Sealing the Deal - Top 30 Must Do List for 2011

Yes, it's true... I've gone AWOL for some time, but I'm back and have decided to recommit myself to the blogosphere, detailing the ins and outs of my mischief and mayhem. But before we kick off 2011 (albeit 5 months behind schedule), I'd like to share with you (aka hold my lazy arse self accountable for) my top 30 must do list for 2011, inspired by my fave gal Laura Carollo and her brilliant website. Dearest Laura listed 100, but as we all know, she is far more ambitious than me!

Here goes...

1. Take a vacation that requires daily use of SPF 70 (yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm pale beyond words, but a pina colada with a baby umbrella sounds delightful!)
2. Plan a girls' cocktail party quarterly, featuring a signature drink
3. Cut back on online shoe shopping (Dearest Cole Haan, how can something so lovely be so evil?!)
4. Surprise someone with flowers
5. Work out 3x weekly, whether zumba, hip hop, or sweatin' to the oldies with Mr. Simmons
6. Schedule a doggie play date for beast at least once a month
7. Finish 5 chapters of my memoir (yes, I've decided to finally write that book Oprah has been dying to read; besides, this is the only logical explanation for why such ridiculousness keeps happening to me)
8. Finally plan the EJ/OJ trip to Greece you've been talking about for the past 3 years (and for those who don't know, OJ is my childhood nickname for my daddy, Allen -- see future blog for further explanation of the origin of O-jalicious)
9. Drop 5 lbs (see #5)
10. Attempt at least one new recipe monthly
11. Vastly cut down on chocolate consumption (ie - avoid the Sallie stash at work and limit self to no more than one snack-sized choco bite daily)
12. Blog twice monthly to ensure my adoring fans have something to look forward to :)
13. Embrace organic (starting small with lettuce, carrots, apples)
14. Organize my closet and keep it spotless (ok, perhaps moderately clean is more feasible)
15. Watch 10 movies I always wanted to see, but never quite got around to watching (Citizen Cain, Social Network, Slumdog Millionaire, Clockwork Orange, Fast Times..., etc)
16. Cook a romantic dinner for DB monthly
17. Run a 5K
18. Send holiday cards (created by the fabulous GraceNotes)
19. Increase book reading from .5 annually to 10 books
20. Bake brownies for a friend just for kicks
21. Cook breakfast at least twice weekly (and no, Jimmy Deans and hot pockets do not count)
22. Print & frame digital photos within two months of taking them
23. Put the tennis shoes and racquet you had to have in 2010 to work by taking lessons and joining a league
24. Make it at least 2 months without cheating on my gluten free diet (perhaps the most tricky of my challenges)
25. Book a trip to NYC to see all my fabulous friends
26. Leave the country at least once annually (Jamaica, here I come!)
27. Move designer shoe boxes into storage (still unclear why I want to keep these, but go with it for now)
28. Fold laundry within one day of washing
29. Finish the Groupon dance classes I've purchased in the past 3 months before buying more (13 zumba, 12 hip hop, 1 belly dance class remaining, and in case you're wondering -- this in no way implies I have any level of dexterity)
30. Take a cooking class and find a daring subject willing to try round 2 (at home) attempt

Damaged Goods: The Birth of a Beast

When I moved to Atlanta, I decided once and for all that I needed to invest in a furry friend. After scouring the internet for months prior to the big move, I set my sight on Zoey, a beautiful fawn pug rescued in a small town outside of Oklahoma City. For a modest $200, she was all mine. Well, $200, a plane ticket to Oklahoma for $787 + $100 for a pet passenger ticket, and a psych eval to ensure that I was “up to snuff” to take on what was later identified as a socially inept, angst-ridden 4 year old pugger.

I had already passed the written and oral examinations commensurate with pug adoption; however, I was not prepared for a more than 2.5 hour NYPD-style grilling by her foster mother, questioning my care, skills, and ability to take on said animal. After many warnings from friends who worked at the Humane Society concerned by tale tale “red flags,” more than three verbal lashings from the foster pug coordinator, and a few meltdowns resulting from the “DO YOU REALLY CARE ABOUT ANIMALS?” drill sergeant like approach I received for having second thoughts about this troubled investment, I concluded that rushing into an adoption was perhaps not the best idea.

Less than a month later, I was contacted about a pug in Athens, Coco (as in Chanel), who had a “few minor issues” but an excellent disposition, a pleasant pug, and a perfect match. I had been warned of Coco’s luxating patales (aka bad ass knee problems) and prolapsed vajajay (WTF?). Imperfections aside, I embarked on the journey with my mother, hereto forward referenced as “psychotic pug pleaser/lover” with a stomach full of butterflies eager to meet my future child.

When we arrived to the sprawling country abode, my mother nearly rocketed out of the vehicle, chasing, capturing, and scooping up a quaint black squash-faced, curly pigtailed pug, tears swelling in her big brown eyes over her newfound grandbaby. For better or worse, Kloey’s fate was officially sealed. After a quick flurry of paperwork, Kloey (her adopted name) and medical papers were exchanged for the money order, and we were off. Finally, I had a beautiful black fluffball of my very own!

After two days of acclimating Kloey to her new home, we were invited to our first pet romp, so I loaded her bed in my front seat and took off. As I was turning off Piedmont onto the Interstate, I noticed Kloey was standing up taut. “SIT DOWN KLOEY!” No movement. “KLOEY! PLEASE SIT!!!” Shaking, and sheepishly looking at me, she crawled into my lap, leaving a massive puddle of pee behind her in my newly purchased vehicle.

Let’s just say, leather never quite recovers from this type of rain shower! Of course, many can image my pure disgust as her soaked paws and extremities snuggled in my lap, slightly petrified and awaiting the response of her new mama. O.M.G. For the record, a urine bath will officially skyrocket any degree of germaphobia to a new record high. DELICIOUS. This marked a very special new level of personal tolerance on my part, as well as the birth of Kloey’s alterego: BEAST.

The following weekend I scheduled Kloey’s first doctor’s appointment for a full review and opinion. Dr. Empel, a longtime trusted confidante of the Stern clan, was poised for a full veterinarian review of Beast and her medical oddities. In addition to her knee issues (count on a several thousand dollar knee replacement in her near future), he identified a heart murmur. But the icing on the cake was revealed when our examination room became a revolving door for docs. One by one, he brought in the other veterinarians on call for what he described as “A once in a lifetime educational moment.” As Kloey stood on the cold aluminum examination table, Dr. Empel poked and prodded at her nether regions while the room filled with OOhs and Aahhs from his wide-eyed pupils. “THIS, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call a medical mystery. Very rare, indeed.”

Suddenly the room was flooded with a barrage of questions: Is it really? I can’t believe it! I’ve only seen this in textbooks. This is AMAZING!!

I stood dumbfounded and curious about the hullabaloo, whilst Kloey stood mortified by what appeared to be a nearly endless gynecological probe. Finally, I interrupted the inquisition. WHAT ON EARTH IS SO BAFFLING??

After a few moments of silence, the truth was revealed. “Ms. Stern, you may want to sit down for this one.” Oh Lord! I thought to myself. What now? As the doctor cleared his throat, his compassionate eyes filled me with much despair. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this. Your pug Kloey, she…well, it is…how shall I put it? A hermaphrodite.

SPEECHLESS. It’s as though a gameshow host had just made the big reveal: if you had selected door 1, you would’ve had a brand new car!! But alas, you chose the rotten apple door, so here’s your very own herm! Just my luck.

As I sat speechless staring at the doctor, unable to process this new discovery, he continued: Personally, EJ, I would return her. She, well it, has a great deal of how shall we put it, “issues” for a pug still shy of one year. You have a rocky road ahead of you, and your better off with a new one. You’ve got yourself damaged goods.

HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN TO ME?! Hermaphradism is an extremely rare trait, and yet I end up with a bad egg. My heart was already sold on Kloey from the moment I laid eyes on her. Could I possibly fathom a life without her?

After several days of battling between the emotional and the practical, the magical vs. medical realities of Beast, I came to a painstaking conclusion. My life had always been filled with the ridiculous, and never once did I shy away from such atrocious happenings. So it seems, once again, I accepted my fate and embraced my hermaphroditic daughter, err son. Afterall, life is full of imperfections. What’s an extra appendage when you have a lifetime of love?

Black Market Madness*

*originally published Feb 10, 2006
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It seems that every year I have another story to tell, more ridiculous than the last…the type so insanely moronic and naïve that four years after the fact, your best friend’s parents are telling “the great EJ tales” to their friends, and laughing at the incredulous behavior of a seemingly good-natured, mild-mannered, bright young lady from the South. It all started with my Y2K adventures of ringing in the New Years in custody on a military base with tongue ring Kevin, just barely escaping arrest as my dear parents sat in the bathtub bracing themselves for dooms day. The laughs continued over the years with my wise decisions to test run the mace in my dorm room, scream lewd obscenities in the streets of our nation’s capital (a la OBHBD) at a boy who made the vile mistake of hitting on me while wearing a W shirt, and my 3am drunken toast in the oven, eggs frying in the pan, and EJ sound asleep for the night….luckily I have a fabulous set of best friends who have gotten me through my momentary lapses of judgment.

In this great tradition, I can add yet another brilliant moment to my life. Yesterday one of my dearest friends Shoshie and I decided to take on Chinatown in all its fake designer handbag glory. For those of you who have not been to NYC recently, over the past few months there has been a serious crackdown on the illegal distribution of rip off handbags. If you go to any of the dozens of Chinatown storefronts, it would appear that the Gucci, Prada, LV, and Coach bags are no longer in existence.

As we stood on the corner of Canal and Centre Street moments away from throwing in the towel, a nice Chinese gentleman whispered softly under his breathe, “Coach? Prada? You want? I have. Follow me.” He looked left, he looked right, and suddenly he pushed us through an obscure door and into a small plaza. As we stood at the base of a set of stairway looking up into the dingy darkness that lied above us, our eyes were met by the gaze of predators, looking for their next set of prey. Before we could react, we were swept upstairs to a locked door of what appeared to be a closed store, “Chinatown Jewelry.” As we stood in silence, the woman again looked left and then right, quickly opened the door, pushed us in, and locked it behind us. We were trapped.

Writing this in reflection, we should have known better. We shouldn’t have followed the man inside, nor should we have allowed them to push us up the stairs, much less lock us in a windowless room. But we did it all, without a second thought. In the small room, there was no jewelry in sight. The jewelry store facade was in fact a cover for a black market designer handbag market—a market that penetrated so deeply into the corrupt abyss of Chinatown that we were both immediately appalled and yet fascinated by our discovery. After we agreed to purchase several items, the door was unlocked and we were set free.

Instead of running the other way to get the hell out of Chinatown, we somehow convinced ourselves that we should go on an expedition to discover more about the black market handbag industry. Thus, we set off, store by store, to uncover the deep dark mysteries of Chinatown. Each time we walked into a store, we said a few choice words to “the man in charge” and started walking to the back. Our actions evidently were code for “show us the goods,” so silently they would follow our lead. We even uncovered some of the tricks of the trade; many stores had a random plastic shopping bag hanging in the back of the store. For an unaware eye, it is absolutely unnoticeable. Just prior to stepping into the hidden room, the store owner would stroke the bag. Sure enough, our inquisitive minds got the best of us, so while they were unlocking the secret room, we would sneak a peak. Each bag had what appeared to be a garage clicker, perhaps a simple signal informing others that they were entering the illegal room or maybe even a door unlock mechanism that could be hidden from the police. We uncovered countless bags of this sort.

Each time we found a new secret room, our excitement level rose. In total, we walked into at least a half dozen black market rooms, each completely solitary and windowless. In almost every instance we blindly followed a man into the room, let him close and lock the door behind us, as we gazed at the illegal merchandise. Never once did we stop and think, perhaps this isn’t the brightest idea. After all, we could have easily been locked up indefinitely, held up at gun point, sexually assaulted, or worse. And if they had a hidden back room for black market handbags behind door number one, what else was lurking behind the walls of our false storefront—child laborers? Kiddie porn? Sex slavery? Or the unimaginable…

Yes, arguably this was one of my poorest judgments over the years, and yet somehow I found a way to top my ill actions…This morning before the severity of our actions sunk in, I was speaking to my mom and somehow in my excitement for having Shosh in town, it all came out. Again, not the smartest move. For those of you who know my mother, you will understand my poor judgment to share my Chinatown experience with her. For those of you who do not have the pleasure of knowing her, she is the most incredible and yet incredibly overprotective mom around. Lets just say four phone calls and lots of motherly tears shed later, mom imparted her anger, fears, and concerns, “you could have been sold into sex slavery or worse—you could’ve been the next Natalie Holloway!! And what if they cut you up into a million pieces and scattered you around NYC? How on earth would I ever find you?” As if that is not bad enough, my dad chimed in with a few phone calls of “YOU HAVE AGED ME 20 YEARS WITH YOUR ACTIONS YOUNG LADY!” Keep in mind, the only other time I have heard OJ raise his voice was the mace incident four years back…Yes, this brilliant event will be forever memorialized as one of my shining moments of clarity. Perhaps someday my friends parents will chuckle over my behavior....better to laugh than cry over such instances of insanity.

Mace: Armed + Dangerous*

Fall semester of my sophomore year brings back plenty of memories…mostly fond thoughts of absent-minded, utterly ridiculous moments of idiocy. You know, the type of moments that your best friend's parents still laugh about over dinner at a fancy restaurant six years after the fact, frequently choking back tears of "Remember when E.J. did this…?" and "How insane can that child be? Maybe it has something to do with her Alabama upbringing."

One would think such memories could fade away, yet years later they continue to haunt me, lurking in the shadows. It's as though every time there is a lull in a conversation, mom, dad, a friend, or even a random stranger reminisces on my "peak moments" as some poor unassuming soul who thought I was a splendidly terrific young lady is ultimately made aware of the truth. That's when, like clockwork, my run in with mace leaks out.

You may be asking, what on earth could be this embarrassing? Well let me explain. But before I offer up the what, I thing some justification is needed. I truly, in my heart of hearts, believed that what I was doing at the time was for the betterment of mankind, or at least for my own personal safety. Now that you have heard the disclaimer, I suppose I can let you in on my personal moments of weakness, or shall I say lack of foresight?…Either way, I assure you, I am still an intelligent individual despite my momentary lapse of judgment…

At the end of my Fall semester of sophomore year, I had the pleasure of living in a suite with my three best friends. While everyone was busy writing papers and preparing for finals, I found myself bored to tears, with only one exam to prepare for. I offered my services to whoever would accept: tutoring in subjects I had never endeavored, cleaning rooms, packing up friends stuff, and of course eager to lend my services to a wild evening out. By the last Tuesday of exams, everyone was exhausted, focusing on finals, and no longer in need of my services, which left me in an absolute state of boredom. So I decided to start rummaging through my drawers trying to find a way to busy myself.

As my three roommates sat glued to their computer at 2:30am (one with a final due at 8:30 the next morning), I was stone cold sober and desperate for a diversion. Suddenly, as I opened my final desk drawer, I found just the distraction I needed: my handy dandy mace that Daddy Stern gave me for protection. While I promised Daddy I would carry it with me at all times, I found myself in a slight white lie with the canister accumulating dust in my bottom drawer. That, of course, got me thinking.

As many of you know, I have a terrible habit of thinking in stream of consciousness. But somehow, no matter what I think about, I can always, in every single instance, find an explanation for my behavior. Keeping that in mind, I started to think about following daddy's request and actually keeping mace with me at all times. But then my mind started to wander. What if I was running late at night and someone was coming after me in a dark DC alley, and as I tried to get away, I reached for my mace, and the thing was shooting blanks!? Now, it never occurred to me that I am A) not a runner, B) rarely out late at night alone, and C) highly unlikely to carry that large mace holder with me at any instant. Instead, I was perplexed and genuinely concerned that my life could be jeopardized because of a stupid faulty can of pepper spray.

With all of these anxiety-ridden thoughts whirling in my mind, I couldn't bear to wait it out and g-d forbid find out the mace was a bum can in a moment of desperation. That's right; I had to take proactive measures in the present moment to prevent a possible future attack (yes, I know, sounds a lot like Bush's foreign policy). With absolutely no more thought put into the matter at hand, I abruptly stood up, walked to the mirror in my room, held my arm out (approximately one foot from the mirror) and sprayed the darn thing at my reflection.

As soon as the tears started streaming down my face and the pungent odor filled my nostrils, I realized I had made a dastardly mistake. It's as if everything was moving in slow motion. My roommate, overcome by the stench, spun around in her chair and said: WHAT THE HELL? As she covered her eyes and ran out the door, pointing to the red dye slithering down the mirror. Moments later my suitemate screamed: "EJ, What on earth did you do THIS time?" How could Laura possibly know it was me!?!

Suddenly I heard bags packed and a door slam. The suitemates had abandoned ship and were camping out down the hall. Soon, the commotion (and horrific, burning smell) woke up many others in our hall as I had to answer to everyone. I was reminded by some angry roommates that finals were due early and the morning and that I "MUST FIX THE DAMN THING NOW!"

Many angry groans were exchanged that evening, and it all ended with a 2:45am call to Daddy dearest. For anyone who knows my two wonderful parents, you are keenly aware that they may be two of the most overprotective people in the universe. So a middle-of-the-night wake up jolted them with some serious concerns: "Honey, are you okay? Are you in the hospital? Did something happen? Did someone die? Were you attacked?" I sheepishly answered on the other end: "No Daddy, I am okay." "Well then honey, what's wrong, honey you're so quiet. Who hurt you? WHAT HAPPENED!!?"

After many moments of silence, I tried to offer an explanation for myself. "Daddy, I was bored and scared and thought I needed to take the mace for a test run to make sure it worked. Only I did it in my dorm room, at my reflection in the mirror. And now everything reeks, and everyone's angry and crying, and well I just don't know what to do! But I thought you would understand; after all, I just would've hated to be attacked late at night all because that stupid mace didn't work."

Silence. Perhaps the longest silence I have ever endured from my father. Keep in mind, my Daddy is a Southern gent, so I think I have heard him raise his voice perhaps twice in my entire life. This, of course, was the second of these incidents. "WELL GENIUS. GET IN THERE AND CLEAN IT UP!" Gasp. Daddy yelled. "And one last thing, NEVER DO THAT AGAIN." I stood in my hallway in utter shock, partially from the mace, but also because my father had yelled AND managed to hang up the phone in my face, all in one swift move.

Next I found myself being badgered by the roommates: "Finals due in 5 hours!! Clean it up NOW." So I did it. I ran into the danger zone, armed with my swimming gobbles and oven mitts, I attempted to clean off the redness. The suitemates barricading themselves in their room, stuffing socks under both doors that separated us, and I'm pretty sure we didn't speak for quite some time following "the incident." It took days for the smell to vanish, but I guess you could say I learned my lesson. Daddy put me on mace probation indefinitely, which I suppose I can't blame him…

When I moved to NYC some time ago, my father sent me a small package, which I had not expected: A small canister of mace. Attached to the mace, I found a lovely little note: "Genius, don't you dare test run this one. I assure you it works! Love you and use good judgment!" Yes, Daddy's faith had been restored! Beware New York City, I am once again armed and dangerous!

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*This story has been republished from its original myspace.com version. It remains dedicated to my wonderful sophomore roomies and life long friends--Laura, Fran, & Jen.