Does Debbie

Friday, September 30, 2005

Only in New York

One of the reasons I fell in love with the great city of New York is because just like life- you never know what to expect with it. On the most ordinary day the extraordinary can occur. Or perhaps, the extraordinary morphs into the ordinary. I know, enough of the metaphoric language- get to your point Debbie.

Today happened to be one of those days. Typical Friday at work: free bagels for breakfast. Hours upon hours of meetings with minimal time for lunch but plenty of time to hit the vending machine. Several times. A few IMS with friends, even more meetings, then time to go home.

Fortunately, I live 5 blocks from where I work so my commute is about 7 minutes, walking. My walk is fairly routine: the biggest decision is to walk from Lex to Park on 26th or 27th streets. But today's walk home from work was anything from routine.

First of all, there was a homeless woman sitting outside Starbucks. As I was walking by, I could have sworn I saw a woman in a suit hand her a pamphlet and explain, "... Mary Kay Cosmetics. Thank you for taking this. Everyone else in this city is just so rude." I had to laugh. How profitable will the homeless woman become. I can't really imagine her spending her pennies on new mascara when she was eating garbage for dinner. But hell, at least she'll be the most attractive bum on the block.

After walking by Starbucks, I turned onto my block, only to walk by a couple having sex in the front seat of their car. While it was still daylight. Yup. This woman was straddling Mr. Audi, with the seat fully erect (nope, not going to say the obvious joke here.)

Lastly, I entered my apartment, to see the same set of glasses and keys sitting on the foyer table. The same set that were there last night. Now call me crazy, but if you lost your keys in your apartment building, you wouldn't get too far. Like into your apartment. So you would head back out to find them- passing the table. Or you would need a locksmith, and walk by the table. And the crazy part is that the keys were still there a day later.

As Liz Smith likes to say, "only in New York folks."

Wednesday, September 28, 2005


For all you fellow Jews out there, you know that the religious season is next week. Yup, here comes the 3 days a year when we feel the most connected to our religion and for some, to our families. Most of us take off work for a day or two, some even miss three days of work.
What I just found out last night, when talking to my mother, is that the entire 10 days from sunset of Rosh Hashana until the end of Yom Kippor, is considered the "Holy Season."

Major oops.

The day after Rosh Hashana I am jumping on a plane and heading to Vegas for one of my closest friend's bachelorette party. Will we be celebrating our new year that weekend? Sure. Will we be eating apples and honey? Not likely. And while we're at it, we won't be lighting the candles on Friday night, going to synagogue on Saturday, or going to the lake to toss away our sins (or whatever that tradition is.)

The closest we will come to observing the Holy Days that weekend will be praying to G-d at the blackjack table. And making sure that we have plenty of sins to atone for the following week....

Monday, September 26, 2005


"How was your weekend, babe?" she said, as he called her from the car on the way home.

"It was great," he replied, and he continued to share several stories from the weekend. Places he ate, conversations with friends, tales from the casino. It was a good 20 minutes of catching up. She missed him and was glad to hear all about his trip.

She finally brought the conversation back to her.

"Ashton and Demi got married this weekend," escaped from her lips.

"Are you serious?" he asked. "I haven't seen you in several days and that's the first thing that you wanted to share with me." He says this endearingly.

"I thought you would want to know," she replied. "Oh, and my aunt and uncle are back in Houston. Their house was not damaged."

Friday, September 23, 2005

Why Men do Have Nipples

So I tend to fly a lot. More specifically, I tend to fly to Minneapolis a lot as my clients are located there. Which means that I spend a good deal of my life on planes.

I am able to make the best of the two and a half hour flight quite easily. The New York Times crossword takes about 20 minutes, about 45 minutes of sleeping or work, depending on how tired I am, a few minutes staring at the window and at my neighbors around me, throw in a little ipod music and then, bam, I've landed.

The other day I decided to mix things up and purchased a book. Now this wasn't just any book that my neighbors might glance at and form an neutral opinion about me- this happened to be the best seller Why Do Men Have Nipples. This book is not just about nipples, sadly. This bathroom reading answers the random health questions you have always wanted to know about. Farting, body parts, food and body party, food, farting and body parts- all there.

Not only did I laugh out loud several times, I think my neighbors were able to see the title of the book. Did they think I was a pre-med student, hopefully? Or perhaps into an unusual form of S&M? Or maybe they thought I was foreign and from a country where men don't have nipples. Who knows. But I can tell you one thing- I am a lot smarter than they are now that I know that it is safer to drink your own urine than sea water. And that you can't technically swallow your tongue.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Shampoo and Handcuffs

There's an advertising campaign out there (I can't remember the brand so it's not that effective) that plays on stores that try to mix-and-match their services. For example, dry cleaner and sushi restaurant. Or funeral parlor and make-overs. I recall the point it made in the commercial, but now I am starting to have second doubts.

Case in point: Ricky's.

For all you non-New Yorkers out there, Ricky's is the quintessential "drug store." Where else can you get nail polish and shampoo in one aisle, and a vibrator and anal beads in another. Yup, Ricky's is a porn drug store. Sure, they have the "feathered curtain" and under 18 sign blaring, so you kind of feel pervy if you go ahunting sex toys. But at the same time, selling hair dryers and handcuffs might just be the perfect combination. You buy all the products to make you look beautiful when you go out, and then you buy all the products for when you come home. Or just come.

Friday, September 16, 2005

My Dad's Car

This story goes back several years ago... I was home visiting my parents for Thanksgiving holiday and borrowed my dad's car to go meet some friends at the local bar. My dad used to drive a black Nissan Maxima (foreshadowing.) The bar was about a 5 minute's drive from my dad's and I think I might have driven one of my friends as well (all key to story.)

The next morning, I was awoken at 7:30am by my father, when he barged into my room, and demanded to know "where the hell I took the car last night." Hmmm. This seemed to be a weird reaction from dad. I told him that I went to the Tavern, dropped off a friend and then came home. He then asked if I noticed any construction along the way. Interestingly, I did. When I was dropping off my friend, I saw that there were orange cones in the middle of the road, and it looked like they were painting. But no streets were closed. No men were flagging traffic. I though all was good.

Oooooh nooooo.

Dad dragged me downstairs to show me just what I did. Along the entire driver's side of the black car were streaks of yellow paint. Not just a drop or two. Clearly someone (um, me) had driven through a newly painted median line, and took half of it with them.

I wanted to die on the spot.

To dad's credit, he was ultra cool. He blamed the county, not me. He paid for the repairs, not me. He let me drive the car again. And I gave him a good story to share.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

My Nose

The oddest thing occurred this morning. I was putting in my contact lenses when Matt asked me (prefacing not to be sensitive and take this the wrong way) why I never got my nose done. Clearly, the angle of my lens insertion and his body must have led to a thorough review of my profile, which consists of a straight, almost to a point nose with a small bump at the bridge.

Matt did not mean anything by this line of questioning. Perhaps, knowing my Ashkanazi heritage and my Baltimore suburb upbringing, he thought it was a rite of passage for all women to go under the knife before they turned 21. But not me. Sure, I have had a love-hate relationship with the center of my face. It was cute as a button before I hit puberty. Then my fact must have gotten smaller in high school as my nose seemed to protrude. But I just thought I needed to "grow into my face." Which I did. And then it was perfect. However, several years ago I think I broke it in a banana boat accident (see posting: Caaarlos.) Since that fated day, I have an almost-perfect nose. But still, perfect for me.

As for Matt, I'll let him off the hook. After all, he's from the nose job capital of the world: LI.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Rite Aid Wins

I did not think it was possible for one store to have more incompetent employees than Duane Reade. After all, the 'Reade averages one competent employee for about every 4 morons. But it has been done. Duane Read- step aside. Rite Aid is kicking your ass.

Just when I was getting used to the 3 minute lines at Duane Reade. Just when I was accepting their prices, and the fact that the items marked on are never actually on sale. Just when I learned how people who never got past 7th grade supported themselves. I now have a whole new level of substandard to get used to.

Rite Aid's cashiers should be admired on one hand. They speak slow. Well, maybe too slow. And they are patient, especially to all the people who fight their bills. And they like to let their employees shine- after all, to be the one cashier ringing up 27 customers is a feat unto its own.

Rite Aid, I applaud you.

Monday, September 12, 2005

Older Sister

As a product of my father's second marriage, I have a half-sister Samantha. When people ask how many sisters I have, the accurate answer is 1 1/2, but if you were to see the two of us interact, you would think we shared both parents. We look very similar. We are both smart and funny and attractive (although I would kill for her figure.) But she is 15 and I am 32. This is where things get a little weird.

Given that I am at the age where I should have kids of my own, some of my parental instincts have kicked in. Definitely more so than, say, 5 years ago. And Samantha is at the age where she wants to defy anything having to do with the word "parent" and follow her own instincts.
Like most? many? a few? 15 year olds, Sam has discovered alcohol. And other party items. She is into boys and clothes and sports. See, told you we're similar.

Sam tells me what she does with her friends in confidence. I am her cool oldest sister. And I don't tell her parents. But it's weird- part of me feels like I should. I want her to be safe. I want to act like the adult I am. I'm torn between sister and parent.

Sister is winning. For now...

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Birthday Busts

I love my birthday. It falls in September, the most perfect month of the year when the chill settles into the night air, and sun fights for its last powerful days. The day is the 4th, and there is something just ideal about the combination of September and 4. I'll show you: September 4th. See?

I used to also like my birthday for other reasons: the gifts, the parties, the warm wishes. But lately, my birthday seems to be jinxed. Let's walk down memory lane...

23rd birthday: See (Honey, Don't) entry

24th birthday: I rented out part of the bar in Murray Hill. The bartender told me there was a $700 minimum I needed to hit- no problem I thought. Boy was I wrong. Sure, I had lots of friends there, but as the event was on a Wednesday night, no one drank. By 11pm I was in tears. I had $500 heading straight to my credit card. I literally had to run around the bar and ask the people at the upstairs bar to buy drinks at my bar. I cried my eyes out. Never again would I rent anything.

25th birthday: This was the year where my friends decided to throw each other a fun surprise party. By the time September rolled around, bowling and a picnic in the park had been done. My friends thought karaoke was just the ticket. Nope. The place they planned was, to be PC, not for us. We couldn't go in. We had to go somewhere else and everyone got split up. My shoes broke.

29th birthday: I was layed off the next day at work. I had worked there almost 5 years. Oh, and 9/11 was less than a week later.

30th birthday: I thought this one was fun. US Open Semi-finals, scavenger hunt, party at a bar. I'm surprised my friends still talk to me though after the scavenger hunt. 2 hours of running around the east village. Oh, and the dinner my sister planned at Gonzalez y Gonzalez was probably the worst meal of my life. Loud music, awful atmosphere.

31st birthday: My cousin's rehearsal dinner happen to fall the night of my birthday. I got to spend 3 hours of my birthday, single, and watching videos of my cousin in love. I was one of the only single people there. I cried.

32nd birthday: You are going to see a theme here. I cried. Actually, the birthday was ideal. I was in Colorado and was treated to a wonderful romantic dinner, a match of tennis, the most expensive brunch of my life, and a massage. But yet, I managed to sneak in a cry the last 20 minutes of the day. I was drunk and emotional. Typical chick.

So all I can say is thank god my birthday is not for another 361 days.