As it always happens, I want to post a topic when I haven’t given the proper update that should precede it.

I updated my A Little Extra On the Author page, but I did not write a full story describing how I have moved back to the Midwest (Illinois, incidentally) just recently. It’s been almost a decade (a decade!) since I’ve lived in this vast region of our country, comprised of what most people call the “flyover states.” Knowing myself very well, I will probably take one or two aspects and feature them in a future post, much like I did my grocery post when I lived in New York. But since I want to write about thunderstorms, I must keep this brief and say that I am now living in Illinois and we are currently experiencing a full-on thunderstorm, something that was not nearly as frequent in New York, sadly.

I don’t know if it was the city’s tall buildings or the area but thunderstorms are in a class of their own in the Midwest. Granted, they can be more dangerous here because they can also lead to or derive from tornadoes but when it’s just the thunder, lightning and rain, they can be one of the most soothing events to listen to and witness from a warm, dry spot. (Or cool, if it’s humid up to your eyeballs, which is also frequent here.)

Tonight as we were relaxing, the lightning started up and sure enough, seconds later, the thunder started rolling over our house. The weather report says we can expect these to occur all night. I don’t know why it’s not remotely frightening or concerning; after all, I have personally had a few electronics die at lightning’s hand. But the sound of the thunder and the rain hitting the window panes just makes me feel cozy inside.

I know I’m not the only one – I’m not an anomaly here – or there wouldn’t be endless thunderstorm sounds to purchase.

Truly, one can experience a thunderstorm in the Midwest greater than in dense populations because you can see it and feel it in a way that you cannot when you are surrounded by incredible, statuesque buildings that block the skyline.  Not having lived in these middle states for almost a third of my life now (wow…), I’m rediscovering them and my delight at their presence.

While I can admit this isn’t the most exciting post one will ever read or write, I hope that a handful of readers can relate. Knowing that it’s supposed to rain all day tomorrow (with possible thunder and lightning!) makes me feel toasty inside as I think about putzing around the house and doing all sorts of cozy indoor projects. Thunderstorms also induce one hell of a great nap, if you didn’t know.

If you’re fortunate enough to experience these wonders of nature and have some time on your hands, just listen and/or watch the next time one happens. They make me pensive, they soothe with their cacophonic sounds (although really they’re more symphonic), and as I have stated, they are soporific.

I think I will sleep well tonight.

(As I finished this post, a huge clap of thunder rocked our house and I felt it under my seat. Someone’s car alarm is going off! Bliss….)

Folks, this is going to be short and sweet, because I can’t contain my excitement for very long (it inhibits my attention span).

I am one of only three winners (out of almost 20,000 applicants) of a beautiful, glossy, candy apple red Kitchen Aid stand mixer from The Pioneer Woman’s cooking blog, Tasty Kitchen. <~~~ Click that link to see my name posted as one of the winners. I comment at the bottom with the lemon chicken recipe I mention!

I have ALWAYS wanted one of these for my very own! It feels so serendipitous that I won because I just happened to check the site to see what was new and there was this contest, which happened to fall on my best friend’s birthday. (My best friend Helen has awesome winning karma.)

I have said “Oh my GOD” about 200 times, I have done the chair dance, I have called my parents….You’d think I was getting a check from Publishers Clearing House.

My gratification knows no bounds! This is what Tiny Tim must have felt like in A Christmas Carol. God bless us, everyone!

It is hot as crap outside. Summer is officially here.

Actually, today is only 88 but the 90s have come and gone and are only a day or two away from happening again. I’m finding that there are those people in New York City who love how hot it gets here in the summertime. I am baffled by them. The streets hold in the heat, feeling like you have an invisible electric blanket shrouding you everywhere you go, even in (and sometimes especially) on the subway platform. (How did people live here before air-conditioned subway cars?)

In the past two weeks, I have only been able to wear my hair down once. And not because it was cool enough to do so. The high was only going to be 86 yesterday and I determinedly blow dried my hair and put a touch of anti-frizz silk stuff on the crown of my head to keep my hair from making me look like an unkempt 7 year-old the second I stepped foot outside of my un-airconditioned bedroom. Usually I can’t stand the thought of having long hair cover my nape while I am trying to keep cool to and from work so I think screw it, and I put my hair up wet in a makeshift bun. (I have yet to learn how to give myself a French braid but am hoping to get a lesson very soon.) Having my hair up everyday is not the most stylish thing to do but when it comes to being sticky and uncomfortable, I always end up choosing comfort over style. The picture you see here is how I look pretty much everyday in the summer at work. Hell, it’s how I look right now, minus the mascara and earrings.

If you haven’t already been able to tell, I am very fair-skinned and I do not have a high tolerance for heat…or direct sunlight, for that matter. My boyfriend despises the heat more than I do, and if I had any doubts as to his tolerance for temperatures above 78 degrees, I had only to look to the dog that he came with. I present to you below Lucas, an Alaskan Malamute/Husky mix.

This is a dog who eats ice like popcorn and bathes in snow.

The three of us go into either the living room or the bedroom, switch on an air conditioner and proceed to stay cool doing all the stuff we normally do at home – watch TV, get on the interwebs, sleep, etc. And so here we are, on a gorgeously hot Saturday afternoon, hanging out in the cool bedroom while I sit at my desk and the boyfriend does whatever it is he’s doing on his laptop. On Monday morning, I’ll be regaled of stories of what other folks did over the weekend besides sit next to an air conditioning unit. This is just how we roll.

And now, as if that introduction wasn’t long enough, I’ll detail the few wisps of thoughts I have had over the last week or two to share with you all. Because, you know, I should have something to say after a six month hiatus from the blog.

Enjoy these random observations from yours truly and stay cool (or hot, if that’s your preference).

1. Have you ever thought about the fact that when your phone isn’t ringing, it means that not one person on the face of the planet wants to call you? Considering the number of people, telephones and phone numbers that exist, you’d think the odds of your phone ringing at any given time would be higher.  Maybe I just don’t get that many phone calls. Hm.

2. I tried the new snack size Reese’s McFlurry from McDonald’s the other day. It melted into candy soup in about five minutes flat. However, for the 180 seconds it was semi-solid, it was absolutely delicious. There was a run on ice cream snacks when I ordered it. People were running in and shouting out ice cream orders like the streets were frying them alive. Maybe they were. Anyway, a guy ran in and ordered three or four sundaes and asked if the ice cream was soft. The server replied wryly, “Well yes, it’s soft. It’s soft serve.” The man replied, “Too soft?” The server answered, “I guess.” I suppose it’s possible that there is someone who has never gotten ice cream from McDonald’s and that every second, someone new tries it, but I’m just perplexed at anybody who doesn’t understand the consistency of fast food ice cream. It’s not even real ice cream. What do you expect for $.99?

3. Working in the summertime reminds me that working in the summertime sucks. Hard. I always think about when I had summers off as a kid up through the time I was 16, and I never really appreciated it. Actually, I was unable to find work between years in college and I enjoyed lazy days then. I could do with a solid month off, even if it was just sitting in front of my air conditioner and pondering how I have nothing to do.

4. In order of use and preference of social networking sites, it goes Facebook, Twitter, Foursquare. For those of you who don’t have Foursquare yet, I absolutely recommend trying it. You earn Mayorships and Badges the more times you check into venues. It’s become so popular that you can actually earn discounts from participating companies the more you check in to places. The novelty of earning the badges/mayorships keeps me remembering to do it. It’s kind of like a real life video game, where you earn meaningless rewards for just walking around. (I think that was the creator’s intent, actually.)

5. I hate when people ask you if the elevator is going down, when the wall indicator not only alerts you audibly, but lights up a big red down arrow – twice! The other day, I’m in the elevator in my work building going down to the lobby and it stops on the second floor (the SECOND floor), where a man on his cell phone looks up distractedly and asks, “Is this going down?” The other guy in the elevator and I stared at him incredulously before replying yes. Seriously, dude, you’re going to hold us up even further by clarifying whether the elevator is going down before you get on it? To be clear, there is a stairwell for the folks on 2. They ought to wear a blazing red A for Asshole when they need to take the elevator DOWN. Or at least have the decency to apologize when you get in. Yeah that’s right, you should be sorry. I’m not a skinny gal but even I would be taking the stairs everyday if I worked on the second floor.

6. Robyn’s new song, Dancing On My Own, (click on that link to see her video!) has taken over my life. I have listened to it obsessively and I ended up buying her album, Body Talk Pt. 1, on iTunes, because I loved it so much.  The song invokes images of Flashdance and J. Lo impersonating Jennifer Flowers in Flashdance, because if you’re like me, you’ll just want to dance and dance to the crazy awesome beats. Get you some Robyn!

An aside before I get started on this what-will-soon-be-rambling post: five months? Seriously? I need to get my act together. I vow to be a better blogstress, even if it means posting one word but getting in an update before half a year has passed. Aside over.

Happy 2010, everyone! We’re living in the future everyone has always talked about. 2000/Y2K was ten years ago (Jesus….) and we’re exactly five years away from the year that Michael J. Fox visited from Back to the Future II. Scary. Ten years ago I was 19 going on 20, living in the Midwest and working at a small office for a non-profit. I had never been to Europe or New York and had yet to go to college. I’m sorry, I’m going on a tangent here because I’m reeling from the fact that a solid decade has gone by. So much has changed and I’ve experienced so much more and yet, some things are exactly the same.

What about ourselves stays the same? Quirks, mannerisms, general likes and dislikes. For example, one thing that has always been true of me is my response to pretty things. Since I was a baby, I have gravitated toward the light, twinkly, pastel, sparkly, soft, or decorated. (I was a candy and sugar freak when I was a kid but I think it was more the response to “absorbing” the prettily colored candy or goodies in my mouth than actually needing to eat it.) Anything gorgeous is going to grab my attention – especially if it’s a beautiful shade of pink. I know. “Typical.” This transcends from the purely aesthetic to touch, taste and smell. And I really shouldn’t exclude hearing pretty sounds, because there are really beautiful sounds in our existence.

I know I’m not the only one because otherwise the pretty shit I’m into wouldn’t come at such a high price. I have an absolutely uncanny knack of finding the most expensive whatever-it-is based purely on what pleases my eye. I suppose I take it as a good thing that I have exquisite taste, if exquisite means it costs tons of money. But for someone who does not have gobs of cash, it can turn into a frustration.

A perfect example of this is when my friend Jennifer visited me last September and we went shopping at Macy’s. Generally speaking, I don’t consider Macy’s to be the creme de la creme, but they really do sell some upscale items. My friend has superb taste but she is fortunate enough to be able to indulge with her pocketbook. I own one Coach purse that I paid for with Christmas money but other than that, I simply do not make enough money and don’t have the years to be able to save up for every expensive thing that I want. Anyway. I was searching for a new purse (I still am. FML.) and she recommended I look at their Furla bags, as the one she owned was Furla and it was soft and supple and beautifully made. So off we go to the Furla area and after a solid hour of looking through the fine selection of purses (all on sale, mind you) I find the one I really want. It’s a gorgeous light shade of gray with the perfect number of pockets, zippers, adornments, etc. I don’t like super gaudy or ostentatious bags and this one was a classic beauty.

Macy’s was having a huge purse sale. Every one of them was discounted. And out of all the purses there, it was the only one priced around $500. Even with the sale and other discounts, I still would have had to pay over $300 and I just couldn’t do it. I agonized over whether to suck it up and buy it but in the end, I didn’t. I have checked multiple Furla sites and have never seen it since. It will go down as one of those lifetime opportunity bags that I passed by, but I just could not justify spending that kind of money on it, especially when I would have put it on my already loaded credit card. (But aren’t Furla bags sooo pretty? See lovely, elegant bag above.)

This is just one example of having to go without the luxury items, but it never fails. Whatever I end up liking out of an entire array of items, it will be the most expensive. Perfume, sheets, stemware, flatware, stationery, makeup, coats, shoes, picture frames, cars, furniture, knick knacks, jewelry, gadgets…anything and everything. If there is a “high end” version of it, I inevitably come across it and say, “I like this one!” and it’s the most expensive one there. It is so rare when I find something that is reasonably priced and meets the high caliber quality I also desire.  (My boyfriend is all too aware of my fondly saying, “You get what you pay for!”)

In the end it’s all about just stuff, anyway. But oooh I still yearn for some things I really hope to get my hands on someday, be it cashmere or crystal. I cannot tell you how many times I have stopped to admire a bakery window or pastry shop because they have prettily decorated cakes and things sitting on display. (My current banner exemplifies this nicely.) If something is pastel, I PINE for it. Pink, yellow, violet, green and white, these are my favorite things. I love pretty shit!!! (I’m positive Oprah would agree with me. She just can’t say shit on TV.)

My dear, patient, loving Kevin shakes his head and knows all too well about my penchant for quality things; because, inevitably, the pretty thing I want will be unattainable. What can I say? I have a good eye. I want what I want, like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. What does this mean for me?

I really need to make a lot more money. Like, a lot a lot.

We’ve all heard about horrid sales jobs where one has to cold call businesses throughout the entire work day just to try to generate new clientele. But do we ever hear from the victims of said cold calls? I’d like to give the Administrative Assistant’s point of view on this one, if I may. Well – it is my blog – so I think I’m entitled.

We are the first (and sometimes second) line of defense against sales people calling to talk to our bosses, the “decision makers.” I am here to state that what we have to put up with over the phone is absolutely atrocious. I have two bosses and every other week I am assisting with answering the firm’s phone lines. Both invite all manner of sales people calling throughout the day and are equally enervating.

This is how I look when fielding the sales calls.

Very rarely do I get a saleswoman that is as pushy as the least of the annoying salesmen out there. The saleswomen call about office supplies, copiers and copy toner, recruiting and HR. Your basics. The salesmen call about personal wealth management, recruiting, real estate, utilities, magazines/newspaper subscriptions and sometimes want to get a quote from my head boss guy on something related to his field.

I don’t know what “school” people go to to learn Sales Calls 101 but I can attest that they are all the same. Screw it, I’m just going to flat out say it: the men are the worst of the two sexes. I have yet to encounter a female sales person who attempts to be a quarter slick-as-snot as their male counterparts.

The following are all attributes of a typical sales call on any given business day:

• Pretending to know my boss(es) on a first-name basis, often shortening my male boss’s name (instant giveaway)
• Will not give his/her name or describe what the call is in reference to
• Faking having a supremely busy day and thus needs a SPECIFIC time to call back, to make sure my boss is available
• Try to get to know me personally, asking for my name and how I’m doing today, cajoling me into parting with whatever gem they need to advance to the next step of “the transaction”
• Give up mid-call to ask for anyone who they could talk to besides me, and upon my saying I will transfer him/her, I get asked what the name and/or extension is of the person to whom I’m transferring the call
• Becoming argumentative when I absolutely insist that I have a name and a reason for his/her call before transferring it directly to my boss, demanding that he can ONLY talk to my boss and my boss only and NO I can’t take a message and a return phone number

Once, I had a particularly pushy financial sales guy call back no less than four times, never leaving his name, never having a reason to speak to my boss other than some vaguely strung together industry jargon, always ending with “Well I’m about to hop onto a conference call myself so I won’t be able to call back until later; when is your boss available?” When it became absolutely apparent that I was the guard dog whom he would never pass without a legitimate story, he finally gave up and stopped calling.

I have also been berated by those from the media because the guy thinks I get my jollies by not putting calls through to my boss, even though he was from European magazine I’d never heard of (nor care about) and no matter how much he needs to speak to my boss directly, gets SO PISSED that he can’t get past me.

My “favorite” type of sales call happened recently and I am pasting it in its entirety:

Me: Good afternoon, [name of my company].

Sales Douche: Hey, how are you?

Me: Fine thanks, and you?

Sales Douche: Eh, I can’t complain; nobody listens, you know?

Me: Ha ha….yeah I know how that is. (Not really – who says that?)

Sales Douche: Is Nicholas* there? (Now, he’s called the MAIN number. You can’t just ask for any old random Nicholas. Be a bit more presumptuous by pretending you know him, would you? Jerkoff.)

Me: Nicholas who?

Sales Douche: Nicholas Jones.

Me: He’s out of the office until Wednesday.

Sales Douche: Until Wednesday, huh? What’d ya do with him? (Emphasis on “ya.” He’s from Jersey, obviously.)

Me: *Pause* What did I do with him? He’s out on business.

Sales Douche: Haha, okay. Well so Wednesday morning then?

Me: Late Wednesday morning should be fine.

Sales Douche: Great, and your name is?

Me: *Reluctantly* I’m Zoe.

Sales Douche: Great Zoe, thanks. (Do I get all warm and fuzzy because he’s thanking me personally for “helping” him? Hell no.)

Me: Uh huh, buh bye.

First of all, I can’t stand small talk. Like, I cannot abide it. But I despise being treated like I’m an insipid, vapid receptionist, someone who is nothing more than a warm body answering phones who has nothing better to do than banter with a cold calling sales dick, who is attempting to ingratiate himself to me by asking me how I’m doing and learning my name. It doesn’t work that way, Ace. I’m losing precious minutes of my life being on the phone with you!

I don’t care what you’re trying to sell or find out from my boss but I will do everything in my (albeit limited) power to keep you from speaking with him, since I know with every fiber of my phone-answering being that you have nothing he wants to buy or discuss.

I don’t have a proposed solution to this issue. I just hate conversing with dipshits on the phone. If there was any way that cold calling could not be so used car salesmany, that would definitely ease my pain when I am forced through my employer to answer phones. I know I’m getting paid to do it, but I just can’t fathom that it has to be this painful. The most I can do is bitch/rant about it for you dear readers, who may or may not be able to commiserate with me about it.

As of this writing, I just fielded a call for my boss, who said, “Hi Zoe…is [my boss] there?” I replied, “He’s in a meeting. Can I pass on a message?” Meanwhile, the faint sound of the call center is in the background.

“Uhh I’ll just ping him an email, because I’m all over the place today.”

First of all – ping? Really? Secondly, I love how he pretends that he’s doing something other than sitting on his ass in a call center for eight hours or more.

So I baldly ask, “Okay, that’s fine – and who are you?” I wasn’t polite about it.

“It’s Omar**,” he said, “I’ll just ping him an email.” I wish I had said, “You do that.” Instead I’ll just be over here holding my breath until our next slimy interaction.

*name changed

**name left intact

I try to keep whining to a minimum but when it comes to grocery shopping without a car, it gets pretty bad. It goes something like this: I run out of food little by little. Pretty soon, I’m getting creative with the few staples I have left in the house: “I know! I’ll make rice with butter for dinner!” or “Cereal with half ‘n half is fine.” Finally, it comes down to making something with eggs, eating peanut butter out of the jar and resorting to actually eating the oatmeal I bought months ago. Then I’m really out of everything.

Enter the whining. I have no food, I’m starving and I have needed to go to the store for weeks. My inner adult self wars with the three year-old in there having a tantrum, pounding her fists on the floor: “But I don’t wanna go to the store! I hate it! I hate it! Don’t make me! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.” I told you it wasn’t pretty. (I recently performed such antics when I was forced to cook the chicken I had needed to make all week. I told my boyfriend to MAKE me prepare the chicken but it was no easy feat on his part, bless his heart. Oh and I literally stamped my foot on the floor about not wanting to do it, too. See what he has to put up with?)

Interestingly enough, I never minded going to the store when I lived in St. Louis and when I was in college. But I had a car. (Sniffle – God, I miss having a car.) It never even crossed my mind to despise doing it. The car was right there. You just get in and go. When those of us with on-campus jobs got paid, we trundled off to Wegman’s to stock up on stuff we’d need that wasn’t overpriced from the campus Corner Store or made from dehydrated food packets in the cafeteria. (Don’t EVEN get me started on Aramark.)

I’ll go so far as to say that I enjoyed grocery shopping when I went with a friend or my then boyfriend. Helen loved going to the store with me, just to gab while I was throwing stuff in the cart. The boyfriend in question hated grocery shopping with me, but that is because we would argue over the quality of paper towels and toilet paper we were buying (ladies, you feel me – it’s all about the high quality stuff). I never thought that a regular outing such as that would become one of the biggest major thorns in my side down the line.

And so. Living in New York, there are tons of shops from which to buy all manner of things, from the extravagently gourmet to the ridiculously cheap. (And  I am a huge proponent of  the adage “You get what you pay for.” Hmmm, possible post down the line formulating…) It sounds fun in your head if you don’t live here.

Maybe you picture a gorgeous, sunny day going from store to store and selecting your specialty meats from your butcher who knows you by face or name;  stocking up at the fromagerie for a tart piece of Chèvre, gruyere or smoked gouda; grabbing all your canned and jarred goods (green olives? hello) at the regular corner store or bodega even; moving on to the local produce stand or farmer’s market for produce and daily specials; getting to the checkout counter where the man or woman is only too thrilled to send you on your way with your purchases. Then you happily carry it all home like you’re Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman after you get to go on a shopping spree in Beverly Hills with Richard Gere’s credit card.

WRONG. This is a fallacy of the grandest design. It is a pain in the freaking ass to go to more than one place and if you are unfortunate enough to only live close by to a poorly stocked grocery store where even finding something as simple as powdered sugar just ain’t happening, your options are extremely limited.

You can make the attempt to go to all the local places and find out that it’s exorbitantly overpriced, and/or that the employees don’t understand exactly what you’re looking for, and/or that these places don’t carry “quality” items (read: a filthy cat is walking around the deli behind the counter – I have seen it with my own eyes!) and/or that it’s raining and/or that this shit gets heavy after awhile and/or that you don’t own your own cart with which to schlep all this stuff home (much less up your third, fourth or fifth floor walk-up apartment building), and/or that the fantastic store you are fortunate enough to live by draws every other New Yorker to it and you are competing with a mob of other people in narrow, cramped aisles for all the same stuff like a meteor is going to hit and you all are stocking up to go hide in your bomb shelters.

Am I painting enough of a picture here? Do I come off as slightly cynical and fatigued? It’s because I am. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait my entire four years of living here to benefit from the genius of one particular company who has saved me from overspending on living à la carte. If you know what lunch costs on a daily basis working in Midtown, you know that you can easily spend anywhere from $50-$100 per week on lunch alone. For Chrissakes, Goodburger charges $16 for a “value meal” of a hamburger, fries and a milkshake.  I don’t mean to shamelessly namedrop but that place makes great burgers, fries and shakes. (I’ll write a post after I finally try Shake Shack.) But I don’t want to not make rent by eating there on a regular basis.

The online company Fresh Direct came along to save me from my grocery woes. Both a supermarket and a catering company, it has everything a person could ever want to buy right from the comfort of your own home or office (or on vacation – wherever!). They carry organic fare and their ready-to-eat and bakery items are out of this world. Here’s the best part. Your groceries are delivered (on the day and within a time slot of your choosing) in a referigerated truck where burly men come in carrying the boxes full of goodies and if you happen to live in a fifth floor walk-up or have a cat and you’ve just ordered two 14-lb boxes of cat litter, they do all the lifting and huffing and puffing. Voilà! It couldn’t be any simpler.

When one is deprived of the magic of having a car with a TRUNK, four wheels and an engine to get you to and from the grocery store, this place is a lifesaver. I know I personally breathe a sigh of relief whenever I’ve hit the Checkout button.

An actual image from Fresh Direct with a cuke in the cart.

Besides the convenience factor, I have been able to order some really great food items and meals because I don’t have to ask myself the question, “Can I get this home? Am I going to be found laying on the side of the road, groceries strewn everywhere around me, because everything has broken out of their respective bags? Is this too ambitious?” I mean, seriously. Furthermore, there is no getting stuck behind the elderly couple who is paying for their groceries either by check or by 92,837,492,038,743 nickels, dimes and pennies. Nor do you have to get behind the coupon lady (it is NOT pronounced “kewpon”!)who needs to save twenty-five cents on six cans of tomato soup. No muss, no fuss. Just “set it and forget it!”

I know it seems kind of surreal to think about groceries being delivered right to one’s home but it is such an incredible tradeoff when one has to compromise one’s standards of living; because let’s face it, the majority of people who move here compromise their standards of living. I am stating officially for the record that the living experience here resembles nothing whatsoever like that of Sex and the City.

All of this having been said, do I still bitch about grocery shopping? Yes, yes I do. It’s such a chore. Granted, it’s not as bad as laundry or washing a huge sink full of dishes. But certain individuals who shall remain nameless have had to browbeat me into completing this bi-weekly duty, lest I go broke and/or I am found wasting away eating corn starch out of the box because the pantry is empty.

Still, I know that one day I will return to my suburban roots (Schnucks/Dierberg’s/Wegman’s for the win!) and I, too, also, along with the majority of the U.S. population, will once again have the sheer joy and privilege flowing through my veins of getting into an automobile, blasting music, parking the grocery-carrier in a parking spot (with its bigass trunk!) and loading up my Sam’s Club elephant-sized cart with items like a drum of pickles and a 40-pack of toilet paper and think, “Welcome home, Zoe.”

Talk about a hiatus. In the time off that I haven’t written, President Obama was sworn in as our 44th President, American Idol started back up again, my love for CBS’ The Big Bang Theory has grown to epic proportions and I’ve even managed to acquire and build two very important pieces of furniture for my apartment (a bed frame and a bathroom shelf, respectively). Lots of progress!

But on a more somber note, I received a phone call a couple of weeks ago from a former boyfriend. We were together for a long time and in the last year of our relationship, he got a dog named Chewie.  A mix of Yorkshire Terrier and Miniature Pinscher, he was the sweetest little thing, with an endless playful and affectionate energy. When I got back from studying in Paris in June of 2004, we house-trained this little guy and he took over our hearts.

Is he photogenic or what?

I was shocked and saddened to get the news that Chewie  suddenly passed away on Saturday, March 7th. Dave was driving down the highway with Chewie in the back seat when he suddenly let out a loud yelp and then…silence. By the time Dave could get the car pulled over so he could get back there to check on Chewie, he had died. He was turning 5.

We don’t know what happened, be it a stroke or some kind of heart condition (I thought maybe he was stung or bitten by something – brown recluse?), but he was gone in an instant.

It’s incredibly weird to me that he isn’t running around and being his wonderful, loving self. I easily thought he would live to be 15. Dave buried him at his parents’ farm, where Chewie loved to scamper and play. I was blue and teary all that weekend; I can’t imagine how the first couple of days without him went back at Dave’s place.

Chewie passed out

I haven’t seen Chewie since 2005 but I never forgot about him, and it was always a source of comfort to me that Dave had him and took such good care of him (and vice versa). To have him suddenly yanked away was such a shock, even from my distance.

Favorite things about Chewie: he only barked when the doorbell rang, even if it was the Domino’s Pizza doorbell on TV; he loved hopping on his hind legs to show you how excited he was to see you; he was always happy to curl up next to you while you slept; he loved Tug of War; nothing was funnier than watching him sprint.

Chewie was the first dog I ever loved – the dog that made me fall in love with dogs. (At least little ones.) He will always be a part of me. I could think of nothing more fitting than to dedicate a post to his memory.

To Chewie. You are missed. You are loved.

Chewie: March 2004 – March 2009

First, read Pioneer Woman’s story and see her beautifully clear photos. Click here!

Is that not fantastically funny and at the same time, pretty creepy? Next, check out this video so you can see how the marketing folks at Mattel (Barbie) advertise it:

IIIIII KNOOOOOOOOOW! It comes with a pooper scooper? This is going to teach kids to be responsible? I think it’s one thing to deal with a baby doll that wets its diaper but a dog that craps out brown pellets that also serve as its food? Grooooooooooooss! Next we’ll have Exterminator Barbie, who comes with rat traps and a recepticle for dead roaches (included!). Maybe it can come with a rabid squirrel that she puts down with a tranq gun or something.

What about Cafeteria Lady Barbie? Hairnet, rubber gloves, lye, “mystery meat,” rubber boots, hemorrhoid cream, etc? Maybe a fake pack of cigarettes and a couple of shades of dye for her hair? Don’t forget the antidepressants.

Actually, scratch that. That’s just bringing things too close to home. You catch my drift.

I’ll stick with the fun side of toys – the ones that don’t come with adult responsibilities. That’s the entire point!

Post Christmas shopping. New York City. January of the New Year – in this case, 2009.

I had a couple of appointments today in “the city,” as I refer to Manhattan since I live in Queens. Going in on a weekend day is always a gamble with how long it will take. Catching a train within two minutes of getting to the subway platform on a Saturday or Sunday can really set the tone for the day. However, if the train line is under construction and/or rerouted, God only knows how long it will take to get to a destination, be it one or five miles away. I got lucky today and wasn’t rerouted upon boarding.

I met my friend Cornelia on the UES and after a little bit of shopping, we drifted down Lexington to Bloomingdale’s, since I received a $50 gift card for Christmas. I was actually pretty excited, since in three years I’ve never had a reason to actually go in the store. I take that back: I met another friend there once on the makeup floor, but since I wasn’t there to actually buy anything and we left within minutes of meeting up, I didn’t count it as an actual trip to Bloomingdale’s, ie Bloomies. Since I’m not a regular shopper, I don’t think I can get away with calling it that.

What can a person buy for $50 at Bloomingdale’s? I’ll be honest – not a whole helluva lot. Let me put it this way: I’m reading a fabulous book Helen sent to me, entitled The Best of Everything, which is a novel delving into the lives of young secretaries working in a publishing firm in the 1950s in New York City. The starting salary is $50 a week, which apparently was really good money back then for being in a typing pool. Flash forward fifty-three years later, and my $50 gift card can buy me either a discount on something more expensive, a singular expensive item that shouldn’t be expensive (like a tie, a pair of panties or a travel size bottle of perfume), or two small expensive items. So one week’s salary from the 1950s is buying me something small and hopefully classy.

That having been said, most women know that the best bet is to go to the makeup counter (unless that woman is not a girly girl). There are lots of things $50 and under. Seeing as I was still using the same, tired tube of L’Extreme Mascara I wrote about back in November, I knew exactly where I was headed: my beloved Lancome counter.

I really tried to find an excuse to buy a gift set of perfume or something unexpected, but everything was more expensive than I wanted it to be, and damn it, my eyelashes have been crying out for fresh mascara. They simply won’t lengthen anymore with the practically-dried-up tube I have at home.

So here’s the downfall about being on the makeup floor at Bloomingdale’s, one of the most famous stores in the world: it’s a fucking snake pit! Nordstrom, something we don’t have here (pity), is known for its customer service. I would really love to do some compare and contrast shopping because God’s honest truth (and I had a certified New Yorker, Miss Cornelia, with me), the place is loaded with a higher ratio of sales people to customers, practially, all scrambling for a commission on whatever you end up purchasing. They don’t care if you have the money or not, nor how much of your precious time they’re taking up; and they certainly don’t care if they come off as bottom-feeding jerks. It’s all about the sale.

First things first: it’s a good thing I knew exactly what I wanted to buy at Lancome, because while they have the samples of mascara sitting out, everything is hidden and not organized well. I’m sure there’s some marketing scheme on why nothing flows together, like a candy aisle at the grocery store, but it just added to the confusion, if you ask this consumer. The woman who “helped” me didn’t describe anything about any of the other mascaras or eye makeup, didn’t mention any specials, sales or what goes really well with L’Extreme; she simply got out the box I asked for and handed it to me.

My lady was probably in her 50s or 60s, short, and sported a poof of coiffed, blonde (dyed) hair and lots and lots of green eye makeup. I own a subtle shade of green eyeliner of which I don’t like to dab on too much, but this woman had the super bright set all over her: upper and lower lids, corner of the eyes, with green eye shadow to match. I think she even had something glittery. I don’t know about 60 year-olds with glittery eyeliner. I’m just saying.

Maybe when you’re a salesperson you have to make yourself stand out as much as possible, because then I could always find her, saying, “It’s the one with tons of green eye makeup at the Lancome counter.”

“Ah! That’s Zsa Zsa. Right this way,” the helpful Information person might say.

“Zsa Zsa’s” lame attempt at upselling was encouraging me to buy a gift set of Juicy Tubes, which are “only” in stock now and then they’ll be gone forever. Yeah yeah, lady. I held onto my mascara box and continued looking. When I strayed too far at the Lancome border, almost into MAC country, she told me she could just hold onto it for me until I decided. Clearly she was worried I would pocket the mascara in my purse. Fine, I leave it with her. So I turn the corner to go find Cornelia, unsure yet of what else I would be purchasing (because nothing’s worse than having $20 on a gift card at an expensive store – I just wanted to use it up!), and suddenly, an overly groomed, waaaay too much gel in his hair sales guy, accosts me and proceeds to give me the hardest sell I’ve ever had in my life to sign up to have a makeover done by a professional makeup artist at the end of the month.

Thankfully, Cornelia found me in the middle of his spiel (even though I was clearly giving off the not interested vibe), and she managed to keep him at bay. The catch was we had to purchase a $50 gift card to Bloomingdale’s that day and if we missed the appointment, we could just use it towards Bloomingdale’s some other time. They don’t give a rat’s ass whether you come and get the glamorous “makeover,” they just want you to purchase a $50 gift card that day. They’d love it if it never got spent, or better yet, put it towards an even more expensive purchase if you come back for the makeover and Francois or whoever is doing the makeover, recommends $250 worth of products. Uh huh. I’ve got your number, Slick.

When I said I couldn’t afford the $50 today, he literally said, “But it’s like money in the bank!” Who says that? It’s not money in the bank; it’s out of my bank account and going towards something I haven’t even bought yet. Furthermore, I’m signing myself up to come back to this place…on purpose….again in three weeks? No thanks. Somehow I managed to get out of his clutches. I returned to the Lancome counter and bought a new Le Stylo waterproof eyeliner in black (add it to the Bottom Line, These Are Awesome list!). Again, thankfully I knew the name but did Zsa Zsa even try to care about the sale? No. When I picked up the bottle of Oui perfume, which smelled delicious, I asked her how much the small bottle was.

Here is the perfect opportunity to try to upsell me on something I already have an interest in! Instead, Zsa Zsa says to me in her thick Slavic accent, “Ummm…I don’t know, I’ll have to look it up.” I checked out, my items coming to $51.50 (so close!), and she did not bother looking up the price of Oui. No matter. I can probably buy it on Fragrancenet.com or somewhere else for at least 10% less. But seriously? That’s the best they can do? Could she have given less of a shit?

And don’t even try to walk through the areas where a lighted sign says Information. It’s more Bloomingdale’s sales people who hold onto random colognes, perfumes and/or clipboards, waiting for lost and befuddled prey. I couldn’t believe how popular it was to be in there! You would think they were giving the stuff away – and I assure you – they were not.

Lastly, Cornelia and I stopped by a sunglass counter, where she tried on some pairs of aviator sunglasses. The woman raved about a particular pair, that while looked very nice on Cornelia, she and I both agreed that the fake rhinestones around the edges (just a few, strategically placed), took away from some of the refinement of them. The woman said she was going to try to find something else for her, after telling her that they were “nothing,” that there weren’t really any sparkles on the glasses. She turned to me and promised me an associate would help me find something for myself. I said, “Oh okay,” but I hadn’t taken any interest except to ask Cornelia if she thought tortoiseshell frames would look okay on me. Thanks for making that leap, but I’m aight.

Cornelia’s saleswoman turned away from her to help another demanding customer in the middle of assisting her, so we left in disgust. I was happy to have my two pieces of new makeup tucked away in my first “little brown bag” I’d ever had from actually purchasing something, but all in all, the experience rates a C-. Sorry, Bloomies. Insert “wah wah wah” sound effect.

I have yet to attempt to go clothes shopping there (and let’s face it, I’d need at least a $1,000 gift card to try that) but if I’m going to go the designer route, I’ll have to try somewhere else – Saks, perhaps?

I have no idea what Bloomingdale’s was like fifty years ago, but I would hedge a guess it didn’t feel like you walked in with a bullseye on your forehead with a sign on your back that read, “Total sucker.”

Nice try but no dice. In the meantime, I will be walking around with my fabulous matching black eyeliner and eyelashes, thanks to my own personal research, and no thanks to Zsa Zsa’s piss poor sales skills.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written, I’m well aware. Thanksgiving brought with it the last four weeks of getting ready for Christmas; and let’s just say I’ve been figuring out how to make Christmas work this year (read: sleeping, worrying, stress eating, sleeping, watching mindless TV, total avoidance, etc). 2008 has brought many a fiscal disaster and while my finances are far from disastrous, it’s still a small feat to crunch the numbers to find out what I can afford in cash and what’s going on ye olde credit card.

Firstly, I’d like to give a huge shoutout to the Internet (or the “World Wide Web,” as a beloved professor once called it), simply for the miracle of online shopping. I would not have been able to keep calm about everything I had to buy without this fabulous tool. If I’d actually had to go out to multiple stores to find everything I need to buy, I would have given up on the holidays long ago. The only con to online shopping when one lives in New York City is figuring out where to send the boxes. I don’t have a doorman or an apartment that delivery folks have total access to at all times. So I am forced to send things to my office and bring large bags with me to work so I can haul everything home on the subway. Fun, huh?

But still, thanks to virtual shopping, I haven’t had to stand in a huge line to get photos printed, thanks to Shutterfly. That’s my digital print shop of choice. Amazon currently sells 99% of everything under the sun (anybody try that Kindle thing yet?). Short of buying pets on Amazon.com, I’m pretty sure one can find just about anything on there. I made my giant order and was able to carry on with my daily life whilst waiting for the gifts to arrive.

Usually I get stressed out about sending out holiday cards. I’ve actually managed to do the bulk of them but I still have pending cards to write. They’ll probably sit there until December 23. Nothing says Merry Christmas like getting a holiday card on January 3. There’s always one person’s address I don’t have and then the card ultimately doesn’t get sent out. But doing the whole post office thing in NYC is….somewhat traumatic. At no time during the year is the post office ever slow. The post office is kind of like the U.S. Senate – the locations do not go by population. There are a certain amount and that’s it. So take New York – we have 9 million people here. We have a post office for the respective zip codes like everywhere else. So every single post office I’ve ever visited, without exception, is packed, the lines extensive and people impatient. There is always one New York asshole who must stand in line to mutter and curse about the long wait. It’s S.O.P. In fact, let’s just say that if I go to a drugstore or post office without hearing muttering or cursing (and I’ve been known to do it), I wonder where I am. My world doesn’t look like this (if only!):

You’d think I’m not a fan of Christmas, but I really really am. I adore Christmas and Christmastime. I love Christmas songs, I love all the baking people do, the lights and decorations, the smell of pine trees, stationery and Hallmark stores, “that Christmas feeling,” new holiday coffee flavors, and particular to New York, all the street vendors and the roasted nuts guy - all of it.  

Christmas is just best when you’re a kid, though. You have absolutely none of the worries and ALL of the expectation that when you wake up on Christmas morning, you can run down to the tree and rip open presents for three hours. It’s a divine experience that we take for granted when we’re kids. Now I know all the work it takes to get those presents under the tree on time, the Christmas ham or goose or whatever to come out perfectly, and how much MONEY it takes to really have that Hallmark holiday.

Why does wrapping presents give people diarrhea? If you don’t learn how to do it properly, you give gifts that look like a car ran over them or a 4 year-old taped together. Both of my parents are excellent gift wrappers. I learned from the best. My father is extremely thorough. He’s not just wrapping, he’s making a gift presentation with lots of curly ribbon and bows. He has a wrapping timetable so he can get it all done in time. I’m pretty sure my parents spent many a Christmas Eve wrapping presents until almost dawn – and then knock knock, it’s 6am and the kids are ready to rip! But seriously, I can attest to the fatigue that wrapping brings. I finished the first half of wrapping last night (not including packing things to ship – uuuuugh) and I just wanted to curl up right there in the wrapping paper remnants and go to sleep.

As a token to one of my favorite things, I’m going to attempt to present a link attached to this photo of the Screaming Banshee, an e-card on Hallmark. Let’s try it:

Click on that shit and enjoy the hell outta it. If that’s not an accurate depiction of prepping for the holidays, I don’t know what is. (Have your sound on!)

But through it all, corny as it is, the real gift is in the giving. I love the anticipation of waiting to see what goodies I managed to find. I’m gonna toot my own horn here because I am a very good gift giver. I could be a personal shopper, I think. Except then I’d have to deal with obnoxious clients. But I use my feminine, Zoe Intuition to really hone in on something thoughtful for the people I love. I hate having to resort to a gift certificate. It happens to the best of us, though. I love when people manage to find something really Zoe-esque that I treasure for years. Otherwise, I have been the recipient of MANY cheap and expensive bath products, because that’s the Fallback Gift that all women receive when someone doesn’t know what to get her. There probably isn’t a man in a relationship that hasn’t braved Bath & Body Works at the holidays, trying to figure out “Would she like this?” and getting an entire gift basket of “Pine cone cinnamon amethyst” or “Honeyglazed lily moonstones” products - you get the point.

Besides trying to get everything done before Christmas Eve hits (and let’s face it, December is the fastest month of the entire year), if you work in an office, you are surrounded by constant offerings of food and special treats. I know I am. Thus far this month we have had popcorn tins on each floor of the office, a holiday breakfast, lavish holiday party (coming up tomorrow night – right when NYC is supposed to be slammed with snow – woo!) and one of my bosses has received a multitude of treats, including chocolate peppermint bark, a huge basket of chocolate covered pretzels, Oreos (!!!!) and graham crackers, and a bunch of us had a holiday potluck of sorts, where we all brought something festive and exchanged recipes. (I brought seasoned pecans – a big hit, not gonna lie.) The other day, in the span of 12 hours, I was offered cookies from no less than three different people. Including myself, people’s away messages are all about “No more cookies – seriously.” It’s gluttony central.

So it’s the last full business week before the holidays. Christmas is ONE WEEK FROM TODAY. I have oodles left to do but thankfully putting up and decorating the tree isn’t one of them. I have no pets or children, so I can relax without wondering if I’m going to come home to a fallen tree in my apartment. By the time January 2nd is here, I’ll be ready to swear off cookies and treats….for a little while. But even I, with my famed sweet tooth, get sweeted out at this time of year. I offered someone a “chocolate covered something or other” and he emphatically said, “NO” and gave me a shoving hand gesture.

In a TOTAL act of randomness, I read in O Magazine about the popularity of the salty/sweet combination. A reader wrote in and said she made a batch of chocolate covered bacon. I’ve had chocolate covered potato chips (which were sinfully delicious) but never thought about chocolate covered bacon. What do you think? Would you try it? I can’t say I wouldn’t try it – my voracious love for salty/sweet is too strong.

I should take the time to ask if anybody likes Christmas but hates Christmas music. My roommate and I have had music playing and had a whole Christmas movie marathon of sorts when we did our tree. We watched National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, Home Alone and Bad Santa. Three classics. But definitely on the list to watch are A Christmas Story, A Charlie Brown Christmas and The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (animated OR live-action). I have a bunch of others but there’s only so much time to watch this stuff. I’m definitely in the cult fan club of A Christmas Story. I don’t get people who don’t get it. David, am I right?

In an attempt to put an end to this huge tangent about Christmas, I hope all of you have a fantastic holiday season, peaceful and bright, with at least one fun drunken moment (but without blacking out or puking) and a celebratory New Year. Just avoid getting in front of the camera at those holiday parties. I can attest that not all drunk photos come out great.

Merry merry!