time of new life: 6:57 pm, march 2, 2008

That's the moment the first needle pricked my skin and changed my body forever. At the age of 34 and a day, I was finally getting the tattoo I'd dreamed of for years, nay decades.

As I'd told my other half & Bitch Cakes, I'd felt for most of my life like I'd been missing something -- something integral. My body felt naked without a piece of artwork. And I'd decided years ago that it was my right arm that really needed it. My left arm is my man's territory. He owns my ring finger & has a long-term lease on my wrist, on which I wear an elegant little watch, a gift from him.

So if my left arm belongs to my man, then my right arm -- my write arm (ba-dum-bum) -- belongs to me. And being a right-handed writer, I can't wear bracelets on my right arm -- they're irritating & get in the way. So the right arm was just a natural for ink.

The tattoo itself is my personal logo, as interpreted by Alex, my tattoo artist. The pin up girl first appeared on the cover of Flirt magazine in the 40s or 50s, & when I was in ad school, I fell in love with the drawing & adapted it for my own -- one important facet of which is her left hand, which I fashioned into a perfect Hook 'Em Horns.

I wasn't sure how well I was going to fare during the inking process. I don't typically do well with needles. I don't give blood. I don't like having it taken at the doctor's office. And the notion of immunization at my age is rather horrifying. But the tattooing process was completely different. It wasn't just pain for a loss of blood, a dot & band-aid (& possibly a bruise) on my arm, some orange drink & cookies in the event of donation & the ability to travel in malaria-infested areas in the case of immunization. It was going to result in something of great beauty.

I watched as Alex, an amazing artist in any medium, began outlining, then shading, then coloring my pin up girl. In fact, I actually enjoyed watching it. Even as I saw myself beginning to bleed, I enjoyed it. Even as the needles scraped over bones and nerves, I enjoyed it. (Check out the entire process on flickr & leave comment, if you haven't already.) Three hours went by faster than I could've ever expected. The shop, East Side Ink, full when we arrived, & bustling for the first hour or so, was empty except for Alex, my man, the shop manager and me. We paid our tab -- cash only, kids -- and walked off in the direction of the L train.


Unveiling my girl at work wasn't as dramatic as I'd expected. People I didn't expect to enjoy it responded really well, even asking about my artist, as if they might plan a visit themselves. The next hurdle, of course, is my future in-laws, but if they balk, I can add that to the list of things they don't need to understand. But it's not about whether people like it or not. It's about whether I like it or not. And, damn it, I friggin' love it.

on dream jobs & derailment

Generally, I’m one of those people who would rather dig out my own kidney with a spork than do personal stuff on company time, especially blogging. But as I’m paid to write, sometimes I have to write to get through a block. This, my precious readers, is one of those times, so please bear with me as I write through the pain.

As I write, all the synapses in my brain are firing promptly. However, they’re not firing with great accuracy, or with any accuracy at all, really. See, I need them to be firing over management training, which is what I’m trying to write about (for what will be my first ever print ads, thank you very much). But they just want to talk to you, dear readers, and tell you how they’re doing and how much they’ve missed you.

Here goes.

I greatly apologize to the entire world, but to you most, dear ones, for having dropped off the radar. Seven weeks ago Monday, I started working here, at one of my dream shops—one of every creative’s dream shops. And not only is it one of the top ad agencies in the whole wide world, but as a freelancer, I constantly have to prove myself in order to be offered a real, full-time job at one of the top ad agencies in the whole wide world.

So there you have it. I’m not ignoring you. I’m not trying NOT to keep up with all of you through your blogs. I’m just trying to get through daily writer’s block and impress some of the hardest people in my industry to impress. I’ll do my best to poke my head up more often so the whack-a-fifi game is actually fun. Perhaps I’ll even invite some guest bloggers onto the scene.

In the meantime, enjoy my birthday tomorrow in your own way. You know where to mail your sacrificial souls.

possibly the greatest use of your time EVAR

Thanks to the Dewey Decimal Mistress, we can all see ourselves as ponies. My Little Ponies.


From the make-me-a-pony site's homepage, "This pony generator lets you create your dream pony, test generate a starter pony, or see what the pony of two existing parents looks like." Essentially, we have complete artistic license & full reign of the place.

So before you go around smacking people upside the head or overturning desks 'cause you just can't take another damn "hump day joke, take a couple minutes to create your pony (that's me in that picture, if you didn't recognize...I lost some more weight). Just imagine what pretty ponies we all can be.

And if you're all good little ponies, then--maybe--I'll sing you the My Little Pony song I wrote this summer.

thank you notes: the toughest job in writing

They're the unsung heroes of the job search, the wedding scene and the newly graduated. Yeah, great thank you notes are hard to find, harder still to write. You have to gush without gushing, praise without pandering or condescending, reference specifics only the thanked will understand. There's a secret code to it all; it's both a science and an art form.

Just this morning, I sent out one of my very own -- a thank you note for a job interview at a dream agency and a CD (Creative Director, for you non-ad-types) for whom I really want to work. Hell, I may even ache for this. So this note had a big job to do. I literally dreamed about it & woke up writing it. I'll keep you posted on how it fairs.

Now, please enjoy my Thank You to Gary at TBWA/Chiat/Day:


I feel sorry for this thank you note, really. It bears the heavy burden of great desire, and knows that it'll probably never up to the expectations of its creator. That's a lot of pressure. In the immortal words of the great Glenn Frey, "The heat is on."

Ask anyone who knows me -- disruption is in my very nature. It could even be said that I was born for the job. Every fiber of my being strives to challenge opinions and create new standards. Is she a -happy-homemaking-how-was-your-day-dear-stitching-
stiletto-wearing-pink-adoring-girlie-girl, or is she a jeans-t-shirt-combat-boots-
wearing-muscle-car-gearhead-red-meat-and-football-loving-rough-and-tumble-tough-
enough-for-roller-derby-and-then-some-tomboy? Maybe no one will ever know the full extent. But who am I to fight nature?

All I know is, opportunities like this -- to be there in the beginning, lighting a fire that'll lead an entire industry out of the dark ages -- well, they don't come around everyday. Full disclosure: I'm grabbing this one. Yep, I've got it bad for this job, and I'm ready when you are. Thanks for seeing the spark in me, and thanks for carving out so much time for me yesterday. I hope the feeling's mutual.


UPDATE: Yes, the feeling IS mutual -- I start freelancing at one of the best ad shops in the world on Tuesday!! Hoot, holler, congratulate me, people!

brilliant little music monkeys in Portland

As I've said before, "There are frustrated writers everywhere -- fantastic writers, stifled by narrow constraints, untrusting superiors and a lack of vision." But sometimes, constraints begin to widen, superiors begin to trust & vision gets checked & picked up in droves. I know that most of you lovely readers aren't advertising geeks like I am, but I always love to share great examples with you fine folks anyway.

Some of my favorite advertising comes when companies least expect consumers to be paying attention -- in legal disclaimers, and instructional copy. When they don't drop their personality and tone, their brands shine through even better to me.

Take, for instance, this brilliant email from a company from whom the man recently purchased a CD. When he read it, he told me to read it. When I read it, I immediately wanted to share it. So, get a cup of coffee, sit back, and enjoy the read. Then tell me. Who will you think of when you order your next CD?


From: "CD Baby loves "

Thanks for your order with CD Baby!

Your CD has been gently taken from our CD Baby shelves with
sterilized contamination-free gloves and placed onto a satin pillow.

A team of 50 employees inspected your CD and polished it to make sure
it was in the best possible condition before mailing.

Our packing specialist from Japan lit a candle and a hush fell over
the crowd as he put your CD into the finest gold-lined box that money can buy.

We all had a wonderful celebration afterwards and the whole party
marched down the street to the post office where the entire town of
Portland waved "Bon Voyage!" to your package, on its way to you, in
our private CD Baby jet on this day, Saturday, January 5th.

I hope you had a wonderful time shopping at CD Baby. We sure did.
Your picture is on our wall as "Customer of the Year." We're all
exhausted but can't wait for you to come back to CDBABY.COM!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Sigh...

--
Derek Sivers, president, CD Baby
the little store with the best new independent music

still sayin' no in '08

As many of you already know, I'm not a big fan of social networking sites. I've poo-pooed MySpace & Friendster for years, assuring my loved ones that our friendships would survive without them.


And the years went on without anyone dying catastrophically from my missing presence on Dogster, Catster & Bebo. A few "friendships" died along the way, not casualties of my choosing not to join their trusted network of friends on Reunion or Classmates, but of my not wanting fake people cluttering up my inbox with spam & my address book with their important information. Miss Missouri's phone numbers & birthday? Delete.

But I'd still get razzed occasionally to conform. "Join the cult, Carol Anne. Just come toward the light. Then we can poke each other on Facebook." My response to which is, "We can poke each other at dinner next week, but I'm not signing up for yet another site where I can waste even more time online."

The weirdest plea came from a still unknown source, because I refused to sign up for the service just to read the goddamned profile of whoever sent me the following message, "daviso hates you! Join him to take over the world! Everybody loves to hate -- hate with him on Hatebook." Clearly, you can see. My interest was seriously piqued. Whose wouldn't be? But all the hate in the world still wasn't enough to pressure me into signing up & giving someone else more e-access to my life, friends, opinions & marketability as a female, living with partner, aged 25-34.

Granted, I joined Flickr so I could share photos with ease (check out my latest additions) & LinkedIn so I could network for work (anyone got a job I can have?), but that's where I've drawn the line. Last week alone, I received three new invitations -- two to join Spock & one to join Plaxo Pulse. I've never even heard of these nonsensical online locales, but I'm guessing one is for Star Trek fans & the bigger geeks who love them (yeah, totally sounds like me) & the other is for people with heart conditions & the people who go bankrupt to care for them (thanks for no universal health love, big pharma/private healthcare assholes).


All I know is -- I'm not signing up.

And until I get a REALLY good, legitimate reason for signing up for your favorite way to pass the time online, just leave me off the invite list. I won't be setting up any profiles today, thank you.

please, big tv, meet the writers' demands -- we need them back now

Who of you out there hasn't been on TV yet? Come on, who are you? Speak up now. It's a brand new day of the brand new year & I've just seen the rerun of a friend of my cousin's appearing as a contestant on Deal or No Deal, originally aired Christmas night. And oh, what an amazing feat of mediocrity it was. This girl, a rude, five-headed, socially irresponsible nitwit, whom I've been lucky enough to know for more than 20 years, has recently garnered worldwide housewife fame for delivering a litter of 6 in Arizona -- ooh, the first dog-lady there ever! Since dropping all six puppies this summer, she & her husband have trotted themselves & their progeny in front of any camera that seems to be on. "Does that red light mean we're being broadcast live in Shanghai?" Apparently, NBC owns the rights to their American fame, since they're now regulars on the Today show (love your non-hair, Lauer) & just accepted a lousy deal of $121k on the aforementioned DoND rerun. Jamie & I fear there'll be a reality show soon enough, following the daily lives of God's favorite baby factory.(Oh yeah, welcome my cousin Jamie to our family of dedicated readers, people.) Of course, being the glutton for punishment that I am, I looked at their blog & saw that even their proposal was on national TV. These two media hogs were absolutely destined for each other. Ahh, true love.

But Jenny the human uterus isn't the only one getting her 15 minutes. Seems everywhere I look, regular people are getting theirs on the ol' boob tube on ultra-amazing, uber-real reality and game shows. "Clash of the Choirs" featured superstar Patti LaBelle putting together a choir to compete against the hastily-assembled fighting choirs of posers Nick Lachey, Michael Bolton, Kelly Rowland and Blake Shelton, the last two of whom I've never even heard. I seriously doubt "The Moment of Truth," an elaborate, televised game of truth or dare, will pay off with naked boobies, bullies getting payback from their former victims or astonishing human insights -- all of which you'd imagine from the title. Of course, reality queen bee Carson Kressley couldn't help but jump back into the action with "How to Look Good Naked," which, we can only hope, will actually help an army of fat girls get naked for TV.

And the writers' strike promises to deliver even more of this teleterror (Copyright mine, 2008, bitches). Never before in my life have I valued great writing more than I do now -- now that I'm facing at least a season of these Hey-America-You're-On-TV-'Cause-We-Don't-Wanna-Pay-Real-Talent tablescraps on my beloved big-screen.


Do I say all this because I want my own reality show based on my already extensive body of TV appearances, two of which you can see here and here? No. I truly feel the loss of the brilliant writing we all take for granted.

Late & later tonight, after we should all be in bed, America will witness the real comic genius of Jay Leno & Conan O'Brien. Can you guess which one I predict may actually produce a quality show even without his trusty writers? Darwin said only one can survive. Tune in with me to see who goes down in flames & who proves to be worth his weight in jokes. And let's all work on each & every one of you getting some small-screen face time in 2008.

my good night's sleep's keeping me up nights

Mere weeks ago, my life changed for the better. Napoleon & Pedro moved out. That's right, the man & I somehow managed to outlive the uber-loud hipsters. I even helped hold doors open for them, 'cause that's just who I am.

The following week, NYC's Access-A-Ride drivers went on strike. What could that possibly mean for me? Well, as some of you know, across the street from our apartment is an adult day-care center, which I lovingly refer to as "the tard farm." (Letters of hate may be sent directly to me. I don't care. I'm not censoring myself & you know I'm not a hatah. It just sounds funny.) Every weekday morning, beginning as early as 6-ish, buses line up to drop people off for the day. Now, apparently, none of the bus companies, including the Access-A-Ride people, have ever heard of walkie-talkies or cell phones. So every morning when the buses pull up across the street, they announce their arrival by laying on their horns, repeating as many times as necessary. They just don't stop. Ever.

All of a sudden, I found myself without nighttime/early morning disturbances -- well, except for the cat, but he's another story entirely. He still gets up between 5:30 & 7:30 to eat, drink & go potty, but now, I'm able to go back to sleep after filling his bowl & turning on his water & nightlight.

The honking has stopped, or at least it's not happening at the crack of shut-the-hell-up anymore. And with Napoleon & the President gone, there's no more door creaking & slamming next to our bedroom in the middle of the night. No more obscene-hours-new-album-cranking.

It's like heaven.

But the silence has shattered. The landlord & his mistress have begun fixing the place up for the next potential tenant, which wouldn't be nearly so loud without their toddler in tow. God only knows what they're doing across the hall for the 4+ hours they're here everyday, but it's driving me nuts. The love-child runs up & down the railroad, just like our cat does, only he weighs at least 20 pounds more than the kitty & runs on his heels. Oh & he's not our cat, who's adorable some of the time he does these laps. When he's not pounding his way up & down the apartment, he's wailing. Have I mentioned our walls are paper-thin?



Then a couple of days ago, a chill made its way up my spine when I mentioned to the man, "Man, I hope he's not getting it ready for them to move in. I don't think I can take living next door to a toddler. Since I brought that terror up, I haven't been able to sleep. I lie down and bolt back upright, sweating & shaking with the fear of the possible menace that is my landlord's love-toddler, throwing temper tantrums in such close proximity. I mean, I can't even take a few hours of that. What would I do if that's what I came home to everyday? If every night were filled with terrible twos? There are reasons we don't have children, people, and this is one of them. We're selfish for wanting a relaxing, quiet space.

So, now I beg of you. We need good, respectful, infant- & toddler-free tenants to move in next door. He's using a broker for the situation & asking a butt-load for Greenpoint, but I'm begging. If you or someone you love is looking for a fabulous new apartment, won't you please? Won't you please? Please, won't you be my neighbor?

in the flesh(wound)

It was cold in the Slipper Room when the Dewey Decimal Mistress, Rosie & I walked in from the freezing rahttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifin outside. Renowned burlesque dancer Jo "Boobs" met us at the door and gave us the run-down of all the rules. "Use just the one bathroom with the candles in it. Feel free to have some cookies and water, just keep track of your cup, 'cause I don't have enough for seconds. If anyone comes in, tell 'em we're closed for a private event."

Not exactly what I was expecting, walking into my first burlesque class. I don't know what I should've expected, but it was certainly more romantic and sexy than that. As the other ladies in the class trickled in through the front door, my cohorts and I shed our many layers and changed into dancing shoes to prepare for the shakefest that lay ahead.

Soon after Jo Boobs' intern showed up (I know, we were thinking the same thing, "just how does one become a burlesque intern?"), we moved to the stage area to begin the class. Jo took her position onstage, with us standing in the mosh area, anxiously awaiting instruction and the unexpected. She had us all choose from her collection of boas, long gloves and fringe to pin around our waists, then began walking us through a routine. First we learned the boa-drop, then the glove peel, the bump-n-grind and the shimmy, along with classic stances and the value of a quality bounce.

Before we could go on in the routine, it was bra time. Jo had several in one of her bags o' tricks, in case anyone wasn't in one of her own fancy numbers. Since I'd just gotten a sparkly new one the day before, I didn't have to dip into the communal bag. And in case stripping to bras in a roomful of strange women wasn't enough of a step for some of us, it was time to pick our pasties. Tassel-up. Jo and her intern had made these babies just for our class.

I can assure you that the procedure for applying pasties is not a sexy one -- even when applied by a burlesque intern. It was terrifying, actually. "Am I doing this wrong?" "What if it unsticks at the worst possible moment?" "Shouldn't my nipple be much less inverted at this particular moment and temperature?" But once everything was applied, the music resumed, along with the instruction. The final two moves in the routine? The bra-drop and tassel-twirling. Every possible direction and combination of directions.

After two hours, yours truly became a first-level tassel master -- like a D&D geek, but with my own real girl's boobs. I tell ya, it could be months, maybe years, maybe never, before I actually perform burlesque in public, but the boost of adrenaline I got from that class is enough to make me go back for another fix. I don't know why I hadn't done it sooner.

good morning, crazy

I know, I know, it's been a while, but it's not like I haven't been thinking about you. I've got so much to tell you, actually -- not that I had a Bahamavention & will regale you with tales of the tropics like the Dewey Decimal Mistress, but I've seen some action. And I've had some major triumphs (we'll need a few posts to catch up on all of it, my pretties). And I promise I'll catch up on all your blogs this week too.

But first, let's cover the crazy guy on the L train this morning.

I had to make a run to the city at the crack of 10:30 to hand off the RightRides dispatch bag to the next dispatcher, who's at NYU. So I get on the 8th Avenue-bound L at Lorimer/Metropolitan & take one of the plethora of seats, near the middle pole in the bench. Along with the usual suspects who get on at Bedford, hipster couple & hipster guy, boards a young, scruffy-looking guy with an enormous, jam-packed hiker's backpack. He sits directly in front of me, while hipster couple & guy flank him on either side.

As he begins to dig in his backpack, I notice his pants are stained, from hip to toe. Looks like mud. Maybe paint. Or worse, old blood. From out of the bag he pulls a hefty all-in-one-tool, that sports pliers, a screwdriver, scissors & several sizes of knife blades. Then he dips back in to the backpack & pulls out a brand new box cutter, still in it's packaging.

The couple is at least acting somewhat oblivious to his tool brandishing, doing a crossword or that infernal sudoku, but the eyes of the guy to his left keep getting wider & darting from tool to tool to me & anyone on my side of the train who also may be seeing this odd display. And oh, boy, did I see it & register my concern using eye contact with hipster guy.

Scruffy guy decides that just pulling the new box cutter out of his bag isn't enough. He opens up a small knife blade on the multipurpose tool and cuts open the packaging, returning the blade to its locked position. Then he lifts the screwdriver piece & proceeds to unscrew the box cutter & load the first blade into place, carefully, running his fingers along it, to either test its sharpness or its straightness.

Our eyes grow wider & dart even faster. Hipster guy looks at the box cutter, loaded & ready, then to me, then back to Scruffy & back to me, while me eyes pace the triangle of Scruffy's face, the box cutter & hipster guy. There was no emotion on Scruffy's face, which in my head, as worst case scenario, said, "He's ready to give in & obey the voices."

Naturally, I began to play out the scene in my head & start an internal dialog of my step-by-step reactions. "What if he does what I think he's gonna do & lunges toward hipster guy, to plunge the box cutter into his neck or gut? What do I do?" "Well, I have my boots on, so, of course, I'll kick him in the head." "Right leg or left?" "Umm, right. Planting my left leg firmly & maybe grabbing the pole next to me for added stability. Oh & if I have to defend myself, I'll use the clipboard in the dispatch bag as a shield." "Yeah & what if he lunges at the couple first?" "Fuck 'em, they're useless.... Nah, I'd do the same thing, but maybe try to use the clipboard to shield the girl." "Still right leg?" "Yeah, it's stronger & more used to the kicking motion. Plus I balance really well on my left leg." "And what if he gets up & lunges toward you?" "Never gonna happen." "It could." Alright, well, in the unlikely event he lunges for me, I'll use the clipboard to block while I try to move & position myself to either kick the box cutter out of his hand or kick him in the head."

But then, between 1st & 3rd Avenues, he put the box cutter away.

And then he pulled out a large pair of hedge-clippers, and began running his fingers over the two blades, again, as if testing the sharpness. My eyes quickly flick to hipster guy's, which are now saucers, blinking back & forth, between my eyes & the clippers.

Internally again, "Well, now what the hell's he gonna do?" "I don't know! Don't talk to me right now, I'm trying to think. How are we gonna get out of this?"

But as soon as I figured out that the clipboard could still be a decent shield & it'd be easier to kick the clippers out of his grip than go for his face, he'd opened his backpack o' creepy tools and put them back.

As soon as we pulled into Union Square, hipster guy was out the doors. He didn't bother to hang around to see if Scruffy was getting off with him or staying on to begin his bloodbath. He didn't even bother to look my way again for one last, knowing, "Good luck." He just tucked tail & ran. Maybe a little wetter.

Of course, I don't blame him. But I sat calmly & watched as Scruffy gathered his backpack up & sauntered off the train, probably to go terrorize some other innocent onlookers. And I finally unclenched my ass cheeks on the F train, somewhere between 6th Avenue & West 4th.