Tie-Day Friday

Since I left the citi for the dub room, I have had great freedom to explore my personal style . With jeans, sneakers, sandals and tank tops at my disposal, I can pretty much wear whatever suits my mood, as long as my nipples are covered. I do kind of miss the citi restrictions though. Sometimes I just long for a challenge.

Last week, in search of the corporate casual challenges of corporations past, I attempted to organize "Tie-Day Friday." I should probably clarify that by "organized" I mean, discussed wearing a tie to work with ONE coworker, Bryan. Bryan is one of the newbies in the office, not to be confused with Ryan, the quiet veteran who, after living with the only "RY"-sound name for a peaceful six months, gets quite peeved when you say "Bryan," and he thinks you've said "Ryan" or vice versa. At some point last week B-B-B-B-Bryan and I decided we would institute Tie-Day Friday to show off the irrepressible class of the dub room team. How refined are WE? We don't even HAVE to wear ties to the office, and we're gonna wear them anyway! There were initial plans to get our officemates involved in the cause, but our publicity effort was overshadowed by busy training days and impromptu performances of songs from The Little Mermaid. In the end, only the masterminds behind The Day of Ties flaunted the unexpexctedly conservative neckwear as a salute to the week's end. But boy did we REPRESENT.

When Bryan entered the dub room Friday morning he was wearing a short-sleeved button down shirt with a brown striped tie, looking very Revenge of the Nerds. It was perfect. I don't have any ties in my closet (although I've been seriously considering investing in a set of suspenders) so I asked Bryan to bring me one of his. He knotted my masculine accessory, a deep red number with beige and blue diamonds, and I slid it on. Not going to lie, at first I was a bit uncomfy thinking about walking around with a panel of red silk flopping against my abdomen like a single strand of spaghetti.



And then, I tucked it in...



Every once in a while, on Experimental Fashion Friday, I would hit on an outfit that was both an eyesore and oddly fashionable. Tie-Day Friday spawned yet another of those ensembles. Unfortunately, the unexpected success of my outfit further buried the TDF movement**. NO ONE asked me WHY I was wearing a tie! I did, however, receive three or four separate compliments on my getup, including one comment from an editor who said I looked like "a modern, 2006 version of Annie Hall." It doesn't get much better than that.

Can't wait for "Jewsday Tuesday." You think I'm kidding...



**Miss Stacia is an awful publicist. No news here.

Non-buyer's Remorse

There is a test that is pretty commonly employed by female shoppers to help determine whether or not they should spend money on an item about which they are indecisive. The item in question is usually an article of clothing, in my case, almost always shoes or a bag, and in nearly all instances, impractical. When something is fashionable but serves no practical function in your wardrobe, sometimes it takes more than a little reasoning to make a wise shopping decision. Sometimes you just need TIME to gauge how badly you want something versus all the other crap you come across for which you have a passing desire.

The idea behind "the test" is that you leave the item you are lusting after in the store for the day, and if a nagging desire to own 4-inch, lime green platforms covered in cherries eats away at you until you can think of nothing but running back to the Bloomie's to rip the last size 7 out of the hands of some blond with a nose job, you go back to get the damn shoes.

Last weekend I took a trip to the neighborhood I most resent (Williamsburg) for the summer event I most LOVE (The Renegade Craft Fair). I discovered the craft fair last year and was overjoyed to find more than just the usual potpourri of beaded baubles, screenprinted notecards and homemade buttons on the NYC craft fair circuit (although there were plenty of each represented, fo sho). Metalsmiths and dressmakers and glassblowers all came to show their wares. Handmade stuffed animals shaped like T-Bone Steaks (shrink wrapped to styrofoam meat trays) sat in booths next to silkscreened Jay Ryan posters and made-to-order corsets. H-E-A-V-E-N. I made a few key purchases last year, buying a dress and a ring that both became staples in a wardrobe admittedly so overwhelming, many gems tend to get ignored. I escaped this year's fair with another dress (from the same woman who made last year's) and a necklace composed of antique charms, including a dog tag bearing a scrabble board covered in French mots. Tres, tres bien.

But since I left the fair around closing time last Saturday something has been haunting me. I've been feeling the emptiness of an opportunity that has passed, and nothing has been able to quench the burning desire I have for this bag:



Now, when the thing was hanging in front of me I didn't even consider purchasing it. I don't have any idea how much it cost or even the name of the artist who so realistically recreated Sir Tupac on the side of a vintage clutch. All I know is that I felt compelled to take a picture of it, mainly to capture the unparalled hilarity and outright GENIUS of the bow incorporation. But now I kind of wish I could stuff Tupac with some cash and Lancome lip gloss and take him out for a gin and juice. Perhaps the reason it never even occurred to me to buy the thing when it was in front of me had something to do with my (embarrassingly) limited familiarity with Tupac's catalog.

Stranger at the bar: "Oh, so you like Tupac?"
Miss Stacia: "Yeah, um, he's pretty good. But how awesome is this bow!"

Single Grey Female

Dear Mom and Dad,

It was very nice of you to recruit furry companionship for me, your favorite daugther, and I realize you brought home the latest, unfortunately-named canine with my prosperous romantic future in mind. Moses was a very sweet, sensitive dog, but to be honest he was so clingy it made me want to vomit dandelions. In the beginning his aggressive pursuit was intriguing, all the nuzzling, licking, humping - let's face it, it had been a while. But the kid had his nose quite literally up my ass, twenty-four hours a day and it was too much hounding for even this pooch to take. You know how it is. Sometimes you just want to fall asleep to the Michael Bolton medley on the Adult Contemporary music channel without someone rubbing their little weiner up against you.

I'm guess I'm just a little surprised you thought I would take this arranged marriage lying down. That is one command I cannot follow, I'm sorry. A bitch can't choose who she loves. Besides, I'm still young and sprightly. I've got strut left in this stride and I haven't even finished making my rounds on our block. This may sound a bit immodest, but I'm a hot piece of ass. It's 2006. A dog can be whoever she wants, and I can be a sexually curious, emotionally hardened, independent female if I feel like it.

Anyway, Moses had to go. It was inevitable. Don't worry, he's in a new home, one without a female dog around to get his leash in a tangle. Maybe in his time alone he will do some soul searching and build up his self-confidence so he doesn't just play dead for the next bitch that comes along. I wish him all the luck in the world, now that the house is mine once again.

So please, I know they're furry and adorable, but no more suitors. Unless you can track down Comet from Full House. He's fucking hot.

Love,
Shayna


**Papa Jones and The College Man were allergic to the new dog, so unfortunately Moses is a Jones no longer. If you see my parents entering a pet store or animal shelter, please shoot them with a tranquilizer gun or taser to prevent further cuteness-induced adoptions.**

One Dog, Two Dog, Grey Dog, Jew Dog.

Those of you who know my family well, know that above their own lives and the lives of The College Man, Miss Raquel and yours truly, Mama and Papa Jones treasure Miss Shayna Maidel, personality, princess...family dog. You can't blame them, really. Shayna, a beautiful grey malty-poo (white maltese father, black poodle mother), who was strutting her stuff down the corridors of Jones Manor long before the advent of the nauseating term "designer dog," is a motherfucking riot. She's small enough to cradle like a baby, but unlike other pussy Long Island petite pups, she's a sturdy specimen, exhibiting sharp instincts and genuine athletic prowess. At three-years-old Shayna can dance on her hind legs, sprint at rabbit speed and catch a soaring frisbee in mid-air (the ultimate "real dog" test).


Shayna Joyner-Kersee

Shayna brings out two main qualities in my parents, the first being insanity, the second, compassion. This is what I mean by insanity:



Yes, that is what you fear it is.




Shayna's extensive wardrobe also includes an embellished denim jacket, a yellow rain slicker (she didn't take to the booties), multiple winter sweaters and fleeces, and two Halloween costumes (the only doggie clothing I will sanction). And I don't even want to talk about the doggie stroller.


So logical.

Often I have to remind myself amidst my embarrassment: The parents lavish because they love. This is where the compassion kicks in. Since the dog has entered our lives mom and pops have given generously to shelters and animal abuse-related charities. And watched an shitload lot of Animal Planet. So I guess it was only a matter of time before I got this phone call:

(2:45 this afternoon)

Mama Jones: I'm holding our new dog!!!

Miss Stacia: Shut the fuck up.

Mama Jones: No really. It's what your father wanted for Father's Day. The dog's a malty-poo, we think. We're adopting him from a shelter. His name is Moses.

Miss Stacia: You're not serious. I'm sorry, but I won't stand for that.

Mama Jones: Stand for what?

Miss Stacia: A dog named Moses! We have to change the name. How about Fred? James? Little Stevie. Shit mom, call him Bowie!!! Please! Please! BOWIE!!! I'm willing to give up MY first dog name to our family pet as long as I don't have to call that dog Moses.

Mama Jones: Whatever, we'll talk about it later.

Miss Stacia: Fine. And take a picture with your camera phone...


Let my kibble go.

It turns out that Moses is already two-and-a-half years old and was taken from a disturbingly abusive home to be rescued by mom and pops. There's no way the pup is answering to any name other than Moses, and there's no way I can be mad at him for it. Instead, I will chastise another celebrity couple, Monster Paltrow and Fairy Martin, for their biblical baby-name brainstorming. Fuck you Moses Martin for stealing my dog's thunder.

And still, cursing out skinny blond celebrities and their spawn doesn't hide the fact that the Jonses are now the owners of a pair of obnoxiously Jewish pets, Moses and Shayna Maidel. What is this, Fiddler on the Roof? Mama Jones doesn't need more encouragement to buy doggie kippot and arrange "Bark Mitzvahs." Bitch is dog-crazy enough to go through with it.

When I told Dazrazzle about the new (predictably hairy) Jewish couple living under our roof, Daz asked if Mama and Papa Jones were going to "breed them and make little Isaacs, Abrahams, Sarahs and Rebekkahs." I say, why not. We're due for at least one more. One for mom, one for dad and one for Israel.

Dub Rotation will PUMP YOU UP.

Earlier tonight, as I was trying to motivate my coworker CD into sucking up her post-work sleepiness to get to the gym, I inadvertendly stumbled onto what is sure to be the next big NYC exercise craze. I'm calling it Dub Rotation. It turns out, everything you need to get the toned body you desire can be found in the dub room of a major media corporation.

Some examples of Dub Rotation's simple, yet effective excercises:

The Paper Bag Bicep Curl


The Digibeta Pulldown


The Wheeled-Chair Tricep Bend (of Death)


The Client Services Couch Crunch


The K-Boogie Wants To Pretend She Wasn't Fighting Me This Whole Time, Trying To Convince CD To Go Home Instead Of Working Out


Even though K-Boogie spent the majority of today's Dub Rotation session advocating laziness and attempting to undo all my hard work, she did end up inventing the workout's signature relaxation reward:

The Garbage Pail Foot Soak




Now I know some of you will complain, "But I don't have access to a media company's dub room and all the advanced toning equipment it provides, Miss Stacia!"

To which I must reply, "Devote your life to making labels and your health and life will change for the better, my dear friends."

How Brad and Angelina have desecrated my childhood memories.

My memory is absolutely awful, a fact to which my good friend Dazrazzle will attest with vigor. I especially have trouble remembering high school happenings, as around the start of my freshman year I became steeped in my inherited “selective memory syndrome,” blockading all long-term memories aside from the soundtrack to RENT and select reruns of Saved by the Bell. (Sadly, I can sing every word to the Ice Cream Sundaes’ music video.) For some reason my recollections of middle and elementary school are much more vivid and long-lasting. It turns out a cocky asshole calling you “gorilla legs” when you’re thirteen sticks out more than acing that eleventh grade French test.

Not all of my memories of the younger years are traumatic. Many of them are pretty random and hilarious. I remember listening to Weird Al Yankovic in Mr. Stern’s humor class, singing along to the classic, “Amish Paradise.” I remember giving a D.A.R.E. speech in front of my entire fourth grade class. (Some successful program THAT was.) I remember tripping down the atrium stairs of the middle school cafeteria while attempting to avoid stepping in a puddle of what appeared to be pee and arising giddy because 1. No one really saw me fall and, 2. I missed the pee.

One memory in particular that has always cracked me up took place in Mr. Abrams’ fifth grade classroom. Mr. Abrams was the epitome of the jolly fat man, a joker who took great pleasure in alerting his students to the reason why making ASSumptions is so dangerous. (ASS-U-ME) For the majority of the year I sat next to a girl named Maryann Jimez, and every morning when Mr. Abrams took attendance, he would tack the same inquiry to the end of Maryann’s name.

“Maryann Jimez. Did you bring in Shiloh today?”

Of course, Mr. Abrams was not referring to the glamour-bomb dropped out of Angelina’s cooch five days ago, but rather the Young Adult book penned by Phyllis Reynolds Nayer. The novel is a Newbury Award winner and according to the updated book jacket, tells “the classic story of a boy and his dog.” I never actually read the thing, but Maryann must have fucking loved that book. Or lost it. All I know is that there was never a time when I thought Mr. Abrams would call Maryann’s name to hear her reply, “Oh yes! I actually DID remember to bring the book in today.” After the first month of bookless mornings it was pretty clear to Mr. Abrams’ entire fifth grade class that Maryann planned to take Shiloh to the grave. Yet Mr. Abrams, for the entertainment of us all, asked about the book until the very last day of class.

So fuck you Brangelina. Fuck you both up the ass. Shiloh is not an African-born, celebrity-bred, paparrazzi-seducing bundle of puke. Shiloh is a book that will never, ever be returned to my elementary school library. Maryann made sure of that.