Janey's Lessons of 2006

Here are a couple of things I learned this year:

1) If you find yourself in a situation that feels dangerous to your soul or unsafe for your psyche -- get out. You will contort yourself into knots trying to force a fit and only succeed in throwing out your back.

2) If you are dating someone and the sex is bad -- get out. Life is far, far too short to be having bad sex. The corollary to this is -- if you are dating someone whose company you really, really enjoy, and the sex is bad -- get out while you can shake hands like a good sport and say, "No harm, no foul," and remain friends.

3) Listen to your gut at work. If you don't trust your own gut, have your most spiritually sensitive friend come into your office at lunch or to pick you up after work. Give them a tour. They will tell you things about your workplace that you are in complete and total denial about. The signs were all there for me -- the entryway wall was a flat, featureless black, the carpets are black, the uncarpeted areas are black linoleum. The walls were stark white without a single piece of artwork hanging. There was not a plant to be found in any of the common areas. All of the bookshelves in the hallways were devoid of books. I mean, not one book. There was nothing about the place itself that said, "Here's a happy workplace." Baby Boy's reaction was, "The energy at that place SUCKS."

4) If you see someone struggling, offer to help, even if they don't ask for it.

5) Don't work for scumbags. Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.

6) Be kind, be kind, be kind to someone every day. And remember that you are a someone. (I reallllly forgot this lesson this year).

The Universe Will Do For You What You Won't Do For Yourself

Ok, here's the skinny --

So I've been taking these miniscule little baby steps to get myself back out into the job market -- halfhearted calls to a couple of headhunters, updating my resume on some job search sites, responding to the occasional ad. It never hurts to see what's out there, right?

2006 was a pretty grim year, jobwise, what with selling my soul down the river to the highest bidder (thirty pieces of silver was the quoted price, I believe). Sorry for the mixed metaphor. Spent six months asquirm in a quagmire of bad management, a grim, humorless and not-brainy-enough-for-me workplace (some days I wondered if any of my coworkers had ever read a book), and a persistent feeling of unease, nearly from Day 1, that I had made a dreadful, dreadful mistake.

If it don't fit, don't force it, honey.

About a month or so ago, I gave up. I just stopped giving a shit. And well, when you don't give a shit, you don't give a shit, right? I believe these words actually left my lips when a job left the shop a day late: "Did anyone die because of this? Are we curing cancer here?" While I commend myself for my Big Picture perspicacity, it's one of those things that you probably shouldn't say to your boss.

On the other hand, I had this one client, who from what I learned on Monday has not been happy for months. Funny, no one saw fit to tell me about it. Ever. In fact, a few months ago, the report that I got was that this client was perfectly happy with things. And the salespeople in the company I worked with seemed to love me. In fact, the emails I've gotten after the fact from two of them have attested to that.

Net-net -- I got canned with extreme prejudice on Monday -- no performance reviews along the way despite my having requested one (in writing), no severance, and after 6-1/2 months, I wonder if I'm even eligible for unemployment. Funny how this happened just a few short weeks after I made a formal grievance to human resources about the "gender issue" at the company, after speaking directly to my manager at least three times about it, and having him acknowledge that four female production people left the company before I was hired FOR THE VERY SAME REASON.

Not to worry, Janey's got an appointment with the EEOC. Just exploratory, you see.

Strangely enough, I feel okay. I mean, my money situation just sucks right now, and it's decidedly weird to wake up and not have a job to go to, but I feel oddly liberated. Like the jailhouse doors were open, the golden handcuffs were yanked from my wrists, and I was pushed back out into the world. "And stay out!" yelled the warden.

But...the funny thing is that when the rug is yanked out from under your feet, you'll find all the things that you had swept underneath it. So I've put on my babushka, rolled up my sleeves and I'm getting down to work. Time to find out what it is that I really want to do with this one very short life I've been given.

How strange to have -- not exactly fear, but a feeling that absolutely anything is possible.

I mean, if I could find my frickin' social security card at the bottom of a box of papers (after going through four boxes of papers), I can pretty much do anything.

And while I was cleaning out those boxes, I found a photograph of myself. It was taken on one of the best days of my life -- the end of the first day of my very first AIDS Ride. I had ridden my bike from Boston to Storrs, Connecticut that day, the last 8 miles uphill. 98 miles, the furthest I had ever ridden in my life in one day. I am sitting in the doorway of my tent, still in my bike clothes, sweaty bandanna on my head, shoes off, and a cigarette between my fingers. I am smiling so hard it looks like my face is about to explode.

I remember how I felt at the end of that day -- I was bold and brave, and in the photograph, I am beautiful.

Now, I can get to work finding that girl again.

Jane's Approved Holiday Song List

With their representative first couple of lines to illustrate just why Jane loves them so much:

1) Fairytale of New York - The Pogues
"It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank/An old man said to me, won't see another one...."

2) Happy Xmas (War is Over) - John Lennon
"And so this is Christmas, and what have you done?"

3) Merry Christmas from the Family - Robert Earl Keen
"Mom got drunk, and Dad got drunk, at our Christmas party..."

4) Merry Christmas to Me/Hard Candy Christmas - KT Sullivan
"December rain is slowly falling, it's colder than it used to be / There's no one here I feel like calling... Merry Christmas to me..." blah blah blah "Here's a toast to what once was, and another year alone..."

5) After the Holidays - Andrea Marcovicci
"Just stay with me till after the holidays, that's when I need you so...Please say you'll wait till after the holidays, then I can let you go... Don't make me face this Christmas alone, after each wonderful Christmas we've known... Won't you be kind and let me believe, you're mine on New Year's Eve?"

Jesus, is that last one mewling or what?

Can't wait for January 6, the official end of the 12 Fucking days of Christmas -- which means, for me, hard core New Orleans and Mardi Gras music can begin!

I am taking requests, so if anyone has any suggestions for less-than-cheerful tunes for my Xmas list, send 'em on in.

Stingy Claus is Coming to Town

So, here we are, down in the financial district, where young turks are pulling down half-mil bonuses (and that's the low-on-the-totem-pole guys -- the big shots are apparently getting zillions).

In the midst of all of this corporate largesse, we got the news last Friday that here in our little duchy, there will be no Christmas bonus. Apparently it's the first time in NINETEEN YEARS they haven't given out bonuses.

Not such a big deal for your Janey, who's only been working in this shithole for 6 months -- I wasn't really expecting one, or if anything, a token, no more. But the people who have been here for years, wow, are they PISSED.

Now, I would be the first person to tell you not to plan your life around a bonus. I mean, it's a bonus. It's not a paycheck. Coming to rely on it is foolish at best, and financially devastating at worst. I mean, I know one guy who actually said these words to me, "How the hell am I gonna have Christmas for my kid? I've barely got enough to pay the bills as it is."

I think in Buddhism this is what is called "being attached to outcomes." And boy, has that caused some suffering here. You can almost hear the phones ringing off the hook at every headhunter in town.

Expect nothing, get nothing, and you'll never be disappointed, as Matt would say. A Buddha from way back.

I Saw Mommy Killing Santa Claus

A guy I work with innocently approached my desk with his cd case open and held out like a prayerbook.

"Jane, I brought in some Christmas music for you."

I threw my arms up in front of my face, as a vampire does when confronted with a cross. After the hissing subsided, I gave him my sweetest smile.

"I'm very sorry, Scooter, didn't anyone tell you? I'm the Girl Who Hates Christmas."

He laughed. He thought I was kidding.

The smile never left my face.

"No, seriously, get that shit the fuck away from me."

He backed away, very, very slowly, and from a safe distance said,

"Wow, you really DO hate Christmas, don't you?"

And now, wafting over his partition, I hear the happy sounds of -- blues guitar.

Point to Jane.

I See Your Twoo Colors

Sports-team clothing should only be made in the team's actual colors.

Since branded logo-wear is NOT a statement of fashion or individuality -- in fact, it's EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE -- I wish people wouldn't try to make it into one.

For Instance: the colors of the New York Yankees are Blue and White. Period. Not cobalt. Not indigo. Not royal. But simple, clean, elegant, and (okay) slightly IBM-ish Navy Blue and White. (also the colors of Janey's college alma mater, lending further support to the bumper sticker credo: If God isn't a Penn State (or Yankee) fan, why is the sky blue and white?)

I don't want to see another pink, or red, or turquoise, or (worst of all) brown New York Yankees cap.

Thankfully I haven't yet seen the bastardization of any of my hometown's colors. I dare anyone who remembers Lambert, Greene, Greenwood, Blount or Ham to try wearing anything but the black and gold.

Why Hanukkah is better than Christmas

This one goes out to Archer, Paula and Rothstein...

1. Christmas is one day, same day every year, December 25. Jews also love December 25th. It's another paid day off work. We go to the movies and out for Chinese food and Israeli dancing. Chanukah is 8 days. It starts the evening of the 24th of Kislev, whenever that falls. No one is ever sure. Jews never know until a non-Jewish friend asks when Chanukah starts forcing us to consult a calendar so we don't look like idiots. We all have the same calendar, provided free with a donation from the World Jewish Congress, the kosher butcher or the local Sinai Memorial Chapel (especially in Florida ) or other Jewish funeral home.

2. Christmas is a major holiday. Chanukah is a minor holiday with the same theme as most Jewish holidays. They tried to kill us, we survived, let's eat.

3. Christians get wonderful presents such as jewelry, perfume, stereos, etc. Jews get practical presents such as underwear, socks or the collected works of the Rambam, which looks impressive on the bookshelf.

4. There is only one way to spell Christmas. No one can decide how to spell Chanukah, Chanukkah, Chanukka, Channukah, Hanukah, Hannukah, etc.

5. Christmas is a time of great pressure for husbands and boyfriends. Their partners expect special gifts. Jewish men are relieved of that burden. No one expects a diamond ring on Hanukah.

6. Christmas brings enormous electric bills. Candles are used for Chanukah. Not only are we spared enormous electric bills, but we get to feel good about not contributing to the energy crisis.

7. Christmas carols are beautiful... Silent Night, Come All Ye Faithful. Chanukah songs are about dreidels made from clay or having a party and dancing the hora. Of course, we are secretly pleased that many of the beautiful carols were composed and written by our tribal brethren. And don't Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond sing them beautifully?

8. A home preparing for Christmas smells wonderful like the sweet smell of cookies and cakes baking. Happy people are gathered around in festive moods. A home preparing for Chanukah smells of oil, potatoes and onions. The home, as always, is full of loud people all talking at once.

9. Christian women have fun baking Christmas cookies. Jewish women burn their eyes and cut their hands grating potatoes and onions for latkes on Chanukah. Another reminder of our suffering through the ages.

10. Parents deliver presents to their children during Christmas. Jewish parents have no qualms about withholding a gift on any of the eight nights.

11. The players in the Christmas story have easy to pronounce names such as Mary, Joseph and Jesus. The players in the Chanukah story are Antiochus , Judah Maccabee and Matta whatever. No one can spell it or pronounce it. On the plus side, we can tell our friends anything and they believe we are wonderfully versed in our history.

12. Many Christians believe in the virgin birth. Jews think, "Yossela, Bubela, snap out of it. Your woman is pregnant, you didn't sleep with her and now you want to blame G-d? Here's the phone number of my shrink".

13. In recent years, Christmas has become more and more commercialized. The same holds true for Chanukah, even though it is a minor holiday. It makes sense. How could we market a major holiday such as Yom Kippur? Forget about celebrating. Think observing. Come to synagogue, starve yourself for 27 hours, become one with your dehydrated soul, beat your chest, confess your sins, a guaranteed good time for you and your family. Tickets a mere $200 per person. Better stick with Chanukah!

Notes from Randomalia

Notes from Randomalia

1) I need to believe that the designers of the world thought they were doing a good thing by re-introducing leggings. I need to believe that they honestly thought that by re-introducing these figure-revealing items of clothing, they would inspire a diet and exercise weight-loss revolution in MOA (that's Morbidly-Obese America). Unfortunately, the results of their glorious experiment have been nothing short of catastrophic, as what we are now faced with is walking up subway stairs behind women whose behinds look like two sacks of curds jiggling in our faces.

2) As for peg-leg jeans, which I'm also seeing in disturbing profusion the past few months, ONLY the models look good in them. Face it, if you aren't a five-ten sylph with boyish hips and no waist to speak of, those super-skinny jeans JUST DON'T LOOK GOOD. And before you start to roll the hem of your jeans above your boots or to tuck your jeans into your boots, ask yourself, "Do I have a 34-inch inseam?" Think about it, have a little common sense -- if you are small, short, or stocky in any way, why would you create a horizontal break just where you want to look longest and leanest?

Repeat after me, ladies, just because it's fashionable, doesn't mean you have to wear it. Or as my mother used to say (usually when she was refusing to buy me something trendy from Foxmoor Casuals), "Wear what looks good on you, and you will always look stylish."

3) Psst! Hey, you! Yeah, I'm talking to you! Just because you have managed to cram yourself into those size 6 lowrider jeans -- that doesn't actually make you a size 6. In fact, I'm guessing by the muffin top bulging around your middle that in real life you're probably a couple sizes bigger than that. So give it up. You aren't fooling anyone. Except maybe yourself. And frankly, you're making the rest of us slightly sick.

4) For the life of me, I still can't figure out the talent/fame equation in the music industry. In some ways I'm hopelessly idealistic, and quite possibly outdated, in thinking that people who have real talent will eventually be discovered and get the fame and fortune that is their due. Maybe that's why people of my generation (tailend boomer/front end x-er) have such nostalgia for our music. Because we know that, frankly, if Tom Petty put out his first album today, he would nosedive into obscurity (too ugly for TV). If U2 were releasing their first album right now, they'd be pulling Guinness pints in some Dublin pub instead of being touted (by me, at least) as the Greatest Rock Band Ever. So when I am fortunate to happen upon my favorite subway busker, usually in the Union Square subway station, I always let a train or two go by so I can listen to him play and sing. His voice is so haunting and his songs have a minor-key plaintiveness that just cuts to my heart. Theo always gets my money, too.

5) I went to bed with a new book last night, Paul Auster's "The Brooklyn Follies" and was so delighted with it that I read it in one powerhouse 5-hour push -- setting it aside with a satisfied sigh at 3:00 in the morning. How is it that I have not read anything else by this man? (hint, hint: Barnes and Noble gift certificates make really nice Christmas gifts for book junkies like me.) When I woke up this morning and saw the book on my nightstand, all I could do was grin at the memory of how happy it had made me for those several hours. Some books are like that -- you greet them with the shy smile of a lover on the morning after.

6) In the "what was I thinking?" department, I have come to realize that I completely made up a story about the retoucher that wasn't true. In fact, I created a person who didn't exist. I mean, come on, this guy a) lives in New Jersey, b) thinks Las Vegas is awesome, and c) drinks Long Island Iced Teas as his cocktail of choice. Any one of those three should be a dealbreaker in itself. See what happens when you don't pay attention? Not to mention, if he was into me, he would have actually called me on the telephone or exhibited some willingness to spend time with me. Oh well, no big loss. He's still kinda nice to look at and he does have a nice butt.

7) Women in Chuck Taylors? Not sexy, honey.

8) I willingly admit to being a snob about a few things. For instance, 'tis the season for women to break out the department store furs. I can spot a department store fur from a hundred paces. I find myself looking at women's fur coats and evaluating them in my mind: Hmm, tails and scraps. Hmm, cheap pelts. Hmm, scraped off the grill of her husband's SUV.

9) Another thing I am a snob about is cheese. Parmesan cheese does NOT come in green cans! That stuff in green cans is sawdust! And another thing -- the people at Polly-O should NOT be allowed to call those shrink-wrapped beige erasers "mozzarella cheese." I feel really badly for people who don't have a local cheese maker where they can get real mozzarella cheese.

10) A subway busker who never gets my money is that annoying guy with the braids who rides the "L" and sings "Stand By Me." I think it's the really loud clapping that he uses to accompany himself that gets on my very last nerve.

11) Back to food snobbery. I once bought one of those 7-11 "cappuccinos" at a highway rest stop, and when I got in the car and took a sip of it, I nearly threw up! It was a thick, disgusting, oily, sickeningly sweet mess that I promptly dumped out the car window. I hope it didn't cause any accidents from the slick I'm sure it left on the highway. And I had to wonder with horror -- do most people in this country think that's what cappuccino is supposed to taste like?

12) On the other hand, some nights I just don't have the energy to eat anything except a can of Niblets for dinner.

I'm Already Out of The Closet on This One

Today is Reveal Your Blog Crush Day!

My very first blog crush is (and he's probably the blog crush of many) Archer.

I mean, what's not to like about a guy who can make me blow coffee out of my nose and make me do the Muttley laugh first thing in the morning. And I'm NOT a morning person.

The Annual Bah-Humbug

I'm sitting here picking the caramel of Christmas music out of my teeth and wondering -- is it me or does this Christmas season seem completely f***ing interminable compared to Christmases past?

I mean, everyone here at my office has their iTunes and radios playing NOTHING but Christmas music, and frankly, I'm about to storm through the joint like Al Pacino, spitting, "Say hello to my leetle friend!" rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

As an antidote to my Mathis-induced diabetes, I had no choice but to to put on Time Zone the other day. There's nothing like Afrika Bambaataa and John Lydon (aka Johnny Rotten) singing "This is the world destruction, your life ain't nothin', the human race is becoming a disgrace!" to really get you full-swing into the perfect BAH HUMBUG mood.

I mean, really, what are the holidays but an exercise in futility and dashed expectations? Come on, folks, be honest... we spend November and December being bombarded with images of Tiny Tim cooing "God Bless us every one!" and the grinchy heart growing two sizes and snow drifting past picture windows while happy families exchange gifts next to a Douglas fir adorned with a thousand bucks worth of Christopher Radko ornaments.

The reality looks more like Christmas with the Bickersons. Or Christmas with the Drunk Relatives Who Save Up Their Resentments All Year for This One Magical Night. Or Christmas with the Mean Mother-In-Law Who Uses Her Gift to Show You What She Really Thinks Of You (a plastic over the door shoe hanger thing comes to mind for me).

What I'm saying here, people, is that we spend a month and a half trying to pretend we grew up on fucking Walton Mountain, when in actuality it probably bore a closer resemblance to Spahn Ranch, and what it turned us into was a nation of twitching neurotics who can't get through a week without a) medicating, b) therapizing, or c) indulging in some sort of substance abuse of the legal and illegal kind.

Maybe we should all give up and quit trying to get the Christmases we never had. And this year, just have the Christmas we get.

So Much for the "Anonymous" Part

I love when idiots get to be famous so we get to see their idiocy bared for all the world to see.

And I ain't talking about Britney's cooter.

Jane Says "Happy Holidays!" To Her Inner Republican

Well, here's a call you don't want get on a Monday morning:

"Listen, this is [your downstairs neighbor]. The whole hallway is filling up with smoke. I called the landlord..."

"Why'd you call the landlord? Call the fucking fire department!"

Yes, I know, it IS Bushwick, which is to say, Up-holler Brooklyn, so there might be a few DNA strands running just a tad close amongst the old-timers and their kin, but still, people, use your brain. (Janey is smacking the back of one hand into the palm of the other while she says this). Let me say this very slowly and clearly: When you smell smoke, and then when you SEE smoke, your first, your VERY first call, should be to 911. Not to your landlord and THEN your upstairs neighbor. What the hell are they teaching in city schools? That red paint chips taste better than battleship gray? Sheesh!

Anyway.

Turns out our lovely crackhead neighbor finally passed out (after a particularly crack-fueled-and-door-slamming-and-fighting-over-drugs-in-the-hallway kind of weekend. Welcome to Crazyville, where your drug habit and apartment are paid for by your law-abiding neighbors! Not only in their tax dollars, but in the untold hours of their lost sleep!) But before she passed out, she left food cooking on the stove, which the FDNY (goddamnit, I missed them in all their sooty hotness) discovered after tripping over all of her shit which she has strewn in the hallway to get to her door.

Oh, wait, and this is after I had to call ACS on Thursday to report that when I came home on Wednesday night, her 2-year old was in the apartment, apparently alone, and crying out, "Let me out! Let me out!" Nice, right?

You know what, if I didn't have the cats to worry about and no renters insurance (not to worry, I'll be getting that this week), I would say, let the bitch burn herself up along with that piece of shit felon boyfriend of hers. The world would be well rid of both of them.

I'm just sitting here with a little cloud of steam coming off the top of my head, nurturing my inner Republican and wondering if we can get Eliot Spitzer to get the state legislature to pass some sort of Mandatory Eugenics for Welfare Shitheads law while he's governor.

After All, It IS The Season of PEACE

Forget about Salman Rushdie and the fatwa, forget about the crackpot fundamentalism, forget about how he was yanked off a British Airways flight two years ago for no other reason than his name. Forget about everything but the MUSIC.

He can change his name and he can change his hair and change his beard, but he will always and forever be CAT.

PS, not to mention that at the time this video was shot, he was smokin,' smokin' hot.

The Eighth Grade, Part I

Lately I've been walking around feeling like my Inner Eighth Grader is exposed.

We've all got one. I don't know what everyone else's Eighth Grade was like, but I'll tell you, mine was about a miserable as the Eighth Grade could get.

In the Eighth Grade, I was chubby and bespectacled, and not very attractive.

I had bad teeth. I had too many teeth for my mouth, so my teeth were crammed into my face with two canines that never descended to the same level as my other teeth. Giant snaggly sabreteeth. It would take the sacrifice of four healthy molars and two years of orthodontia before it was revealed that I actually have a perfectly acceptable smile.

Later on, I would gladly give up four bone-impacted wisdom teeth in a general-anaesthetic surgical procedure to keep them from re-adjusting that four-figure smile that I know was a financial hardship for my parents.

My dentist to this day complains that I have an extremely small oral cavity which makes it hard for him to reach my back teeth. I leave his office on 57th Street with the muscles of my jaws stretched so far that I am, literally, slack-jawed.

No man that I have ever dated has ever complained about my extremely small oral cavity.

But when I am smiling with every muscle of my face, my upper lip will pull up on the right side as if it remembers the huge canine tooth that it used to snag.

I was also very, very brainy and bookish in the Eighth Grade.

So. A fat, glasses-wearing bluestocking. Can you guess what the Eighth Grade was like for me?

Oh, wait. I was in the band, too. But I didn't play a cool instrument like the flute or the drums. It seemed like all the girls who played the flute were pretty and petite. And the boys who played the drums were delinquents-in-training who were just cooler than all the rest of us band geeks. They smoked and chewed tobacco that they spat into empty milk cartons and sat at the back of the bus. They carried their drumsticks in their back pockets like switchblades and were prone to whipping them out to rattle out paradiddles on desks and cafeteria tables.

I played the clarinet. An instrument that you played sitting rigidly upright with your right foot tapping rhythm on the riser. Quite possibly, with the exception of the oboe or bassoon, the most un-cool instrument that you could play. Even the instrument's case looked uncool -- like a little briefcase that I was toting around school. We clarinet players looked like actuaries on our way to the office as we entered the band room.

So there I was in the Eighth Grade, a fat, glasses-wearing, clarinet-playing bluestocking.

I did have a small coterie of friends -- Tina and Beth and Susan. Tina and Beth were both Flute Players. They were pretty and petite. Tina was the most developed girl in the Eighth Grade and Beth was one of the prettiest girls in school. I couldn't figure out why they wanted to be friends with me.

Susan played the violin and piano and she was serious and studious. She was the first person I knew to buy "Never Mind the Bollocks Here's The Sex Pistols." The four of us sat in her bedroom and listened to "God Save the Queen." We were mystified and delighted at the same time.

We used to ride our bicycles to each others houses and camp in Susan's backyard next to the trolley tracks, scaring each other with stories of Green Man, a Pittsburgh legend.

We had our own code that we used to write each other notes.

On Friday nights in the winter, along with every other Eighth Grader at our school, we went to the Corrigan Drive Skating Rink and made aimless circles of the rink, coming in from the cold to eat french fries and drink Cokes.

We all agreed that the cutest boys in the band were Mike P and Ricky P. Mike was a drummer and Ricky played the trombone.

Somewhere along the way, in the Eighth Grade, I acquired a Tormentor.

But He Got The Trains to Run on Time!

None of my friends west of the Hudson River would believe me.

Cintra Wilson says it better than I ever could.

I hope Bill Bratton is out there in LA rubbing his hands gleefully in anticipation of rattling the skeletons in the closet.

Lameness Post-Mortem

Okay, so it was lame. But since I NEVER turn down free booze and food (such as it was - do a sushi station and a make-your-own taco station plus a band of roving waitrons wielding platters of weenie croissants really count as food? Survey says, NO) I dutifully put on my shiny party outfit and cabbed it into the office. Just what a New York City Girl wants to do on a Saturday night.

Now, for the uninitiated, or those who didn't have the pleasure of reading the NY Times last Sunday, yes Virginia, Saturday night IS the most "over" night of the week for New Yorkers. We are not going out on Saturday nights any more. We've ceded that night to the bridge & tunnel crowd. We stay in so the Todt Hill Express bus can drop the Red Bull and vodka crowd at the edge of the meatpacking district to slobber all over each other and hope in vain to catch a glimpse of a b-list celeb or maybe see Lindsay Lohan publicly humiliate herself once again.

Once you read about a "trend" in the Times, you can pretty much guarantee that it's either completely over or on the tipping point of over-ness. There's nothing quite like the Paper of Record to breathlessly relate the "latest thing" which we who actually live here have been quietly doing for at least five years. Or maybe they do it on purpose... you know, keep the thing on the down low until we have exhausted all its coolness, then put it in the Sunday Styles section so people from New Jersey can feel hip. Face it, once people from Staten Island and New Jersey are doing it, it's got the stink of "over" and we quietly move on to other pleasures that we diligently keep secret from the rubes. Why do you think we all moved to Brooklyn? We're actively TRYING to keep away from you people.

So anyway, back to the "party." As far as office parties go, I guess it was okay - inoffensive and bland, culturally stultified and blah blah blah. People got very, very, very drunk. But if people are getting very, very, very drunk and NOT misbehaving, what the hell kind of fun is that? What happened to "drunk and doing stupid things"? There are lots of tales of massive hangovers that have carried into this morning (my own included) yet not one whiff of bad gossip.

I liked the piano player. When I tried to bolt at 9:30 she begged me to stay because I was the only "cool person" there (her words, not mine) and we would go out after the gig. So, against my better judgement, I stayed... and stayed... Many glasses of bad red wine later, Missy PlunkPlunk of Pianoville decided to just go back to Brooklyn, meaning I had stayed past pumpkin time and gotten drunk for NOTHING. Not to mention that I observed that she is very chummy with the Retoucher formerly known as Hot, who has of late been demoted back to buck private and put back in the category, "Doesn't really exist for me any more here at the office."

Trust me, it's better that way. I've made my observations, and the coins have dropped from my eyes -- and kids, your Janey got played. But good. She fell right into the "sensitive guy" thing that she is usually immune to (how many times have I told you I'm not interested in those guys who are in touch with their feminine side and that I much prefer a guy to be in touch with his masculine side, thank you very much?). Her spidey sense was completely OFF and look what happened.

The player got played. I hate when that happens.

But again I say, it's better this way. Especially since --

Ahem. Ahem.

As I was saying, especially since I have been having some truly amazing sex with this other guy. (Not Baby Boy.) Since August.

You've heard me complain about many, many things, but have you heard me bitching about not getting laid? I don't think so.

But it does make me want to offer a little bit of advice. From a hussy to all the wives and girlfriends out there. Girlies, if you want to punish your man by withholding sex, keep this thought in mind: If you won't fuck your husband, and he is tired of trying to get you to fuck him, at a certain point, he will stop trying. And he will find someone who will fuck him. Some days I feel like I should have a tattoo on my forehead. It will say, "EXHIBIT A."

Well, a co-worker and I ended up on the LES at EmKay's bar, which was doing ROARING business, I must say, and he plied us with many more glasses of good red wine.

Let's just say, Sunday wasn't pretty. I woke up and confronted evidence that I had eaten HOT POCKETS. Not one, ladies and gentlemen, but TWO Hot Pockets. A quick check of the cell phone revealed that I somehow managed to avoid the deadly drinking and dialing, but oh, my head! And I had an brunch party to go to. Lord.

I made it to that, and the crowd was much, much more my style -- artists and fags and one very sweet dog, and not a pair of pleated pants to be seen in the whole place.

Ended the weekend with a much needed nap interspersed with old videos (the annual exhumation of "White Christmas," "Holiday Inn") followed by a "Law & Order" marathon. Is there a better way to spend a Sunday evening?

Okay, I Trust the Lawyer

Archer, I will never, ever, question you again!

November and the Treadmill

Ok. I never do this, but this has got to be the cutest damn cat ever seen on YouTube.