Gold Barre: NOT The Olympics

November 17, 2016 Permalink 2


I have built myself a weekly flogging schedule with carefully mapped out personal training sessions and exercise classes to fit within a very OCD timetable. If I put forth half this much effort into other areas of my life I could actually achieve something. Every Saturday at 10 AM I roll into my favorite barre class taught by a Juilliard-trained Jedi butt master who ensures that I shan’t walk normally again til Monday. Such sweet torture. That is until two weeks ago when Equinox ushered in something called Gold Barre.

A party of 28 pain loving regulars was unamused.

Our new instructor droned on about Equinox, Tara Lipinski (Olympics? Nagano? Ring any bells?), a possible pyramid scheme, and something about figure skating. Ok, got it.  Wait, what?  Tara Lipinski’s new business venture has come in the form of a fake ice skating class at my gym.

You gotta get a gimmick. I once went to a Pole Dance class where they taught you to work a stripper pole. For fitness, not career. I suppose I can fake ice skate for health, but you guys gotta kill the Olympic commentary.


If you say another word about landing my triple axle,
I’m gonna hurt you with my imaginary toe pick.


Get deeper into your sit spin

I am hanging onto a barre for dear life in the basement of a Manhattan health club trying not to fall down or fart.

Nobody is in a sit spin.

This is just a room full of women trying to keep their butts from falling into their legs.

Let’s move on to camel spins

Nope, these are called leg lifts.

My goal here is not to score points with the Russian judge but to eliminate a significant portion

of the Pinot Noir I drank straight from the bottle last night.

Feel your skirt float in the breeze as you glide over the ice

I feel my Lululemon pants sweat-glued to my lady biz as 4 ceiling fans churn up the stank.

Push against the ice as you build speed

I would rather push your mouth closed and seal it with duct tape.

This is your chance to go for the gold!

Is ‘gold’ a metaphor for burgers and fries?

Oh, it’s not?

Then you need to shut up.

Look, I ate cake out of my garbage can last night…cake that had been in the garbage a full two days prior to the moment I fished it out and began shoving it into my face (It was wrapped in foil, okay?). God knows I need to burn all the calories I can. But I am not Oksana Baiul. I am simply a girl with a gym membership trying to stay out front of the tacos.  And that should be enough.

Gold Barre

We’re not going to the Olympics.


Mama Needs Her Fix

November 3, 2016 Permalink 2


I feel lucky that I have never had a serious drug addiction.  Oh wait, yes I do.  It’s called Candy Corn.  We are now three days out from Halloween and I am down to two lone bags of corn.  Ok, a bag and a half.  Fine, there’s one bag left.  Shut up, you don’t know my struggle.

Tuesday morning I should have gone straight to the store to relieve them of the now 50% off leftover stash.  I didn’t do it.  Why?  Because I am a moron and also I had a long day of work related things.  Idiot!  This is one of those moments when you realize your priorities are totally out of whack.  

So yesterday, 2 days after Halloween, I take off to score.  I hit every Duane Reade / Walgreens / CVS / Rite Aid in a 30 block radius looking for my fix.  To my horror, there was NADA.  Nobody holding.  Not a single bag of corn in sight.  The only things that were left were total garbage.

Imposter Corn


Indian Corn. 

Crap corn that has the “chocolate” flavored bit.  The chocolate tastes like a Hershey bar was left to marinate in a toilet overnight and was then hosed down with paint thinner. 



Assorted Mellowcreme Bag. 

Visually unappealing little nuggets of unidentified shape and character. 

And the flavor is off.   Tastes like they are storing weapons-grade uranium in there.



Assorted Autumn Mix.

I know what you’re gonna say.  There are pieces of normal corn in there.  Just remove and eat those. 

I cannot.  They have been grouped with the other pieces and are thus contaminated.



I keep looking at the one lone bag in my pantry and visualizing schemes to ration it.  Who am I kidding, I have no will power.  I am going to make it through this day:  finish writing for my actual job, work out, eat my cooking pot full of kale salad, and then mow down that bag like an unmanned Bush Hog.  Full black out corn coma by 7 PM.

Don’t judge me.  I have an addiction.


El Dia de la Rata (The Day of the Rat)

October 26, 2016 Permalink 0



Can’t say I’m a fan. 

Especially not when they attack. 

Which they did. 


Exactly one year ago yesterday I was assaulted while sleeping in the ATL.  Waking to searing pain is one thing; waking to searing pain and then seeing your feral attacker make a hasty exit across a mahogany end table is quite another.  It took a few minutes after I bolted upright for me to fully comprehend that I had just been a rat snack.   As I tried to turn off the blood hose issuing from the puncture wounds on my toe, I began to think that this might be a sign.  A pretty damn bad sign of things to come. 

My birthday was less than 48 hours away.  Oh did I forget to mention that?  Yes, a very momentous birthday loomed large as I was being chomped by the same species that distributed the bubonic plague. Hopes for a sensational year faded as I dumped a bottle of alcohol on my toe over a toilet at 4 AM.

I was taken to the emergency room a good 7 hours later because a) some people were less than concerned about my injuries and b) these same people wanted to go out for breakfast.  Eat first, save fellow human from imminent death later.  When we finally arrived at the ER, the check-in nurse took me for a liar until I hoisted my mangled toe onto the counter for inspection.  The look of horror on her face would have impressed Linda Blair.  The doc charged with giving me a tetanus shot seemed to think rat disease might be airborne and made every attempt not to touch me. I think he considered administering that tetanus shot javelin style from across the room.

They cleaned me, shot me, bandaged me, and sent me on my way saying, “We’ll let you know if you have rabies.”  Awesome.  You know, there was a brief moment in which I actually prayed for rabies.  My horrible bout with this dread disease would be the ultimate revenge on the people who refused to take me to the ER in an appropriate time frame (read: immediately).  I would sue them in open court citing emotional distress and toe amputation; if the rabies had not been given time to percolate, none of this would have happened. They would be sentenced to paying my Neimans credit card bill for all time.  Obviously, this was a shock-induced fantasy.  My god, no one wants rabies.  But everyone wants someone else to pay for their shoes.

  I do not have rabies.

This is hugely lucky.  Rabies is no party as I understand it.  I did take a photo of the wounded toe a couple of weeks later. (Trust me, you didn’t want to see it in the immediate aftermath.)


In the weeks post attack, I worked the sympathy angle hard.  I spent time limping, wincing in pain, and regaling anyone who would listen with the gory details of my harrowing and vicious assault.  I also spent time trying to track down any ancient Confucian sayings that might go something like, “Kissed by rat, bring you much money in bank account and also veeeery handsome boyfriend.”  Guess what? There aren’t any.  Getting bitten by a vermin escapee from a nearby road construction project isn’t good luck.  It’s flat out nasty.

It’s been a year.  I’ve had some therapy.  I’m not really over it.  I send periodic texts to the ATL people with photos of the slain toe and the hashtag #NeverForget.  This helps me to move on while making sure they never can.

My birthday is Thursday and, fingers crossed, it will be better than last year.  I mean, could it be worse???  At the very least maybe I can avoid encounters with both emergency rooms and disease carrying mammals hell bent on mayhem. 

Here’s hoping.

Joyeux anniversaire à moi!




October 17, 2016 Permalink 0


Dear Fancy Instagrammers Flaunting Their #OOTD,
This Outfit of the Day thing is akin to celebrating yourself for changing clothes since yesterday.
That’s great!  Good for you.  I didn’t.
The Retired Debutante

I see your #OOTD and raise you my #OOTY.  (Outfit of the Year)  Almost exactly 12 months ago I purchased a basic denim shirt at a Zara in Panama (as in the country of).  I’ve been wearing this $29.95 special at least 3 out of every 7 days since purchase.  5 countries, 12 cities, all 4 seasons, same lame-o shirt.  Never mind that my closet is a veritable buffet of high fashion.  I am living in this snap-on blouse like it’s a job.  Why?  Laziness with a side order of exhaustion.  Barre classes are hard, people.

I love fashion but there are days when I want to give Karl Lagerfeld the finger (who, incidentally, also wears the same thing every day) and put on a shirt that tells the world, “Today I will achieve nothing.”  The snap-on isn’t so heinous as to be classified as a full DON’T, but it is crappy enough for several friends to ask me not to wear it again.  Ever.

Haters.  I can pair this baby with anything.  (Translation: I don’t even care what I pair it with.)  White jeans, a black mini skirt, underpants and a raincoat (long story)…  Seriously it doesn’t matter.  It’s not an outfit.  It’s not even trying to be fashion.  It is simply a vehicle to evade arrest for indecent exposure.  

Casual is cool.  Looking like I do yard work on a dude ranch might not be.


I make minimal effort when going to the salon in hopes that my stylist will work even harder out of pity.

This is my beloved Cristophe in Los Angeles.

He has only ever seen me wear this one shirt and cuts my hair with the intensity and focus of a nuclear scientist.


Doing the shirt and a pickle pop at some little league baseball field because all my friends live there now.

See how well it goes with my man repeller pants?

Difficult to believe I’m single.


Communing with some cacti and my BFF in Costa Rica.

We’re in a third world country and she summoned an iron and ironing board from the hotel to press her hiking attire into perfection.

I unwadded my cowgirl costume and snapped in.


I wore it

Every. Single. Day.


I once caught her trying to stuff the shirt in the trash.

Because best friends let you know when your look sucks in less than subtle terms.

This is a confessional.  I’m not trying to convince you that this is an awesome shirt.  It isn’t.  It is a total cop-out.  And it doesn’t get washed that often.  

For those of you who thought I was always glamorous and perfect (anyone?), let me assure you I am just like you.  Only much worse and in need of shirts.