Dear Nancy,

This morning, I was called into private, closed-door meeting with you, where you proceeded to "clarify" our agency's policy on work appropriate appearance. Imagine my surprise, when you targeted not my 4" hooker heels, or my whore-of-Babylon Dior perfume, but rather my hair. You said it was "too long" and "seductive" and "scented." That you noticed how people would tend to stare at it during presentations, rather than focus on my media plan. You then smiled and patted my hand, telling me not to worry, because other than my "hair issue," you thought I was doing "just a bang-up job."

Well Nancy, I've given your input some thought (i.e. while taking a much needed pee break after your nonsensical lecture). I'm a reasonable person. Work feedback is very important to me. Self-actualization and all that crap. But while I was sitting there, pondering my choices on banana clips versus ponytail holders, I kept circling back to this thought:

Are you crazy??

Our CEO likes to pontificate about how we're the biggest and baddest in the advertising and PR industry. Because, as the signs scattered throughout our offices (worldwide!) like to remind us, we are in the business of Perception, Perception, Perception. As an employee of this esteemed organization yourself, maybe it's time we gave you some well deserved feedback on how others perceive you.

First, there's your attire. When other directors (you are a director, aren't you? Even though I suspect that HR is not technically a department, but rather a collection of church moms?) are swaning around in their immaculately pressed suits, you tend toward an almost daily uniform of black leggings, a clingy sweater, and flats. Your shoes are fine. A little scuffed, and I know you bought that shit for $8.99 at Payless, but fine nonetheless. Those leggings and sweaters though...

Honey, I know J-Lo put big booties on the menu. I like a little junk in the trunk myself. But see, the difference between you and J-Lo is...about 180 lbs. Did you read in Vogue that black leggings were slimming, and go to town with it? This only works for models, my dear. Those girls starve themselves! You could maybe start by cutting down on the constant snacking. Stop pretending to buy extra large sheet cakes "for birthdays." We know you eat half all by yourself. Try limiting your caloric intake to 3,000 calories a day. Maybe then the guys in Creative will stop doing shadow puppets on your ass, whenever your back is turned. If you must flaunt your behind, invest in a couple of thongs. This will no doubt be a fire hazard. But it is a lot more palatable than the cellulite ridden quadra-butt that we have come to know and fear.

Second, the clingy sweater issue. Nancy, Nancy. I know you want to shake watcha momma gave ya, but the rap song was referring to a nubile African-American girl's ass. On the dancefloor. Not, I repeat, not those gigantic mounds of droopy flesh that you call your mammary glands. Or those bags of oatmeal underneath, otherwise known as your three stomachs. Did you not see our CFO actually recoiling in disgust when you walked into the staff meeting? You were wearing a tight, bright orange sweater! Made of polyester! Cut low, to show off your wrinkly cleavage(s). Have mercy, woman. Invest in a girdle and an undershirt. In the meantime, Wal-Mart carries a great selection of Corporate Mu-Muus.

Yours Sincerely,
Bev
PR, Key Accounts

ps. You might want to talk to Julio, the flaming gay, Dominican graphic designer, about his hot pink buzz cut. His cube is right next to the conference room where we meet with clients. I believe this falls under your current standards as "distracting."

psII. I know you ate my low-fat cottage cheese. I'm pissed, but only a little. This is progress. At least this is healthier than your usual midday snack of Twinkies and a chocolate Yoo-Hoo.

Few things in life are better than falling in love. If you have met your heart's counterpart, congratulations, this means that the herpes medication is working. If he's Jewish and you're Chinese, even better. You have just bought yourself two sets of neuroses for the price of one. Who likes paying full retail anyway? Nonetheless, wedding planning can be hard work. But have no fear, little Asian shiksas. Your friend Bev is here to help walk you through each step:

1. Setting the Date
Dates, numbers, times of day - all these figure prominently in the Chinese lexicon. Every important occasion warrants a visit to the fortune teller, who will tell you the most auspicious times and dates to get married. Inevitably, this will conflict with little Lindsay's bat mitzvah, Uncle Mortie's wedding, or Aunt Sadie's visit to the doctor for her monthly bursitis checkup. Advice: Stick that info in your purse and fehgedditaboutit. Make yourself something to eat. Complain to anyone who will listen.

2. Budget
This is a tricky one. When discussing money, especially family money, the Chinese are famously delicate. This fact is echoed in their peculiarly ritual-cloaked banking practices in the republics of Malaysia and Thailand, where the Chinese are financial powerhouses. Equally diplomatic and ritual-laden is the Jewish community, itself a financial powerhouse in the republics of New York and Miami. How do you get both sides talking about money, without the discomfort factor? Easy. Stroke your (imaginary beard) and sigh a lot. Tell Papa Wong that his precious lotus flower is getting married, and what would the relatives say if she didn't have the best celebration, ever? Why, they would think the House of Wong were peasants! Have your fiance do the same with his side. Don't stop until both families have committed to some serious cash. If any relatives balk at the cost - make yourself something to eat. Complain to anyone who will listen.

3. Guest list
Mama Wong wants to invite her mahjong buddies, her high school calligraphy teacher, and the guy that sells her cheap ducks in Chinatown. Papa Goldstein thinks it would be rude to not have his lawyer, his dentist, and the entire JCC bingo club at your wedding. Who gets to invite whom? And how many? What about all the friends you want to invite? The answer is simple: Resign yourself to the fact that both families have hijacked your wedding. You will be surrounded by a lot of strange old people who smell weird, and love pinching your cheeks. Then, make yourself something to eat. Complain to anyone who will listen.

4. Location
When deciding on the location for our wedding, the fundamental question was: Miami or LA? Little Israel, or Little China? Not wanting to plan an out-of-state wedding, we decided on Miami. Of course, this took some finageling on my part. Yell-oh sistahs, listen up. You do not have to have your wedding at Chung King Palace in Rowland Heights. Mama and Papa will be dissapointed that cheongsam-clad village girls won't be pointing and giggling at your wedding get-up. But stand firm, and repeat ad nauseum, "They have a Chinatown in North Miami Beach. It's better value for money." They will nonetheless be miffed, so make sure that on your wedding day, they catch a glimpse of the giant roast pig that your fiance was supposed to trade you for. Don't let the rabbi see it. You've worked hard on this, so eat the roast pig. Complain to anyone who will listen.

5. Music
Think you know your fiance's musical tastes? Jammed out to The White Stripes, Band of Horses, and Arcade Fire together? I have news for you. You don't know shit. Inside that strapping young man's body, is a 300lb black woman named Big Chocolate Love. She comes out in full force when you're putting your playlist together. Big Chocolate loves Little Richard, James Brown, and Diana Ross. Big Chocolate does not dance to anything without disco lights and a dynomite sound system. Big Chocolate does not like any of that new fangled 50 Cent rap shit, unless it's Biz Markie or Sugarhill Gang, and then watch out, because Big Chocolate will be on the microphone, singing about being in the ho-tel, mo-tel, Holiday I-nn. If this isn't your cup of tea, compromise. At least you'll get your pink Hello Kitty cake. Eat it, and complain to anyone who will listen.

6. Food
Easily the touchiest of touchy subjects, food is the centerpiece in both Jewish and Chinese weddings. In fact, food is so important in the Chinese culture, that Chinese weddings have done away with the dancing part altogether. Every single traditional Chinese wedding that I've been to consists of more than 400 people seated in a gilded banquet hall, stuffing their faces with platter after platter of food, while every species of animal - feathered, furred, or scaled - repose quietly, head still intact, in their serving bowls. This won't fly with the nice bubbes out there, especially the pork and shellfish part. There are no two ways about it - stick with boring chicken, darling. Eat it, and complain to anyone who will listen.

7. Wedding Gown
Mama Wong wants to see in you in a red and gold cheongsam, veiled in heavy red satin, delicate little lotus feet shod in silk slippers. Mother-in-law Goldstein insists on taking you wedding dress shopping at the Jewish Bride's Mecca - the bridal section of Saks Fifth Avenue at Bal Harbor. What do you wear? How do you please everyone, and still look gorgeous? My friends, go Italian. Italian clothing designers are the fashion equivalent of chicken. Always in style, never offensive, and best of all, (repeat after me) good value for money. When you're done starving yourself for the fittings, make something and eat it. Complain to anyone who will listen.

If you've survived these seven essential steps to planning your Big Fat Chinese-Jewish wedding, L'chayim and Gong Xi Fa Cai! You are on your way to a happy and successful marriage. Best of all, you never have to plan another stressful event like this again. Until your kid's bar mitzvah, of course. Choy Vey.

People always want to know what the real test of a relationship is. Distance, some say, is one. If you can deal with protracted absences, emails from different time zones, and phone calls from the middle of nowhere, your relationship is built to last. Differences in religion or political beliefs is another. You remember how your Communion wafer tasted and are a McCain girl, and he was bar mitzvahed and loves Obama? No way are you guys walking down the aisle anytime soon.

How does that apply to girls like me, who a) lived 4 blocks way from her boyfriend (now fiance) when they started dating, and b) are just as irreligious as their boyfriends (except about Heat basketball)? I have your answer. Kayaking is the true measure of whether your relationship will last.

Almost 3 years ago, when I first moved to Miami, I went on a Puerto Rico trip with one of my best friends, and our now ex-boyfriends. It was one of those couples trips that, in my mind, signified my introduction into proper female adulthood. Ah, what I didn't know back then. The kayaking trip seemed innocuous enough. It took place at night, and our group was supposed to paddle out to a bio-luminescent bay, where plankton, when jolted by movement, would light up in an eerie green glow. It really was quite beautiful, but I have almost no recollection of that outing. Why?

I was stuck in the same kayak with "A". You see, this was my first time kayaking, and I had no fucking idea what to expect. I wanted my own kayak. I wanted my own adventure. I was game for anything. "A", on the other hand, had been kayaking several times before, and insisted that I "sit in the back." I went along with that idea, even when the kayak guide seemed surprised. I thought that sitting in the back of a kayak was akin to sitting in the backseat of the car. I.e. - you sit back and smile, while he does all the steering and paddling.

WRONG.

Not only was I charged with the bulk of all the steering and paddling, I also did not have the upper body strength to propel us both forward. We were quite possibly the slowest kayak in the entire group. How supportive was "A" throughout the entire ordeal? Not at all. In fact, he was a prick about it. "You're working against me!" "Paddle faster!" "What the hell are you doing back there?" After thirty minutes of this commentary, I stopped paddling and leaned back. I did nothing. He scowled when we got to our destination, then scowled when we reached our hotel room. I felt awful. I made us slow. I made us the beta couple. It was all my fault.

I realized that this was the perfect metaphor for our relationship. You're stuck in a sinking ship with a guy (in our case, a flimsy kayak), you need to get someplace, and one of you isn't up to the task. What do you do? How do you overcome the obstacles that plague your every turn? What do you say to your partner? Do you trust him to talk you through this? When the going gets tough, do you love each other enough, so that one of you doesn't "lean back and do nothing?"

That kayak ride was the beginning of the end. How I managed to be with him for two years following that incident, I have no idea. I should have cut and ran then. I should have paddled away as fast as my puny little arms would have let me.

This weekend, I am embarking on another kayaking adventure with my fiance. It will be our first time kayaking together. Yet, I have no sense of fear of trepidation, only an ever-growing sense of excitement. This is a man whom I have been snorkeling with, who, when he discovered that I have a weird earache whenever I dive down low, decided that he would keep me company by looking at marine life on the ocean's surface with me. A guy who wants me to publish that book already, because he knows that was what I was meant to do. I will love kayaking with him, as I will with everything that I am less than good at, because there is no fear, no judgment. Just a wellspring of warmth and genuine love for life.

I know what I'll do, too. I won't get into a double kayak with him. I will get my own, so that I can paddle with him, side by side. Because life doesn't stop when you're in a relationship. Rocky coasts, stormy weather, blind spots - life doesn't ease up, just because you're in the same boat. It's enough to know that we're in the same ocean together, seeing the same sights, taking in the same salty air. It's enough to know that if I were to flip over, he'd be the first to duck under and pull me out. I'm in my own boat, and he is in his. But we're in it together, and that's what counts.