necklace, which is probably an ancient tribal gift from his ancestors; or a hallucinatory dumpster project. Take your pic.

He pushes his shopping bags, filled with God knows what, around in a baby carriage. For the love of Christ, I hope this man has not spawned. I shudder to think of the humiliation that child would endure at the hands of this creature.

Additionally, everyone that owns a pair of Crocs should take a good look at this man and immediately throw a burning rubber party. Because if there is one good that can come out of The Chiquita, it's singlehandedly eradicating the evil that these plastic mitts from hell bring.

-KJ

It's not sunny in the subway.

Tourism in NYC; the bane of my existence. Every day they stroll in front of me in packs, at the slowest pace imaginable, forcing me into the street; nearly risking my life so that I don't have to be whacked in the face with a fanny pack or Nikon. They often ignore the presence of my IPOD, asking me for directions; shouting, "3!?? Canal St? Threeeeeeeeeeee??!! or"Times Square????" as if I have the words SUBWAY MAP tattooed on my forehead.

It's torturous enough that I already have to deal with their sneakers, visors, chinos, and mid -calf length socks every single day. Yet now i have to deal with their mockery too. What could a backpack clad European traveler possibly mock me, a native New Yorker, for? Try my Ray-Bans. Now, I am by no means a proponent of sunglasses at night, in restaurants or clubs. I, however, have no qualms about protecting my eyes from the downright ugliness of the subway.

On many an occasion, I have seen the most grotesque things a person can witness, right there under the bustling streets of the city I love the most. From public urination and far worse; to a plastic lawn chair, placed between the metal poles, because the man sitting in it "never gets a seat" and decided to bring his own. For some reason, I find people that consume food down there absolutely repulsive. Whether it be a banana or some Indian street food, it's dirty and disgusting and shouldn't be done. It's the equivalent of eating in a public restroom; while sitting on the toilet. That's right MTA, your subway is a toilet. A toilet that keeps upping the admission fee. You have to pee, right? And I need to get to work, stat.

I was on the 123 yesterday, when I noticed two very large Italian women staring at me curiously. It takes a lot for me to notice anything on the train, since I do my best to block out my surroundings until I reach ground level. The gawking turned to giggling, and then before I could figure out what the joke was, they simultaneously put a pair of sunglasses on, and began to cackle uncontrollably. It was at that point I realized they were laughing because it wasn't sunny in the subway. Immediately, an urge to display a necessary hand gesture came over me. But then a curious thing happened; I laughed back. I even waved. I'll be damned if they stereotype me as another self -important, crass American.

Go home turistas, I'm wearing my Ray-Bans so I don't have to look at you.

-KJ

Sponges, the silent killers.

The average person is exposed to approximately 3,000 advertising messages in any given day. Buy this, eat that, invest your money here, "Just Do It!", "I'm lovin' it", "You would be home already if you lived here", and on and on it goes. There are about 1,000 minutes in each day that we spend awake. Theoretically, it would take every minute of the day if we did nothing else but look at these messages. Yet, they're subliminally there, in everything we do, in every place we go. Right this very second, I see logos for Dell, Glaceau, Lucky, Comdial, Avery, Mead, BIC, Papermate, Staples, Totes, allure, Google, Office Depot and Ray Ban at my desk alone.

As if that's not enough, we still have to wait for the subway/sit in traffic, work, check Facebook, work some more, gchat , more work, cook/order dinner, book appointments, pay bills, go to the gym and make sure we check to see if its going to rain again tomorrow.

When we finally do find the time to kick back, relax and watch TV or read a magazine/website, we often find conflicting or downright useless messages. Most recently, I found a little gem titled, " 9 Things in Your Home that may be Killing You" on the website of my favorite mag.

The article warns of the dangers lurking in your "wet towels" and advises not to share them with your boyfriend (boy cooties, gasp!), and wash them often. If your male friend does happen to touch your towel, you are promptly advised to "send that towel where it belongs, the washing machine". It then goes on to suggest that your laundry machine may be harboring bacteria, and that if you use a public washing machine, you should ask the building manager to make sure the temperature is a "germ killing" 155 degrees. I don't know about you, but the "building manager" where I wash my clothes doesn't speak much English, so much for that idea.

Think your salt & pepper shakers are cute? Think again, it warns, since they are touched at all phases of the food handling process. Using disinfectant to clean them? Don't even think about it, unless of course you are using EPA-Registered disinfectant! Might need Google's help on that one.

Better yet, have you traveled lately! Beware of bed bugs, they say. Wash everything in your luggage in hot water and be sure to scrub that suitcase with a stiff brush before giving it a good vacuuming. Right. I'll be sure to do just that, right before dunking it in a vat of rubbing alcohol and setting it on fire for good measure.

Tired from thinking too much about all this? Time to relax with your laptop, you say? Not without daily disinfecting wipes! Your germ harboring keyboard likely contains more bacteria than a toilet bowl! Yikes.

All this talk of germs makes me want a shower. What's that, they say? I can't even shower without the fear of dying?! Not if my shower curtain contains PVC, which "studies suggest" may be harmful to my health.

You know what else "may be harmful to my health"? Worrying about being killed by my salt & pepper shaker, towels, laptop and shower curtain! Never leaving my house for fear of the dreaded "bed bug" and microwaving my sponges before every dish wash. What's next, avoiding sidewalk street cracks and wearing protective face masks during my weekly manicure? I'd rather take my chances. I think tonight I'll curl up inside my dirty suitcase, with my spice rack and all the sponges I can find laying around my apartment, sans microwave and EPA- Registered Disinfectant. Wish me luck.

- KJ

They call me Mellow Yellow...

I'll admit it. Sometimes I'm jealous of men. When I see them running outside on a 85 degree day without a shirt, when I watch my husband get out of bed, rub some gel in his hair, splash some water on his face, and fly out the door in 10 minutes flat, and when I'm wearing three inch heels to a wedding and have to gimp my way home/to the hotel at 2am.

Life is about appreciating the little things, they say. It's those "little things" that make us happy, and in my opinion, it can also be those "little things" that ruin our day. How else do you think the recent "FML" (F my life) phrase crept into our everyday vocabulary? Little things, I tell you, little.annoying.tedious.ironic.cliche things.

Take being the victim of a "cat call" while on your way to work in the morning. Harmless you say? Complimentary even? Try getting one every day, when you're having a bad day, or when you're wearing a neon yellow dress. Okay, so you might say I'm asking for it by wearing something so bright, so attention grabbing. Yet, I see various forms of the male species wearing outlandish things every.single.day. Do I scream " hot skinny jeans, hipster!!!"? NO. Do I chase them yelling, "OH BABY, GOD BLESS YOU!"? Certainly not. Do I yell "DAMN HONEY. NICE ASS!"? Absolutely not. Never have, never will. Does being female automatically give men the right to act like they're at the zoo? Is wearing "highlighter yellow" a reason to be visually violated? I don't think so.

I'd like to take this moment to thank a truck driver this morning who sang to me. You read that right, SANG.TO.ME. "They call me mellow yellooooooooow" his melodic husky voice rang out in the morning smog. And it made me smile. No easy feat when I've been conditioned to roll my eyes while silently wishing misfortune on the perpetrator in question. (Not evil misfortune, mind you, the harmless type, like spilling coffee all over himself or face planting in a dirty water puddle while ogling). Highlighter yellow may not be mellow. But I certainly am, thanks to my new found friend.

Moral of this story? Want to truly impress a gal you think is cute? Serenade her. And try to be witty and tasteful about it. No one likes to hear "I like big butts and I cannot lie...." as they're walking by. Now you know.

-KJ

Fabio? Hold Me!

It's no secret that approximately 1/3 of the nation's females read romance novels and most likely wear I love my cat t-shirts when they're feeling "dressy". You know who they are, you see them a few times a year, at places called airports. And sometimes, if your lucky, they're playing the slots at 4am when you stumble out of mur.mur in Atlantic City.

So what is the fascination with the Fabio's of the world? And why have images of this golden maned real life he-man singlehandly launched an empire of soft-core paperbacks at thousands of Barnes & Nobles?

The fascinating creature in the photo above appears outside my local Starbucks every single day at 5pm, his towering physique on display for all of Union Square to see, shirtless no less! Why has such a gift been bestowed upon my afternoon coffee break? And more importantly, who is this man who passes for a second rate Fabio and why does half of the male species aspire to look like him?

Psychologists would probably tell us that men are born and raised to be the breadwinners, lift weights (while grunting, natch) and throw back muscle milk and "jaegerbombs... jaegerbombs... jaegerbombs" with the best of 'em. It all goes back to the pre-school days when boys played with trucks and toy guns and girls perfected their EZ Bake recipes and dreamed about one day owning a Malibu Dream House. Fast forward fifty years and men still subscribe to the school of the thought that "bigger is most certainly better" and women are still trading recipes and sample sale locations. But when did Barbie's Hair and He-Man's body melt into Middle America's fantasy man? As long as I get to burst into uncontrollable laughter each and every day at 5pm, I don't care. Thank you my Fabio, thank you.

-KJ

Hot, Sweaty and 8 Inches

It is late morning, and I lie awake in darkness--effortlessly draped in soft folds of down and cotton, not quite enveloped yet not quite exposed. A steamy flush of perspiring dew glistens down the length of one calf, thirsty for a touch from the fan’s breezy fingertips.  My leg curls over blanket, my hair waves over pillow, my hand slips over his.  The morning performs its magic as my eyes slowly blink away sleep’s souvenir, heart accelerating as the blurry silhouette of his eyelashes, lips, shoulders and chest become sharper in my eyes.  Soft hints of Bluegrass and baked goods waft through the weathered window’s slight crack, while sunlight’s golden compass traces geometric artistry down my lover’s arm. 

I draw the shades tighter, protecting him from sunlight’s thievery of sleep, and tiptoe out of bed across the summer-swollen wood floor.  Loosely sweeping my hair in a knot, I splash icy water on my face, and climb out onto the fire escape, desperate for a gust of air, a bit of cool and a moment of peace in the July heat.  Spotting a lone cigarette, I light it as a companion, carefully ashing into the tiny windowsill gutter that is sized perfectly for my bad habits.  As I observe Subway-riders, 9-to-5ers, coffee-sippers and paper-readers indulging in their morning routine, my head spins as though I hear their every thought.  “I hope my metro card has enough money to get to Layfayette.” “Is last night’s orgy and vodka binge a reason to be laid off?” “I need three espressos every morning, it’s in my blood.” “Did you read the article in Glamour about Michael Jackson shape-shifting into Bubbles the monkey?” and so on, and so forth.  Stress, sarcasm, self-doubt, secrets—the weight of everyone else’s world tearing at my heart and clawing at my back.  I shudder, close the window, and shut off my mind to the problems of those around me.

With that, I climbed back into bed, hoping he had missed the warmth of my presence or the comfort of my thoughts. Successfully, he stirred, and I knew he was hungry for more.

“I’m gonna do bad things to you…” he throatily murmurs, drawing me closer and sinking his teeth into my neck for a very personal version of the mid-week Bloody Mary…

Intimate hallucinations of waking up with 173 year old Bill Compton.  This is what happens when your window is 8-inches too big for a standard AC unit, you own an $8 fan from Duane Reade, and your 5th Floor Manhattan walkup apartment has a summer temperature that rivals Bon Temps.  Bite Me. -EB