See Jane Run. See Jane Write.

Today feels like a Friday because I’m taking off tomorrow and heading home to H-town for Labor Day weekend, but there it was this morning, the retardation that is the New York Times Thursday Style Section to remind me of my miscalculation.

Now I realize I don’t yet have the clout or connections to have a column in the Times. But how Gina Kolata acquired her new “Personal Best” column that will run every two weeks about “exercise science and how to improve workouts” is beyond me: it certainly wasn’t based on any discernible writing talent.

Sure, it’s a cliché to bust on a Style article, but the Gray Lady makes it so easy! Okay, Gina, are you telling me that those foolish women who purposely order a filet mignon on a first date to seem easy going are the same women who now “hang back [at road races], often because they are embarrassed to be out there with the men, acting like determined athletes”? Come on, gals, make up your minds - are we feminine or feminists this week? I’m calling a big fat bullshit on this one, ladies.

This article is so insipid I can only imagine it made the “most emailed” list because every runner like me is sending it to her friends with the note, “WTF?” It has all the makings of a bad Style article: she opens with a boring anecdote, launches into some poorly rendered “research,” misappropriates quotations from the president of the New York Road Runners (come ON, Mary, now I KNOW you didn’t say that women are “too inhibited to put their full passion out there”), and she closes with some absurd generalizations about third-wave feminism.

Yes, my particular pedigree of running may qualify me for the Crazy Category but I’d rather be a crazy runner to some than a crazy non-runner to all. Trust me – it’s not a pretty picture when I’m injured, sanity-speaking. Still, I’m not an anomaly and there are plenty of femme fatales just like me in the New York City running community alone. Come visit the running class I coach on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Ms. Kolata. My group of speedsters is predominantly of the late-twenties to late-thirties feminine variety. Sure, we’ll poke a hole in your theory that older women are more successful in races because they’re trying harder than the younger women, and you might not be able to keep up because we don’t hold anything back and act like determined athletes, but maybe it would be good for your “training.”

The article had a glimmer of potential when the author brought up “the message of some ads and magazine articles telling people to run easy,” and we all KNOW how I feel about those Reebok ads. “A run-easy message is fine if it helps get people started in the sport. But, [Mary Wittenberg] added, there is also a risk, ‘in that it sneers at hard work and pushing to limits.’” Yes, Gina! Focus on this and shut up about the boring results from mom-and-pop 5k races in the suburbs!

I do agree on the “epiphany” point of the article, that an older woman may appreciate her new-found opportunities to run and race more than a younger woman who had opportunities her whole life and might now take them for granted. I may be half the age of someone in my class, but I’ve been running for half of my life where she might have just started. Thanks, Title IX.

Still, the urge to run can strike a woman at any point in her life and the desire to run fast has everything to do with competitive spirit and nothing to do with age.

Want to race, Gina?

Rock and a Hard Place

I am, in general, a rational, well-grounded person: rarely given to great leaps of faith and a devout subscriber to the School of I’ll Believe it When I See it. But as any English Major worth her weight in dangling participles knows, there is an exception to every rule.

Astrology is one of my guilty pleasure exceptions.

Logic, schmogic – my horoscope is ALWAYS TRUE. The stars and planets KNOW THINGS, okay?

This is an excerpt from Capricorn’s monthly forecast:

For what must seem an endless amount of time, you have struggled with a difficult financial situation. It may not have been of your making, as it appears you have trusted someone who may not have returned that trust…If you've hoped against hope that a check would show up, you would now realize it probably won't. As painful as this realization may be, you seem to be ready to face the truth and draw up new plans. If you have to extricate yourself from an old alliance, let it be. You have bigger fish to fry in the future.

So true! ARM never responded to my email about my exit bonus, and I was nearly resigned to putting it out of my mind along with the true memories of that horrific job. Sure, I spin the stories so they come out amusing and shocking, but the reality remains that I hated every day of the last six months I worked there and no amount of money can fix that. Still, money is money and as MomOh would say, it’s better than a sharp stick in the eye. Most things are.

This morning I got an email from the Queen of Darkness, ARM’s current assistant. She needed help regarding ARM’s father’s apartment, for which I had single-handedly managed the renovations. Feeling a little proud of myself for standing my ground, I responded by saying that I will gladly help her when ARM upholds his side of our bargain. Now if I were dealing with a normal person, I would have been appalled at his nerve to ignore my email and still tell the Queen of Darkness to ask me for help, but this is ARM we’re talking about here – nothing he does surprises me anymore.

ARM emailed me instantly. His father passed away last week, which is why Queen of Darkness needed the help urgently, and “there is a check in process that will be cut and issued next week.”

Ah fuck. I felt like an asshole until I reminded myself that his father was alive two months ago when the check should have been “in process” and this is a shameful excuse for poor professional conduct. Then I felt an odd rush of sadness because I really liked ARM’s father. He was in failing health, a victim of a four-movies-at-time Netflix subscription which ARM controlled, but still a very witty old man and I liked him. Rest in peace, ARM’s father. In Heaven you can probably watch any movie you want, not just the ones your son makes his assistant order for you.

I guess my horoscope wasn’t completely accurate, because it didn’t mention anything about needing emergency foot-in-mouth surgery this afternoon. Regarding the check...I’ll believe it when I see it.

Sea Legs and Wake Surfing

The first time R and I hung out, he said something about how he can surf on a lake and I thought he was joking. I probably laughed too loudly as I do when I’m nervous and gave some witty response along the lines of “Nah-huh!”

He didn’t elaborate then, but I found out on Saturday afternoon on a boat in Connecticut that you can, in fact, surf on a lake.

On Friday after work I threw some clothes and a bathing suit in a duffel bag and took a cab to Grand Central. I’m not quite sure how I survived 5 years of living in New York without ever stepping foot in Grand Central Station, but there I was, completely awed like a tourist. All of these years taking Amtrak or New Jersey Transit from gross Penn Station and I didn’t know what I was missing: marble archways, fast-moving ticket lines, nice shops and restaurants besides Hudson News or Houlihans. I think I’m in love.

I got there about an hour before my train because I wanted to get a gift for R’s sister, whose lake house we stayed at for the weekend. I meandered through a stationary store, wanting to buy everything in sight for myself, but decided that it’s really difficult to buy a gift for someone you’ve never met. So I went with what I know: food. I called MomOh from an outpost of a very famous bakery and asked if bringing a cheesecake was weird or good. She voted good, conveniently, because after deliberating between the chocolate or raspberry swirl I was only a few moments from drooling on the glass bakery case.

I was pretty nervous about meeting R’s sister and brother-in-law because that’s a Big Deal in the world of dating, but it went fine (I think). The cheesecake was well-received, and we had a great time cruising around the lake in their very cool boat. By the second day R’s young nephews warmed up to me and weren’t afraid to climb all over me in the boat. R taught me how to wake board, water ski and wake surf, though I definitely spent more time falling and getting water up my nose than standing and riding behind the boat. My favorite thing was the wake surfing (which I kept accidentally calling “boat surfing”). Like water skiing or wake boarding, you start crouched in the water holding the rope handle, and the speed of the boat pops you out of the water. Unlike water skiing or wake boarding, your feet aren’t attached to the surfboard, which is a bit shorter and thinner than a conventional surfboard with a rubber grip surface. If you’re really good (I wasn’t), once you get going you toss the rope back in the boat and continue riding the wake just by shifting your weight between your front and back feet. By Sunday afternoon I could get up quickly and surf in the wake with the rope slacked, but I wasn’t quite brave enough to throw it back on the boat and risk losing my ride. It is by far the coolest water sport that I’ve tried – I like it even better than kayaking.

The world is still a little wobbly from being on a boat for two full days, and I feel a bit like I cheated on The Beach with The Lake. It was just a fling, I promise! It didn’t mean anything!

But of course, that’s always a lie, and the trip meant a lot to me.

I'm leaving work early and meeting up with R to cut his hair. He bought clippers and decided that my rooftop would be the perfect locale for his haircut. I have about zero men's haircutting experience, and piss-poor hand-eye coordination. We'll see if we're still dating tomorrow.

The Maybe Barfight

I do stupid things with alarming regularity, but last night really tipped the crazy scale.

For the past week, Coach G, R and I have been recruiting cool people from running class to join us for our Thursday night no-shower happy hour. Last night we pulled it together, and nine sweaty runners made our way over to the same lingerie-strewn Upper West Side bar where Coach G purchased the “mystery pitcher.”

I’m not sure I can go back there anymore, which is a real shame because they play great music and fifty cent beers is a perfect price tag.

I may have been forcibly ejected from the bar by a burly bouncer. Because I may have started a fight with a whore who needed to pull her skirt up about four more inches and get her vajayjay out of R’s face when he was taking his pool shot. And she maybe threw a beer in my face and I maybe started swinging until the bouncer tackled me and dragged me out a side exit, still yelling obscenities at her. Maybe I used words that are not appropriate for polite society, and maybe my friends had to pull me away so I didn’t go after her outside. And also, I may have been drunk. Just a tiny bit. Maybe.

R’s take on the whole debacle was pretty classic: “Next time, just say something to me if you’re getting pissed off, but that was totally HOT. You were AWESOME.”

Today, sobered (mostly), I feel an odd mix of badass and foolish. Clearly, she had it coming, and being doused with fifty cents worth of beer catapulted me from “back off my man” to “bitch, it’s on now!” in half a second. But since when am I confrontational? Or violent, for that matter? I’m a total wuss! Apparently cheap beer for dinner invokes my bizarre, territorial, inner prize fighter. Weird.

So yeah. It was a great night from start to finish. And now I’m eating a cheeseburger for lunch, because I figure I earned it.

I came in to the office today solely for the free lunch. I strolled in around 9:30AM, and JDate gave me the go-ahead to leave early (“I wouldn’t tell anyone if you left now!”) so I’m cutting out as soon as I’m done digesting. For all the bitching I do about being bored at Nice Hedge Fund, there are some definite advantages to working a mindless job with zero responsibilities.

Happy weekend!

If My Head Wasn't Attached

About once a month, on average, I lock myself out of my apartment. My keys are attached to my wallet, so walking out the door without my driver’s license, money, credit cards AND keys is really a feat of impressive stupidity. Through the providence of roommates and/or the grace of God, I’ve never been truly stranded on my front step for any significant period of time, but I’m pushing my luck.

On Monday I went out for a bike ride without my keys, cell phone or ID, the three things that I’ve been trained to toss in my saddle bag for emergencies. I returned home, dismounted, and as the realization dawned on me and the word “Fuck” started to form on my lips, New Roommate M walked over from the other direction. “Oh, great, I don’t even have to pull out my keys!” I felt strangely compelled to bluff as I tossed my bike over my shoulder and followed her through the front doors.

This morning I did it again, and realized before I even arrived at the office. I should have turned around and gotten them while New Roommate M was still at home, but for some reason I carried on to fulfill my oh-so-critical daily task of dialing the phone number for the 8AM conference call. Then when I got upstairs, Pain in the Analyst had already dialed in to the call. I’m an idiot. So at lunch, rather than brave the Jimmy Choo sample sale with C (I didn’t have my wallet, after all, and wasn’t in the mood for a cat fight over a pair of living-beyond-my-means ankle boots), I trekked back home to buzz every apartment until someone let me up. Again, I don’t know why this seemed like a good idea, as surely less people would be home at 1:30PM than at 5PM after work, but there I was ringing every doorbell until my Afghani Bodyguard-cum-Savior stuck his head out of his restaurant next-door and revealed that he had a key. Man, I love that guy. He’s nosy, he knows my name from the one and only time I ordered takeout, he makes me do pushups with him on the sidewalk when I get back from a run, and his omnipresence in the restaurant entranceway gives pause to any unwanted male suitors. He really completes my Living In New York City experience. AND he has an extra key.

I lied and told him that I had my apartment key just not the building key. Not only do I have a key-forgetting problem; I also have related compulsory lying issues. I don’t know what he’d do if I told him my plan of climbing down the fire escape from the roof through my open bathroom window. In a dress, of course. Cat burglars, take note: I forget to lock my bathroom window more often than I forget my keys.

Wednesday is Hump Day

In accordance to The New Life Plan of getting my MFA in Creative Writing (and securing my spot in the unemployment line), I’m studying for the GRE. Perhaps I should say “studying” because as far as I can tell from my “Cracking the GRE” prep book, passing the third grade is all that is required of the math section:

“Decimals are just fractions in disguise. Basically, decimals and fractions are different ways of expressing the same thing. Every decimal can be written as a fraction, and every fraction can be written as a decimal. For example, the decimal .35 can be written as the fraction 35/100: these two expressions, .35 and 35/100, have the same value.”

Now, I’m sure the actual GRE isn’t quite so elementary, but I can’t help feeling that I wasted $33.95 on a book that includes such helpful notes as, “Percent literally means “per 100” or “out of 100” or “divided by 100.” If you haven’t yet mastered those tricky little percentages by the time grad school starts to sound like a good idea, well, you’re probably a lousy tipper. Necessary life skills aside, I fail to see how realizing that in the equation z2=144, z = +/-12 will ever influence my writing abilities. I’m not one of those English Majors who shrinks at the idea of math and can’t do long division in her head. I went all the way to calculus in high school (though all I really remember is loading shortcut programs onto my TI-83 Plus graphing calculator) and for a long period of my life I wanted to be an architect or an engineer. What was I thinking?

Last night after running class R and Coach G came back to my apartment for beer and burgers. While I grilled and boiled the corn on the cob, the guys set themselves to task hanging up my Bud Light dartboard that has been sadly residing under the futon for the past three years. They put Roommate M and me to shame with their superior hanging-things skills, and the dartboard is a frat-tastic addition to our living room. Of course with the apartment being so narrow, the official throwing line is exactly at the door jamb, so we have to wedge open the front door and play from the hallway. Classy. Roommate M and I have a plan to practice and get really good so we can hustle the boys for drinks at bars.

I never thought I’d say it, but I just want Labor Day to come and summer to end. I don’t know how much longer I can stand working at this Nice Hedge Fund ghost town. For the past hour C, D and I played a cutthroat game of Uno in the chairman’s empty office (C kicked our ass). We had fun, but even the game got tedious under the strain of our collective boredom. This is what despair looks like: no makeup, undone hair, flip flops and a pair of loose-fitting khakis that make me look like it’s 1995 and I should be listening to Hole’s "Doll Parts" on my Walkman. Central Park is covered by a white fog like some depressing preview of February, and I think I just dozed off at my desk for a few minutes. I need sun and sand and a frozen beverage, stat, though I’d settle for a nap and a pint of cookies and cream. In reality, I’m going to the spa to pay a small fortune for a heavily-accented woman to torture my ladyparts with hot wax and fabric strips.

Being a girl is awesome.

Also, Title and Fascinating Story TKTK

Admins, when left to their own devices due to extended absentee bosses, will quickly fall into deviant behavior patterns that involve but are not limited to: gossiping about Loud Guy (literally) behind his back via instant messages; hovering around one another’s computer to watch funny YouTube videos; stealthily snooping over Loud Guy’s shoulder to see pictures of the chick whose MySpace profile he’s discussing on the phone with one of his Dude Bros; eavesdropping on the MySpace login and password Loud Guy is using to view said profile but only collectively catching three letters of a password that may or may not contain more than three letters.

More updates tktk (obviously!) when he goes into a meeting and we’re able to test out the overheard login information…

Last night Roommate M and I attempted to hang up some shelves and framed pictures in the living room above the futon. We’re not inept girly girls. We have tool kits, a drill, a level and occasional common sense, but man, did our handiwork suck last night. I spent more time patching over mistake holes than actually hanging things. It wasn’t our fault, really – it seems the contractors who renovated the apartment before I moved in three years ago got a little creative with their stud placement and there is no rhyme or reason to their locations. By the time we finished (read: gave up), the sofa was covered in drywall dust and the one shelf we managed to hang was scattered with about twelve bent and broken plastic anchors and failed screws. I think we can just about forget hanging her flat screen TV on the wall now.

In other news, it’s icky and raining outside and I’m not looking forward to freezing my tail off at running class tonight. This morning I made it from front door to office in 8 1/2 minutes, shattering the previous World Record of 9 1/4 minutes. So even though I could probably leave work now, about an hour early, the idea of being outside is far less pleasant than being warm and dry here at the office.

Yes, it really is this boring here at work today. I’ll bring my A game tomorrow, I promise.

Hedge Funds: Where Creativity Goes to Die

On Saturday morning, after more than a year of completely sucking, I finally did it: I had a race. A good race.

Sure, I’ve worn my fluorescent yellow team jersey and participated in races. I started running when the gun went off and stopped at the finish line, but in between my thoughts were, “Try not to keel over. It’s 8am on a weekend, why am I doing this? Am I done yet? Will anyone care if I drop out? This hurts.”

Then Saturday something clicked over in my head and those thoughts came out more like, “Hey, I’m going kind of fast, and I’m relatively sure I’m not going to die. Maybe I could pass that girl in front of me. This isn’t so bad. There’s R cheering for me! Five miles is a tough race distance, but I’m almost there. Also, I’m hungry.”

As I warmed up with five of my teammates (the really fast girls) and afterwards devoured a bagel and snacks at our post-race picnic, I felt like part of a team again. Happy JackieOh.

The resultant runner’s high carried me through Sunday evening, though it’s possible that the overarching awesomeness of my weekend was the source of my happiness. On Friday night R organized a dinner with a few of his friends, one of those fun but potentially awkward situations where everyone just knows R and the one friend he or she brought. Pitchers of sangria were the perfect solution to smooth out any lapses in the conversation and everyone was having a good time. Then things got weird.

I had suggested we go to an Italian restaurant across the street from my apartment because it can accommodate groups, and there’s always a bachelorette party going on and who doesn’t want to see a chick in a tiara, veil and sequined “BRIDE” tanktop getting drunk with twelve of her sluttiest girl friends? Well, us, as it turns out. The bachelorette party disrupting our dinner was sad and a little traumatizing for the easily offended – the future Mrs. could only round up three of her girl friends, but she outslutted them all when it was time for the waiter to dance/grind with her while Jock Jams played from the speakers. The waiter must moonlight as a stripper, and the bride-to-be was way too into dry humping him in the middle of the restaurant to be getting hitched any time soon. At one point a waiter sprayed a line of whip cream down her cleavage and licked it off. You can't even make this shit up. Not surprisingly, R banned me from ever choosing the restaurant again.

Saturday was one of those Fun York days, starting with the race. R and his friend M came to watch my finish, then the three of us and Coach G headed to the Great Lawn for some Frisbee action. We challenged four other dudes to a game of Ultimate, even though Coach G and I had nothing left in our legs. M carried us with some incredible catches, and I even scored one of our points. The other dudes wimped out before we could play to eleven, so we’re calling it a victory for The Good Guys. Later that evening, after naps and showers, we met up with R’s cousin and her husband for beer and barbecue. Life is good. We ordered a huge fishbowl drink that came with a plastic alligator filled with an additional shot. I spent the rest of the evening drinking with an alligator sticking out of the pocket of my khakis, the universal sign of a classy broad.

Sunday was cool and drizzly, so R and I went to the Guggenheim to see the Shapes of Space exhibit (check it off the Summer To-Do List!). We liked the permanent collection, but the exhibit itself was bizarre and disappointing. I’m pretty liberal with the sliding scale of What Counts as Art, but this pushed even my boundaries. Square of gold lamé on the floor? Not art. Plywood chicken coop with a TV inside playing a video of the chicken coop building process? Really not art. And the main attraction (as advertised on the subway) was a floor with square tiles that lit up in patterns to 50 Cent’s "Candyshop." I was disenchanted to discover that the tiles weren’t interactive and didn’t light up when patrons danced on them like the piano at FAO Schwartz in Big. Boring! But nothing a little ice cream in the park couldn’t fix. Really, there isn’t much in this world that ice cream can’t fix for me.

We rounded out the Fun York weekend with Chinese takeout and Superbad. Holy cow, I’m still laughing about a few parts. I feel like the movie makers took a big risk with a title like that – the potential for self-fulfilling prophecy is high. Humor is on their side, but if it sucked, one could answer the question, “How was Superbad?” by saying, “Super bad.” Anyway, it was hilarious. Supergood.

OK, I’m so bored that I might willingly make vocabulary flashcards to study for the upcoming GRE. With Easy and Easiest out on vacation I’m just left with Easier and JDate, neither of whom give me any work. Man, late August is a weird time at Nice Hedge Fund, when all of the bosses are out and the assistants are left to their own devices. T and I were talking this afternoon about our respective jobs. He works with creative types at a creative job where the tattooed to not-tattooed ratio is high, while I can think of two people in this entire office with visible tattoos: an over-muscled, intentionally bald IT guy with tribal bands around his biceps and a pseudo-cougar with your standard sun inked on her ankle just above the peep-toe stilettos that she wears every single day. The only “creative types” here are the admins who would rather be doing something else but can’t pass up the money. Hedge funds, it seems, are where creativity comes to die.

I think I’ve had enough fun for one day. Time to duck out early.

On My Business Card: All Food, All the Time

Well hello there, lovers. I know, I missed you yesterday, too. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?

Today, in my Midtown Holding Pattern…When Boredom Eating Attacks!

It started as innocently as ever: At 8:30 I went downstairs and got my daily bowl of Raisin Bran with a sliced banana. Then, in my infinite klutziness, I tried to answer my portable phone while walking up the stairs with my full bowl of cereal...enough said. So when I was making my second bowl of cereal, I poured in one little box of Raisin Bran, and then another little box of Total before adding the banana on top. Then I grabbed a cinnamon raisin bagel. And a corn muffin.

For lunch I ordered a chicken quesadilla. C, a full-fledged quesadilla junkie, orders one every day, but I’m only using once, maybe twice a week. I could quit any time, really. It’s cool, guys. In addition to her quesadilla she ordered a huge tuna melt on rye, and traded me half for half of my delicious fruit tart. We’re an awesome eating team, C and me. We’re also easily the two tallest females here at Nice Hedge Fund, and she’s got a good three inches on me. We’re a force to be reckoned with in heels (watch out, Loud Guy).

I just got an email from R inviting me to dinner with his cousin at this fantastic Harlem BBQ place. Count me in, especially because the last time I was there it was for the Governor of New York’s primary party with ARM and this is one of those memories that I’d like to replace. I was going to take the day off from running to give my ragged legs a rest before tomorrow’s 5-mile team championship race, but no more. I’ve got about 5,000 calories to burn off just to make room for dinner!

So, the aforementioned Nice Hedge Fund Funk has shifted away from C’s cubicle and has settled stinkily in the pantry a few feet away. It’s bad. Less unwashed-urinal today and more dead-animal-covered-in-spoiled-milk. Clearly, this is the work of something far more evil than Loud Guy, and requires more correction than simply chucking my shoes in the vicinity. We called the office manager; she is apparently smell-deaf. Or whatever. She thinks it’s just the trashcan and had one of the building elves empty the garbage. Oh, but the smell lingers. I’m employing the “close your nose and only breathe through your mouth” skill that I learned during childhood summers at Girl Scout camp without indoor plumbing. Nice Hedge Fund Funk is giving those Camp Tweedale latrines a run for their money, though it’s possible that my olfactory memory has stricken that particular brand of stench from my records.

LOUD GUY UPDATE: It sounds like he’s on a phone interview. (Fingers crossed!) The conversation started off with him saying, “So-and-so told me there are two positions available,” and he’s been using his best suck-up voice since, schmoozing about his retail market knowledge and planning a lunch meeting. Do you not see us sitting right behind you, Loud Guy? Do you think we’re too deaf to hear your conversations or too stupid to comprehend them? Man, at least take your call in an open conference room like the rest of us.

C: Good riddance.
Me: Should we put in a good word for him??
C: Totally.

We're Blaming the Smell on Loud Guy

I’m having ARM flashbacks this week like some kind of bad acid trip. First Easy asked me to charter him a helicopter to and from the Hamptons. Sure thing, I’ll just call up my guy…what, you don’t have a private aviation guy’s number memorized from your previous job? Oh. Hm. Weird.

So, I left a voicemail for my guy saying, “Hi, I’m no longer working for ARM, thank goodness, but I need to charter a helicopter…” and he called me back laughing. Really, after all the ridiculous flight arrangements I asked this man to make for ARM it was a miracle he called me back at all. Did you know that helicopters are an expensive way to travel? It would take me an entire month to make what Easy would spend on two hours of total flight time!

I like working for Easy because when I gave him the obscenely expensive quote he replied, “Ha, I might have to drive!” See? Bizarro ARM.

The flashback didn’t end with the extravagant transportation plans and my occasionally-useful mental Rolodex. I also received an email from The Queen of Darkness, the new ARM Assistant, asking me a question about one of his upcoming trips that I planned before quitting. Sure, I didn’t enjoy working with her, and she’s a bit of an odd duck with her long straggly hair, haunted house cell phone ring and a vehement dedication to wearing all black, all the time, but I don’t wish her anything but the best of luck in that role.

When I quit as his assistant in May, ARM struck a deal with me that I’d leave my contact information in case The Queen of Darkness needs help in the future and in return, he would pay me an unspecified monetary bonus at the end of June. My hopes weren’t high (he’s a cheapskate, after all) but I would have helped her anyway because I’m a decent person, so I agreed.

It’s August 15. Are we at all shocked that I haven’t seen a penny of that bonus?

Well, I upheld my end of the bargain, so I emailed him, skipped the pleasantries and asked when I can expect the bonus in the mail. That was Monday; still no response. After another week he’ll get a follow-up “maybe you overlooked my earlier email” email and I’ll attach a delivery and read receipt. And after that…well my mental Rolodex also still includes his personal credit card information and Social Security number. Just saying.

C just said to me, “Walk over here past my cubicle and tell me if it smells like poo.”

Sure enough, the area under the vent by her desk smells like a bathroom. Not like a someone-farted-smell, but like a toilet-that-hasn’t-been-cleaned-in-a-while-smell. Way to stink, Nice Hedge Fund.

You Take the Kids, I'm Keeping the KitchenAid

There exist, in my silly little head, a number of items whose possession grants the owner a certain level of grown-up-ness. I’m not talking about conventional things that one acquires through time like children or wisdom or a 401K. No, this list includes obscure things that symbolize maturity as I imagine it. A lack of Ikea furniture in one’s apartment, for example, or one of my personal favorites: matching bra and panties sets. (Really, isn’t there something deliciously sexy yet old-fashioned about coordinating undergarments?) Then there’s the car with a bike rack on top, which I touched on yesterday, as the penultimate pinnacle of adulthood. Double points for two bikes on top, his and hers.

But the be-all, end-all item, my ultimate metonymy of maturity is: The KitchenAid Stand Mixer (Red).

Sure, I could go out and buy one on my way home from work today. They’re pricey, but it wouldn’t break the bank. But I won’t. I’m not ready yet.

The very first thing I will do when (if?) I get engaged is register for a red KitchenAid Stand Mixer. Okay, maybe the second thing, after calling MomOh of course. Anyway. Forget crystal and linens, I don’t care about china patterns or flatware; just point me in the direction of the appliances, please. Getting a KitchenAid Stand Mixer might be the only good, solid reason for a girl to get married these days after all, what with increasing divorce rates and the preponderance of prenups. You take the kids, I’m keeping the KitchenAid.

I’m not sure I can tangibly explain why the KitchenAid Stand Mixer symbolizes adulthood to me. It’s big, it’s heavy, and for those reasons owning one represents a level of permanence and excess of kitchen counter space. Or chalk it up to my childhood: I watched my mother use hers hundreds of times to bake my father’s chocolate chip cookies or my angel food birthday cakes. And, well, it’s shiny and pretty and despite my New York Times-defined ability to eat and drink like a dude, deep down I am secretly a total girlie-girl.

It's true! My parents' attic is a repository of my childhood doll collections and boxes of exclusively pink clothing! And I like makeup (just not wearing it) and hair styling (just not my own)! Right. Well, as my friend KW once wisely noted, I have a mushy girlie side – you just have to lure it out with tequila shots.

Writing New York

During my sophomore year at Overpriced Private University, I took a class called Writing New York. It is important to note here that it later became the class that most influenced me, more so than any creative writing workshop, because everything I read and learned made the city feel like a living creature and not some cement jungle with a maze of unmanageable subways running underfoot. The syllabus included E.B.White’s Here is New York and Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns, Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing and Patti Smith's Horses. And there I was, living in the middle of all of this history. On the first day of class we filled out the usual questionnaires: name, major, email address, etc. Then the twist: we had to name our favorite place in New York City, presumably by which the TAs could prejudge us. I probably wrote "Washington Square Arch," its existence reified by every Overpriced Private University student who poses under it at orientation and again at graduation, but looking back I realize I didn’t yet have a good answer to that question.

I couldn’t have listed the Boat Basin at 79th Street on a summer evening with a friend, or the spot along the Hudson on a clear winter night when you can see a Ferris wheel and the Statue of Liberty lit up in the distance. I didn’t say the front seat of The Cyclone after eating a Nathan’s corndog and a funnel cake, or a bench at The Cloisters on a sunny autumn morning when the leaves start to fall, or simply the edge of my apartment roof with the Midtown skyline glowing in the background of a perfect first kiss. I couldn’t imagine these places and moments then – I was only one year old in New York Years. I’ll turn five at the end of this month, and if I had to answer that question today I’d have a hard time narrowing it down to just one place.

I think I would say Central Park, although it seems silly to name 843 acres as my “favorite place in New York City.” Hardly a day goes by that I don’t run or bike or think about being in Central Park. If I spin my office chair 45 degrees to the right, I can look through the windows behind me and see the all the way to the northern border at 110th Street. I know every hill and dip and mile marker along the drive, and I’m proud of that knowledge because I worked hard to acquire it, but the familiarity isn’t what I love. I’m drawn to Central Park because my image of it as a place, a favorite place, is constantly evolving with each new memory there.

The hill where I realized I had a stress fracture during a 10K race is replaced by the hill where I finally got down into my drops and pedaled at 27 mph without braking. The rowboat pond where I spent a leisurely afternoon a few summers ago is replaced by the rowboat pond that I hobbled to in my bike shoes during the final transition of a relay triathlon this past spring. The nervousness I felt at the thought of leading a pack of runners during my first week of coaching is replaced by confidence now that I know where I’m going and how hard I have to run to get there.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m living on borrowed time in Manhattan, like this isn’t my real life yet. I get artwork framed but never hang it up on the walls and I can’t commit to a new sofa because this is just temporary. I know that some day I’ll trade my pre-war for a colonial in the suburbs and my Metrocard for a Volvo with a bike rack on top, but if my present life doesn’t quite belong to me, that future feels downright stolen from someone else.

Whenever I start to feel like this, I read Joan Didion’s “Goodbye to All That” to check my progress on her timeline of living in Manhattan and remind myself why, exactly, I want to be a writer:

“…Some instinct, programmed by all the movies I had ever seen and all the songs I had ever read about New York, informed me that it would never be the same again. In fact it never was…but one of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened to anyone before.”

And just like that, this borrowed time doesn't seem so gratuitous and I know that I have a few more years until I've overstayed my welcome, a little while longer before I'm cleared to land where a patch of grass isn't something for which I have to pack snacks and picnic blanket.

"If You Can Only Have One Great Love"

I’m currently rounding out a stellar weekend with a tub of Tastykake shortbread cookies and a 5-3 Phillies victory. My shoulders are a little sunburned from spending the day on the Great Lawn with R tossing around a Frisbee, and my legs are a little sore from a hard bike ride tonight, but overall I am one happy girl.

On Friday night I took the train to Philadelphia with A and his girlfriend for a party with the H-town crew. I was tired from the week, and started to think that hours on the train for just one night wasn’t worth it, but oh, I was so wrong. The party was awesome in that “yeah we’re out of college but not too mature to do keg stands” way. W drunkenly left a butt imprint in his own drywall while wearing cut-off jean short-shorts, there was far too much discussion of G’s thingie, strangers were making out in every corner, and I commandeered a camera to capture it all. It turned out to be completely worth the combined 7 hours of travel time and lousy night’s sleep to drink and catch up with some of my old favorites.

I was antsy to stretch out my legs on Saturday afternoon when I got back to Manhattan, so I laced up my still-unloved sneakers and headed to the park. I planned to go short and easy for a shake out, but at each cut-off point I still felt good, so I kept going until I circled the whole park. More than anything, I think I needed a run like that to sort out all the craziness that goes on in my head. I am the best version of myself after a long run, at least when my shins are behaving as they are now (thanks, guys!). That evening brought pad thai for two, a comfy couch and a shared pint of ice cream, quite the welcome contrast to the night before.

I think I’m still smiling from this afternoon in Central Park. Armed with a blanket and snacks, we got there early and alternated between running around after the disc and relaxing in the shade. There’s something breathtaking about realizing that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world at that very moment.

I spent so much of this summer loving the beach that I nearly forgot how easy it is to fall in love with New York City.

Can You Give Me a Hand Getting Down From This Soapbox?

The New York Times ran an unintentionally comical article today about Modern Single Women ordering meat on first dates. Now, I know the Thursday Style Section is ludicrous, hence its appeal, but this article redefined ridiculous even by those standards. It hid behind a thin façade of “The Modern Single Woman is so daring! She eschews salad and eats meat, unlike women of yore who wanted to seem more ladylike on dates!” but really, it just opened up yet another avenue for women to overanalyze and overstress. A woman should order a burger to seem more “down-to-earth,” but she shouldn’t order expensive fancy burgers because those are meant for “men who want to impress women.” And she can order a steak, but she better be able to wax poetic about the nuanced superiority of Kobe beef. Seriously, gals? Then there is this terrific throwaway line that dangled awkwardly in the air:

“Of course, there are always those rare women who order what they want and to heck with what a man might think.”

…Not one woman discussed in the article fits that description. Even the lady who ordered a burger got the guy because he liked that she ordered a burger. Still with me? Okay.

I had all-you-can-eat barbecue and a Bud tallboy for dinner last night. Fried chicken, rib tips, macaroni and cheese and three corndogs – I don’t even want to think about where that puts me on this dining semiotics spectrum. Does he like me less now because I used a wet-nap and asked to take home my two remaining corndogs? More because I accidentally left them in his fridge?

I mean, I get it: eating a meal that is stereotyped masculine, choosing beer over wine or a cocktail, these are things that women can do to seem low maintenance and easy going. Sidebar: I once agreed to a first date only because he suggested dinner at a steakhouse. Then we dated for eight months. But wouldn’t ordering what you want (instead of obsessing over how it will influence his impression of you) actually make you easy going? All that faking it must get exhausting. Personally, I prefer my exhaustion to come from staying up late at night…and not faking it.

Dating is complicated enough as it is. Let’s leave burgers out of it, okay, New York Times?

Kisses and butterflies,
JackieOh

"And I Thought, Be Still My Heart"

Two words: Caffeinated vodka.

That is what I was drinking last night with R at Coach G’s bowling-and-boozing fundraiser. Ow ow, my heart. With a girlie name and pink bottle, the fundraiser-sponsoring vodka is clearly targeted for Manhattan’s understimulated and underfed female demographic. And it’s delicious in a cosmopolitan or four, if you can get past the jitters.

Bowling was a ton of fun. My adolescence in a small town with nowhere to go but a bowling alley and a movie theater carried me through the first game and I bowled a 116. Coach G’s friend Z dubbed me The Spare Queen, which has a nice little ring to it actually. I like the idea of being extraneous royalty. Anyway. By the second game, those cocktails caught up to me and my game went significantly downhill: at one point I tripped, fouled and nearly face-planted down the lane. No one has ever accused me of being graceful. R didn’t do so hot either – he may carry our team in pool and darts, but bowling is not his forte. Gutterballs, yes. Strikes, not so much.

I woke up early this morning to a terrifying thunderstorm that shook my whole apartment. One flash of lightning was so bright, and the thunder so immediate, that it must have touched down right outside my window. My initial thought as the rain pelted my air conditioning unit was, “Ugh, I wish I didn’t have a ten-minute walk to work.” Boy, did I dodge a bullet. The storm knocked out nearly every subway line in Manhattan, forcing suits and secretaries to make a humid trek to the office on foot. So thank you, Goddess of Midtown, for granting me my lovely little morning commute. I know I may forget to say it sometimes, but I love you. And that color goes great with your eyes. Have you lost weight? Really, you look fabulous!

Shortly after waking up, I remembered that we stopped at a deli on the way home and I had completely forgotten to eat my vanilla-frosted-and-rainbow-sprinkled gigantidonut. It’s a good thing I’m putting off that “taking better care of my self physically” thing until next week. Mmm, donuts...Now if I could have just stayed in bed a few more hours this morning, life would be perfect. ("This could be a brand new start...")

I have a confession to make. I love the movie You’ve Got Mail, due in part to how much I covet Meg Ryan's character's Upper West Side apartment – that isn’t the confession part, though. See, yesterday I said something mean to a friend who hurt me. It was exactly what I wanted to say, but afterward I felt terrible, just as Tom Hanks warns Meg Ryan she would. She writes, “I was cruel, and I’m never cruel…No matter what he’s done to me, there’s no excuse for my behavior." I wish I could take it back; I wish I could go back to the start and do several things differently in this situation. I may have serious doubts about the kinds of Happily Ever Afters that happen in movies like You’ve Got Mail, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a late-breaking Everything Works Out for the Best in the End.

"Spider-Pig, Spider-Pig..."

In an epic feat of time management skills, I coordinated laundry, a run and a shower in the span of an hour and a half last night, then headed uptown to R’s apartment where he was cooking us dinner. Smart man – the quickest way to my heart is through my stomach, and dinner was delicious.

We relaxed for a bit, then met up with Coach G and M for the Simpson’s Movie. My expectations were low given the recent suckiness of the show, but I was surprised by how hard I laughed. Afterward we made a vague stab at sobriety, even going so far as to look for an ice cream shop, but at 11:30 on a Monday night the only open places were bars. We quickly found ourselves in a New Orleans-themed dive on the Upper West Side where the wall behind the bar was proudly decked with lacy bras drunkenly discarded by their now-unsupported owners. If my memory serves me, one of my former teammate’s bra hangs among them, but that is unconfirmed. After a few beers and a round of pool, Coach G ordered a “mystery pitcher” that tasted like KoolAid mixed with the entire bottom shelf of the bar, and we drank it straight from the pitcher through tall colorful straws. Yes, I am aware that it was Monday. Don’t judge me.

Whenever the four of us go out, we play two games of darts or pool and invariably tie. R and I usually take the first game, but then M stops hitting the backboard and starts hitting bull’s-eyes and she and Coach G gloat about their win like crazy. Tied at one pool game apiece last night, we played a tie breaker and R and I made a valiant comeback to emerge Champions of the World. Oh yeah, it was a shining moment for us, complete with victory dance. But our Skinny Runners Drinking Quartet is coming to an end; M left today for grad school, rendering Coach G partner-less in bar games. We’ll have to work on our recruiting skills.

Ugh, this day is dragging. I haven’t done any work since I helped Easy mop up the coffee that he spilled all over his desk. I’m quite possibly the highest paid cleaning lady in the country. And I wonder why I’m rarely motivated to put on nice work clothes, slap on a little mascara, blow dry my hair and generally look like I care about this job. Changing out of my flip-flops into dress shoes is the extent of my efforts. But maybe it goes hand-in-hand, like if I iron a dress shirt and wear a pencil skirt and pumps, will I feel more motivated to submit Easy’s expense report, or order Easiest new business cards? Probably not, but I’d look corporate-hot, which is motivation in its own right, I suppose.

Let's end this humid Tuesday with a little gander at my Horoscope:

“…Additionally, with the Moon and Mars in your 6th House of Health, it may be time to take care better care of yourself physically by paying more attention to all aspects of personal hygiene, diet, and exercise.”

Ok, I get it, Universe. I’ll clean up my act…

…next week.

The Oh Sisters and Every Hot Guy in Town Did the Island Run

I was struck by a crippling Case of the Mondays this morning, just barely summoning the strength to drag my tired butt out of bed. If I drank coffee, today would be the day I’d order a double-shot. Last week’s faint buzz of work activity dissipated completely – I didn’t receive any emails over the weekend and I actually started to worry that maybe my BlackBerry was broken. (It’s not.) So I’m back to staring at my computer monitor and daydreaming. The sky over Central Park is dark and cloudy, the kind of gloom that portends a very soggy evening run and probable neglect of my threatening laundry pile.

This was my last weekend at the shore until Labor Day. (I know, you’re all thrilled for the end of my blathering about my deep and personal relationship with the Jersey Shore.) I’m always sad to leave but I’m happy to be spending the next few weekends here in Manhattan. I logged a solid 36 travel hours this summer, half of them spent nodding off on strangers’ shoulders on Amtrak trains and all of them worth the ensuing Monday tiredness to see my friends and family.

SisterOh and I ran the Captain Bill Gallagher’s Island Run together on Saturday evening. I ran it years ago, and every year since we talk about entering but always find some reason to bail. She signed us up Friday night – with our tshirts and official race numbers there was no wimping out this time. The race starts at the Beach Patrol house in the center of town, goes north to the top of the island, south to the bottom of the island, and back to center. There are three killer transitions through the dry sand, but otherwise it’s ten miles of flat running along the shoreline, with thousands of spectators lined up handing out water and offering encouragement. We ran relatively easy, chatted about school stuff, checked out the (many) hot guy runners, and generally had a blast. As Dr. F said, “The only two people who look like they’re having fun out there are [JackieOh] and [SisterOh],” and he was probably right. Just past mile 5 we both checked out the same guy and SisterOh said subtly, as if reading my mind, "Now that's a reason to run a little faster!" Somewhere in the past year I blinked and my little sister isn't so little anymore - she's now a younger, skinnier, more-OCD and less-bitchy version of me. It's fantastic. After the race we stripped off our sandy, sodden sneakers and dove into the Atlantic. It was wonderful, and I think all races should end in similar fashion.

Loud Guy was out all last week, and I got used to the peace and quiet. On Wednesday night over too many after-work drinks we discovered that everyone on the floor (not just me and C) is fed up with his volume and whining. Now he’s back and should be warned that I’m wearing some potentially pain-inflicting wooden wedge heels. He’s been on the phone with The Girlfriend for the past two hours in a back-and-forth bitchfest about plans for the evening. He keeps suggesting dinner, she obviously doesn’t want to go, then they get into the “What’s more important to you?” deathtrap questions…It’s truly amazing at this point.

My conversation about plans for the evening went like this, via text messages:

R: Simpson’s movie tonight?
Me: I’m in.
R: Invite M and G?
Me: I’ll see if they’re free.

See, Loud Guy, this is how it works when you’re dating someone who WANTS to hang out with you. No great debate, no drawn-out phone calls, no annoying your co-workers. There’s been mention of a pedicure - The Girlfriend would rather get her nails done than hang out with Loud Guy. I feel you, girl, but have some pity and cut him loose. He actually just said, “I guess I just have a little perspective on the situation…” Let me assure you, Loud Guy, you do not have any perspective on the situation or you’d be off the phone and my shoe would be back on my foot instead of perilously close to being flung at your head.

Christ, I need to start drinking with breakfast.

Happy Friday, Lovers!

Whoa.

Are you sitting down? I think you better sit down for this.

Yesterday I was too busy DOING WORK to post.

I know, I’m still reeling from the shock, too. Hold me.

Alright, so maybe it was less “work” and more “oddball tasks for Easier’s upcoming trip to China” but the point remains: I was actually doing stuff for the people who pay me besides reading the entire internet and Google-chatting and being hungover. Granted, a large portion of my morning was spent printing, hole-punching and binding a few hundred pages worth of background reading for Easier’s trip. Ah yes, that English degree from Overpriced Private University really bolstered my hole-punching skills. Oh, this Midtown Holding Pattern. I did, however, put my superior gift-wrapping skills to use for the books that Easier is giving to businessmen in China. I wanted to give them Yankees hats, but he went the safe route with autographed copies of latest tome by SuperRich Nice Hedge Fund Owner. Boring!

Hypothetically, what is the minimum length requirement for a bender? A week? Two? I don’t think I qualify, but it’s been quite a drunken week starting off with Tuesday’s Smelly Slumber Party. Wednesday brought drinks with co-workers followed by Yuenglings, cheesesteaks and the Phillies game with J & A. Then last night was M’s big send off, marking the end of a great few weeks of post-running class partying. We washed two games of pool down with a few pitchers, headed downtown to catch College Friend J play bass for a singer/songwriter’s set on the Lower East Side, then rounded out the night with more beer and delicious macaroni and cheese at midnight. Somewhere around 3:30AM I lost the ability to speak in coherent sentences. Hey, good thing I'm not running a 10 mile race on the beach tomorrow with SisterOh- oh wait. Fuck. Anyway, this week kicked ass, utter lack of sleep aside. I’m going to have a great train nap on my way to the beach this afternoon, I can already tell. I’ll open my GRE study book and I’ll be out like a light in two minutes flat. Perfect.

While I sort of did work yesterday, I definitely didn’t do any work today. At lunch I took a little stroll through Central Park to watch a few innings of Cycling Friend R's corporate softball game. His team was playing The Today Show, and sure enough, there was Tiki Barber playing centerfield, looking goofy as all get out in a tshirt and baseball pants. I hate the Giants, but now that he’s retired I want to hang out with him and watch sports and get really pumped up about hi-def television. He’s like a real-life cartoon character! I missed my chance to say hi, though, because I was too busy resisting the urge to yell, “Pitcher’s got a big butt!” when Cycling Friend R was on the mound. He was lobbing beach balls out there, and I didn’t think his ego could withstand the abuse.

I spent the rest of the afternoon buying tickets to various upcoming concerts. Ticketmaster, stop kidding yourself: There is nothing “convenient” for me about tacking on ten bucks to every ticket purchase. Let's call a spade a spade, you bastards.

"These Hot-Weather Colds Can Kill You"

Holy cow, my body is not happy with me. I figured my liver would be the rabble-rouser of the bunch but now it seems that my immune system is the most mutinous. I’m on the cusp of a lulu, I can feel it, and my current course of action is chasing Sudafed and Vitamin C with Airborne and getting a good night’s sleep.

I went out last night after running class with what has become the usual crew. We normally limit ourselves to Thursday night, but it’s M’s last week in New York and she insisted we go out both nights, so celebrate we will. I’m going to miss her – we’re just becoming good friends and her leaving throws off the guy-girl ratio. If last night was any indicator, Thursday will be a complete shit-show. After countless pitchers and a few cutthroat rounds of darts, we decided that an impromptu slumber party at R’s apartment was a really good idea. Drunk Ideas are always good ideas, especially for Coach G and his propensity for falling asleep on the subway and hours later ending up back where he started. Like the good college students that we aren’t, we stayed up way too late drinking and eating snacks from a huge care package R’s mom sent him. Man, how great are care packages? MomOh sends wonderful care packages full of individually wrapped brownies and new socks and boxes of tampons. (Hint, hint!)

When I went to take the subway home this morning, I discovered that the train wasn’t making any local stops. I had spent all my money on dinner and beer, so taking a cab was out. So I said to myself, “Self, what would Dean Karnazes do?” Good thing I was still wearing my sneakers and smelly running clothes! And that’s how I learned a valuable life lesson: Drinking until 2:30AM and then running on hungover legs a mere four hours later sucks. Hard. But for Dean (oh, we’re on a first name basis now), it was worth it.