exitstrategy

I was all ready to run the Shamrock Shuffle today, but the snow scared me off.  So, instead, I stayed inside and watched the calories from my carbo-load add girth to my ass. It was definitely a case of best laid plans.  Last night I went to dinner with three friends who were also running the race.  One of these friends could carbo-load every night since she is very skinny, the other burned off all her carbos after a night of hanky-panky with Jimmy D from Millionaire Matchmaker and the other is a dude (who for some reason insists on being referred to as a “troll” - he has issues) so I don’t think his carbo load make much difference.   I took a very long time to figure out which hi-carb pasta dinner I was going to treat myself with.  See in my world there are only three days when I can eat with abandon (the other times are not done with abandon but with intense guilt and remorse): (1) break the fast (2) thanksgiving and (3) the first seder (my mom makes all sorts of goodies that substitute fat for flour - yum).  The carbo-load seemed like another chance - I was actually given license to eat carbs (after swearing them off for two weeks on south beach).  So I happily stuffed my face with spaghetti bolognese and told myself I was going to work it all off during my big run. I do not think I am ready for the carbo-load.  Ever since I was in high school I have had problems with sports rituals - I cannot think of a specific example, nor can I conceive of any other sport ritual beside the carbo-load, but you know what I am saying.  Oh I take that back - when I was in track the coach always talked about “hammies” and how to stretch them, strengthen them, etc.  Like the carbo-load debacle, my hammies were a mess (or so I assume). It is times like this (post carbo load) that I long for the stomach flu . . . 

Well, ladies and gentleman, I have made it through to the other side.  You see last week I was on the brink of death.  Or, at least I had the stomach flu which felt like death.  I did get super skinny (two days with no food and constant elimination) but as soon as I started eating those damn saltine crackers it all came back.  There is nothing worse than being home with the flu.  Don’t get it twisted (ha I told you I was going to start using ridiculous slang) - there is nothing better than sick days.  But, sick days presuppose that you are not actually sick so you can enjoy the time off work shopping, watching tv, getting a manicure, etc.  Being home and actually being sick is really quite depressing.   And what really pushed me over the edge happened during my second truly sick day.  This partner called me at home first thing in the morning.  ”Hello?” says Spinsta in a barely audible whisper.  ”Oh you sound awful.  I know you are sick and all but can you work?”  ”Um, I am still throwing up so I do not think so.  I will try this afternoon.”  ”Ugh.”  ”I am sorry this is inconvenient for you.”  Click.  I mean did that bozo really call me on my death bed and asked me to do research??  It was just too much.  It was at that moment, I realized my life was over (note: my tendency to be overdramatic is heightened to an extreme degree when I am sick and/or overtired).  The next day, I changed out of my pajamas for the first time in three days.  I threw on some mis-matched rags and my glasses and dragged myself to work.  I learned that the partner had asked another associate to help out.  So, I called him when I got in to see how much he had done and figure out how to divide up what was left.  This particular associate is a major douche but I think in my flu-induced stupor his douchiness was magnified.  ”Hi Spinsta.  Yes I took over in your absence.  It is a good thing you are back.  We have to meet with the partner tomorrow morning at 9AM - can you make it?”  ”Yes, I think so.”  ”Good, because I would hate to take all the credit for the research since you have done half of the work.  You know if I was at the meeting alone and all.”  ”Um ok.”  Wait - no I don’t know.  Who would possibly take credit for someone else’s work merely because they were unable to make it to the meeting?  And that was ballsy douche for you to tell me your twisted plan.  ”So this is how I see it.  In order to get this done, we need to take a three-step approach.  Step 1 is for me to research procedure.  Step 2 is for you to research substance.  Step 3 is for us to synthesize our analysis and create an outline for the partner.  Does that sound like a plan?  Oh and we should probably meet before the meeting tomorrow morning so that we can prep.”  ”Um ok.”  ”Great.  This is super interesting.  I can’t wait to get my hands dirty.” I sat in my office for several minutes after he left wondering if that had really happened.  He was like a cartoon character.  Three step approach?  Synthesize?  Outline?  Is this really my life?  I somehow made it through the week and survived the flu.  I even made it through the 9AM synthesize meeting where douche whipped out an outline.  It was at that point that I realize it is time for me to take a three step approach: Step 1:  Get a New JobStep 2: Get a New LifeStep 3: Get a Flu Shot Next Year.  

I have searched my extensive vocabulary (DO NOT LAUGH) for a word to describe the debacle that was my mother’s birthday dinner last night, but I cannot find something more fitting than “shit show.”  I guess it’s only a matter of time before I start using the words Crunk, Off The Chain, or Props (if any of these words are still used). So as I mentioned before, I have two sisters who each have babies.  But in order for you to understand this story, here is a little context.  Although there are three children in my family, we function more like an only-child family and unfortunately the Spinsta is not that chosen one.  Or, maybe a better description of our sordid little family is this: Cinderella.  Well, actually Bizarro Cinderella - instead of two evil step sisters and one fairy princess there is one evil princess and two abused step sisters.  Hmm, I wonder if that is why I hate cleaning so much?   Evil Cinderella insisted that we have the birthday dinner at 5:00 so as not to upset her baby’s sleeping schedule (read: her schedule).  E.C’s husband is indeed a Prince Charming.  For instance, earlier in the day I saw the two of them at the gym.  I attempted to make small talk and so I told the prince about my marathon.  ”Oh I have done that race before.  You know what you should do when you finish?  Grab the nearest guy and just do him.”  As you can imagine, his speech at the wedding was quite eloquent.Our Hallmark memory family were the only guests at the restaurant.  I had arrived about 15 minutes late so Mom, Dad, E.C. and the prince had ordered appetizers.  Mom was walking little E.C. around the restaurant.  After polite greetings, the Prince asks me what my plans are for the night.  As shocking as it may seem, the prince is very jealous of my life (well not mine, per se, but the life of a swingin’ single).  ”You should just use this as a pre-party.  I remember those days.”  I mean I am not 23 but whatever.  Although prince’s suggestion did make sense - I was not planning on going anywhere but I did need to be buzzed to survive the next 43 minutes (our family dinners are quite wam bam).For some miraculous reason, the Spinsta was not hungry for dinner.  A few minutes after my wine arrived, the family ordered.  Then there was some more baby drama.  Then, my second glass of wine arrived (bliss) and then the dinner arrived.  Ten minutes later, E.C. turned to the prince and told him they needed to leave.  Prince turns to my dad, “I guess it’s time for us to go.  Umm, I feel like I should pay for part of dinner or something, but we have to go.  Let me know how much I owe you.”  And in the time it took the pumpkin to turn into a carriage, they were off.  Cut to my parents faces - smiling in a cartoonish way.  ”You guys can go now too,” my dad said to me and my sis.  ”No we will wait until everyone is done.”  The bill came a minute later, and then we all said our goodbyes, and then five minutes later my sister drove me to pick up dinner since I did not eat anything.   And that was it.  A shit show.  And, then, we lived happily ever after.  

I finally feel back to normal but yesterday the Spinsta was a hot mess.  I rarely use phrases like “hot mess,” preferring instead to talk like a grandmother (see, e.g., past blogisodes).  I mean you will never find the Spinsta referring to something as a “shit show.”  But, there is no other way to describe me yesterday. Thursday night was a single’s event for March Madness.  The singles were terrible - bring on the wine.  A bottle of wine to be exact.  The details of the evening are a bit fuzzy but I ate a burger and insisted on wearing a beret.   Not surprising, Friday morning I woke up and felt like hell.  I fell out of bed, brushed my teeth, and walked out the door in the same pants as I had worn the night before.  I changed shirts since I had drueled (sp?) on my shirt and everyone knows that druel is not business casual, so I reluctantly changed.   I had to sop up the hangover so I had a chocolate chip scone.  It was not enough.  Then I had a mini muffin.  By days end I had consumed another scone and a danish.  Other than eat nasty pastries, I wandered around the office “doing work.”  Luckily, the work I am expected to do can be done by a high school student so I was ok.  And then at some point, a colleague shouted “Spinsta’s drunk” and stamped me with a CONFIDENTIAL stamp.  The stamp did not wash off fully, leaving a red mark on my chest.  Rather than explain why I had a red chest, I decided to act like it was itchy from my recent trip and so I kept scratching at it.  This genius plan of course caused my skin to peel and I think I have developed a staff infection.   I do not know how I made it through the day, but I did.  I guess I should be happy that all I am expected to do at work is clerical work and/or eat pastries like they are going out of style.  It is truly the American dream. 

On Monday, I returned from a vacation where I did nothing but wander aimlessly, sun myself, and eat ridiculous food/quantities.  I can honestly say that I did not once think about work - well I guess there was one time and it was during our decent Monday morning when I was paralyzed with the thought that I would need to return to work.  But, all in all, I really slowed down. Everyone says you must slow down.  Slow down: life goes by too fast so you have to savor the moments.  Slow down: it takes the body 30 minutes to feel full so take small bites.  Etc. Slowing down has always been a problem for me.  I mean don’t get me wrong - I am rather lazy.  But, my mind is going a mile a minute.  I have trouble appreciating the moment because I am fastforwarding in my mind to five, ten, twenty years down the road.  And, big surprise, I eat WAY too fast.   I have tried to slow myself down but I fail at the attempt.  When I was younger, I insisted on eating with the sample spoon they gave out at 31 Flavors.  Using the tiny utensil did slow down my eating, but it became too slow (i.e. at the correct rate) so I tossed the sample spoon in favor of a gravy spoon (this may reveal my lack of knowledge of utensils - aren’t gravy spoons big?  I mean you want to get a good coating of meat goop). So now the challenge is to translate my ability to slow my mind on vacation to the ability to do the same when I am living my every day life.  Hmm, but how?  (Searching my mind for 1, 2, 3, 4, . . . 10).  I give up.  Off to work. 

Happy St Pats spinsta fans.  Have you missed me?  I was on vacation from being the spinsta.  But, I am back.  And what better time than during one of the happiest days of the year. Like most Americans (or I guess humans in general, although not sure how big St Pats is in the mideast or far east), I went to a bar for St Pats.  My friend and I didn’t go to a pub since the walk was too long and we were hungry, so we went to a martini bar.  After two glasses of wine, the spinsta was in rare form (read: hammered).  Fast forward to 30 minutes later after paying our check and going to White Hen for dessert.  Since I am on my diet still, we shared our dessert - a bag of reeses pieces (I mean is there anything better).  We treated ourselves to a giant handful and stood on the street corner like urchins.  Isn’t that how most people celebrate the holiday? Apparently the answer is yes.  Well, maybe they don’t spend the holiday on the street corner but they pick up their supplies at White Hen.  Enter the BF: a partner at my old firm who I used to flirt with and, who according to one of the secretaries who had worked at the firm forever, was a real “poon hound.”  Being the polite spinsta, I said hello.  Taken aback by being greeted by a homeless woman eating candy, it took him a second to register who I was.  ”Hi Spinsta.”  ”Want some reese’s pieces?”  I mean what else does one offer to her former boss when he finds her eating reeses on the corner?  ”Ha.  No thanks but it looks like you are really enjoying them.”  Exit BF. Wait what does that mean?  Is he commenting on my giant rump?  That cab/angel/soothsayer wanted to eat the spinsta’s gummy candies.  Who did this guy think he was?  What is good enough for the divine is surely good enough for The Man.  I have a feeling that my St Pats was similar to the original St Pats - all good holidays start off with some humiliation and end up with some martyrdom (you know, St. Spinsta).  

It’s Sunday night which means a new episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.  What used to be a show about giving needy families new homes, is now a show about giving new homes to families affected by the rarest and most depressing/horrifying/fatal diseases/conditions.  For example, tonight’s episode is about building a home for a mom who has no lower body. My problem with this show is not just the fact that the show is the most blatant example of manipulating people’s emotions (e.g. you are heartless, viewer, if you don’t quiver when you look at this regular dad with 4 feet).  My problem with the show is that is perpetuates America’s problem with the quick fix. We don’t really want to do anything unless it can be tied up all pretty in a one-hour episode.  I mean we don’t really want to know how hard life is for the mom with no lower half, but we want to see her fancy new pad that is designed to make it easier for her to make waffles for the family.  (I should not admit this, but when I saw the preview I could not stop thinking about that scene from the movie Kids where that guy goes through the subway asking for change and singing “I have no legs.”  I am definitely going to hell.  And, definitely not going to get a fancy new pad making it easier for me to live like a spinsta (i.e. with a holographic husband who greets me, listens to my work woes.)) I recently learned that after the show stops airing, these families face a whole host of problems.  First, there are all kinds of structural problems with the homes since, shockingly, homes are not supposed to be constructed in a few days.  Second, the families are left to pay insanely high taxes on their new high value homes which they often cannot afford.  Third, an all pink bedroom is usually not enough to make life better for a child.   We don’t see this stuff, of course.  It is too complicated.  I understand the lure of the quick fix.  In fact, I fully expect my next job to be super fabulous and require little work and literally fall into my lap.  But judging by how bad things are now (and how much worse they will get), maybe it is time for us as a whole to move past the quick fix.  This means that every single news show can stop airing The First 100 days every few seconds, with lead ins like “Has Obama fixed America’s healthcare crisis this week?  No and so he is a failure.”  Or, at least that is the angle taken by this one correspondent on CNN - I cannot think of his name but that dude is SCARY.  He has brown hair and a super angular nose and looks like he may keep liberals locked up in his basement.    And with that I am going to rub on some Fat Girl Slim from Bliss (while eating australian licorice, the most perfect food on the planet, oh yeah I am off southbeach) to prepare for my upcoming trip to Florida.  NOTE: the quick fix, while inappropriate for world issues and economic problems, is still perfectly acceptable as a manner of dieting.   

I cannot take credit for the snappy title to this blogisode.  I think the phrase was coined by an elderly man to make young women feel better about being single.  Everyone is always trying to make you feel better about being single.  And by everyone I mean old people, married people, or my mother. You know - it’s a time in your life when you get to be selfish.  You can travel wherever.  You can have hot steamy s-e-x with anonymous hunks. In truth, all that usually happens during this glorious single phase is you whine to your girlfriends about being single.  No anonymous s-e-x (oh wait, was that supposed to be hot steamy?), no travels.  And, I am always selfish.  I mean who besides a self-obsessed person would have a blog where she forces the world to hear her views on everything. But, I think I have found the silver lining.  Well I guess two silver linings, or at least one silver and the other grey (you know like that Girl Scouts song about old friends and new ones).  The grey lining: I was almost in the audience at Oprah where I would share my dating horror stories and be discovered by either an agent looking to cast a lead for a Bridget Jones type movie, or by a nice jewish doctor who is looking to cast a woman to play his wife.  But, unfortunately, I will be out of town - although perhaps my trip will lead to the hot steamy stuff that single life is supposed to be about. The silver lining: being single means searching the internet for love.  I have been known to cross-reference the various search engines.  I mean there could be a dreamy jewish man somewhere and you have to look around every corner.  Which reminds me, I should sign up for sugardaddy.com (I mean its either a way out of my job or its a nice old man who will introduce me to his hunky grandson). So, the other night I am searching around the web for amor and I chance upon a familiar face.  It was an attorney at my first firm.  He was always very intense, he ran marathons and ate really healthy.  He seemed nice enough but he had a really intense stair.  So I see this guy, with the same picture he has on his firm website as on the dating site, and it says his statistics: 6′3, muscular build, brown hair, brown eyes, lawyer, 39, never married . . . and jewish.  So I scroll through the rest of his profile - there are some stories about his love of running, family, and college basketball (or something generic, I can’t remember).  And then I see it.  At the end of the profile - it reads:  ”Turn ons:  EROTICA”  Wow, I worked with a real freak!!  I mean I did a discrete research project for him once.  I remember thinking he was looking at me a little too intently but now I realize it was because he was imagining me with a ball-gag or a leather outfit.   So, you may be wondering why this is a silver lining.  In fact, you may be thinking - Spinsta you used to work with a tall, single, Jewish partner and you let him get away?  The silver lining is this: if I were dating someone, I wouldn’t be searching online for amor, and then I wouldn’t have chanced upon the Lawyer/Sex Fiend (btw - what is Erotica?  I think it is like Porn Plus - like the really nasty stuff.  He probably has a subscription to Buxom Babes, or Feet, or some other fetish magazine).  If I hadn’t found him, then I would not have a reason to feel superior to someone who runs marathons and is a partner at a law firm.  Which brings me back to my central premise: I am always selfish and it is always about me. 

Because the Spinsta is now a hard-hitting journalist, I knew I had to tackle some of the controversial subjects of our time.  Naturally, I would chose what has been called by one, The Most Shocking Bachelor Episode Of All Time.  After watching half of the finale episode and the After The Final Rose, I must admit that I have never been more ashamed of being a woman and a Jew in my life.  Although the Jew part is not that ashamed since Jason Meznick does not acknowledge that he is Jewish (although the Schnoz on Papa Meznick pretty much exposed his background).   The woman part - indeed the Spinsta part - is all fired up.  I always liked Melissa.  She seemed simple and sweet - exactly what a cry baby so-so daddy like Jason would need.  And, I was happy that he chose her.  Although, to be honest, the tears for fears bullsh*t after he dumped Molly was way too much to handle.  And how can he possibly say that he is making “the biggest decision of [his] life?”  This bozo has (1) BEEN MARRIED BEFORE, (2) HAD A CHILD, (3) CHOSEN TO GET DIVORCED, (4) GOTTEN DIVORCED, and (5) PLAYED LEAPFROG WITH HIS CRAZY FAMILY LAST YEAR ON THE BACHELORETTE.  I somehow doubt picking one of these ladies to be his “forever” (cue the dramatic music) is truly that big of a decision. So where did the self-loathing at my being a woman kick in?  Well, it started when Momma Irene was having a heart to heart with Jason.  She was helping him chose “the one” and she said to him that one of her concerns about Molly was that she was a “career girl.”  This career girl is 24 years old and I am pretty sure she works the register at Bebe or Cache (judging by her heinous numbers), oh or Lily Pulitzer (for her lovely golf outfits).   But, it was really kicked into overdrive during the After The Final Rose.  During the highly scripted, not shocking disaster, we saw Jason break off his engagement with Melissa and get together with Molly.  So, why was I so mad?  Let me count the ways: 1. Chris repeatedly said how Jason was such a nice guy.  And, yet this “nice guy” chose to break off his engagement on live television, rather than tell Melissa before and just announce it on the show.  What a mensch. 2. Melissa said, during her final soliloquy, “I can’t be mad at jason for not loving me.”  And, you could tell from the editing of this “live” show, that we the audience were supposed to agree with broken hearted, but understanding Melissa.  I would offer, however, that Melissa can be mad at Jason - for several reasons, but the one that jumps out at me is . . . HE BROKE UP WITH YOU ON LIVE TELEVISION. 3. They let him cry way too long, trying to make us sympathize with this clown.  Save your crying for when you have to break the news to Ty that he will be having yet another Mommy.  ”Sorry Ty, but Mommy didn’t love you.  Oh Deanna?  No she didn’t love you, although she maybe loves daddy again.  Oh Mommy Melissa?  She is gone too.  But you remember Molly right?  Or that barista I just banged from the Original Starbucks?” (what else do they have in Seattle?)4. And of course, stupid Molly took the asshole back.  ”I always dreamed this would happen.”  No, you idiot you are supposed to dream that this happens and then you tell him that you are over him, regaining your power position and letting the dick squirm. 5. Oh, and stupid Chris saying to Jason that he must really love Molly after all he has gone through for her.  Um, what exactly has he gone through?  He picked someone else and was dating her up until the moment he started dating Molly.  No, Chris, we are NOT FLOORED. So, you may ask, Spinsta, while I can see that you have an unnatural hatred for Jason Meznick, who by all accounts is a fictional character, but why does it make you ashamed to be a woman?  If anything, he chose the career woman at the end.  Isn’t this a victory for us feminists? The answer is while it may be a small step for woman (the career woman thing), it is a giant leap backward for womankind.  I mean how is that woman are that pathetic that they will allow their entire future to be determined by some crybaby?  And, then once he chooses, they still have no control over their life.  Or, worse yet, they accept the scraps from the bozo once he ditches the other girl.  I mean granted, the contestants for the Bachelor are not the strongest sisters out there.  But still, I think we need a different image of women and relationships.  That is why I announce my candidacy for the next season of the Bachelorette.  Here is a spoiler: Jason comes back on the show for his one chance at love (and in the interim, he will have been engaged to Jillian, Deanna, and Trishelle from the Real World (probably the best choice to mother little Ty)). But, don’t get me wrong.  I may be disgusted with the women on the show, but I am even more disgusted with Jason (and Chris blows too).  He is a ridiculous person with serious emotional problems.  I feel bad for Ty, who will no doubt grow up with incurable abandonment issues and an inability to love.  I mean Jason admitted that he would give the same advice to Ty about what to do in a situation like this.  Ditch the bitch on TV. There was only one positive take away during the episode.  It came from Irene’s homespun wisdom.  She told Jason the following advice: “You have to follow your gut down to the bottom of where it ends.”  These are words to live by.  From this day forward, Fat Spinsta will make sure to lead with her ass (which, in truth, she already does). I have pledged to be more positive, however.  So, I wish the happy couple all the best.  The final few moments were rather moving, even for a cynic such as myself.  Seeing the two of them embrace, and the dramatic music begin to crescendo as the camera zoomed in and slowly away, I was half expecting the couple to hop into a flying convertible and sing “We go together.”  I mean Molly’s behive did a good imitation of Sandra Dee.  And she stole a woman’s fiance, so that would be appropriate for the bad Sandee at the end in that spandex jumpsuit.  In closing, do wap do watta watta hippity bing de bop.  Chang Chang, changidy chang she bop.  (For those of you who don’t speak musical, the loose translation is: Jason and Molly deserve each other) 

Welcome to Blogisode Number 1 of the new politically aware Exit Strategy.  As promised, I have been watching the news.  I even watched the presidential address last week about the state of the economy and the recovery plan.  Let me be clear - I watched the ENTIRE address.   I came away from the experience with a sense of pride - not about the recovery plan (not that I do not think he has a solid plan, but there was nothing really said during the address other than platitudes about what we can do, need to do, etc).  No, the pride was about me and my new awareness.   Other than feeling good about myself, I think I gained some valuable insights into the world of politics.  First, it is a still a man’s world.  A quick scan of the audience revealed the predominance of old, white dudes.  And Nancy, our biggest sister, just smiled and looked pretty.  I even saw a new online game where you guess how many times Nancy jumped out of her seat and applauded.  I must admit, it was a little reminiscent of Bring It On (the original, not that trainwreck with Hayden Penetiere).  But, the biggest clue was during the first few moments when the big guns walked in.  The Justices were announced and started walking in one by one.  Little Ruth, fresh off cancer surgery, was walking very slow.  Everyone was excited to see her looking healthy and reached out to shake her hand.  Not wanting to wait for the little lady, Clarence went rushing past her almost knocking her down.  Sexist jerk (I mean I guess that was sorta established years ago, but even still . . .) Besides the glass ceiling, I noticed the problems of party politics.  Most of the crusty Republicans refused to stand and applaud.  And, apparently they were tweeting during the whole address.  I mean I do not understand why anyone would be interested to know what they were doing, other than sitting and listening to our President speak.  And who tweets?  I feel it should be limited to 12 year old girls and 43 year old pervs reading their tweets.  Speaking of, when is To Catch a Predator coming back?  It is such a guilty pleasure.  But, I digress. Perhaps, the most important lesson I learned was that I am just not cut out for office.  Aside from the fact that unimpressive litigation associate does not normally lead to high powered elected official, and the fact that I have done a few things in the past that I am not proud of (there was an incident in Cancun during my freshman year of college where I referred to myself as Tequila Sheila and went to a foam party . . .), there is one impediment to my political aspirations that I just cannot overcome.  During the 10 minute opening procession, I saw congresspeople greeting each other.  Not only did the men shake hands, but GASP, each woman was greeted with the kiss hello.  I have major problems with the kiss hello.  In college, all the long island jews did the kiss hello.  It made me uncomfortable so I would find ways to avoid it.  The kiss hello has followed me to the present, where it is sometimes paired with a hug.  Like on dates - it is assumed you will kiss hello.  I am not the warmest person (some of my closest friends have labeled me a pineapple due to my prickly outer shell, and I have been termed an “ice queen” from men I have dated) and I dread having to embrace people.  I mean I rarely hug my own family.  I am a huge fan of the high five, but I don’t think Congress is ready for a high-fivin’ liberal with a checkered past.   I am glad I started watching the news.  It has been eye opening.  It is a whole new Spinsta.  Although, sadly, there will be no Senator Spinsta.