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

 

Pessimism is a problem. Just not your problem?

We all know her. She tells you the exact amount of calories in the food your eating, while you are eating it. When it rains, she updates her facebook about how miserable she is. When it's nice out, you get to hear about how unbearable the heat is. She'll criticize every decision you make and disagrees with absolutely everything you have to say. She's the human equivalent to rain on your wedding day, and a death row pardon, two minutes too late. She's Debbie Downer, and she's a major burden to us all.

Often, she masquerades as a a perfect person, and chooses the one thing in her life that is superior to everyone ( her morals, home, wealth, body etc.) and preaches about it constantly. She's a walking, talking contradiction and may even reprimand you in the most hypocritical way possible. There's the time she told you not to take that nice vacation you want, calling it "irresponsible in this economy", and then bitching about her credit card debt, after telling you all about her fabulous trip to the Caribbean.

Or the time she pointed out, ever so nonchalantly, that your boyfriend/husband/guy you just met must have done something wrong for sending you flowers, when hers just left her for his ex last month. She's very vocal about how lame the crowd is at the bar or restaurant you picked for your birthday/girls night out/happy hour, just because she didn't pick the location, and she wants to go home and is tired/has a headache/starts to cry uncontrollably before you even arrive.

Often, her presence in our life is not negotiable. We don't choose to spend time with someone who gets pleasure out of our misery or aims to knock us off our pedestal. The best we can do, is see past the negativity and refuse to let it permeate our lives. In my experience, people who do this are the first to complain and the last to make any effort to improve a situation. Everyone knows the reason for their misery, except themselves of course, and no amount of pointing it out to them will change their demeanor. So next time Debbie tries to inform you that your morning venti, skinny, no foam, extra hot latte causes cancer, or that your nightly glass of pinot clearly signifies an alcohol problem, remind her that pessimism is a mental illness and drink 2.

"Chick" Peas & other minutiae

It's one of those days when you could barely get yourself out of bed and muster enough energy to look half decent and make it to work. By the time you arrive, your hair is some variation of "tousled" and those rubber rain boots you thought were adorable now make you look like a toddler in her mom's work clothes, a very wet toddler in work clothes. Trains were all running off schedule (god forbid water touch their gears), the homeless were out in full force, dripping their garbage bag ponchos all over you on the subway, and that "Free Pastry Day" morsel from Starbucks had to be forfeited in hopes of making it to to work on time.

Normally such a day starts off horrendous, slowly turns into bad, and ends slightly better than fair. Until you walk into your favorite lunch spot and witness the following dialogue:

Girl: I'd like to try that soup (pointing obnoxiously)

Employee: Which? The chick pea moroccan lentil?

Girl: Yes, but I'm a vegeterian.

Employee: ?

Girl: It has "CHICK" peas in it.

Employee: ???? Yes, it's still vegeterian.

I don't know which is more disturbing, the fact that this person thought that "chick" peas came from actual chicks(!?!) or the fact that she didn't realize that the term "pea" usually signifies a type of vegetable. Onward I go, order my Clam Chowder and I'm on my merry way.

Until I realize that this is NOT the dumbest thing I've heard this week. Unfortunately for me, someone I know (someone with a very important title) instructed a group of individuals yesterday that "San Antonio is a STATE", and then went on to request that those individuals should really try to wipe the "SOUR PUSSIES" off their faces during Monday meetings. Awkward, yes. Uncomfortable? Absolutely. Surprising? Sadly, no.

After all, when you say something so dumbfounding that it makes employees contort their faces into something that vaguely resembles a sneeze to avoid laughter, you really can't complain about their "sour pussies". And that, my friends, is another blog post in itself.

-KJ

I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war...

“I’m gonna buy a gun and start a war; if you can tell me something worth fighting for”- Coldplay

I never knew what this lyric meant until recently. I always felt there was a purpose to my life and career, that I was on a track to greatness, somewhere I deserved to go for all my hard work in school and on my career path. Lately, with the fall of the economy and the collapse of every market imaginable, I’m starting to question whether my generation will ever get the chance we deserve, the chance to make a difference, when the companies we work for don’t let us and the rest of the world doesn’ t care. We are the first to lose our jobs, since we are neither cheap to employ (when recent grads can “do our jobs” or be trained to for less) or experienced enough to keep (since we have a mere 5 years of experience, compared to the 15-20+ years of our elders). Loyalty doesn’t exist anymore, and we will no longer have the luxury that our parents had of 20 and 30 + years at one company. Employees are now seen as disposable and devalued at every step of the way. We work 10 hour days, we skip lunch, we stare at a screen that makes our eyes blur with lighting above us that rivals a surgeons operating table. We don’t complain, we adapt, we refocus and we succeed. Until we are forced to change course, and sometimes wonder why we tried so hard in the first place. We are tired of ending up at square one. We are told to stick to one career, yet expected to be multi faceted. We are in sales, yet afraid to mention that our true passion lies in writing on interviews, for fear of seeming indecisive or unstable. We are hired for one purpose and spun off into seventeen others. Five of my closet friends have lost their jobs since last year, all in different industries, all intelligent, all responsible, all a tremendous asset to a company. And all disposed of like extra fat on a steak. What future does this country hold when it treats its future so much worse than its past. What should we be fighting for? We have the ambition, we are some of the most adaptable human beings that have ever lived. We can pitch a client, write a proposal, and calculate an algorithm all while shoving a $14 salad down our throat, drowning out an easy listening station, answering a coworker’s question, updating our Facebook and Twitter, returning 3 emails and checking our debit card balance, simultaneously. We are overloaded, underpaid and lack security on all fronts. We deserve more.

-KJ