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Archive for March, 2012

Flashback Friday! (From the Dept of: I did WHAT???!!)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:05 AM
Friday, March 30, 2012

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – I did WHAT? – the BLOG

The summer before I moved to Los Angeles, I worked as a mostly daytime bartender in a semi-hip California-style Italian restaurant by Dupont Circle in DC. The owner was a hot Italian guy who was married but always flirted heavily with the female staff and was rumored to have slept with at least one of the vixen waitresses he kept on staff.

The day I was hired to bartend, I actually had come in to inquire about a hostess position I heard was open. Immediately, they told me they needed a daytime bartender and put me to work. I had never bartended, but I always made sure to mix the drinks with plenty of alcohol so my customers were always happy.

Once, I remember seeing a friend of mine’s mother in the back, hidden section of the restaurant, sharing an intimate mid-day meal with a man who was not my friend’s father.

My best customers consisted of a few men who would come by during the day, sit by themselves usually, though the Hot Italian Restaurant Owner and staff would always fawn over them. They’d flirt a bit with me and order their vodka. One of these men was the head of the bank across the street, I think it was Citibank. Another was a billionaire Lebanese guy. It was a game for me, trying to see how many vodkas I could get them to order, just to see how high I could cause my tip to climb – into the double digits, and yes, once in a while, into the triple.

Never occurred to me these guys were actually going back to work, making decisions that were probably affecting thousands of lives. (Hmmmm… mortgage crisis, anyone?)

Once the billionaire Lebanese guy got pretty drunk, and wound up inviting me to his nearby apartment in the middle of my shift. I can’t remember anymore under what guise he invited me – I was going to be moving to LA shortly – did he tell me he could help my career somehow? All I know is that Hot Italian Restaurant Owner was more than happy to let me off in the middle of my shift if it meant pleasing this particular patron.

And what do you think that I – a Phi Beta Kappa Yale graduate, who had volunteered countless hours at Yale in the Women’s Center, raised by a family of feminists, granddaughter to the first woman lawyer of Texas – chose to do?

I went with him.

Was I that desperate for attention? For adventure? For money?

Somewhere along the elevator ride up to his penthouse, I began to worry. The guy didn’t “feel” dangerous to me, but still… I didn’t know him. I didn’t want to sleep with him. Obviously he was hoping he could get some kind of ‘play’ from me… So what in the world was I doing with him?

We got to his apartment. I don’t remember much – just that he sat down, and looked at me with his red face and glossy eyes like, ‘The ball’s in your court.’ At which point, I made some excuse and told him I should get back. If he tried to convince me to stay, I don’t remember it. All I remember is that within a few minutes, he had escorted me safely back to the restaurant. The owner winked and scolded me, and I have no idea if I played along or told him the truth: nothing happened.

The whole event was basically a non-event. Except, that now I’m a mother of 3, I SHUDDER TO THINK any of them would put themselves in an even remotely similar circumstance…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

That so could have been me if I had played my cards wrong.

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posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:46 AM
Wednesday, March 28, 2012

I’m grateful my gym is affordable, close by, um… um…. and… um…

Okay, my gym sucks balls.*

For example, the bathrooms. Are disgusting! Every single toilet is ALWAYS clogged and/or saturated with pee (all over the seats) and/or dripping with used toilet paper and/or not flushed. Some of the doors don’t close properly, and the showers are too close to everything else with no privacy.

The changing room is equally icky. There is not enough carpet in the changing room to go around which means unless you get into one particular strip of lockers, you will be standing on cold, dirty tile. The lockers themselves are small and stacked awkwardly on top of each other, and at least half of the lockers are broken-ish.

The gym was even RENOVATED recently – new TVs (with ‘iPod decks’ built into the treadmills and cross-training machines… iPod decks, I might add, that DO NOT WORK), new equipment, new spinning room, new paint. But the bathrooms are still disgusting.

And the pool… I mean, it has a pool! That should be amazing news! But the pool is always disgustingly dirty, with loogies and clumps of hair floating around like schools of fish. And if you are somehow lucky enough to dodge the muck, then the underage kids playing in the lanes, smashing into the swimmers and generally creating chaos, will be sure to drive you insane. Not to mention the extrememememely slow swimmers who take over every lane, as there is no lane delineation (ie., “Fast,” “Slow,” etc.).  And, due to that same lack of delineation, the occasional crazy ex-pro swimmer who gets angry and smashes into you if you don’t swim fast enough is also a threat.

The gym does offer, like, a million classes… most of which – surprise! – suck balls.* They either speed up the music like crazy and make you risk injury as you run around like a cardio crackhead, or they teach yoga so slow it would put Grandfather Time to sleep. And the music skips. And more than a few of the instructors have weird chips on their shoulders, getting just a little too upset when people whisper or mats go missing.

Still, I do like a good cross-training machine, especially when there is something good on TV. Once, I think it must have been by accident, they had the TV on Comedy Central, and Duce Bigelow, Male Gigolo was on. I am not kidding you, I cracked up so loud and for so long on that machine, I wound up peeing in my bicycle shorts.

Which – for those of you who were wondering – have done NOTHING to protect my poor, bony ass from the sledgehammer of steel masquerading as a spinning bicycle seat.

Gotta go pound a protein shake!


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

* shoot I was going to try to clean up the language of these blogs. rrrrrrrr….


My gym may suck but I can still rock a 2 lb weight. Ahhh, yeahhh, baby!

Things that are just Not Cool

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 10:25 AM
Monday, March 26, 2012

Hey, everyone! I’m writing this well after midnight, on Sunday night. Whereas I PLANNED to have this and every blog for this week banged out by mid-last week. SIGH…..

Writing last minute, especially when I’m dawg tired, is way NOT COOL. Which makes me think of a few other items that fall under the self-same category.

Here are the fruits of my late-night, sleepified blogging…

The Top Ten Things I Discovered Lately, that are NOT COOL:

Number 10: Young children insisting you get up and make them a 6 AM breakfast after you have slept a not-so-solid four hours. Aren’t you a cutie-pie?!

Number 9: Shouting at your friend’s four-year-old child because he won’t stop spitting and saying potty words in your car, only to find that shouting at him just causes him to spit even more and say more potty words. She warned me he was tired…

Number 8: Splinters. Had one. In the immortal words of my daughter, it was a “Super Owie.”

Number 7: Dried rat shit. All over my boxes in our outdoor storage. EEEEWWWWWWW!

Number 6: Writing a blog last minute. Case in point.

Number 5: Realizing my almost-eight year old son is plenty old enough to figure out my blog URL. GOOD GOD, WHAT THE ##*(%&#(*& AM I DOING? AND HOW SOON DO YOU THINK IT WILL TAKE HIM TO REALIZE WHAT “#@(%&#*(%&” MEANS?????

Number 4: Realizing I can no longer curse in my blog, in good conscience. Until my youngest is at least 13. Mental note.

Number 3: Wondering how Angie and Brad do it? Not that kind of “it,” you perv! I meant ‘all of it’ – the kids, the marriage, the fame – oh, forget it!

Number 2: Realizing my husband smells like girlie perfume thanks to the jacked up deodorant I bought him at Target. Well done, Sheva.

Number 1: Taking out my night-guard as I lean in to kiss my husband sexily. Sorry, Honey! Wait, come back!


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

I can only assume that this is who my husband saw in place of his wife, as I leaned towards him...

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Flashback Friday! (Who Knew?)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:57 PM
Friday, March 23, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Who Knew? – the BLOG

Dear, gentle readers. I can’t believe it is so… but it is. Today – and only today – April 26, 2011 – a mere COUGH –years after I gave up my teenage dream to become a model…

I am thankful I never was given the opportunity.

I spend a small but meaty chunk of my life feeling pissed that I didn’t get certain opportunities. Why aren’t I a world-famous writer by now? Never was given the right opportunity. Why didn’t I make it big as an actress? Never cast in the role that would have been my gateway to the big time. Why didn’t my band ever make it past local gigs at the Knitting Factory and the Gig? The right producer never did my demo. Or the right A&R guy never heard it. OR…

You get the idea.

I’m already embarrassed to be sharing with you what a whiny complainer I can be. I KNOW – intellectually, at least – that we make our own opportunities, that life gives us only what we NEED and what we are SUPPOSED TO GET, in order to help us grow, transform, & ultimately –yes, I’ll say it – have the OPPORTUNITY to be as happy & fulfilled as we can be.

But. Intellect ain’t exactly gut-knowing, now is it?

At age fifteen, after years of dreaming of being a “famous model/actor/singer,” I made my mother take me to a ‘walk in’ at Ford in New York. The woman was nice, and told me she needed to see pictures of me. I never sent her pictures of me, and I spent years feeling bitter that my mother wasn’t a proper “stage mother” and didn’t take control over my (as of yet nonexistent) career, submit the photos for me, and never give up until her baby was a STAR! (Wait – am I confusing her with Gypsy?) There was always a piece of me that resented her role in my never having “made it”, and I equally was pissed at myself for never having really “gone for it” (thanks to a crushing insecurity that made me incapable of taking criticism).

Today, I watched the TV pilot for my boss’s new Sony TV-produced reality TV show, that, if all goes well, will air on a big network in the fall. It’s about the modeling industry – a really gritty & semi-redemptive look at what goes on behind the scenes. My job in his company doesn’t put me in the limelight of the TV show – I’m in charge of developing a wellness program for the models & interested public, and I’m in charge of the company’s interactive magazine-style website. ( if you must know, and YES we will figure out a way at some point to shorten the URL – for now just bookmark it, for God’s sake! And sign up while you’re at it – it’s free & I’ve got to get my numbers up.)


Anyway, after seeing the TV show today for the second time, it dawned on me. Thank God I never sent in those pictures. Thank God my mother never forced me into the modeling or entertainment industry any farther than I begged to go. First of all, I wasn’t interested in fashion. I loved to write! Second, I was – as I said before – insecure. More than that – vulnerable. To people’s criticisms of me, to men’s sexual attraction to me, and to people’s opinions of me in general.

I would have been eaten alive.

I still had many rough patches growing up and in my early adult life. Rough relationships, rough emotional dips, rough financial situations. Life, in other words.

And here I am, today, stronger for it all. Happier for it. Better for it.

Who knew?


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

My one and only "real" modeling gig. Yeah, I was a bad ass. In my own mind. Okay, no I wasn't.

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posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:08 PM
Wednesday, March 21, 2012

If you’re one of those people who say they don’t like Karaoke, I challenge you to go out with me one night to a karaoke bar and not have fun. I mean, come on, I’m a cowboy? On a steel horse I ride! Or, Yeah, push it, p-push it real good! Or my all time fave, Turn around, every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears…


Whew! Sorry, folks. I always get a little carried away when it comes to karaoke. Karried away. Hee hee hee.

Now, wait a minute, I know it’s talk like that that makes people who already hate the idea of karaoke want to run screaming for the Shania Twain-free hills. But you’ve got the wrong idea! Yes, karaoke can be terrifying for those who hate to sing in front of a crowd. And it can be equally terrifying for those with perfect pitch to have to sit and listen to those of us who do not hate to sing in front of a crowd.

But still…

Isn’t just magic, when you hear the occasional angel sing My Heart Will Go On better than the diva Dion herself? Especially when the angelic voice comes from a completely non-Britney Spears-looking person. At the karaoke dive bar where I used to go – uh – every single Saturday night, more or less, for like a year or so, there was this one old Vietnamese dude who brought down the house each time he sang Frank.

Sinatra, duh!

That place, the Smog Cutter, was everything a karaoke dive bar should be – tons of cigarette smoke, cheap alcohol, lots of opportunity to get up and sing, and (goes hand in hand with the last point), a bribe-able person in charge of the karaoke microphone. My friend Caroline (a classier, prettier, and way more beautiful singer-version of Britney) used to go with me each week, and we’d bribe the guy who had the key to our super-karaoke stardom that night with tips and Heinekens.

Yes, I know, there are the drunken frat boy karaoke singers of the world, and we can put those duds into the same category as the punk rock karaoke night that my old chef boss from back when I was a waitress hosted on New Year’s Eve. (Then again, that probably would have been fun if I hadn’t had to serve a bunch of narcissistic rock stars that didn’t tip and then have the owner steal a chunk from the rest of my tips from that night. Hmmm….)

What are you waiting for? See you in the spotlight…

Billy Ray was a preacher’s son, and when his daddy would visit, he would come along…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Karaoke in smelly yet oddly sterilized rooms with several vinyl couches cramped together is also awesome. Trust me.

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posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:07 PM
Tuesday, March 20, 2012

So, Smashed, that new TV show? RRRRRRRRRR

When it was first publicized, I was excited and intrigued. Amazing cast (I mean, hello, ANJELICA HUSTON, anyone!?), a musical (I seem to be one of the only ones who doesn’t like Glee even though I tried… but I do love me a good musical), the girl from that sitcom with the gay roommate (can you tell I’m writing this late at night & too lazy to use Google?), and Steven Spielberg exec producing?

Oh yes, I DVR’d the crap out of that show.

And then I watched it.


Couldn’t make it past the first 15 minutes or so. Just seemed kind of boring, and lame, and… whatever.

Cut to: a week later, I’m at the gym on the elliptical with Hulu Plus ready to roll on my iPhone but no more unwatched episodes of Grey’s Anatomy or Gossip Girl. What to do?

Hulu Plus’ home screen suggested Smash (go, NBC advertisers!), and I bit. I finished the episode I had begun a week earlier. And, lo and behold…

I got hooked.

Next episode was even juicier, and my husband was instantly hooked too – he had fallen head over heels for Katharine McPhee back during Idol, so this felt like he was watching his first-born fly, all growed up. And I had to concur – Kat McPhee is flawless in the show.

But on the other hand…

There’s that writing partner guy, what’s his name, the piano player, whose chin kind of melts into his long neck. I like him but he reminds me of a poor boy’s version of my more-than-excellent Yale roommate and once-best-friend, Derek, who is 5 times the looker, piano player, and person than the Smash guy will ever be!

Sidetracking here: Why in the world isn’t Derek one of the world’s premier film directors yet? He directed a film over 10 years ago that was one of the best movies I’d ever seen. Since then? No directing gigs, to my knowledge. Yet another reason to hate Hollywood: Derek should be directing and starring in Smash, not the other Yahoo.

Speaking of whom, that Yahoo’s personal assistant guy in Smash is also THE dumbest. First of all, we’re supposed to believe that girl in the shower in his apartment is his girlfriend and he’s NOT gay? I mean, WHAT? Secondly, he’s just really stupid and annoying and such an obvious “villain” in the show. It’s just weird. AND, where did his random Real Estate friend come from in last week’s episode? I mean, huh? What in the world was Anjelica doing, having drinks with them?? I thought Spielberg was behind this, not my 5 year old!

But the icing on the cake is the stupidest storyline – SPOILER ALERT! (for anyone who isn’t watching the series yet but may rent it at some future unspecified date) – the rekindled affair between that chick from the sitcom and the guy playing DiMaggio.

I mean, COME ON!

First of all, he’s not at all good looking. He’s annoying. As is she, granted, but her husband in the show is cuter, more interesting and nicer than that married guy she’s trysting with, not to mention they have a kid together and supposedly want to adopt another.

Speaking of which, did anyone BELIEVE that ridiculous scene where she was stupid enough to kiss the DiMaggio guy outside her kid’s bedroom window? Oh, her son saw them? Really? DUHHHHHH….

Whew! Thanks for letting me vent, dear readers.

Help me, Anjelica Huston, you’re my only hope! Okay, well, you too, Kat.

Until the next episode…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Here's who should REALLY be the star of Smash. And directing it. And ruling Hollywood. Someday...

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Esther in the Morning

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:09 PM
Monday, March 19, 2012

SCENE OPENS: It is 8 am on a Sunday, after BatSheva has gotten about 5-ish hrs of much-interrupted sleep.

“Ima!” My little almost-three year old is staring up at me from the side of my bed. All I want to do is roll over and go back to sleep, but I know my husband has slept even less than I have. So, I force myself to get up.

She wants me to make her “ochel like a little baby” – our name for Gerber’s baby oatmeal (ochel means “food” in Hebrew; don’t ask me how you actually say “Oatmeal”) which was my 3 kids’ first food & one they still enjoy.

She also wants me to sit with her while she eats, so I perch myself sleepily at my desk and look through emails, waiting for her to finish so I can plop her in front of the television and get another hour of not-enough-sleep.

Then, she speaks:

“Ima, how was your day?”

After a pause (like, uhhhh, you mean the day that just started when you woke me up three hours into the 2nd half of my attempt to sleep through the night?), I reply.

“Great. How was your day?”


“Wow. That’s great.”

“Yeah. When is your birthday?”

“July 23rd. I’m going to be 40.”

“I’m going to be 40, too!”

“You’re going to be three.”

“I want to be 40. Like you.”

After a pause… hmmmm, is this a discussion worth having? No. No, it is not.

“Okay. You can be 40, too.”


We kiss.

Yay, indeed.

And this is just one of the reasons my daughter is awesome.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Esther doesn't just eat spaghetti. She lives spaghetti.

Flashback Friday! (What is WRONG with these People??)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:17 AM
Friday, March 16, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – What is WRONG With These People? – the BLOG

Okay, so you know how in my last blog I commented on the ridiculous store named FUK U?

(As ridiculous as they are, it occurs to me I’ve given them more press than I’ve given any number of my actual favorite places that actually DO deserve your business… I guess the saying is true, bad press is still press…)

Well, I’ve got another pet peeve. Move over, Tipper Gore: I’ve got a new congressional resolution for ya. Censor those god awful billboards that are up all over my city!

I admit, as a kid growing up “too cool for school” in DC, I railed against Tipper’s plan to put ratings on CD’s and records as much as anyone. How dare a grown up censor my music?! How dare that bloated, preppy politician’s wife decide whether or not I can buy an album, just because it has stupid curse words inside? Easy E was one of my favorite rappers:

I’m gonna hold it! And walk around the stage! And if you fuck up? I’m going to get my gage, and unload my barrel and laugh, cause I’m putting lead in your motherfucking ass. Psychopathic, but the hos are attracted, cause when I’m on hard? My dick’s at least a YARD!

…and I got straight A’s and went to Yale.

Suck on that, Tipper!


You know how everyone with kids tells you, everything changes once you have kids?


My son is now reading. I’ll bet you twenty dollars if we were to walk by that above-mentioned store, he would sound it out immediately and ask me what it meant. Hilarious, you pot smoking asshole who gave your store that name.

If I even THINK of my six year old hearing Easy E out of some stupid ass teenager’s car window… (AKA, my car window, 20 years ago. Wait, when I was only 8 years old? Never mind.) it’s a nightmare. How could I have put little ears at risk of such foulness, so cavalierly? Heaven FORBID a store would actually allow him to PURCHASE said item. Does anyone know Tipper’s current address? I’m ready to write her a donation check…

And Tipper, while we’re at it? Billboards. I don’t want to rate them. I want to ban them. Outright. I don’t want to infringe upon a company’s right to speak about their grizzly sex horror movie, but I DO want to thwart any and all plans they may have to advertise said movie anywhere my kids may pass by. It was ONE YEAR before a sign showing a graphic portrait of a zombie eating a half-naked woman was taken down just a half a block from my house (and a half a block from my kids’ old preschool). One block from that was a gigantic billboard for some other horror movie, I think it was called “The Eye,” which depicted a giant horrifying eye, held open by medical instruments while a creature climbed out of it.

I feel like A Clockwork Orange would scare my child less than some of these billboards.

Don’t even get me started talking about TV commercials…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Awww, now look at that punim! What mother wouldn't want her daughter to listen to his music?

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Dude, that is Jacked up!

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:46 PM
Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I don’t like to use inflammatory language. Strike that – I love using inflammatory language, but I constantly fight against that love because I am well aware that it is usually damaging. Words have power.

So that’s why I didn’t use the title for the blog I originally wanted to use, which was, “You know You’re a Po’ Girl When…”

Whoops. Did I just say that out loud?

Anyway, my point is that I don’t want to call myself the “p” word. (No, not that word, dummy! The one ending in “-oor!”) And yet… relative to the financial state I am used to enjoying (i.e. some type of income flowing regularly into our household from some avenue or another, so that at the very least an occasional night out at the movies doesn’t feel like we are scraping together funds to fly to Africa), lately, things around here have gotten a bit… how shall I put this delicately… Jacked up.

For example: I can’t afford a new bra right now. That said, all of my bras are about 80 years old. And, miraculously, I lost a bit of weight recently. The problem with those 2 facts (other than freezing all day long), is that with my small boobs, no matter how tight I make them, my bras just slip right up to my collarbones if I’m not sitting still.

Solution? I’ve fastened safety pins about 2 ½  inches up from the regular loops (towards the underarm), and now I hook the bra hooks into the safety pin in order to keep the bra snug.

Like I said. Jacked up.

And then, there’s my pajamas bottoms. Grey, flannel, soft, warm… perfect. And, recently… broken; the tie that pulls the elastic around my waist snapped.

Yeah. Safety pin time. Gets a little hairy in the middle of the night when I have to pee and forget it’s there. But so far, no major accidents.

And… the long sleeve shirt I’m wearing right now has a hole. Earlier today, I hooked it over my thumb and pretended it was a Lululemon-style shirt. Then I noticed another hole a few inches down from my thumb. Dang it.

Keep your fingers crossed for me, readers! Or, better yet? Save me some of your safety pins.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

What, you thought I was exaggerating? And don't even get me started on those bleached out, fraying bed sheets...

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Nary a Spoon

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 1:01 PM
Tuesday, March 13, 2012

On the self-same night I single-handedly discovered the secret to instant sobriety, I also discovered something else: GrownupGirls (who are not married and don’t have kids) live like broke college students.

My husband and I did our pre-Purim drinking at the apartment of 3 friends of ours – 3 hot mamas (“mamas,” not “mommas,” all btwn the ages of 23 & 35 ish) who live together in order to save money, live safely and not be lonely.

And while each of these GGs (GrownupGirls) is, individually, beautiful, smart, socially savvy, spiritual and hard-working, collectively, they nonetheless keep their apartment looking like my Freshman dormroom. Not pretty. Correction: it isn’t messy like my college dormroom was (nor does it have those wacky Freshman year roommates I had – the Born Again Christian who confirmed that I, being Jewish, had a ticket straight to hell; the other ticketed passenger, our Canadian Jewish roommate, who went bonkers and was sent to a “psycho single” after she was found panting and salivating on all fours one day; or our bulimic soccer player roommate who let her heart get torn out once a week by the resident Freshman movie star-turned-Yalie….) But it was like my frosh dorm room in that no one takes responsibility for its appearance, no one decorates, no one puts out candles or pictures or fresh cut flowers…

No one buys any spoons, for God’s sake.

Apparently, the last spoon had gone missing months ago, and instead of just buying a new pack of spoons, the Three’s Company GGs just pilfer extra plastic spoons whenever they buy takeout (every day). When they run out, they make do eating their cereal or whatever with their forks. Or knives. Who knows, maybe they just eat the cereal dry, straight from the box.

Their handful of cups had also run out after my husband and I had been served our drinks, so our other friend had to drink his tequila from a soy sauce bowl. And let me tell you – watching a hedge fund manager who summers in the Hamptons and winters in Aspen drink fine tequila from a soy sauce bowl is almost as fun as watching his face as he is told there is no ice in the house but would he like a frozen bag of peas to cool the cup down?

Maybe it’s just the ‘roommate’ thing, where everyone who lives together is friends but no one wants to take financial responsibility for the others. Maybe it’s the fact that these particular GGs are in fact so broke they cannot afford a single set of spoons for about $5.99. But in the end, I don’t think it’s either of those things – I think my friends don’t bother to make their home a home because they are trying to “inspire” themselves to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible. Ideally, by making loads of money, or getting married, or both.

Good luck, Grownup Chiquita Bananas! My drink was delicious, even if it was mixed with a chopstick and served in an old water tumbler.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

She may be living like a college kid but she's psyched to have nabbed that last plastic spoon!

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