Since when does a birth-DAY last an entire week? (And of course I'm not talking about my own.)

I, like all people, have a birthday. That's right. A birth-DAY, meaning the ONE DATE I was born.

On that day, I, like many, get many well-wishes from family and friends and some presents to open as I celebrate turning yet another year older.

My husband, however, has a birthday WEEK.

That's right - seven days of celebration for no reason other than it's something he invented a few years ago to get spoiled for an extra six days.*

And just like the Christmas season, which has been starting earlier and earlier every year, he starts talking about his birthday week in early August. (His birthday week usually starts on the Saturday before his birthday so he can get "two weekends" of pampering.)

So although I don't generally change my normal routine during this invented 7-day occasion, I'll humor him by pointing out the nice things I do for him (which I'd be doing anyway) and telling him that I've done it for his birthday week.

Examples: "Why don't I do the laundry this week so you don't have to on your birthday week?" (The last time Brent did laundry was when I hadn't yet moved to New York.)

"What do you want me to cook for your special birthday week dinner on Saturday?" (I love cooking and do it as often as I can, which is generally just weekends.)

I actually do change my routine on his birthday because I believe everyone should be spoiled on their birthday, and do the same usually the closest Saturday before or after that date, which is when we have the most time together. This year, I made reservations at the Sea Grill at Rockefeller Center. (Note: I don't eat seafood. Wife of the year is in the bag!) I also wore a new dress (LOVE the fact that I get to buy something new and cute and tell my husband it's "for him") and new, red lipstick (that one will take a bit for him to get used to!) and tried my best to make sure he had a great day. That's right - a great DAY!

*So what happened when I tried to invent my own birthday week this past year? Vetoed. How is this fair?

The Right to Bare Breasts

Yet another reason I love being married: Clothing is optional and/or outfit choice - regardless of the fact that I may be (gasp!) wearing plaid with both stripes AND pastels AND socks with sandals - is always accepted.

I admit that I love the fact that I can walk around completely in the buff or bundle myself up in the most ridiculous unattractive and non-matching outfit to keep warm in the winter (which, to my husband's dismay, happens way more often than my walking around in the nude).

While I admit that I sometimes actually go into the outside world in my plaid/striped/pastel/socks-with-sandals outfits to quickly walk the dog while attempting to hide my face in a hoodie so no one will recognize me, I never have attempted to go outside without a shirt.

But apparently I can, and not even the police would have the power to stop me.

As if I needed yet another reason (which I most certainly do not), to love New York: New York is the only state in the country where women can be topless legally, after a 1992 ruling in the state's highest court. That means any woman can walk around the city at any time with no shirt on. Yet another equality finally reached!

While I was fine going topless on our honeymoon in France, thousands of miles away, bearing my breasts a mere two blocks away from my home/workplace where anyone living in my apartment building or anyone who drinks coffee could see me half naked is just a bit disconcerting.

But if I had the guts, I would definitely have joined in National Go Topless Day today (yes, there is such a thing!), held right around the corner in Central Park, in which dozens of topless women gathered and marched in the streets to show they had just as much a right to walk around shirtless as men. (The photo at the top of this webpage definitely makes a fantastic point!)

Even though I didn't have the courage, I totally respect every woman brave enough to bear all in the name of equality.

Do you burp him after you feed him his bottle, too?

Chloe and I go for our morning walk a few minutes after I get up in the morning (I have to wake up somehow, and usually a shot of cold morning air does the trick!) and go for our nighttime walk right before I'm ready to go to bed.

It's our routine, and other New Yorkers with dogs have a similar routine. Lately, Chloe and I have been seeing the same West Highland White Terrier on our morning walks. I notice the dog all the time because it's always wearing a sweater.

Some background: Here in New York, it's weird that my dog goes "naked" for walks. Granted, I understand the need for putting a sweater on your 1.5-ounce dog when you take it for walks in the winter, but does it really need a matching stocking cap and booties? It's a dog, for Christ's sake: it enjoys smelling rotting poop on the sidewalk... or at least my dog enjoys that.

Anyway, I always smile whenever I see the terrier and his elderly owner walking along in the morning because he's usually wearing what looks to be a hand-made sweater. Weird, but kinda cute.

But tonight, as we walked past that same dog and his owner on our nighttime walk, I had to stifle a laugh until I was out of earshot because THE DOG WAS WEARING PAJAMAS. More accurately, he was wearing a child's white onesie with yellow ducks printed all over it. No doubt that it wasn't just because he was going outside. It was because it was nighttime and almost time to go to bed.

Only in New York.

And all it took was a simple complement

Today was a bad day.

Not a single thing was going right at the coffee shop (where I have to still work for a few weeks until I can get my health insurance situation straightened out). People called out, the store was a mess from the night before, our machines were breaking, the customers were being especially and unreasonably demanding, and it wasn't even 8 a.m.

That's when Bill walked in. Bill has been my favorite customer since I really noticed him last Christmas.

Since that day, I've really started to get to know, and like, Bill. He's one of the few customers - which includes Craig, Glenda, Luke, and Alex - who I love to see every time I'm at work because when they're there, it doesn't feel like work anymore.

So when Bill strolled in much earlier than usual on a Saturday, I was happy to see him through all my frustration, and told him I was in much need of a boost of happiness.

"BILL! I need you to tell me good things. Tell me something good - ANYTHING. What's good in your life?" I asked him.

No hesitation, and this is what he says:

"Well, I just woke up and you're pretty much the first person I've seen this morning. And you look beautiful," he says, while uncharacteristically looking me straight in the eye. This time, it was me who had to look away as all my female co-workers chimed in with "Awwwww!"

After a few seconds of shock - including time to think about how I was wearing a dirty apron over an all-black outfit with my hair thrown back in a ponytail and whatever makeup I managed to get on while still half asleep before work - I managed to get out, "Wow. That's pretty damn good Bill."

Somehow my day seemed much better after that.

And all it took was a simple complement.

Complement someone today. You never know how much it may mean to that person.

Halalujha! Halalujha!

Erika

Has

A

Job.

A

Real

Job.

After literally applying for hundreds of jobs in this crazy city, all I have to say is it's about freakin' time!

After some disappointing interviews and some even more disappointing news of getting passed over for a job I had a really good feeling about for an intern who threw her hat in the ring at the last minute (of course) I landed a job.

Erika Meller is now the editorial assistant at The Nibble, an online gourmet food magazine where it's my job to eat! And not only is it my job to eat, but it's my job to eat gourmet food!

I eat, I write, I do administrative tasks - which I don't mind at all, by the way - I go to press parties and amazing dinners at the best restaurants in New York City, etc. I could go on and on, but all I have to say is it's about freakin' time! I waited long enough!

And I'm so thankful for it.

Getting hit on by two guys in one night? Probable. Getting hit on by two different guys at the same time? Probably never again.

This is not a good idea, I thought as I decided to pass a slow-walking guy wearing a black T-shirt and ridiculously baggy tan pants on a narrow and relatively deserted section of sidewalk near a building under construction adjacent to Central Park at 9 p.m. tonight.

"Hey miss can you turn around please," he quickly asked me just as I passed him on his left.


Dammit. I knew this was a bad idea, I cursed to myself as I picked up the pace as much as I could in my black high heels.


"Please turn around, miss, I think I know you if you'd just please turn around. Come on!" he said, louder as I put at least a half of block sidewalk between us until I reached the corner, and thus a more open area.


"Excuse me, miss," I hear. Just behind me.


What the hell? was my reaction because I thought I had put plenty of space between me and Baggy Pants Guy, I jumped and twirled around to glance at the guy who had apparently ran to catch up with me.


Thankfully, I saw Baggy Pants Guy still ambling along well behind this second, actually really attractive guy who I later thought I passed on the sidewalk while picking up my walking pace, and whom I thought said "hi" to me, but I was too busy just focusing on getting home.


"Geez, you scared me," I said to Attractive Guy fully anticipating his asking me if I was OK or asking me for directions or some other touristy thing (which, by the way, happens to me more often than I would have thought. But I will always help people out because I relied on so many friendly New Yorkers - yes they exist! - when I was new to the city.)


"I'm sorry I scared you, but are you one of my customers at [some bar or something] down in the East Village? You look so familiar," he said.


"No," I said shortly while glancing at the sign that still blared "Do Not Walk."


"Oh, well you just have one of those faces," he said. Then without hesitating, the inevitable, "Can I buy you a drink?"


"Oh, no thanks. I have to get home to my husband," I said wondering why the sign still hadn't turned to the "walk guy."


"Maybe another time?" he asked.


OK, maybe you didn't hear me. "No, I'm married," I emphatically told Attractive Guy.


"But it's just that you're so beautiful," he said.


Oh, well now that you said that I'm beautiful, that changes everything! Forget the drink, let's just go back to your place, I thought. With heavy sarcasm.


"Thank you. Bye," I said as I took advantage of the light finally switching to start to cross the street... at the same time Baggy Pants Guy finally made it to the corner.


"Hey baby, what are you doing tonight?" I hear from Baggy Pants Guy as I again try to put distance between us.

Even though neither guy's advances would have probably been welcomed, still, where were all these guys when I was still single?

So this is what it's like to be old

Back home in Toledo, most of my friends who live there are married, have a toddler, and are either working on, or have, their second child.

Here in New York, I have exactly ZERO friends who have kids. NONE are married, and MOST don't even have a significant other.

New York City is a city for single people.

Don't get me wrong: I love being married and I love my husband. But because I'll be the second to admit that I'm a product of my environment (my husband will be the first), I sometimes get a twinge of jealousy at some of my friends' stories of just picking up and taking a weekend trip to Vegas or staying out until the bars close without a second thought.

If I wanted to go to Vegas, I'd have to make arrangements for my dog and husband to be fed and taken care of, and if I wanted to stay out until 4 a.m., I'd have to do so knowing that my husband isn't falling asleep until I'm home safe and sound.

But what makes it really intolerable is when my single friends whom I've introduced to each other go out without me. It's like I feel they're cheating on me or something because if it weren't for me, they wouldn't even know each other. And I also know that's not fair, but still. Just because I'm married doesn't mean I can't go out too!

I just have to be home at a decent hour.

Sigh. So this is what it's like to be old.

Yep: I have millions and my own TV show, yet I work at a coffee shop to stay humble

Everyone's heard something along the lines of, "Wow, you look just like (insert celebrity, other family member, the family dog, etc.)

Most often, I hear Sandra Bullock. People say we have the same smile or something. Sometimes I get Katie Holmes as well.

But this week at the coffee shop, I was working on something out on the floor, then went into the back room out of sight from the customers when I heard a lady asking my colleague, "Hey, is that her?"

He understandably was looking confused at the lady who was apparently pointing in my direction. So he called me out to the floor and she excitedly exclaimed, "Oh my God, is it really you?!?!"


Now since I'm not so conceited as to believe that she was actually excited to be seeing me, Erika Meller, I asked her who she thought I was.


"You're that girl who has her own show... Silverman," she said. "You're Sarah Silverman Sarah Silverman... aren't you?"


Now keep in mind that this lady looked relatively normal and not someone crazy who would see someone on the street and think he was Jesus or something. But I was at work. At a coffee shop. Wearing an apron. Why in God's name would she think a celebrity with her own show would moonlight as a barista?


So, without knowing what else to say, I simply said "No. Sorry."


"Oh, well you look just like her," she said before dejectedly turning away.

Small fish in a big pond... oh who am I kidding? I'm a guppie in the freakin' ocean

Working at The Blade newspaper in Toledo, Ohio, I felt like a big fish in a small pond. I had the cell phone numbers of mayors, senators, and city councilmen programmed into my phone... and I called them at all hours of the day whenever I needed to talk to them for whatever story I happened to be working on at the time.

Granted, Toledo is a big city... if you consider a big city to boast a population of less than 300,000 people. Now I live in a city of 8 million, where on my very first visit to the city, I was told that New York City is "a city of anonymous people," according to the woman we stayed with while searching for a place.

And up until I interviewed at places in New York, I was batting .500 with job interviews; meaning if I interviewed at a place, I got the job.

Not so in New York. Here it is August, 2009, and I am still kicking myself for not going on a second interview in August, 2007, because I just didn't think it was the right job for me.

And while I still don't think it would have been the perfect right job for me, IT WAS A JOB AND I HAD A DAMN GOOD SHOT AT LANDING IT!!!

But I digress. Job interviews in New York are similar to those back in Ohio, yet I can still feel the added pressure of needing to be the creme de la creme not only because I'm in a much bigger pond (oh Hell, it's a damn ocean) but we're in a much tougher economy where there are literally thousands of people more qualified than me interviewing for jobs. (I recently visited a publishing house where I had recently applied for an editorial assistant job and was told that I applied for that job... along with 1,400 other people... And yes, that's ONE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED OTHER PEOPLE... who applied for that job THE. FIRST. WEEK. it was advertised.)

Yikes.

I'd say wish me luck, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to need much more than that.