That Girl (You Know The One)

So my coworker/friend Nicole is, for me, That Girl. You know the one — she's charismatic and always looks immaculate, even while pregnant and wearing 4-inch heels. When getting dressed in the morning, sometimes I think to myself, what would Nicole pair with this? Would she opt for the beaded necklace? Would she belt this cardigan? This is usually followed by me saying fuckit, picking up the same Get Up Kids hoodie off the floor and bouncing off to work in my Converse. Said Nicole has also bled into my eating habits. Afterall, it was her who first told me about that damn Blueprint Cleanse. She is the one who said that berries are better for you than bananas, thus forcing me to buy a bag of frozen berries that I inevitably threw out because they tasted like tart, tangy mush.

For fear of sounding creepy, let the record state that I am easily influenced in general, doesn't matter who you are. Whether I'm taking business advice from Jami, boy advice from Jessi, permission to eat croutons for dinner from Meagan or love-handle reassurance from Crista. While the aforementioned ladies make up some of my best friends, Nicole will forever be That Girl for me. The one who makes wearing heels look effortless, who has the willpower to only eat half an office brownie (not five), who at first glance appears to be the epitome of one of those all-together New York "fashionistas" — the intimidating kind — that I used to see in magazines and on TV while growing up in Kansas City. Yet one might be surprised to find that her humor (she was the one who loudly pointed out the peculiar-shaped sweet potato in the office minifridge) and inner beauty very much outshine her chunky cuff bracelets that I covet on a daily basis.

For instance, her 365 Heartbeats Project has me looking at life just a little bit differently. She spent the better part of an evening photographing me in the rain on a deserted New York street (see above) for this project. As awkward as this was for me... with N's help, I was able to laugh at myself. And ironically, it was a quick shot taken the next morning (at left) that she ended up posting — I like to think that it captures a part of my soul that is very genuine. That je-ne-sais-quoi that is inside of me and what my dad refers to when he tells me to "stay golden."

My point is this: Oh. I don't really have one. I told her that I would post about her cute new weekly fashion blog on AOL's Lemondrop.com (read it — so you, too, can be That Girl... or at least look like one) which got me to thinking, Is there anything that this chick can't do? ♥

Reasons Why I Once Took Anti-Anxiety Medication

Things that make me kind of uncomfortable:

• His&Her MySpace pages. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. For starters, you can bet that these are always implemented by The Wife. And secondly, what if I don't feel like talking to You&Your Husband? After all, I'm your friend. But it's like, you suddenly put on a white dress and lose all sense of individuality. Don't get me wrong, being in love is awesome. I will even likely take my future husband's last name. But that whole "We" bit really does have its limits. I highly doubt that Your Husband and His Friends adore your butterfly MySpace layout.

• Elevators. Especially at work—the three elevators in my 10-floor building are insanely slow. Take yesterday, for instance: I found myself waiting for the elevator with my company's CEO. I'm really not sure if he knows my name. So I awkwardly kept checking the clock every two seconds and pretended to dig in my purse for some nonexistent necessity until my salvation arrived. But because the elevators are so slow, they usually stop at every single floor going down because...everyone on every floor is waiting. So I awkwardly look at the flashing green number above, as if I don't know which floor is coming next. But let's be honest. I do. I can count backwards from 10. And being in an elevator is like being in a library. You're not supposed to talk, and if you do, people try their hardest not to look annoyed, which actually makes their annoyance that much more obvious.

• People wearing sunglasses on the PATH. Or subway. This makes me extremely anxious. It's not sunny underground. Maybe they do it to avoid eye contact with that legless beggar in the wheelchair you see from time to time, I'm really not sure. But if they're sitting directly across from me, it always makes me feel as if they're staring at me. I don't like being stared down on the train, and if I see someone staring at me, I stare right back until they get really really uncomfortable.

Ferris, Bridget and NKOTB

Yesterday was supposed to be simple:
11am Check in at the Ritz Carlton for Bee Movie press interviews
11:20am Roundtable interview with Matthew Broderick
Noon Roundtable interview with Renee Zellweger
12:20pm Roundtable interview with Jerry Seinfeld
3:30pm Photo shoot with a band I'll just call New Kids On The Block
6:30pm Call it a day and head home

OK, let's just start out by saying that I nearly pissed my pants when I was asked to interview Ferris Bueller, Bridget Jones and Elaine's boy toy. Biggest. Stars. I've. Ever. Met.

After a hilarious encounter with The Simpsons Movie, I plan my outfit for my pretend day with Hollywood and Dan and I hit the hay. We awake at 5am to the pounding rain. Dan leaves at 7am, I fall back asleep. I awake at 8:30am to the sun shining. I get ready, do some last-minute research, kiss Sophie and head out. It is a beautiful day, I make pennies, but I have the best job in the world. I take the bus to the city, where I then attempt to hop on a subway to take me uptown to the Ritz. Eh. Everything is backed up. The R line is running where the B line should be, and I need the D train. This probably makes no sense, but basically, New York transit is a mess. I make it to the "hospitality suite" at 11:10am, where I'm offered a cup of lukewarm coffee. How hospitable. I'm ushered to a room with about four "teen press" reporters. Everyone's gossiping about how the subway system is backed up because of the flooding. Flooding? What flooding?! It rains for three hours and New York practically shuts down. A couple of more reporters trickle in. Around 11:45am Matthew Broderick walks in, sits down and spats, "OK, what is it?" A few reporters spout questions, then I open my mouth.
Me: So like, when I see a bee, I freak out. After making this movie, do you have more compassion for bees?
Ferris: Well, I never try to kill bees, never have. Just the other day we had a bee in the house, and I trapped it in a glass and let it go.
Where was SJP when the death wish with wings was buzzing around?
Me: Nice. Thank you.

Ferris leaves after about 20 minutes of bee talk, and Renee walks in dressed in designer jeans, a black sweater (it's 98 degrees outside!) and a chic new haircut I've never seen before. As much as I love her, her head is...a bit larger than her body. But I won't call her a bobble head. Questions fly. She is animated, adorable, sweet, gracious, quite possibly one of my top three stars to interview.

Moving on. The Jerry interview is pushed back until 3pm. It is 12:30. I must start heading down to SoHo for the shoot if NY transit is as crappy as everyone says. I hop on the 1 line. It was supposed to take me to Canal Street, about 2 blocks from my shoot, but the conductor insists on stopping at 14th St., and the train goes no further. I walk out of the 100-degree station into the 98-degree weather and attempt to hail a cab. No go. EVERYONE is trying to hail a cab. The subways are down, everyone has somewhere important to go. I walk up and down Sixth Ave. My feet are nearly bleeding, my bag is weighing me down. I'm sweating hand grenades. After 45 minutes, I approach a non-available cab at a stoplight and ask the man in the backseat if we can share. He says yes. Score!

The traffic is unbearable, I can walk faster than this. I get out at Houston and start walking. I feel faint. I haven't ingested more than a cup of lukewarm coffee all day, so I stop at a small cafe to scarf something down and look over my notes before the photo shoot. I order a salad. They bring me a small plate of leaves and oil. Literally, JUST leaves and oil. It is 3pm, I must go. I thank the waitress for the weeds and give her $12.

I get to the photo shoot (I'm still hungry, tired, and hot, mind you), and what do I see? New Kids On The Block and their 15-person entourage. When did they become 'N Sync? Agh. Despite the fact that the caterers brought Diet Pepsi, when NKOTB only drinks Diet Coke, the shoot goes fairly smoothly. Then NKOTB's manager pulls me aside. He is not happy.
(There are more details to this, but to be on the safe side, we'll keep those hush-hush.)
Guy: We saw the last issue. We're not happy with the photo you chose to put on the cover.
Me: I apologize. My editor really liked that photo. It won't happen again. We don't want to jeopardize our relationship with you.
Guy: Well, that's the way to do it. This had better not happen again. You have an upset artist and an angry staff.
Me: I'm sorry. We've been supporting you guys for years. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again.
Guy: We'll be watching.

At this point, tears are streaming down my face. I try to pull myself together, but when I'm upset, there's no holding back the waterworks. I'm 26. Unprofessional. Humiliated. I hope I don't get canned. I can't believe I'm crying in front of NKOTB's entourage. Somebody, please dig a hole in the floor that's roughly 5'6" deep so I can...sob in privacy.

Somehow, I make it through the photo shoot. Sometimes I don't think I'm quite cut out for all of this entertainment BS, diva demands, ass-kissing and whatnot. I'm from Missouri for pete's sakes! So I get home, rip off my tear-soaked clothes and zone out to Seinfeld. And the kicker? I didn't even get to meet Jerry.