I Maybe Also Puked in a Kitty Litter Box

I’m sure you are all just DYING to know how my high school reunion went. “Strange” and “awkward” are two words that leap to mind. It was like being in the cafeteria (“The West Commons” for those in the know) only the lights were dimmer, everyone was a little older, I had a glass of wine in my hand, and the food was worse. For $40 I expected a little more excitement than domestic beers, mozzarella sticks and boring conversations with people I didn’t care about five years ago and care about even less now. Where were the scandalous hook-ups, the outrageous transformations, the alcohol-fueled confrontations? Yeah, the reunion was lame so I got drunk and then everything was a lot funnier. Like when I fell over while getting carded at the next bar we went to and then the bouncer wouldn’t let me in because, well, I was fall-down drunk – uproarious!

If I had my wits about me I might have argued with the bouncer that really, I fall down sober all the time. Mere hours earlier SisterOh and I went for a run on a nearby nature trail and it got very dark very quickly which made avoiding tree roots nearly impossible. I tripped and hit the ground hard with my right shoulder and hip. The fall on the track still takes the cake, but I had the wind knocked out of me and needed to walk for a minute to catch my breath. So you see, Mr. Bouncer dude, you may have been right and I may have had about three too many glasses of wine, but falling down will never be a good indicator of my sobriety.

This inability to hold my liquor is a very disturbing development. Am I…getting old? Saturday night was really the only drinking I did all holiday weekend. Screw that, I just need to build my tolerance back up and maybe I can get back to drinking shape by New Years. Older, more responsible Jackie isn’t scheduled to show up until at least 2012.

GAH I am the sorriest excuse for a female! Here I am, trying to be all cute and wintery and office appropriate by wearing pantyhose, and I can’t even make it to noon before getting a run in them. I need to find a job where I can wear gym shorts and sneakers to the office - I suck at this heels-and-skirt thing.

So JDate is having some big meeting this week, and invitees are calling to RSVP. One lady just called from a company called Jewcy. She spelled it for me, or else I would have assumed it was Juicy, famed overpriced velour sweatsuit peddler and not some terrible pun on religion. Still, nothing compares to He’Brew, the Chosen Beer. Anyway, I emailed him the names with the subject line: Jewcy (really?), and he responded with: Hilarious. Can you tell he’s totally my favorite?

You Know, I'd be More Thankful If You Refilled My Glass

Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you are enjoying the year’s best holiday (an entire day devoted to EATING DELICIOUS FOOD!) with your friends and loved ones. Almost. I actually wish you were here with me, witnessing the circus tent that MomOh’s family calls a holiday gathering. Everyone is on their best behavior because DadOh’s parents are here, but there is plenty of room for under-table-shin-kicking. At this very moment, Aunt F is pissed off at Uncle J because he made an insinuating comment about her movie tastes, Aunt C and MomOh are discussing my relationship with R without realizing I’m within earshot, and Uncle D and Uncle J are planning to deep-fry the turkey next year. In classic JackieOh form, I filled my plate with stuffing and cranberry sauce and broccoli rice casserole, inhaled, and escaped to the guest bedroom upstairs where the quiet is only occasionally punctuated by laughter traveling up through the heating vent.

It would be easy to overlook the true meaning of Thanksgiving when it is overshadowed by MomOh’s outstanding cooking and football and Turkey Trot 5K races, but I think I’ve had enough wine at this point to start dishing out the weepy I’m Thankful For’s. I’d advise you refill your own glasses and brace yourselves.

I’m thankful for the wonderful FamilyOh: for MomOh who always knows what I’m thinking and DadOh who supports me in everything I do, for BrotherOh who cracks me up when we’re driving around and SisterOh who reminds me of myself so much it hurts sometimes. I’m thankful for my beautiful friends: for E in Philly and L in Texas and M in Nashville and J in New York, for my running loves and my cycling loves, for the friends who knew me before I moved to New York and became well-adjusted, for the friends who made New York a home, and for the friends I will always go home to.

I’m thankful for C and D and the Easies+JDate for making my nine-to-five something to enjoy instead of something to dread, and I’m vaguely thankful for ARM for reinforcing the notion that I can do anything I attempt. I’m thankful for my lovely little apartment, mice and all, and for my even lovelier little commute to the office. I’m thankful for early mornings in Central Park and late nights on the Upper West Side and shared pints of coffee-brownie ice cream and warm arms that wrap around me until I fall asleep.

And I am thankful for you, dear readers, who make this silly little blog worthwhile.

Well look at that, I’m out of wine.

Love,
JackieOh

And Now, Here's C with a Public Service Announcement

It’s Goofball Friday over here at Nice Hedge Fund, and we’ve got a serious case of the giggles. We ordered burgers and onion rings for lunch, and there is quite a bit of internet hot dude ogling and Loud Guy trashing going on. C came in this morning hungover and, well, kind of orange. Note to self: Spray tanning in November is a bad idea. It seems her definition of “light, natural color” didn’t quite match that of the sprayer and she’s growing more orange as the day wears on. By lunchtime she looked like my cousin who as a baby ate only carrots and sweet potatoes. At this rate she’ll be a full-on Oompa Loompa by mid-afternoon – good thing the girl loves midgets!

When C mentioned she was spray tanning last night, I thought, “Hey, maybe I should try that so I don’t look so pale at the reunion next week!” Phew, dodged that bullet. Now I can focus all of my outward reunion panic on what I’m going to wear! I’m thinking this calls for something tight, short and low-cut.

While Middle School Jackie was awkward with regrettable hair/braces/fashion choices, High School Jackie was only marginally less awkward with regrettable hair/fashion/extracurricular activity choices. This is certainly not to say that I’m cured of my adolescent awkwardness as Post-College Jackie. I trip far too frequently, repeatedly lock myself out of my apartment, and I really should have worn a thong with these pants today. But I’ve got my hair under control, I no longer shop exclusively at Express, and maybe no one will remember that I was one of the founding members of the Robotics Team and voted “Most Likely to Injure Herself or Others” in the marching band. Oh yeah, I’m saying my prayers to the Goddesses of Distraction by Inappropriate Clothing . Tight, short and low-cut may be my only hope. That, and lots of booze.

I’m nervous about this weekend. Tomorrow I’m having lunch with R, his mom and aunt. Then in the evening we’re going to his cousin’s surprise party with his brother and sister and their significant others. See, the last time I spent time with his family we played a fun little game called What Else Hasn’t R Told Me About Himself? and I’m not sure I’m ready for a rematch.

And of course, there is always the burning issue: What am I going to wear?

Eyeballs, Boogies, and Religious Catchalls

I had to get my eyes checked yesterday. Note to self: Take a half-day for next year’s eye exam.

Normally I like scheduling doctor appointments during office hours. You get to leave for a little while, no one is particularly jealous or resentful because you aren’t going anywhere fun, and it breaks up the monotony of the day a little bit. Lord knows I need that. Well, yesterday I learned that computer screens and Nice Hedge Fund’s fluorescent lighting scheme are the arch nemesis of dilated pupils.

The examination itself is a kind of low-level torture. They sit you in a dark corner and make you look through microscopes and say what you see! There I was, sweating though the whole thing, nervous about giving a wrong answer – I couldn’t make out a number in that last circle, oh no I’m going color-blind! I can’t find the white dot in my periphery, can they tell if I fake it? It’s too much pressure to handle before lunch! Then, as if that isn’t enough agony, they make you stare at a green light and then shoot a puff of air into your eyeballs. Test for glaucoma my ass, that scared the shit out of me and once I knew how much it sucked I was understandably reluctant to let the girl test my other eye. The one and only highlight of the pre-dilation tests was the eye patch I got to sport.

(Girl: You can just hold it over your eye.
Me [ignoring her, putting on eye patch]: Argggh!)

But the worst of it all occurs after the exam, when your pupils are unnaturally widened to the max and you have to blindly navigate the streets of Manhattan wearing non-prescription sunglasses and wincing at the sunlight like a misdirected mole person. Then, once you make it safely back to your office by following pedestrian traffic, you get to look like a mid-afternoon lush wearing sunglasses indoors and vaguely stumbling around. Ah, if only.

Could someone do me a solid and tell me where autumn went? Or, specifically, September and October? Because I sort of blinked and it’s already a full week into November. Holy cow. The Time and Temperature Tower outside my window (such a nifty feature of my Midtown Manhattan view) said 35 degrees at 5am this morning when I was piling on layer after layer of spandex to go meet the girls for a bike ride, and I am just NOT READY for this kind of weather. My under-nose area is already chapped from wiping my boogies on my bike gloves, but I’m still shamefully lousy at snot-rockets. An unfortunate percentage of my attempts land on my shoulder, or helmet strap, or face, or innocent passersby. Just a friendly little PSA reminding my readers of what a classy broad I am!

Also, it's dark when I'm leaving the office, and it's not like I'm ever here past 5pm! I'm about to get on board with Midwesterners and declare my hatred and possible boycott of Daylight Savings Time. Can it be like a religious thing, as in, "Oh, I'm not an hour late, I just don't believe in Daylight Savings Time"? That's the direction I'm heading.

Like I Really Need A Reason Anymore

My major accomplishment of the day was making mailing labels for my graduate school applications. Yes, anything to avoid working on my actual application and writing sample. I’ve been considering alternative formats for some of the supplementary materials I need to send: the Why You Should Admit Me Haiku, or perhaps, a Personal Statement Sestina? Really, asking writers to write about why they want to be writers (in 500 words or less) seems, oh I don’t know, defeatist.

I’m desperately avoiding the “I write to discovery the poetry of my soul” bullshit. Heck, I write because I have a memory that is less like a steel trap and more like a copper sieve and I want to hold grudges. I want to stay pissed off at the people who hurt me, I want to remember exactly what so-and-so said to make me lose my temper. Sure, I want to remember the good stuff too, the compliments and the pet names and the sweet nothings, but those nuggets of happiness are denser, stronger, and they don’t slip as easily away through the slots of the sieve. It’s the anger that I lose so quickly, that hot-headedness that boils and dissipates in a matter of seconds.

(Side note: Loud Guy is on the phone lauding Al Gore to one of his Dude Bros. He just said, “Hey, he invented The Internet and he’s going to save the environment” AND I DON’T THINK HE’S BEING SARCASTIC. Removing shoe...)

You know what Fridays at the office need? 3PM Cocktail hour. One of the other assistants just came over to my cubicle and said, “Come have some wine with us!” Gee, ask me twice! Her boss, the chairman of Nice Hedge Fund (and eldest son of Mr. Nice Hedge Fund) was choosing wines for the upcoming Holiday Party and she was instructed to share the leftovers. A glass of pinot and a glass of champagne later, I’m pretty ready for the weekend. I would gladly allocate my fifteen dollars of lunch money toward the greater good of getting drunk every Friday.

But if that won’t fly with HR, at least I can say my TGIF’s that my bosses clear out by 4PM for the weekend, and I can follow suit. I’ve got a whole weekend of Marathon fun ahead of me (watching, not running) and that, my friends, is something to drink to.

Deal...or No Deal?

Hello there, lovers, what did you dress up as for Halloween?

A few weeks ago, R and I planned on dressing up like Howie Mandel and one of the briefcase-holding models from the TV show Deal or No Deal (respectively), but then we kind of dropped the ball and didn’t do anything about creating our costumes.

Well.

He came over around 6:15 last night carrying his usual backpack but also a black suit. In my infinite gullibility I believed his “I have a job interview tomorrow” explanation, and I didn’t even notice that he’d trimmed his goatee down to a soul patch. And that he was wearing a hat. I know, I’m terribly self-absorbed sometimes. Surprise! He had gone out and bought all of the supplies I needed to make a cardboard silver briefcase, and even shaved his head! I put on a pretty dress and used mascara to darken his soul patch to look more like Howie’s and we were the perfect Deal or No Deal duo. All we were missing was the manic contestant trying to do math – my briefcase even opened up and we used Velcro to switch up the dollar amount it contained. Sure, I still have silver spray paint on my trigger finger, but it was a terrific surprise for someone like me who, as a rule, hates surprises. I even like the shaved head…

We took the subway down to the Village and watched the insanity that New York City calls a Halloween Parade. No matter how many times I see it, I seem to forget in the ensuing 364 days just how crowded and crazy and naked it all is. I grew up thinking that Halloween was a night for clever, creative costumes; walking around Westgate Hills collecting candy in a pillow case; and watching The Blair Witch Project in basements with my cross country teammates. Not so in New York. Here, Halloween is the night where the notion of public decency is utterly trampled by the two million people crowded along Sixth Avenue, where the sale of fishnet thigh-highs reaches its annual peak, where trick-or-treating involves riding the elevator around one’s luxury high rise building or going door-to-door at the bodegas and Chinese laundries. Halloween is the chance to play out fantasies because it doesn’t really count: girls dress as slutty cops/childhood icons/superheros/angels/devils/felines and guys dress as girls dressed as slutty cops/childhood icons/superheros/angels/devisl/felines. The next morning you’ll wash the glitter out of your hair, trade your platform hooker heels for more conservative footwear and maybe put a shirt on over that sequined bra, but for this one night your indiscretion is beyond reproach. With R in his suit and me in a dress that wasn’t nearly short enough, we looked like a pair of Republicans out for nice dinner who found ourselves instead at a seedy burlesque show.

Then again, on our walk to the bar where we were meeting friends we took a detour and stopped in an ice cream parlor for a root beer float and an orange creamsicle cone. Really, I far preferred sitting there in the window enjoying my dessert to getting my ass grabbed by a gigantic dude in a frighteningly uncanny Dee Snyder costume at the crowded bar. Ah, if only I had dressed like a slutty cop, then I could have hit him with my nightstick.

There’s always next Halloween.