Wok Weiss

I have a very hard time listening to criticism. Besides the fact that I am near perfect and thus find most critiques (especially those aesthetically-oriented) a waste of time and makeup, I have always had a knack for seeing myself for what I am (a solid 9.8, 10 if I had better feet), and not in need for other people's "candid" opinions. But this morning was the first time since 3rd grade gym class when my teacher advised me to wear pants that do not promote camel toe even if I was 140lbs and 5 foot nothing, that I understood someone's honesty and guidance as really just trying to help.

My wonderful and tall boyfriend Bob frequently asks me what makes my face so tan. He is confused by my before and after bathroom looks in the morning, going from natural olivey skin tone, to florescent orange with a slight shimmer, enter Fried Weiss. I have explained to him, and to many of you who ask, that bronzer is a way of life not just an accessory and without my odd-reddish glow, I wouldn't stand out in a crowd of unsuspecting Caucasians, or have this blog. Bob then asked me to show him how much bronzer I wear and how I do my make-up. I didn't look up at his face until I opened the third bronzer in my 5-bronzer routine, and when I did, brush in hand, paint strokes almost even and ready for the next coat, he looked stunned, slight disgusted, and well, disturbed.

I had gotten so used to the bronzing ritual, I had forgotten how much of a maniac I was making myself look like everyday. I always wondered why none of the other sales reps at my job had printed proposals with orange fingerprints, or why my keyboard was a slightly pink/tan hue, or why my boss always asked me if I went away for the weekend and seemed skeptical when I said no. It was in that moment, in that simple moment of MAC tools and tall Bob's horror, that I saw myself for what I was - Burnt Weiss...

Today, I sit before you (pretend we are actually talking), a new shade of Weiss. With only one, and I repeat, ONE coat of bronzer and slight blush, I can actually feel the breeze touch my face today, I can touch white without worry, and my face matches my neck, chest, well, my whole entire body. I have gotten endless compliments (I think), from "you look so much better without all that crap" and "wow you really should spend less time in the morning getting ready - trying doesn't work for you." And so my friends, today and for the next few days (all I can promise for now), I will go where no overly tan, Jersey-looking, 5-bronzed women has gone: Weiss Au Naturale.

In the meantime, here are some ideas for my new blog name, just in case the anti-bronze thing sticks:

Wok Weiss
Pan-Fried Weiss
Baked Weiss
Seared Weiss
Lightly Toasted Weiss
Under the Broiler Weiss
Crock Pot Weiss
Weiss Tempura
General Tso's Weiss
Nuked Weiss

Opinions welcome...:)

Filet-O-Weiss

What a brilliant way to sell fish during a recession, especially at McDonald's. Can someone please make the hip-hop remix so I can dance in public to this amazing tune? I wouldn't be laughing if I were up on that wall, although if they fried me, well then I wouldn't argue. Fried Weiss, Filet-O-Weiss, either works...Check it out!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bJOIqVAD-s

Valentine's Day and The Black Death

We are fast approaching one of the most paper-wasteful of the Hallmark holidays on our calendar. A day that is not remembered by what was given or received, but by how those gifts compare to what others get around you. A day founded during The Middle Ages, an era that started off well, but ended with the Black Death, war and economic strife. A day thought to have been based on a the story of Saint Valentine, who was rejected by his mistress and was so heartbroken, he stabbed himself in the chest and sent his "still-beating heart" to her to show is "undying" love. Ironic, and a bit disgusting, but this is why we send heart-shaped crap to one another, as a tribute to the Temple of Doom-like gesture that Saint Valentine so thoughtfully acted out.

It is approximated that nearly one billion valentines are sent each year worldwide, which makes Valentine's Day the second largest greeting card holiday of the year, only second to my birthday. It is also estimated that men spend twice as much money than women each year on this holiday. While I think commercialization is important, and responsible for most of my better physical features, I can't imagine what other gifts aside from chocolate, roses, heart-shaped boxes, jewelry and mixed tapes (is that just me?) they are going to have to push this year to try and get men to throw money away on such nuisances, when they can barely pay for their own necessities these days.

I do believe a romantic thought or two should be applied to this upcoming Saturday, February 14th, especially if done with originality (and includes a ten-pack tanning package), but this year, V-Day is gonna be a tough day for everyone. Given how hard I work at looking busy in the office, I need to save that little cash I do make, as do our men, so my vote is to forgo a lavish love fest this year, and go back to the small stuff, the little things that used to matter like fondue and feety-pajamas.

Feeling warm and fuzzy this year doesnt have to cost much, involve ripping out your still-beating heart and mailing it to your date, nor does it have to involve a mixed tape because where the hell do you find a tape deck anymore? This year, during a spiraling recession, late Middle Ages-like Valentine's Day, it should be more about what this holiday has always has been about, and I think somehow we have forgotten: Absolutely nothing.

Fried in First

Last Monday night, my company had their annual Holiday party at their annual random pick of a venue - Dave & Buster's. My reaction to this news was a 1 on the enthusiasm scale, given that I am more of a martini and stilettos kind of girl than a Dave & Buster's kind of girl. Or so I thought...

I was quite the athlete in high school. Not only did I get "best sportsmanship" as my senior year superlative (who wants to get "most beautiful" anyway), I almost wound up playing D1 basketball but gave it up to do the sorority/binge drinking thing. Given that my older brother was more into golf and bowling in high school (sorry Big Fried but you were), my dad placed his hopes for a contact sports child on me, and told me to act more like a tom boy than boy crazy. Clearly I managed to be both, but either way, in my twenties, I am far more tan than agile. So Dave & Buster's wasn't immediately on my "things I am thrilled to do" list.

To my surprise however, upon arrival to the Holiday extravaganza, not only did I forgo the buffet (unheard of especially when mini sliders are on the menu), I pushed passed the herd of small children waiting to get their game credits, and went straight to the basketball shooting game. I did well the first round, better the next, and so on and so on for almost an hour. I beat kid after kid, screaming in their face things like "boo ya" and "yeah WHAT?" I even chest bumped a younger girl I didn't even know when I got my highest score. And the tickets for winning kept coming out. I started a pile of them, disregarding the bruises forming on my knees and ankles from jumping in stilettos (please note this is a standstill hot-shots game, not a live action court situation, no need for jumping).

I felt a sudden surge of energy and level of competitiveness come over me that is strange and inappropriate for a professional woman at her company Holiday shindig, and I knew it was all down hill from here. Throwing my cardigan off and pulling my hair back into a ponytail, I challenged anyone I could to car racing, skeet ball, even the game where you pay tokens to get more tokens. I was sweating, talking far too fast, and somewhere along the way lost my purse. But I didn't care. It was game time.

After an hour of standing at the hand-grabber candy machine (won a Charleston Chew and mini Butterfinger after ten tries - I at least deserved a Snickers), I calmed my heartbeat and stepped away from the flashing lights, sound of coins falling and kids screaming. And I realized...I have a ton of tickets to cash in for a prize!!!

I was making my way over to the store (filled with the kind of useless crap that only myself and a 9 year old would love), when my co-worker and friend Rachel stopped me. She explained that she had some tickets too and that it would be a nice gesture to give our tickets to a child (not sure why she assumes I am an adult), so that they can enjoy a bigger prize. Reluctantly I handed her my tickets in exchange for a glass of wine and watched as she "did the right thing."

I didn't sleep that night. Not only because I knew some kid was running around with an awesome toy that I fully deserved, but also because I felt something inside of me coming alive. I had forgotten how incredibly over-competitive (and sometimes scary), I can be when it comes to games, sports, really anything that involves a chance to win. And it felt great. Don't get me wrong, I love the city-girl side of me, the sushi-eating, french manicured, overly-bronzed woman that I am, but I also love that competitive, never-back-down, gotta get the win girl that I think I had forgotten about...

Sometimes it is in the smallest, most random things, like a Holiday party at Dave & Buster's on a Monday night that make you realize the greatest, most important things about yourself. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks about you, all that matters is what you know about yourself. I know that this fried lady has quite the fire inside of her, and well, I put up a damn good fight.

Aging is "Facocta"

I was at a friend's apartment last night for a fondue party, and I found myself making my way from an over-sized super cozy chair to a high wrought iron bar stool. As I sat down, I said out loud, "wow, this feels great. I really needed to switch to a nice hard chair," and it hit me. I am getting old.

I started to think about all of the other subtle signs in my life that are beginning to shed light on the fact that college wasn't just a few years ago anymore. It was almost 5 years ago, and high school almost 10. And while I am only at the ripe age of 26, I am aware now that I am entering an unknown and harsh terrain called growing up.

Some of my favorite shows during the week, most are of the mindless reality TV-show genre, start at 10 or 10:30pm, and that schedule suddenly makes me angry. 10pm seems much later than it used to, and I fight heavy eyelids just to get to the conclusion of the program. I have complained several times recently that these shows should be on at 8pm which is a far more "reasonable" hour. And when I do get in bed at night now, I sigh. Not an "oh this is a comfy bed" sigh, but more of an "oh my body is aching and now it can re-gain its strength" sigh. Very scary.

I also have a new sense of impatience. And when my patience is tested I use angry Yiddish words that my Jewish grandmother frequently spews when she too feels a sense of injustice or that her time is being wasted. When the bus came late the other day, (yes people, I take the bus), I swiped my metro card, turned to my bus-friend and said emphatically, "this bus schedule is facocta." That is Yiddish for f'd up. Who says that?

Have I mentioned all of a sudden I cannot digest dairy? Yes, age has eliminated an entire level of the food pyramid for me, and now I have doctors asking me if I take calcium supplements so I don't get osteoporosis. The fact that the word "osteoporosis" came up in my annual check-up last year means lollipops after exams are no longer acceptable (my pediatrician put in a good word for me with my internal doctor a few years back), and I have to move on to a mineral supplement parting gift instead.

There is something beautiful in this growing up business though. I do get a lot more sleep than I used to, and I have no choice but to listen to my body when I am beat since now it yells instead of whispers when I am worn down. I also have a lot more empathy towards my parents, grandparents, and the old guy who calls me every day at work and asks me if we have eggplant (I work at a magazine).

Growing up and getting older also reminds me that each moment is a true gift and that I am blessed to have my health and a full life packed with love, family and friends. And although I am grateful for this day and this time, I do hope that someday they start to offer senior citizens discounts at the tanning salon. That, my friends, will never change.

The Cat Lady

Yea yea, so I am a cat lady, so what?

I live alone in a studio on the east side of Manhattan. I have a coffee maker, a nightstand with lots of half-read books, and yes, a cat. I know the stereotypes, believe me, I hear them all the time. And I understand that a lot of people don't like cats, claiming to be allergic to avoid contact with the "alien being," or just telling me "I like cats, I just would rather watch him than touch him."

People are always surprised that I am a cat lady. Given that my freezers contents consist of an oversized bottle of Grey Goose and ice, and that I have more wine than food in my apartment, one might be shocked to find out that I rescued and adopted a cat. Some people even ask me when I have time to spend with the little guy, being that I work almost 9 hour days, and have to "entertain" at night (clients or otherwise).

The truth is, I don't spend that much time with him, and when I do see him, I am usually 3 martinis in and am more concerned about the bagel that I am about to take down at 1am. This is why my cat, Sir Zigfried Weiss, aka Ziggy, is more of a gangster than a cat. He is pissed. He is pissed that I am rarely home, and pissed that I cannot commit to the cat lady life the way most cat ladies do. He is pissed that he is underloved and overlooked, and I can't blame him.

After seeing an Animal Planet special on a cat lady hoarder who lived and breathed taking care of felines, he realized, I am just not up to cat lady-par. He also realized that if he wanted me to be a better cat lady, that he was going to have to pull some trick out of his...paw, to get my attention.

When I get home at night, I am left to fend for myself. Ziggy has a white head band on and he is sliding ninja-style along the hallway wall, making his way to me, the resentment filling his eyes with controlled anger. We rumble, briefly. I am left with scratches that once the vodka wears off I know will sting, and I ask myself, what did I do to deserve this? I appease the lord of the cats with salmon flavored treats, coaxing him into forgetting that I have been gone most of the day. I see him waver in his trust, he bites, I bleed a little more, a tear rolls down my cheek, and I turn off the light and get into bed.

He stands on one leg (that's how ninja cats sleep), balancing on the edge of the bottom of my bed beckoning me through fluffed whiskers to play with him, tire him, to give him some freaking credit. But I am too sleepy, and wounded, and I fall asleep to the sounds of his frustrated sighs as he lays down to sleep yet another 8 hours of his existence away. I can feel his dissapointment and as much as I hate going to bed angry, we do.

Being a cat lady is no easy feat. The love I have for the furball outways the brief battles, and cost of Neosporin and Band-Aids each month. And I do have someone to come home to, domestic cat violence or not, he is always there. The best part of being a cat lady though is in breaking the stereotype. We are not all crazy, nor are we all lonley and desperate. In fact, I am far too tan, far too much of a lush, and far to busy to be defined as such.

I believe I have elevated cat ladies to a new place. A place where even if one choses to write an entire blog post about her cat (not sure who would do such a thing), she can still be considered to be full of life, and also respected for her love of the feline.

In Memory of “Captain Max”

Endless tides meet endless times, and he aboard his boat,
Pink sun kissing rippled waves, beauty admired as in a sonnet God wrote.

He stands at the helm, crystal sand and salted breeze at his cheek,
The sky brushed with purple clouds and golden bands as if heaven had a leak.

Strong fists pull rope taught and wide sails lap and then stand upright,
And like a seabird skimming the mirrored foam, the white vessel takes flight.

Wood grazing water, boundless with fury and fervor, leaping from crest to crest,
He rides his stallion into the wind, resonating with passion as the sea can attest.

How unsullied joy is, when we become what we worship and love,
As he glides across the horizon and follows the wistful tides to above.