Pretty Please, Ms. Rowley, With Sugar on Top

Hi Ms. Cynthia Rowley,

Big fan! Love ya! I was really thrilled when I heard via WWD that you were going to be designing for Target again. I pictured a string of fun summer dresses, all reasonably priced at $70 or less. (To be honest, I used to frequent your shop on Bleecker Street; I couldn't really afford the dresses, but I had a CREDIT CARD! Oh, credit! Well, I don't have a credit card anymore and I'm slightly in debt, so I can't come to Bleecker Street anymore. Anyhow.) Yay, Cynthia at Target! I got really excited. And then I read:

According to sources, Whim [Cynthia's line] will not be part of the Go International initiative, and there will be no apparel. Instead, it will focus on novelty items such as outdoor games and inflatable pools, all given Rowley's irreverent touch.

Come on! It would make perfect sense for you to design clothing for Target. Please? Not that outdoor games and inflatable things don't sound just lovely, but we want dresses!

Sincerely,
Lorem Ipsum

Rowley Roars Back

NY Times: E. Manning Throws Like a Girl

A Famous Father, But Manning Took Cues From Mother

Craigslist Lonelyheart of the Week

I know it's been awhile, but I'm back with the Craigslist Lonelyheart of the Week. This time, we have a female-body-part theme, which means there are some really lonely guys out there. Our runner-up is a guy who knows how to ask for what he wants. He gets right to the point. His personal ad is titled, "May I Borrow Your Vagina?" Dude, it's not like a cup of sugar... He promises that he's not "a creep" and says "pretty please." Still, sometimes you just want to go over to these dudes' apartments and knock them over the head with their computers and scream, "Who the hell raised you?!"

And yet, vagina-boy is not our winner. Our winner this week has a special talent, which is evident from his personal's title: "Breastreader Extraordinaire." That's right, ladies! Have you ever had a relationship or career quandary and not known what to do? Why pay money to a therapist or psychic when this gentleman will read your boobs for free?! He says: "By putting yourself in my hands (Ha! hands! -- ed.), I gather the needed insight, mainly through tactile methods, plus conversation. This costs you nothing, and is also fun!" Worried this guy's not for real? Don't fret -- the anonymous "testimonials" at the bottom of his ad should convince you: "That was extraordinary!" Well, that is why he calls himself a breastreader "extraordinaire."

So, as someone who's kinda fascinated by human behavior and why we do the things we do, here's my question -- do these dudes realize they're being beyond creepy? Do they not care? If they want to get laid so badly, why not just pick up chicks at bars? And, of course, who the hell raised these guys? Can someone call their mothers, stat?

I'll Take This as a Sign of Maturity: Interest in My Neighborhood Garden

I'm sure I've walked by this spot at least a dozen times, but for some reason I noticed this plot of land at the end of my street on Saturday. It's one of the city's Greenstreets areas, which according to the NYC parks Web site, were developed in 1996; there are currently more than 2,000 of them. I know it's hard to see in this picture, but there's garbage strewn all around this one: Its weak fence is no match for the countless cups, paper bags, plastic containers, and even red ribbon that I saw inside the tiny garden yesterday. I also admit that I'm the farthest thing from a green thumb; I love flowers and plants but I suck at taking care of them.

How, then, to help this sad little neighborhood garden? It's in an area with mostly businesses -- there are few residential units in the surrounding blocks, which makes me think that I'm the one who should do something here. Apparently, there's a class on Wednesday called "Caring for Street Trees," in which one can get some tools and a permit, but it's full. Maybe I should just try to clear the garbage on my own, and hope that someone from the parks department comes to care for the plants in the spring? Or I could go back in time and actually pay attention in my college horticulture class.

My New Favorite Brunch Spot in Fort Greene

I'm working from home today, and decided to check out some brunch-to-go at Green Apple Cafe in Fort Greene—I'd heard it was yummy. Apparently, it closed? (Update: If it were a snake, it would've bitten me) So instead, I stumbled upon Caffe e Vino. The staff was beyond friendly (lots of Ciaos! and door opening) and the restaurant was full of doctors in scrubs from the hospital across the street (a good sign, I think, that it's got a chance at success). But what about the food? I ordered egg and cheese on a croissant, expecting to get just that; when I got home, I discovered a neatly packed container with perfectly fluffy eggs mixed with Swiss cheese laid over a croissant, plus a medley of potatoes with onions and tomatoes, plus an awesome salad -- often small salads that people throw in like this suck. (Even Bar Tabac, one of my favorite restaurants ever, could improve on its side salad.) And, they also gave a generous side of bread. All for only $8. And it was amazing! Seriously delicious.

In December the Village Voice reported that Caffe e Vino's menu looked rather bland -- well, the food is anything but. I'm definitely going back for dinner.

Caffe e Vino, 112 DeKalb Avenue, Fort Greene, Brooklyn

Boys Just Wanna Have Fun

Last week I finished up at Martha, and this week I spent time on the research desk of a men's mag. While I love working at Martha and all, boys are so much more fun! Here's a list of some subjects I fact-checked this week:

1. Cannibalism, including a guy who invited a woman over for dinner, shot her, and then ate her boob.
2. Artificial blood, what it is, and what is it good for?
3. Marijuana: I have never been a fan of pot, but I can now tell you the difference between sativa and indica.
4. Porn. Seriously, this was fascinating. Who knew that so many people were making YouTube-style amateur videos on XTube and YouPorn? I mean, duh, people make sex videos all the time (I mean, I assume!), but I didn't realize that it had become so, well, prosaic.

As you can see, it was a fun change from the land of chicken Kiev recipes and closet organization tips. I'm working at the men's mag for another day or two (gonna miss it!), and then I'm off to a weekly city mag for a month. It's somewhere I've applied about 800 times in the last few years, but they're super cliquey so it's hard to get in. Somehow the 801st time was a charm. Wish me luck!

Is It Just Me, Or Are Red-Heart Balloons a Really Odd Way to Advertise a Full-Body Massage?

These made me think of a friend who recently visited his masseuse of many years, and for reasons unknown, got a happy ending that totally freaked him out. It was the first time it had happened. Love must have been in the air. He tipped well and then ran.

Thursday Night at a Boerum Hill Bodega: A Play in One Short Act

I am standing in line behind a guy holding a huge pack of diapers. This is Boerum Hill, former home of such famous babies as Matilda, so of course they're au naturel chlorine-free diapers (who even knew regular diapers contained chlorine!). As the guy is being rung up, I wait behind him, with my purse in one arm, my dog Boo in the other.

Cashier (ringing up diapers): That'll be $18.53.
Guy: Jesus! Nineteen bucks?!
Cashier: Yeah.
The guys looks at me, looks at the diapers, looks at Boo.
Guy: I shoulda just stuck with a dog.

Worst. Ads. Ever.

Gothamist posted this ad today, reportedly run by a publication called Le Point in 1979. Oops! Well, I guess they couldn't predict the future, but, uh, pretty bad. Here's the link to the original site that posted this ad, along with nine of the other worst ads of all time. Frankly, I think the last one -- of a pig chopping himself up to be someone's dinner -- is the most appalling, but as an animal lover, I just didn't have the guts (ha, guts) to post it here. I'm going to alert Suicide Food, though! Update: I should have figured; it's already in their archives.

In Loving Memory of Brandy

Who always hated when I went on vacation. Many thanks to the awesome people at Veterinary Emergency & Referral Group in Cobble Hill, who were super sweet and kind last night. Branner, you will be missed tremendously. Love ya, pumpkin.

This Baby-Namin' Business Is Rough

In case you didn't already know how neurotic I am, here's more evidence! My friend M. in Chicago just asked my advice on what to name her second child, a boy. She has three names on the table: George, Simon, and Henry. I'm a girl, but I have a boy's name, so I'm going to deem myself an expert on this subject. Besides, getting teased about your name sucks (I know), and I want to be thoughtful and provide honest insight. Probably, though, my e-mail response to her (below) doesn't offer any insight as much as it unmasks my fear of schoolyard taunts, possible career failure, and being ridiculed by the other kids:

I like Henry. Do NOT name your kid Simon. B/c there's Simon Cowell, from American Idol, and he's a dick. Or else, it's just too easy a name to make fun of. OK, granted, nothing rhymes with it, but let's imagine this scenario on a playground, circa 2012:

Asshole kid: Give me your lunch money.
Simon: No.
Asshole kid: Simon says, Give me your lunch money.
Simon: What?
Asshole kid: Simon says -- that means you have to do it.
Simon: No?
Asshole kid: Simon says, I'm gonna kick your ass.
FIGHT SCENE.

Actually, Simon also rhymes with Climb On! This is faintly reminiscent of All Aboard!, a term which destines your child to become a train conductor. And it sort of rhymes with diamond. Like Diamond Simon. Next thing you know, kids are calling your kid Diamond Simon, the Rhinestone Cowboy. NOT Cool. Unless, of course, you want a kid who looks like Liberace, and I'm guessing no.

George. Problem with George is, there was that dude George whom you totally LOVED sophomore year of college. This might be a little bit like me naming my first born MikeXXXXXX (name X'ed out to protect former beloved & save self embarrassment). Actually, George is a nice name, but it's a bit tainted because that girl LXXXXX 's dick boyfriend was named George, and they both suck.

Which leaves us with Henry, the obvious choice! Love it! Just don't let anyone start calling him Hank, cause then he'll be Hank the Stank Who Drank. Don't get me started...

Domestic Divas Know How to Throw a Party (Duh)

On Friday night around 5 p.m., two co-worker friends and I left the office and headed over to Skylight Studios for the holiday party. We were a bit nervous, because even though we'd been working at Martha Stewart since June, we were the dreaded FREELANCERS. Being a freelancer is kind of like being a foster child; you never know how long you're going to have a home, and at any time, your "family" can say, "Sorry, kid, we can't afford you anymore, there's no room for you, time to move on, shoo, shoo."

Being freelancers, we weren't exactly given our own invitations, and not really sure if we were technically *crashing* the ball, or just showing up to a ball we were sorta invited to. Thankfully, no one questioned us, and the whole thing was rather impressive, more like a wedding reception than an office party.

Note the fabulous ice sculpture above (an elk? an antelope, maybe?) -- I never knew I loved ice sculpture until I saw this guy (although I do have a penchant for cute animals in any form). Employees decorated stockings at the aptly named Stocking Decorating tables and movie screens showed bits of Frosty the Snowman. There were countless photogs to document the fact that my silk dress was slightly wrinkled and sported a stain and, well, I'm sure I could have used some lip gloss, but I digress! My freelance friends and I grabbed drinks, mingled with full-timers, and watched the Beyond Wasted folk do their duty on the dance floor. A., this includes you, already hungover, doing The Robot on the sidelines.

Related: Three weeks ago, I spent about 30 excruciating hours fact-checking a book about Bravo's Top Chef, which I had never watched until then. Although I typically enjoy fact-checking (I know, I'm a dork), for some reason this book was kicking my ass. I diligently finished and then swore (jokingly!) to friends that if I ever saw a contestant from Top Chef in person, I'd punch him in the face. Harsh! I know, but I was just tired and frustrated, so forgive me.

Anyhow, point of the story. Harold from Top Chef, season one, was one of the chefs at the Martha party. I eyed him, with that big brown shaved head, noting the juicy pieces of salmon his servers were dishing out. And, I'm happy to report, that not only did I not threaten him (go, me! I'm a nice girl after all!), but I sampled the amazingly delicious and sweet salmon (it was sort of rich and sugary, "unexpected," as they say on the show), and he's clearly a super-talented guy who doesn't deserve any ill-will. Even if the book about him and his stupid Top Chef friends did nearly kill me...

Americans Have No Time to Read, I Apparently Have No Time to Blog

I know, I know, I've been horribly lazy and haven't written, but I swear I'm starting my new life of productivity today! My friend C. and I have decided to meet on Monday evenings to MAKE EACH OTHER WRITE, YOUNG LADY!! And while I hope to work mainly on fiction (you know, stuff I have hardly touched since college), I also hope that it will push me to keep this thing up to date. It's simply difficult with one full-time (er, full-time freelance) job plus dozens of other side projects to pay the bills. I did nothing on Sunday except lie around following a Saturday night holiday party, and Sunday was my first day of doing absolutely nothing in I don't know how many weeks. It was boring, but nice. Sounds like a bad date.

Another reason I've put off writing is that I've moved and realize I have to change my anti-LIC heading to something new and appropriate, since I've left Queens and don't plan to go back (ever!) with the exception of Mets games at Shea Stadium.

So! What prompted me to write again this morning was Salon's link to the National Endowment for the Arts' "To Read or Not to Read" report; Salon notes that the survey says one in four Americans have not read a book in the last year. Sad, right?

Other sad stats:

• Nearly half of all Americans aged 18 to 24 read no books for pleasure.
  
• 65 percent of college freshmen read for pleasure less than an hour per week or not at all.
• Slightly more than 1/3 of high school seniors in American can read proficiently.
  
• One in five employees reads at a skill level lower than his job requires. (Large corporate employers collectively spend $3.1 billion a year on remedial writing classes!)

Also check out Salon's list of 2007's best books. I'd like to get to a couple of them soon, but right now I'm the slowpoke who's still working on things I forgot to read in 2005 and 2006.

(You can find the amazing photo above, which I like to think of as a reading rainbow, er, sorry, here.)

File Under: Kind of a Jackass

Maybe two years ago in Williamsburg, the L train was down and I shared a car into the city with this guy named Mike. We started talking and he seemed like a nice guy and he gave me his card. He was a real estate broker. Several months later, when I was looking for an apartment -- albeit a studio under $1350 -- I e-mailed him and asked if he could help. He e-mailed back an enthusiastic Sure, I'll see what I can do. But of course, I never heard from him again. Understandable, I suppose. What broker is super-eager to follow up on $1350 when he has clients who will pay much more?

But then: This morning I receive an e-mail from the guy. It's called "Mike's Real Advice -- Williamsburg Edition." It's a mass e-mail trying to sell me a "Fantasy Loft" in Williamsburg for only $699,000! What a deal! And best of all, he provides lots of pertinent information about the neighborhood:

"In the 90's the artists moved into the loft spaces when SOHO and the East Village became too expensive. Once we got street cred the young, hip and good-looking discovered our cheap rents, and over the last 5 years, we went from a pretty quiet area to the colorful and bustling destination we are today. Now we have amazing restaurants and café's, a rocking bar and club scene with some great mid-size music venues, and a thriving local fashion and arts community. Check out Free Williamsburg ( http://www.freewilliamsburg.com/restaurants/index.html) for local info."

Wow, thanks, Mike! Then he goes on to discuss his "local favorites." Like, have you heard of this place called "DuMont Burger"? They have the best burgers ever! He also promises that Williamsburg is getting a Trader Joe's soon. Actually, Mike, Brooklyn is getting a Trader Joe's soon -- in Cobble Hill.

Remembering the Literature That Shaped Us

Earlier today, a friend was buying stocks online and I was taken aback because even though I'm more than old enough to engage in such adult-type activities, if I had enough money to buy stocks, I would likely spend the moolah on dresses or books or fancy dinners before I managed to get anywhere near a, umm, stockhouse? Broker? Trader? E-trade Online?

Anyhow, this reminded me of being a kid and wanting to buy stocks because I had read The Westing Game, in which a very smart and charmingly bratty Turtle Wexler (age7? 10?) knows more about stocks than anyone you'd ever find down at the NYSE. I remember wanting to learn to buy and trade stocks as soon as I had enough allowance, but alas, I never did. The same thing happened with Harriet the Spy, another favorite childhood book. Although I did manage to carry around a notebook for at least two weeks, noting interesting facts about neighbors and hiding in the Maryland woods, spying on one local man I deemed suspicious.

The point is, it's nice when a book inspires you as a child. And while Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time didn't make me want to time travel necessarily, it did open up my mind and stretch my imagination and I remember carrying around a weathered copy as an elementary school kid, enthusiastic to get to the end.

It happened, sadly then, on this day that I was thinking about these childhood favorites, that I read of L'Engle's death. As writers, we are often (or at least I have been) told that it is dangerous to have too much of ourselves in our work. I'm not sure I agree, and L'Engle certainly didn't. The phrase "dictation from her subconscious," I think, is quite an interesting way to look at things:

Her works — poetry, plays, autobiography and books on prayer — were deeply, quixotically personal. But it was in her vivid children’s characters that readers most clearly glimpsed her passionate search for the questions that mattered most. She sometimes spoke of her writing as if she were taking dictation from her subconscious.

“Of course I’m Meg,” Ms. L’Engle said about the beloved protagonist of “A Wrinkle in Time.”

Madeleine L'Engle, Children's Writer, Is Dead

Oh, the Irony of It All

On the heels of my entry about America Ferrera and Glamour slimming down her lovely figure for its latest cover, I came across the Magazine Death Pool via Gawker. The site has a Dead Magazine Museum, which I was happy to see features the long-lost publication I once worked for.

However, I also noted a magazine called Mode that folded in September 2001. Mode, as you probably know, is also the name of the fictional Vogue-esque magazine that America Ferrera works at on Ugly Betty. Ironically, though, the real Mode was a mag for plus-sized ladies; its cover advertised "Smile in Sizes 12, 14, 16..." I guess they weren't allowed to promote anything higher than a 16 on the cover (or anyone from the waist down), but the ellipses give you the gist of things.

So the fictional Mode on Ugly Betty would surely follow in Glamour's footsteps when confronted with a less-than-teensy actress and Photoshop her to death; the real Mode (pictured) would have featured the actual actress in all her glory, but it folded, so never mind. Maybe it folded because they needed a new fashion editor -- I mean, come on, look at this girl. Why is she wearing a nasty hat that looks like someone skinned a cow and plopped it on her head and such a dull bikini that doesn't look like it has much support and maybe was purchased on the buck-99 rack at Dress Barn? Ah, Mode, it's great that you loved all body types, but maybe your downfall was for the best. You could have taught thousands of women to dress like hookers; thanks to whoever put the kibosh on that.

If the Kids Cared Enough to, Like, Compete and Stuff

This is wonderful: overcoming hangovers, perfecting the judgmental stare, choosing ironic T-shirts, making sure your pants are tight enough. All events in the Hipster Olympics. Hilarious, and yet, somehow true.

Video via A Brooklyn Life

America Ferrera: Countdown to Anorexia

Not that she should stop eating, but she will. I started thinking about this after reading all the hullabaloo over her recent Glamour cover on Glossed Over and Jezebel. People are making such a big deal about the fact that the cover was obviously Photoshopped; they whittled America down to a skinny lady. Not super skinny, but smaller than she is in person. Enough to notice, let's say.

Anyhow, it would be nice to think that someone other than Kate Winslet had the balls to stand up to the Hollywood standard of what skinny is, but history teaches us otherwise. America Ferrera seems like a nice, wholesome girl from a good family, but yeah, I predict anorexia/bulimia any day now. It seems too tough to be in a Hollywood environment and hear everyone say, "Oh, that's great, you're so curvy," knowing that they really mean, "Man, that sucks, you're totally huge." She's not, of course, but you know, Hollywood is warped, etc.

This all made me think of that girl Sara Rue (whose name I couldn't remember at first) and she starred on that show, Less than Perfect, which you may or may not remember. She was totally adorable on the show and then I guess after she started to lose all this weight and now I think she looks like Tracey Gold from Growing Pains back in her Karen Carpenter phase. I present as evidence:



OK, maybe not Karen Carpenter; I mean, she obviously looks pretty here and not sick, but maybe it's just the idea that she looks more like all the other H-wood gals now, like she lost her spunk or something. I forget the name of that show that Selma Blair was on when she was first starting out, but the same thing happened to her. She was probably like 125 pounds or something, and people made fun of her and called her huge, and then she got super skinny, too. Nicole Richie, of course, also -- and now it's hard to remember a time when she looked normal (even now, knocked up). I give it six months before we start seeing split-screens of America Ferrera before-and-afters in US Weekly with the headline, "Has She Gone Too Far?"

To the Very Mean People (Person?) Who Stole My Bike Seat on Sunday

Quite frankly, I didn't even know my brand-new bike seat could come off so easily. So there, I learned something new, I guess. But, c'mon! Are you serious? Stealing someone's bike seat in Williamsburg in broad daylight? What if I'd come out of the restaurant earlier and stolen a peak down North 9th and seen you unscrewing my seat? Have you no decency!

And frankly, I expect this sort of thing to happen in Long Island City, but in tony Williamsburg, what with its new crop of trust-fund babies and their condo-buying parents?

So, a little research reveals that the hood and its environs (namely, Bushwick) haven't been doing too well with crime lately. The Brooklyn Paper reports that the 90th precinct had 18 robberies in one of the last weeks of August, which I'm sure doesn't include all the unreported things like a bike seat being taken. And my bike seat being stolen doesn't seem like such a big deal when you read about this poor little gal:

A 10-year-old girl had her bicycle stolen from her as she rode near the corner of Division Avenue and Roebling Street on Aug. 18. Cops are hunting for a 13-year-old boy on a girls’ bike.

Dobry Den: The Slovak-Czech Varieties Store

I know that I spend a lot of time bitching about Long Island City, but every once in awhile, I discover something great in the neighborhood. The Slovak-Czech Varieties store has been there for at least a couple of years, but I finally managed to visit on Sunday afternoon. It's a wonderful little enclave with Czech glass, magazines, books, food, tea, and (best of all) children's toys.
If you've ever been to Prague, you know about those Czech wooden toys that you see all over the place. They're super cute, but being the kind of person who despises most knickknacks, I declined to purchase one when I was in Prague. I always sort of regretted it.
Thanks to the Slovak-Czech Varieties store, I got one on Sunday. I highly recommend it as a good place to browse for unusual gifts; the staff and customers are super friendly, too.

Slovak-Czech Varieties, 10-59 Jackson Ave., Long Island City