In which I might have had too much wine

I am house/cat/fish sitting this week for one of my bosses. She's actually one of my favorite people at work, because she's, well, awesome. She used to walk around the office saying "I LOVE ME!" and kissing herself on the arm. We should all have such good self-esteem. By her own account, she didn't have an easy young life, but she put herself through school and worked extremely hard and now is in a pretty high position at my workplace. She also has a husband and kids and cats and fish all in a nice apartment on the Upper East Side. She only left me the cats and fish for the week. And some wine.

Things are going well so far. One of the cats gets medicine and takes it very easily, so that's good. The other cat is supposedly one of the scared-y variety, but spent yesterday evening hanging around me and getting attention.

The only thing is - the fish. There are a number of them; saltwater, and they are beautiful. I am one of those people who is calmed by watching fish, and these are really lovely. They are all blue and purple and pink and yellow. Gorgeous. Except for I think they are plotting against me.

Look, I don't know what their plans are, but I know they are up to something. You know when you walk into a room and people stop talking in hushed tones and look at you? You know they are talking about you, right? Well, imagine walking into an apartment and looking at the saltwater fish tank when you come in and all the fish disperse. You can practically hear them say, "Cheese it! The Fuzz!" And then they swim around looking all innocent. Yeah, right. I know what's going on. I'm going to wake up one morning with a fish head on the pillow next to me, aren't I?

It's all the doing of that little stripey red fish. He always hides when I walk by the tank, swimming into the little caves, going under the coral, but I can tell he's the ring leader. It's always the innocent looking ones that are really out to get you. I SEE YOU, RED FISHY. I AM HERE FOR FOUR MORE DAYS. DON'T MAKE ME HAVE A FISH FRY.

In which I have an untapped ass-et

It's no secret that there's a lot of crazy around New York City.  Apparently it was out in full force today.   

I've taken to wearing my yoga pants to and from work, because I am either walking for exercise or I am all hot and sweaty from running to the subway because I'm late.  Usually it is the latter.  Anyway, I was coming home from work this evening and got off the bus at my usual stop.  I was struggling a little because I was carrying a small box of stuff and my pants were sliding down a little bit.  So I juggled a bit, pulled down my shirt and hiked up my pants, and about ten seconds later I heard a woman's voice say:

"If you want, I could represent your ass.  Very nice." 

Wait, what?

I looked back to see this tiny older woman behind me.  I thought for a second that she might be on the phone, but she wasn't.  And then, because I am sensitive about my size, I assumed she was being derogatory.  Don't acknowledge her, I thought.  Don't engage the crazy.  So about two nanoseconds later, I whipped around with, "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME??!"  

"I'm an agent,"  she said.  "I could represent you."

Another woman walked by and said "No, she's not.  She's..." as she made the international sign for wack-a-doodle-ding-dong-doo. 

The older woman kept walking, saying "Lovely.  Just lovely."

Creepy.  

But now that I think about it, could my butt make some money somehow?  I mean, of course there is always the obvious, I know, but I'm not desperate enough for that.  Could there be some sort of fully covered ass modeling that I could do?  Could I teach it to do tricks?  Sing songs?  Play the French horn?  I'll have to see what I can come up with.

In which I get a haircut and a new name

You might ask me, "Fancy Pants", for that is what you call me, I know - "Fancy Pants," you might say, "why the hell haven't you updated in forever?"  

And I might say, "oh, shut up." 

Or, you might ask me "Fancy Pants, how is it you are able to maintain your fanciness when you are broke?  Broke-ity broke broke!"  

And I might say, "Well, dear reader, I am quite creative.  Par example, I saved $80 on a haircut this weekend."

Impressive, no?  I'm verah clevah.

I went to my usual New York walk-in salon at noon on Sunday and was told that they could take me at 3:00 pm.  It's not a walk-in salon, I think, when you have to make an appointment to, er, walk-in.   So I went to the barber shop by my apartment.  Yes, I said BARBER SHOP.  I stepped in, expecting to see Andy Griffith and his wacky gang of Mayberry friends, but the shop was empty.  I called out and a gentleman appeared from the back.  "Can you trim my hair?" I asked.  He nodded.  "You pick chair," he said.  So I sat.

"What you like?"  he asked.  "Um, trim it, " I replied.  My hair is short anyway - pixie-ish - like a boy's, so I figured he could do it.  

"Where you live?"  he asked.

"Right next door." 

"Oh! You neighbor! Good.  I am from Russia. You look Russian." 

"No.  Part of my family is Czech, though," I offered.

"Oh! Czech!  Close enough," he replied.

He was a sweetie.  By the end of my trim, he had taught me an Uzbekistani history lesson, assured me I would find love and given me a fairly decent haircut.  For 15 bucks.  

Who says rich and fancy has to be expensive?

In which I have a few things to say...confidentially

Confidential to Chuck Bass on Gossip Girl: 

You are a bad, bad boy.  With a heart of gold, though.  I am really pulling for you and Blair to get together in the long run, but in the meantime?  CALL ME.

Confidential to M:  

Please stop emailing me after work hours because I feel obligated to answer even though I am not on the clock and that really annoys me.

Confidential to Self: 

Stop checking your email after work hours.

Confidential to dooce.com: 

Congratulations on the new baby!  In the past, I have really enjoyed reading your blog.  I think you are a very clever, witty writer.  I even posted a link below in my blogroll (now removed).    I'm pretty peeved at you right now, though, considering you have been blogging about preparing for the baby, whom all of your readers have been anticipating meeting, and now you are holding off on photos and the baby's name.  

Now, listen: if you and your family want a little privacy,  I totally get that.  And I think even if you do blog about your life, you are entitled to keep an event like this private for a little while.  But don't tweet all through your labor, announce that the baby has arrived and that you are going to announce the name soon and then STILL don't post anything twenty four hours later.  Either post a photo and a name, or say "hey, we want to share this with you, but give us a little bit of privacy for a few days first."  You know we are waiting.  DON'T refuse to show the readers a photo of your baby and instead give us a pic of that shitty green jello and then post that everyone is "annoying".  Your behavior, Heather, is annoying.  You are being manipulative and incredibly disrespectful to your very loyal and supportive readers.  

Confidential to Jon:  CALL ME, YOU TALL DRINK OF TEQUILA.

Just watch this - it is Eddie Izzard set to Legos.  

I don't know - is just awesome:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sv5iEK-IEzw

In which I budget

It is hard to be rich and fancy on a budget.  I have been having some trouble making ends meet, what with all the money I spend on fancy stuff.  So this weekend I got tough with myself and got rid of cable and Netflix and downgraded my internet.  I still have to blog, you know.  Can't let my readers down.

One of my problems is cosmetics and hair products.  Now, I am out of foundation and am just doing without.  Luckily I have lots of eyeshadows in lots of colors.  What?  I bought them BEFORE the market went sour.  Thanks to me, the government will not have to spend millions to bail out MAC.  See?  I contribute to society.  You're welcome.

But the hair.  I am afraid that in LA I developed an addiction to spa quality hair products.  From Italy.  Yeah.  And now I am out of the shampoo and conditioner.  

I'm sure you just think I like to spend money (it's true, I do), but the reason I really like these products is that they don't aggravate my eczema and they don't make my scalp break out.   The drugstore brands irritate my poor little head.  Really.  Also, I think there might be a pea under my mattress.  Could someone be a love and come remove it for me?  Thanks ever so.

Luckily, one of my friends works at a major fashion magazine and is very generous with the freebies she gets.  If she can't use them, she passes them along to her friends.  She gave me a few products recently, so I used them to make tonight a spa night for myself.

Firstly, conditioner:

Nice.  My hair is very soft, and no hint of a breakout.

Next I addressed my need of a mani/pedi.  I miss getting one in the salon, but I can do it just as well at home.  My friend gave me OPI Miami Beet, which is supposed to be really hot for this season.

So I did my toes up with it.

How do they look?

Maybe not salon quality, but FREE!

Now, what to do about shampoo?  Shall I try to make my own?

In which I should have had some tasty, tasty water

I love New York.  This weekend was gorgeous, weather-wise.  Not too warm or humid, perfectly blue skies, lovely breeze.  Just like Los Angeles, only I got to have human contact TWO DAYS IN A ROW with people who actually have SOULS.  Nice.

On Saturday I shopped and coffee'd with friends and on Sunday I my friend S offered to take me out.  She is awesome and I adore her, but we hadn't seen each other in months (literally), so I was very excited about our late lunch.  

We started out with drinks and then...we drank some more.  See my tweet in the sidebar?  Um, I don't remember doing that.  Now, I really don't understand what happened.  We only drank champagne.  With a shot of grapefruit vodka in it.  So, four of those isn't really that much, right?  Or is that really like eight drinks?  I don't really know how to gauge it, except to show you this:

I believe this was supposed to be a visual aid to show S that I was tipsy enough to have crossed the line (see the line there?) between funny and obnoxious.  I'm pretty sure writing on your palm (when you are older than, you know, ten) is a pretty good indication of drunkenness.  Or lack of a notepad.  In my case it was both.

After the drinking, and some eating, to er, soak up the drink, I went home, sat on my fire escape pondering the beauty of New York and then fell asleep for three hours.  In my bed, that is, not on the fire escape.  I was then treated to a number of incredibly wild dreams, including one where I was presenting an award at a reformed Jewish temple where they sang Catholic hymns.   Next I dreamed that I had an extremely large office with windows, balconies and wrought iron railings, but couldn't decide where to put the desk.  Then I dreamed that I was holding a toddler who darted away from me, then saw a baby floating nearby who turned into a little glowing mohawked, punk rock kid who was shaking his head at me, telling me no.  Little brat.  Then I woke up myself up screaming.

After that delightful dream, I woke up every hour rather than actually sleeping through the night, which is what made me so miserably tired last night.  

Maybe I'm off the mark here, but I think it might have been the champagne.  And the vodka. 

I think next time I'll just stick with tequila.