As previously mentioned, us Blogtaris got our Boricua on with a short trip to Puerto Rico last weekend, and have concluded that for many reasons, Puerto Rico rules.
First of all, it's not far, but far enough to be legitimately Caribbean. Everyone (mostly) understands English, but because Spanish is the main language, you don't feel like you're in the United States. But because technically you are, you get all the benefits: no exchanging money, clean and dependable drinking water, signs in English, Walgreens, etc. Seriously, the Walgreens does it for me. How many times have you been traveling abroad and just wished there was a Walgreens or a Duane Reade so you could get the essentials (diet coke, doritos, toofpaste)? Well, in Puerto Rico that dream is a reality.
Also, the food there is great. I had found this small hole in the wall in Old San Juan last time I was there, and sure enough, it was just like I remembered it: El Jibarito. Translation: The Place with the Funk Funk food. We crushed a plate of mofongo, tostones, sweet plaintains, and stuffed tamales like no one's business. Old San Juan is rulio, except for their blackjack dealing methods, and we saw a huge party in the town square in honor of Navidad.
As for the title of this post, our JetBlue pilot, I mean, first officer, was actually named Butch Brandow. I didn't actually get to see Butch as I deplaned, but Melissa was confident that the reason for his absence is likely because First Officer Butch Brandow was knee deep in a rum runner the second we were wheels down at San Juan Int'l. El Fallardo was a nickname Melissa obtained during our snorkeling trip to El Fajardo off the east coast of PR. Given Puerto Rico's maritime geography, its love of rum, and obsession with novelty pirate t-shirts (I almost bought one that said "Arrrrbucks, Where Pirates Get Coffee" or something along those lines), I figured that El Fallardo should be the name of a legendary pirate who roams the 7 seas, but who is actually a 5'3" woman. The catamaran back and forf to the snorkeling was great, especially because everyone was butt ugly and therefore did not make El Fallardo and I feel self-conscious about our holiday ponches.
Snorkeling was rad. We saw fish, sea turtles (not of the leatherneck variety), and even manatees (from a distance). Snorkeling is the laziest sport and thus, I love it, though I suck at it still and get pwned by Melissa who doesn't go up for air for like an hour.
All that said, the highlight of the trip was our hotel, in my opinion. The Condado Plaza is this sick hotel that is covered in mosaic and other nice decor, and mostly sick because it is home to: a Striphouse Restaurant, a casino, and a poolside arcade which has Lethal Enforcers. Melissa was absolutely lights out at the craps table one night, and completely corrected my losses at the hands of unruly Boricuan blackjack dealers. She must have hit 9 points, and rolled 5s, 6s, 8s and 9s only for about 20 minutes. If the odds were more than 2x at that table, we would have paid for the whole trip in her roll alone. Oh well.
So I guess this is a ringing endorsement of Puerto Rico, especially when the economy sucks and all the tourist areas are empty and can actually be enjoyed. The 85 degree sun during a snowstorm in NY didn't hurt, either.
Puerto Rico: rum, mofongo, ocean, chicks in tight jeans, party music, navidad, caribbean stud, fajardo snorkeling -- what else could you ask for?
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Bacardi - Rhymes with Party
In case you didn't know, CinS and I have been together for over 8 years and spent 5 of these years in a long distance relationship. Why am I disclosing this lovely fact? For your admiration, of course!
But seriously, CinS and I spent 2 years flying across the country every 6 weeks, and 3 years schlepping between NY and Philly almost every weekend. So you can imagine our exhaustion (both physically and budget-ally) at the thought of travel. It is due to our history that my husband and I have only taken 2 vacations in our 8-year history.
We went to Jamaica for a week in 2004 from Christmas Day to New Year's Day. This vacation rocked. The resort where we stayed was super nice, the weather was great and we spent one full day on a tour of the Appleton Rum plantation/factory. Our love of fancy rum and our distain of vodka began on the white-sand shores of Negril. And for that, we thank you Jamaica.
Our next trip was a mere 3 years later and was our honeymoon. We went to Africa for 2 weeks and loved every minute of the trip, including our 24-hour flight from JFK to Johannesburg (thank you Ambien extended release). I could go on and on, but will instead lead you here for a small taste (pun intended).
I remind you about our past travel today because CinS and I are about to embark on what I consider to be our third vacation. Sure, we've spent long weekends in hotels in cities across the country, but most often our travel together involves a wedding or a national holiday. When I say vacation, I mean a trip where the only goal is to relax on a beach somewhere without any friends or family. Some alone time, preferably in a tropical climate.
We're heading to Puerto Rico (home of less fancy rum - Bacardi) on Thursday for a long weekend. Yes, we're going back to my "homeland."
I am not actually Puerto Rican, but don't tell that to actual Puerto Ricans, the guys in the "Spanish Food" place by my house, or the large black men of the Alexandria, VA metro stop.
Yes, my entire adult life, I have been mistaken for a Puerto Rican. Which I think is totally awesome. I guess it's my permanent tan and one-time peach hair (I saw myself in Feria. Those were dark days). Or maybe it's my decidedly-Latin figure, ambiguously-ethnic maiden name, and painstakingly-sculpted eyebrows. It is a mystery.
I wonder if when I arrive on the sunny shores of San Juan if I'll be mistaken for a local. I doubt it. My middle-eastern spouse may give me away.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Joker vs. Sub-Zero? Why the Hell Not?
For those dudes ages 24-34 that grew up playing video games, there are some games that were gamechangers.
Punch Out on the NES, for example. My neighbor getting the game for Christmas in 1987 was singluarly one of the better moments of my young life. So much so that I downloaded that game on my laptop while in law school and used to play during Contracts my first year. That game was just amazing; the characters were memorable, the stereotypes blatantly racist, all the things you need for a game. I remember finally beating Tyson right before the end of my 1st semester of law school. Sure I didn't remember crap from that class, but finally taking down Iron Mike -- even at age 22 on a mcgraw laptop -- was the highlight of that semester.
Many of us remember Goldeneye, or, as everyone called/calls it, "Bond" for the N64. That was a game that not only facilitated friendships and rivalries in dorms and frat houses around the country, but it was so universal that you could be visiting your buddy at another college, get turned around (read: butthoused) and lost in someone else's frat house on a campus you don't know, and still easily slide into some choder's room and mingle whilst grawing through people with the assault rifle.
But for me, the 2 gamechangers have and always will be Street Fighter 2 and Mortal Kombat. They both came out around the same time, and were to the fighting genre what Nirvana was to music in the 90s: a signal of things to come, a changing of the guard. The games were pretty simple actually, different characters with different strengths and weaknesses, killing each other. I especially liked Mortal Kombat for its humor and gore. The movies never did the games justice; I'm pretty sure that Jean Claude Van Damme as Guile or Pete Sampras' wife as Sonya Blade is not exactly what the developers had in mind when they were programming the games while living in their parents' basements.
With the advent of Xbox and more recent gamechangers like Halo and Rock Band, fighting games pretty much fell off of the map. So I was very interested when Mortal Kombat vs. DC Comics came out for Xbox 360 a couple weeks ago. They played it to the bone well, choosing only to include a handful of MK originals and DC comic staples like Batman, the Joker, and the Flash. The voice acting kind of sucks, but having the Joker beat up on Raiden and Wonder Woman get into it with Catwoman is a novelty that hasn't worn off. Even Melissa, who had just arrived home tired from a business trip, sat there watching me play the story (yes, I consider myself lucky for marrying a woman with the good sense to appreciate a well made and well played video game [or at least pretend to if necessary]).
With this game and next year's Street Fighter 4 coming out, it seems safe to assume that the fighting video game is alive and well. Even if the games are only surviving with ridiculous premises like having SuperMan team up with SubZero to save the Erf from some fat dude that can shoot lasers out his butt.
Punch Out on the NES, for example. My neighbor getting the game for Christmas in 1987 was singluarly one of the better moments of my young life. So much so that I downloaded that game on my laptop while in law school and used to play during Contracts my first year. That game was just amazing; the characters were memorable, the stereotypes blatantly racist, all the things you need for a game. I remember finally beating Tyson right before the end of my 1st semester of law school. Sure I didn't remember crap from that class, but finally taking down Iron Mike -- even at age 22 on a mcgraw laptop -- was the highlight of that semester.
Many of us remember Goldeneye, or, as everyone called/calls it, "Bond" for the N64. That was a game that not only facilitated friendships and rivalries in dorms and frat houses around the country, but it was so universal that you could be visiting your buddy at another college, get turned around (read: butthoused) and lost in someone else's frat house on a campus you don't know, and still easily slide into some choder's room and mingle whilst grawing through people with the assault rifle.
But for me, the 2 gamechangers have and always will be Street Fighter 2 and Mortal Kombat. They both came out around the same time, and were to the fighting genre what Nirvana was to music in the 90s: a signal of things to come, a changing of the guard. The games were pretty simple actually, different characters with different strengths and weaknesses, killing each other. I especially liked Mortal Kombat for its humor and gore. The movies never did the games justice; I'm pretty sure that Jean Claude Van Damme as Guile or Pete Sampras' wife as Sonya Blade is not exactly what the developers had in mind when they were programming the games while living in their parents' basements.
With the advent of Xbox and more recent gamechangers like Halo and Rock Band, fighting games pretty much fell off of the map. So I was very interested when Mortal Kombat vs. DC Comics came out for Xbox 360 a couple weeks ago. They played it to the bone well, choosing only to include a handful of MK originals and DC comic staples like Batman, the Joker, and the Flash. The voice acting kind of sucks, but having the Joker beat up on Raiden and Wonder Woman get into it with Catwoman is a novelty that hasn't worn off. Even Melissa, who had just arrived home tired from a business trip, sat there watching me play the story (yes, I consider myself lucky for marrying a woman with the good sense to appreciate a well made and well played video game [or at least pretend to if necessary]).
With this game and next year's Street Fighter 4 coming out, it seems safe to assume that the fighting video game is alive and well. Even if the games are only surviving with ridiculous premises like having SuperMan team up with SubZero to save the Erf from some fat dude that can shoot lasers out his butt.
Raise the (Red) Roof (Inn): Tales from K-Town
With my beloved co-ed soccer team's season coming to an end, I have little left to do during the winter doldrums except blogtari.
Last night was the end-of-season/holiday party for said beloved soccer team, and for the party, we went with dinner in Koreatown followed immediately by karoake in KTown. To begin with, it's always weird and cool to see everyone on the team dressed in civilian attire, and not the usual orange n' black or black n' black that our team dons on the pitch week to week. I almost didn't recognize half the people at first, or knew what the women on our team look like with their hair down.
We started at Baden Baden, a fried chicken place in KTown. Allow me first to say how rulio I think KTown is. Chinatown is big and sprawling, as are a lot of ethnic neighborhoods in NY or other cities. What I like about KTown is how they cram all of it into a couple blocks. Every building contains all of the following: a Korean bank (Nara Bank one time!), a restaurant with e-dash-gregious fried chicken, and a karaoke place.
As an aside, Koreans are pretty rad, I gotta say. Their food, whether fried chicken (served at Baden Baden with fries and onion rings, a kind of Seoul-style Roscoes Chicken n' Waffles) or short ribs, absolutely drop kicks other Asian cuisine. Their soccer team and club teams pwn the rest of the Far East, and I would take any electronic Made in Korea over Made in China any day. Also, randomly, Fort Lee, NJ is like Koreatown but surburban Koreatown. Still haven't figured that one out yet.
So after crushing fried chicken, onion rings, and other grub, the well-dressed maitre'd gave us a round of shots that looked and tasted just like Vicks 44. Count it. Then, onto karaoke. Karaoke Wow, the place I found randomly online after learning my tried and trusted I-Bop Karoake was booked, is sweet. To begin with, unlike most karoake in KTown, they have an elevator, and since it's new, all the private rooms are filled with plush couches, a sic sound system, and flat screens.
Oh, and lasers. EVERYWHERE. When in doubt, add lasers and smoke machines and everyone wins. That is essentially the Karaoke Wow m.o. The booze selection is extremely limited, but nowhere's perfect. Since it's new, KWow's song selection is growing, but not quite there. I shall write a letter to the proprietor advising them of their unacceptable lack of 90's West Coast rap (Ain't No Fun, Regulate, Express Yourself, et al.). The team sang well, and one of our ladies is a singer/dancer/actor by trade, and so obviously, crushed the vocals on some of the harder songs. But she was very wise to use her talents modestly, and didn't use soccer team karaoke as her personal showcase.
The singing ended around 12:30, but no one wanted to go home just yet. With it pouring outside, we looked for the closest bar, and found the "lounge" at KTown's Red Roof Inn. Now the Red Roof Inn isn't on the same level as, say the W or even a Sheraton, but the Red Roof Inn had a bar, a PhotoKhunt machine, and it was open.
So pretty much KTown is a top 3 neighborhood in New York. Cheap and delicious fried chicken? Yup. Smoke and lasers? Fo' sho. Red Roof Inn with a PhotoKhunt machine? Damn skippy. That's a combo that's hard to beat.
Last night was the end-of-season/holiday party for said beloved soccer team, and for the party, we went with dinner in Koreatown followed immediately by karoake in KTown. To begin with, it's always weird and cool to see everyone on the team dressed in civilian attire, and not the usual orange n' black or black n' black that our team dons on the pitch week to week. I almost didn't recognize half the people at first, or knew what the women on our team look like with their hair down.
We started at Baden Baden, a fried chicken place in KTown. Allow me first to say how rulio I think KTown is. Chinatown is big and sprawling, as are a lot of ethnic neighborhoods in NY or other cities. What I like about KTown is how they cram all of it into a couple blocks. Every building contains all of the following: a Korean bank (Nara Bank one time!), a restaurant with e-dash-gregious fried chicken, and a karaoke place.
As an aside, Koreans are pretty rad, I gotta say. Their food, whether fried chicken (served at Baden Baden with fries and onion rings, a kind of Seoul-style Roscoes Chicken n' Waffles) or short ribs, absolutely drop kicks other Asian cuisine. Their soccer team and club teams pwn the rest of the Far East, and I would take any electronic Made in Korea over Made in China any day. Also, randomly, Fort Lee, NJ is like Koreatown but surburban Koreatown. Still haven't figured that one out yet.
So after crushing fried chicken, onion rings, and other grub, the well-dressed maitre'd gave us a round of shots that looked and tasted just like Vicks 44. Count it. Then, onto karaoke. Karaoke Wow, the place I found randomly online after learning my tried and trusted I-Bop Karoake was booked, is sweet. To begin with, unlike most karoake in KTown, they have an elevator, and since it's new, all the private rooms are filled with plush couches, a sic sound system, and flat screens.
Oh, and lasers. EVERYWHERE. When in doubt, add lasers and smoke machines and everyone wins. That is essentially the Karaoke Wow m.o. The booze selection is extremely limited, but nowhere's perfect. Since it's new, KWow's song selection is growing, but not quite there. I shall write a letter to the proprietor advising them of their unacceptable lack of 90's West Coast rap (Ain't No Fun, Regulate, Express Yourself, et al.). The team sang well, and one of our ladies is a singer/dancer/actor by trade, and so obviously, crushed the vocals on some of the harder songs. But she was very wise to use her talents modestly, and didn't use soccer team karaoke as her personal showcase.
The singing ended around 12:30, but no one wanted to go home just yet. With it pouring outside, we looked for the closest bar, and found the "lounge" at KTown's Red Roof Inn. Now the Red Roof Inn isn't on the same level as, say the W or even a Sheraton, but the Red Roof Inn had a bar, a PhotoKhunt machine, and it was open.
So pretty much KTown is a top 3 neighborhood in New York. Cheap and delicious fried chicken? Yup. Smoke and lasers? Fo' sho. Red Roof Inn with a PhotoKhunt machine? Damn skippy. That's a combo that's hard to beat.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Other Side
You may recall that we hate our neighbors, and may even recall that in addition to the Iraq-visiting, mutton-chopped jerk next door, we also live next door to some folks who have loud sex. But what you don't know is the whole story.
While we have had frequent run-ins with the mutton-ass, his lady friend, and their poorly behaved dog, we have never seen the loud sexers. Never.
We think they may be vampires. Seriously. And not Edward Cullen, able to leave the house and function in the sun vampires, but Bill Compton, stuck under the floorboards vampires.
These folks are completely nocturnal. I know this because I hear them. CinS is quick to say that the reason we hear them is because their bed is against our shared wall and causes a ruckus, but my hearing may be better than his because I always hear her screaming. Always.
They are "active" at 9:00 when I'm putting on my robe to settle in for nice night of DVR. Then again at 12:30 when we're trying to sleep. Again at 5:00 when I'm waking up to pee. And then some more at 9:30 when I should already be at work (I was home sick one day).
It's a little nuts.
It would be kind of rad if the girl were single and dragging strangers home for loud sex all the time, but we're pretty sure that these vampire people are in a committed relationship. (Yes, CinS did put a cup up to the wall and heard the dude say I Love You) Which I suppose is admirable, but also a little gross.
It's like imagining your parents having sex. Or even your married friends.
Anyhow, the worst part about the sex vampires is that they make us feel guilty for not having constant sex at all hours. I would rather go back to bed after I pee at 5 am, but I guess that's why I still get carded at 30 while they feed off the blood of virgins.
While we have had frequent run-ins with the mutton-ass, his lady friend, and their poorly behaved dog, we have never seen the loud sexers. Never.
We think they may be vampires. Seriously. And not Edward Cullen, able to leave the house and function in the sun vampires, but Bill Compton, stuck under the floorboards vampires.
These folks are completely nocturnal. I know this because I hear them. CinS is quick to say that the reason we hear them is because their bed is against our shared wall and causes a ruckus, but my hearing may be better than his because I always hear her screaming. Always.
They are "active" at 9:00 when I'm putting on my robe to settle in for nice night of DVR. Then again at 12:30 when we're trying to sleep. Again at 5:00 when I'm waking up to pee. And then some more at 9:30 when I should already be at work (I was home sick one day).
It's a little nuts.
It would be kind of rad if the girl were single and dragging strangers home for loud sex all the time, but we're pretty sure that these vampire people are in a committed relationship. (Yes, CinS did put a cup up to the wall and heard the dude say I Love You) Which I suppose is admirable, but also a little gross.
It's like imagining your parents having sex. Or even your married friends.
Anyhow, the worst part about the sex vampires is that they make us feel guilty for not having constant sex at all hours. I would rather go back to bed after I pee at 5 am, but I guess that's why I still get carded at 30 while they feed off the blood of virgins.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Top Ten Things I Hate About Public Office Restrooms
- Pubes on the toiletseat (seriously?)
- An unflushed toilet (takes so much effort!)
- A fine spray of urine on the toiletseat (gross!)
- Women breast-pumping (TMI!)
- Other people choosing the stall right beside you even though every other stall is available (personal space, much?)
- Toothpaste smell (inappropriate!)
- Other people talking to you while you are doing your business (privacy please!)
- Toiletpaper all over the floor (raised in a barn?)
- No soap (sanitize!)
- Other people
I have none of these problems at home, and I share my bathroom with a man.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Holiday Par-Tay
CinS' office is based in Rockefeller Center and each year his firm throws a holiday party the night of the tree lighting so friends and family can hang out with Al Roker and catch the latest teen sensations perform on the ice rink. In case you don't have NBC where you live, the tree lighting "spectacular" is tonight. I'm hoping to see a Jonas Brother. Actually, I'm really hoping for the cast of Heroes to present David Cook signing "American Boy" whilst the SYTYCD crew krumps. I know I'm mixing networks on this one, but a girl can dream right?
The punch line of the party is that from inside the hallowed walls of CinS firm, you can't see jack, and end up watching the tree lighting on TV in the conference room. Oh well. Free food and booze peppered with awkward small talk can't be beat!
But I am honestly looking forward to tonight's affair. Last year, CinS hadn't been with the firm too long so we spent part of the night hiding in his office eating lasagna. Like all good networkers do. This year, CinS has loads of peeps and is planning to pimp me out by adding my company name to my nametag so he can claim me as a potential client.
The only thing I am not looking forward to is the next morning, when I need to get up at 4am to go to the airport to fly in for my own holiday party. Way too much festiveness happening this week in expense of my sleep. But 'tis the season.
Speaking of the season, it is also the time of year when I agonize over how much to tip our doormen, super, and porters (who I'm guessing are handymen with a naming convention complex). CinS is a super-generous person who tips 25% and is best buddies with our building staff, which causes trouble each December. I think being CinS friend is tip enough. CinS disagrees.
On my way to work this morning, I passed the mailman exiting our apartment building, which reminded me that every year the mailman slips a postcard in my mailbox fishing for holiday tips. Sorry, buddy. You are the mailman. I have never seen you in my life, and I know you don't do me any special favors that would warrant a tip. In fact, I blame you sir for the delayed delivery of my In Touch magazine each week. If there was any way to anti-tip you, by say, stealing a $20 out of your wallet, I would do so.
All this ranting about holiday tip policies has got me running late to the party. But you will be pleased to know that I gave the manicurist a little something extra today. I took it from the mailman's stash.
The punch line of the party is that from inside the hallowed walls of CinS firm, you can't see jack, and end up watching the tree lighting on TV in the conference room. Oh well. Free food and booze peppered with awkward small talk can't be beat!
But I am honestly looking forward to tonight's affair. Last year, CinS hadn't been with the firm too long so we spent part of the night hiding in his office eating lasagna. Like all good networkers do. This year, CinS has loads of peeps and is planning to pimp me out by adding my company name to my nametag so he can claim me as a potential client.
The only thing I am not looking forward to is the next morning, when I need to get up at 4am to go to the airport to fly in for my own holiday party. Way too much festiveness happening this week in expense of my sleep. But 'tis the season.
Speaking of the season, it is also the time of year when I agonize over how much to tip our doormen, super, and porters (who I'm guessing are handymen with a naming convention complex). CinS is a super-generous person who tips 25% and is best buddies with our building staff, which causes trouble each December. I think being CinS friend is tip enough. CinS disagrees.
On my way to work this morning, I passed the mailman exiting our apartment building, which reminded me that every year the mailman slips a postcard in my mailbox fishing for holiday tips. Sorry, buddy. You are the mailman. I have never seen you in my life, and I know you don't do me any special favors that would warrant a tip. In fact, I blame you sir for the delayed delivery of my In Touch magazine each week. If there was any way to anti-tip you, by say, stealing a $20 out of your wallet, I would do so.
All this ranting about holiday tip policies has got me running late to the party. But you will be pleased to know that I gave the manicurist a little something extra today. I took it from the mailman's stash.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Thanks...
The Blogtaris were home in PA this weekend for Thanksgiving. As expected, CinS hit all the suburban hotspots while I read quietly on the couch. But because of the holiday, this weekend visit was a little different from the usual trip to the 'burbs.
Thanksgiving always makes me a nostalgic for the Thanksgivings of my youth. When I was young, my parents and I always packed in the car and headed down the shore to my Bubby and Poppy's house in Margate, NJ where we would meet up with my Aunt and cousins.
Every holiday was the same. We would begin our drive early in the day, stop at McDonalds for chicken mcnuggets, and arrive in Margate around 2pm. My dad would watch football while my mom and Aunt tried in vain to help Bubby with Thanksgiving dinner. We would aim to sit at the table around 6, but ended up stalling for 1-2 hours until we decided the turkey was actually done.
We would eat candied sweet potatoes and slimy cranberry sauce from the plastic tub. My dad would load his plate with peas and dark meat. We drank Diet Coke out of heavy crystal goblets.
After eating, the men would retire to the den with a fresh pot of coffee. The ladies would do the dishes. About an hour after dinner, we would have our pie. My Bubby would serve fresh whipped cream on top of a supermarket pie. We would head home.
Since my grandparents passed away, Thanksgiving has been a more intimate affair. CinS and I rotate between our parent's homes for Thanksgiving each year, leaving my parents to vacation in their years "off." But when we are at home, my mom goes all out.
This year, my mom's food was supplemented with some cheesy potato casserole that CinS prepared and my famous pumpkin cheese pie. The pie is famous for many reasons.
Reason number one: Half my family loves it, the other half hates it. The pumpkin cheese pie made its debut at a Margate Thanksgiving where the extended family had the pleasure of trying this new pie. My Bubby hated it and refused to serve it as the only pumpkin pie option in future years. I think she was secretly resentful of those of us who opted for the cheese pie in lieu of the standard-issue. But what's most interesting to me is that when it was "our" pie vs. Bubby's, my mom loved our pie. But now that our pie stands alone, my mom claims to hate the pie. She won't eat it, and in true-Bubby style, serves alternate pies to our small party of 4. And just like Bubby, I noticed a glimmer of resentment when my pie was finished before her pumpkin pecan alternative this year.
Reason number two: My pie requires no cooking. Yes, there is a reason that it is called a pumpkin cheese pie and not a pumpkin cheesecake. First, it is a pie. Second, I'm pretty sure cheesecake requires an oven. My pie is basically a pudding pie. A pudding pie with a cheese (cream) layer and a pumpkin layer, hence a pumpkin (space) cheese pie.
Reason number three: My pie gets botched almost every year. The problems with the pie are many. The main reason for the trouble is that the layers include so much filling that the pie lid can no longer cover the pie, making transport (to the table, let alone to Bubby's house) a challenge. Attempts to lessen the bulk of the layers results in funky tasting pie that needs to be treated with flavored coffee mate to salvage the taste. I am proud to say that this year, the pie was problem free and ridiculously good. It could be because I stopped kidding myself and used full fat, full sugar ingredients. Or it could be that it was made with extra love.
But despite the pie's history, it will be a staple of the Blogtari Thanksgiving for many years to come. It takes me back to Thanksgivings down the shore and all the fond memories of celebrating with my family, no matter if I am in NJ, PA or CA. All I need is a west coast pie rivalry to make the holiday complete.
Thanksgiving always makes me a nostalgic for the Thanksgivings of my youth. When I was young, my parents and I always packed in the car and headed down the shore to my Bubby and Poppy's house in Margate, NJ where we would meet up with my Aunt and cousins.
Every holiday was the same. We would begin our drive early in the day, stop at McDonalds for chicken mcnuggets, and arrive in Margate around 2pm. My dad would watch football while my mom and Aunt tried in vain to help Bubby with Thanksgiving dinner. We would aim to sit at the table around 6, but ended up stalling for 1-2 hours until we decided the turkey was actually done.
We would eat candied sweet potatoes and slimy cranberry sauce from the plastic tub. My dad would load his plate with peas and dark meat. We drank Diet Coke out of heavy crystal goblets.
After eating, the men would retire to the den with a fresh pot of coffee. The ladies would do the dishes. About an hour after dinner, we would have our pie. My Bubby would serve fresh whipped cream on top of a supermarket pie. We would head home.
Since my grandparents passed away, Thanksgiving has been a more intimate affair. CinS and I rotate between our parent's homes for Thanksgiving each year, leaving my parents to vacation in their years "off." But when we are at home, my mom goes all out.
This year, my mom's food was supplemented with some cheesy potato casserole that CinS prepared and my famous pumpkin cheese pie. The pie is famous for many reasons.
Reason number one: Half my family loves it, the other half hates it. The pumpkin cheese pie made its debut at a Margate Thanksgiving where the extended family had the pleasure of trying this new pie. My Bubby hated it and refused to serve it as the only pumpkin pie option in future years. I think she was secretly resentful of those of us who opted for the cheese pie in lieu of the standard-issue. But what's most interesting to me is that when it was "our" pie vs. Bubby's, my mom loved our pie. But now that our pie stands alone, my mom claims to hate the pie. She won't eat it, and in true-Bubby style, serves alternate pies to our small party of 4. And just like Bubby, I noticed a glimmer of resentment when my pie was finished before her pumpkin pecan alternative this year.
Reason number two: My pie requires no cooking. Yes, there is a reason that it is called a pumpkin cheese pie and not a pumpkin cheesecake. First, it is a pie. Second, I'm pretty sure cheesecake requires an oven. My pie is basically a pudding pie. A pudding pie with a cheese (cream) layer and a pumpkin layer, hence a pumpkin (space) cheese pie.
Reason number three: My pie gets botched almost every year. The problems with the pie are many. The main reason for the trouble is that the layers include so much filling that the pie lid can no longer cover the pie, making transport (to the table, let alone to Bubby's house) a challenge. Attempts to lessen the bulk of the layers results in funky tasting pie that needs to be treated with flavored coffee mate to salvage the taste. I am proud to say that this year, the pie was problem free and ridiculously good. It could be because I stopped kidding myself and used full fat, full sugar ingredients. Or it could be that it was made with extra love.
But despite the pie's history, it will be a staple of the Blogtari Thanksgiving for many years to come. It takes me back to Thanksgivings down the shore and all the fond memories of celebrating with my family, no matter if I am in NJ, PA or CA. All I need is a west coast pie rivalry to make the holiday complete.
Monday, November 24, 2008
The Holiday Spirit
When I got to work this morning, my office building's lobby was dressed to the nines for the holiday season. Giant snowballs lay atop the revolving doors, reindeer flanked the halls, a giant menorah twinkled in the window, and a beautiful Christmas tree had its top cut off. Yup, it was headless.
The tree in my lobby is too big for the room.
Now, I've never had a Christmas tree in my life, but even I know that part of the beauty of the tree is the top - the crowning jewel delicately perched on a lone branch. I've never really understood how an angel or a star or a giant light bulb can stay on top of a tree, but something’s are meant to be enjoyed, not understood.
Since this is my first year in this building, I wondered if there is the same dilemma every year by the building management. Do we get the big tree or the bigger tree? Bigger is always better right? Who cares that it doesn't fit?
The lobbed-off tree has an end of "The Da Vinci Code" look, where the top of the pyramid is hidden and continues on to the next floor. It would actually be rad if the 2nd floor had a little tree topper with a giant star on it. A little private joke amongst the staff of the Grace building and Robert Langdon.
In case you are wondering if the same people who keep your corporate lobby stocked with fresh floral arrangements each week are the masterminds around your new Christmas tree, I have the answer. I met a guy on Saturday night who decorates Christmas trees. This is all he does for a living - despite the fact that the tree decorating season lasts about one month. When asked how he spends his 11-month long off-season, he simply explained that he decorates other things. OK.
Now, I know what you tare thinking, I was in a crowded bar, screaming over my shoulder (Mystery would be so proud) and barely coherent, let alone comprehensible. This guy surely can't just decorate Christmas trees and various other "things" all year long. But you are wrong. I was at an interim spot (before I later went out to a crowded bar where I negged dudes for their love of Michael Phelps - I just don't get it) where it was quiet and well lit. My friend and I had a very clear, sober conversation with the tree man. That is all there is.
Now, I'm not putting down manual labor or the holiday spirit in any way shape or form, but I am quite perplexed as to how someone can sustain themselves (drinking overpriced beer) in NYC by working only one month. Maybe he was messing with us.
I certainly hope he was. Because if I can continue to live the fabulous life by designing something beautiful for a few weeks a year, I'm off to pursue a new career in the Christmas Arts. Jews for Jesus!
Friday, November 21, 2008
Schamlippen!
My husband loves him some video games. I am quite tolerant of most video games, but especially like to watch him play games with a clear storyline like Spiderman 3 or any GTA. I can live without the Halos and the Call of Duties. These games are best played on weekend afternoons when I am out of the house and after 11pm when I am in bed.
My husband is very smart. He knows that the best way for me to continue to enable his Xbox habit is through participation. After noting my excellent Rock Band vocals, CinS decided to buy me a new game, Lips.
Lips is a karaoke game that comes pre-loaded with karaoke favorites like Hungry Like the Wolf, Call Me, and my personal karaoke go-to song - Bust A Move. But the beauty of Lips is that it also lets you upload your own music from your MP3 player. Yes, that's right. You can wail Avril Lavigne and OK Go and Paramore and all of your personal cheesy, dance-around-the-room pop against a video backdrop of a giant cobra licking an enormous ice cream cone. BEST GAME EVER!
CinS brought Lips home on Thursday night and we were so excited to play. We loaded up the Xbox, and after 20 minutes of CinS personalizing his new XBox Live avatar, we were ready to rock out.
The Lips opener is rad. There is a crowded party, and two lonely souls sit awkwardly alone on two opposite sides of a couch. The guy looks at the girl, smiles, and picks up a wayward microphone from a beer-can-strewn coffee table. He starts to sing the lyrics of that whistling song, Yong Folks. The girl finds her own mic and joins in. True love.
After the opener, the menu appears. Entirely written in German.
I've never seen so many umlauts in my life.
Yes, our version of Lips is German. The available songs are all US favorites – not a Hasselhoff tune in sight – but all the instructions, encouragement, and results are in German. We played anyway.
CinS and I made it through about 4 songs, screaming random German phrases at one another, before we gave up. While it would be totally awesome to have kept the German game for its novelty value, we decided to return it. The vocals weren’t synched with the game and it was driving me crazy. So when you come over and play our totally vanilla, English version of Lips, you can blame it on me.
My husband is very smart. He knows that the best way for me to continue to enable his Xbox habit is through participation. After noting my excellent Rock Band vocals, CinS decided to buy me a new game, Lips.
Lips is a karaoke game that comes pre-loaded with karaoke favorites like Hungry Like the Wolf, Call Me, and my personal karaoke go-to song - Bust A Move. But the beauty of Lips is that it also lets you upload your own music from your MP3 player. Yes, that's right. You can wail Avril Lavigne and OK Go and Paramore and all of your personal cheesy, dance-around-the-room pop against a video backdrop of a giant cobra licking an enormous ice cream cone. BEST GAME EVER!
CinS brought Lips home on Thursday night and we were so excited to play. We loaded up the Xbox, and after 20 minutes of CinS personalizing his new XBox Live avatar, we were ready to rock out.
The Lips opener is rad. There is a crowded party, and two lonely souls sit awkwardly alone on two opposite sides of a couch. The guy looks at the girl, smiles, and picks up a wayward microphone from a beer-can-strewn coffee table. He starts to sing the lyrics of that whistling song, Yong Folks. The girl finds her own mic and joins in. True love.
After the opener, the menu appears. Entirely written in German.
I've never seen so many umlauts in my life.
Yes, our version of Lips is German. The available songs are all US favorites – not a Hasselhoff tune in sight – but all the instructions, encouragement, and results are in German. We played anyway.
CinS and I made it through about 4 songs, screaming random German phrases at one another, before we gave up. While it would be totally awesome to have kept the German game for its novelty value, we decided to return it. The vocals weren’t synched with the game and it was driving me crazy. So when you come over and play our totally vanilla, English version of Lips, you can blame it on me.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Road Rules
As a city dweller, I've never owned a car. I never had a car in High School and never needed one in DC or in NY.* But that doesn't mean that I don't like to drive.
Despite what CinS says, I am a good driver. I used to be an awesome driver, but because I don't drive too often, I have downgraded myself to good.
In my awesome driving days, I would drive like a maniac. How does this constitute awesome driving, you ask? Well, the sheer fact that I have lived to tell the tale of my once awesomely maniacal driving is proof enough of my skills. I used to rock Route 1 Nico Bellic style.
Earlier this week, I was in San Francisco for business and was driving all over the Bay Area. And I realized something. Driving rules. Even in a Chevy Impala.
I was so enamored of the drive that I decided to leave the comfort of my airport hotel and venture into the city to watch Heroes with my fellow Heroes cronies. This was the best idea I've ever had.
As a sidebar, I am a Heroes nut despite EW's opinion that the show has gone downhill. To me, this season's Heroes is last season's American Idol. Yes, the obsession is deep.
And like AI, I am not alone. My pals Gloria and Christian are equally obsessed, and gladly spend each Tuesday dissecting the show with me via email. Gloria and Christian both relocated to SF from NY so the prospect of watching Heroes, not only in the same time zone as my friends, but in the same ROOM, was too good to pass up.
So I was on my way to Gloria's house, happily jamming to some alternative rock station with a penchant for Fall Out Boy, when I realized that my friend does not have a driveway. Hmm.
While I am an awesome driver, I am not an awesome parker. But it’s not my fault. When I was 16, the state of Pennsylvania did not require you to parallel park.
So I arrived at Gloria's and found a space. A really good space too. The problem was that the space was in between two cars. I had to parallel park.
I tried to remember the rules of parallel parking as I put my blinker on and slid up to the car in front of my space. I aligned our steering wheels and attempted to back in. After a set of 15 forwards and reverses, I squeezed far enough into the space to stop blocking oncoming traffic. But I was still miles away from the curb. I had to call for reinforcements.
Yes, I phoned a friend for help parking my car. Yes, I am embarrassed. Yes, I probably need a lesson or two before I buy a car of my very own someday. But like Cher Horowitz says, "What's the point? Everywhere you go has valet."
*In case any friends from the mid-nineties plan to call me to the curb, I will admit that I did own a car for one fateful summer. It was a sic burgundy Camaro with a gold bottom and gold rims. I called it the Hooch. The Hooch was good to me, but my parents claim that it had too many problems to keep for more than a few months. I think they were just intimidated by its badassedness.
Despite what CinS says, I am a good driver. I used to be an awesome driver, but because I don't drive too often, I have downgraded myself to good.
In my awesome driving days, I would drive like a maniac. How does this constitute awesome driving, you ask? Well, the sheer fact that I have lived to tell the tale of my once awesomely maniacal driving is proof enough of my skills. I used to rock Route 1 Nico Bellic style.
Earlier this week, I was in San Francisco for business and was driving all over the Bay Area. And I realized something. Driving rules. Even in a Chevy Impala.
I was so enamored of the drive that I decided to leave the comfort of my airport hotel and venture into the city to watch Heroes with my fellow Heroes cronies. This was the best idea I've ever had.
As a sidebar, I am a Heroes nut despite EW's opinion that the show has gone downhill. To me, this season's Heroes is last season's American Idol. Yes, the obsession is deep.
And like AI, I am not alone. My pals Gloria and Christian are equally obsessed, and gladly spend each Tuesday dissecting the show with me via email. Gloria and Christian both relocated to SF from NY so the prospect of watching Heroes, not only in the same time zone as my friends, but in the same ROOM, was too good to pass up.
So I was on my way to Gloria's house, happily jamming to some alternative rock station with a penchant for Fall Out Boy, when I realized that my friend does not have a driveway. Hmm.
While I am an awesome driver, I am not an awesome parker. But it’s not my fault. When I was 16, the state of Pennsylvania did not require you to parallel park.
So I arrived at Gloria's and found a space. A really good space too. The problem was that the space was in between two cars. I had to parallel park.
I tried to remember the rules of parallel parking as I put my blinker on and slid up to the car in front of my space. I aligned our steering wheels and attempted to back in. After a set of 15 forwards and reverses, I squeezed far enough into the space to stop blocking oncoming traffic. But I was still miles away from the curb. I had to call for reinforcements.
Yes, I phoned a friend for help parking my car. Yes, I am embarrassed. Yes, I probably need a lesson or two before I buy a car of my very own someday. But like Cher Horowitz says, "What's the point? Everywhere you go has valet."
*In case any friends from the mid-nineties plan to call me to the curb, I will admit that I did own a car for one fateful summer. It was a sic burgundy Camaro with a gold bottom and gold rims. I called it the Hooch. The Hooch was good to me, but my parents claim that it had too many problems to keep for more than a few months. I think they were just intimidated by its badassedness.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Bloomers
In the last month I have come to realize that just about everything I own is the wrong length. It’s very troubling.
Most of these items I have been wearing for years - running around town in pants that are too short and skirts that are too long. How embarrassing!
I have no idea how this happened. I'm certain that when I get something shortened it is measured to hang just above the floor, and yet my hems are now hanging closer to my ankle. No wonder my husband calls all my pants bloomers.
The worst offenders are my sweats. Yes, I get my sweats shortened. When you are short, you get everything shortened. Sometimes even pajamas.
When CinS and I first met, I had a pair of pajamas that were not shortened, but were actual bloomers. I thought they were capris. I was mistaken. CinS was relentless in his mocking and called the pants bloomers until not just the bottoms were known as bloomers, but the entire sleep ensemble. I promptly donated these jams to Good Will.
Over the years, a few other items have also earned the bloomers moniker from my betrothed. But none were worse offenders than my "Cleveland Browns."
The Cleveland Browns are not pajama pants or sweat pants; they are a quite expensive pair of Theory pants that I got on sale at Bloomingdales. They are, as named, brown pants. The pants have no pockets, but do sport a sassy beaded seam down each side. I love these pants. My husband thinks they make me look like a football player.
After hearing a lot of crap about my Cleveland Browns, I retired them for about a year and a half. But now that I've uncomfortably returned to a pre-wedding size, the Cleveland Browns, and their wide legged glory, are calling to me.
I rescued the Cleveland Browns from their suffocating dry cleaning bag and wore them to work. It was then that I noticed something I’d never noticed before. The Cleveland Browns were totally bloomers! They were at least 2 inches too short and had no business being worn with heels. The horror!
CinS was right. These Cleveland Browns were ugly.
I sent the Cleveland Browns off to the tailor to be lengthened hoping it would fix them. The Cleveland Browns have been back in my closet for a while now, but I’m too afraid to try them on.
What if I still don’t like them? What if they don’t fit right? What if the problem wasn't the length, but the fact that they make me look like Valerie Malone sporting the camel-toe that she rocked in her brown pants in the mid-90's?
Maybe I'll be brave enough to wear them the next time CinS is out of town. I don't know if my delicate constitution can afford to fall back on the bloomers train.
Most of these items I have been wearing for years - running around town in pants that are too short and skirts that are too long. How embarrassing!
I have no idea how this happened. I'm certain that when I get something shortened it is measured to hang just above the floor, and yet my hems are now hanging closer to my ankle. No wonder my husband calls all my pants bloomers.
The worst offenders are my sweats. Yes, I get my sweats shortened. When you are short, you get everything shortened. Sometimes even pajamas.
When CinS and I first met, I had a pair of pajamas that were not shortened, but were actual bloomers. I thought they were capris. I was mistaken. CinS was relentless in his mocking and called the pants bloomers until not just the bottoms were known as bloomers, but the entire sleep ensemble. I promptly donated these jams to Good Will.
Over the years, a few other items have also earned the bloomers moniker from my betrothed. But none were worse offenders than my "Cleveland Browns."
The Cleveland Browns are not pajama pants or sweat pants; they are a quite expensive pair of Theory pants that I got on sale at Bloomingdales. They are, as named, brown pants. The pants have no pockets, but do sport a sassy beaded seam down each side. I love these pants. My husband thinks they make me look like a football player.
After hearing a lot of crap about my Cleveland Browns, I retired them for about a year and a half. But now that I've uncomfortably returned to a pre-wedding size, the Cleveland Browns, and their wide legged glory, are calling to me.
I rescued the Cleveland Browns from their suffocating dry cleaning bag and wore them to work. It was then that I noticed something I’d never noticed before. The Cleveland Browns were totally bloomers! They were at least 2 inches too short and had no business being worn with heels. The horror!
CinS was right. These Cleveland Browns were ugly.
I sent the Cleveland Browns off to the tailor to be lengthened hoping it would fix them. The Cleveland Browns have been back in my closet for a while now, but I’m too afraid to try them on.
What if I still don’t like them? What if they don’t fit right? What if the problem wasn't the length, but the fact that they make me look like Valerie Malone sporting the camel-toe that she rocked in her brown pants in the mid-90's?
Maybe I'll be brave enough to wear them the next time CinS is out of town. I don't know if my delicate constitution can afford to fall back on the bloomers train.
The List
A friend of mine dug up an old list of personal jokes from the college years and sent a scanned version around to our friends. I didn’t go on the particular trip, opting for a Spring Break in the Bahamas instead of Florida because it's a foreign country and you can get a passport stamp. But the list brought much hilarity none-the-less.
What was odd about my friend posting this list, was not that she posted it, not that she still had it, but that I had been talking about other lists my group of friends made a few days before.
We were out to dinner with friends and were discussing nicknames for co-workers. While I'm sure in my highly social first job out of college I also had nicknames for my co-workers, I have no recollection of any nicknames or even of the act of plotting nicknames with friends. I'm sure I was too busy talking trash about the girl with inappropriate cleavage or the guy whose office always smelled like a fart.
All I could contribute to the nickname conversation was The List. The List is a 4-page, double-sided list of 101 nicknames assigned to GW students by my friends and I in 1995. It is a wonder to behold.
Many names from the list I recall to this day. Half and Half Eye shadow Girl. Guido in the Morning. Rabbinic Turtle.
The list was broken into groups of friends to make sure we didn’t forget anyone. We put stars next to the names of the boys we liked.
My friends and I were fond of documenting things - nicknames, party invite lists, personal jokes. And I'm glad we did. Without our gnarled notebook papers and paper plates, our college years may have been lost. And who would ever want to forget FChinring?
What was odd about my friend posting this list, was not that she posted it, not that she still had it, but that I had been talking about other lists my group of friends made a few days before.
We were out to dinner with friends and were discussing nicknames for co-workers. While I'm sure in my highly social first job out of college I also had nicknames for my co-workers, I have no recollection of any nicknames or even of the act of plotting nicknames with friends. I'm sure I was too busy talking trash about the girl with inappropriate cleavage or the guy whose office always smelled like a fart.
All I could contribute to the nickname conversation was The List. The List is a 4-page, double-sided list of 101 nicknames assigned to GW students by my friends and I in 1995. It is a wonder to behold.
Many names from the list I recall to this day. Half and Half Eye shadow Girl. Guido in the Morning. Rabbinic Turtle.
The list was broken into groups of friends to make sure we didn’t forget anyone. We put stars next to the names of the boys we liked.
My friends and I were fond of documenting things - nicknames, party invite lists, personal jokes. And I'm glad we did. Without our gnarled notebook papers and paper plates, our college years may have been lost. And who would ever want to forget FChinring?
Monday, November 10, 2008
Blame Canada
It's been a busy few weeks in Blogtari country, with most of the busyness stemming from a trip out of the country.
Ma and Pa Blogtari (the LA parents) came for a visit East, and the family hauled up to the glamorous Niagara Falls area to gamble with a foreign currency and see some nature (in that order). I had never been to the Falls before and was mildly excited for the trip. While a good time was had by all, especially my father-in-law who was overjoyed that a gambling woman had married into the family, Niagara Falls is not a trip I would recommend.
Niagara Falls is sort of depressing. Granted, we visited during the off season when tourism is low, but the "town" felt just shy of deserted. And I can't imagine things improving in the summer. Aside from the casino and the 2 nice restaurants I scrounged up, all Niagara Falls activities decidedly fall into the category of budget-priced family fun. There was an indoor (?) waterpark, 2 IMAX theatres and countless haunted houses and wax museums. Honestly, hundreds of wax museums. I had no idea that the art of wax was so popular with our neighbors to the North. After seeing warped wax portraits of Angelina Jolie and Robert DiNiro all over the city, the "Criminals Hall of Fame Wax Museum" had a whole new appeal.
The Falls themselves are ridiculously cool, but the kind of cool that you can experience in a 15-minute moment of reflection while driving up to a sweet weekend in Toronto. Without the casino action, the 2-day trip would have been painfully long. Yet another great reason to support gambling in your community.
The entire trip, my family and I kept talking about how cool it was that we were witnessing one of the 7 Wonders of the World. As if this alone made the trip worthwhile. Sadly, my curious mind led me to Wikipedia to recall the other wonders of the world ('cause that mini golf course from Overboard may not have covered them all...), where I learned that Niagara Falls is not on any Wonders list at all. But then again, I was a fan of Andre the Giant, so maybe that can count instead.
Ma and Pa Blogtari (the LA parents) came for a visit East, and the family hauled up to the glamorous Niagara Falls area to gamble with a foreign currency and see some nature (in that order). I had never been to the Falls before and was mildly excited for the trip. While a good time was had by all, especially my father-in-law who was overjoyed that a gambling woman had married into the family, Niagara Falls is not a trip I would recommend.
Niagara Falls is sort of depressing. Granted, we visited during the off season when tourism is low, but the "town" felt just shy of deserted. And I can't imagine things improving in the summer. Aside from the casino and the 2 nice restaurants I scrounged up, all Niagara Falls activities decidedly fall into the category of budget-priced family fun. There was an indoor (?) waterpark, 2 IMAX theatres and countless haunted houses and wax museums. Honestly, hundreds of wax museums. I had no idea that the art of wax was so popular with our neighbors to the North. After seeing warped wax portraits of Angelina Jolie and Robert DiNiro all over the city, the "Criminals Hall of Fame Wax Museum" had a whole new appeal.
The Falls themselves are ridiculously cool, but the kind of cool that you can experience in a 15-minute moment of reflection while driving up to a sweet weekend in Toronto. Without the casino action, the 2-day trip would have been painfully long. Yet another great reason to support gambling in your community.
The entire trip, my family and I kept talking about how cool it was that we were witnessing one of the 7 Wonders of the World. As if this alone made the trip worthwhile. Sadly, my curious mind led me to Wikipedia to recall the other wonders of the world ('cause that mini golf course from Overboard may not have covered them all...), where I learned that Niagara Falls is not on any Wonders list at all. But then again, I was a fan of Andre the Giant, so maybe that can count instead.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Finally! I Did Something!
It's been nearly a week since my last post and I'm sure you assume what I know to be true. I have nothing left to say. The thought that this blog has turned into an awkward conversation with a friend I haven’t seen in a while makes me upset. So I have decided to get out there and do something.
My mom came in for a visit this past weekend and we spent our time doing girly things like manicures, brunch, and a musical, while CinS was out go-karting in San Diego for business. We had a great time, and I have come to realize that by visiting NYC so many times over the past 6 years, my mom has become a de facto New Yorker.
While waiting in line at the TKTS downtown, (TIP: the South Street Seaport location opens at 11 so you can get your tickets earlier than you can in Times Square) my mom and I were eavesdropping on the group behind us in line. There were 6 women screaming about how disappointed they were that Mamma Mia was not available, but that they would gladly see Grease or Hairspray or Legally Blonde or anything else that had been made into a movie. I was quite pleased by this, as I wanted to see Spamalot (starring Clay Aiken!!!!!!!) and felt reassured that the average tourist is unaware that this too is based on a movie.
Sure enough, Spamalot was available and we got ridiculous orchestra seats where we were spit upon by Clay and friends. Tickets purchased, mom and I had lunch where we made fun of tourists and their PG-taste in musicals. Please do not take offense if you are a lover of any musical listed above - aside from Grease, in which case you and your Summer-Lovin'-singing-at-a-dive-bar friends can bite my butt.
Later that night, at the Shubert Theatre, I went to the ladies room before the show. As usual, the line was incredibly long. As we waited, the woman behind me commented on the length of the line and how unfair it is that there is never a line for the men's room. Wow, lady. I've never heard of this phenomenon before, but you know what? You are absolutely right! What an ingenious conclusion. I am so glad you felt the need to share this with me. My world is a better place for knowing that the ladies' room line is always longer than the men's.
My face must have read my internal monologue because the woman behind me promptly stopped talking to me to continue her small talk with someone else. Meanwhile, the women in front of me all chatted on and on about where they were from and what other shows they had seen. As I scanned the crowd, I noticed that I was the only one not talking to a stranger. You see, New Yorkers do not make small talk.
When I shared this observation with my mom the next day at brunch, she told me that she never talks to people either. Maybe I'm not having the best influence on her.
This whole tale reminds me of that dumb graduation "song" about sunscreen that everyone thought was written by Kurt Vonnegut but was too dumb to be written by Kurt Vonnegut. In this "song," (which was totally not a song - it was a rant set to music, and shall now be referred to as a rant) there was a line about how you have to leave New York before you get too hard and leave California before you get too soft.
Well, I was never very soft to begin with, and the years in the city have hardened my heart - or at least my tolerance for small talk. I think the next time I see a show it will be something obscure and not starring an American Idol. It may make me feel like a nicer person.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Kudu? I Hardly Know You!
The Blogtaris celebrated our 0ne-year wedding anniversary on Monday and I'm feeling a little reminiscent.
But before I reminisce, I must say that this last year was really no different than any of the eight years prior, except we now share a last name and a bank account. I guess that's what happens when you know someone so long. But I am happy to report that despite knowing my husband for nearly a decade, I am not bored in any way shape or form. It's a good thing he's so damn hilarious.
Anyhow, while eating our miraculously well-preserved wedding cake, I remembered it all - the joy of our wedding day, the excitement of our honeymoon, the patience of my then-fiancé in the year leading up to our wedding. But the memory that sticks out in my mind today is of a tiny little slice of our honeymoon - our first stop before the real vacation began.
We went to Africa for our honeymoon and the first destination on the list was Mozambique. Before flying all the way to Eastern Africa, we made a pitstop in Johannesburg, South Africa to get off the plane and to spend the night in a hotel before continuing on to the beach. So technically, our first night on our honeymoon was spent in Jo-burg.
Our travel agent booked us a room at a hotel near the airport. The idea was to eat some dinner, get some rest, and head to Mozambique refreshed and ready for yet another full day of air travel. We had very low expectations about this leg of the journey. And maybe that’s why it was so awesome.
The hotel was actually part of a casino resort that was done up like Caesar's Palace. It had everything - from the painted skyscape to the faux statue of David. We checked in to our room and headed down to the shopping and restaurant area for some dinner. We decided to go for the African Game restaurant, Tribes, to kick-off the journey. Being adventurous eaters, we perused the menu and scanned the list - beef, chicken, ribs, ostrich. Sounds good to me. We ordered the Game Platter - a dish we assumed would be a little of column A and a little of column B (with all columns appearing on the menu). When our food arrived, however, we realized our mistake.
The game platter included four meats, but only one - ostrich - was on the menu. The other three were not only not listed anywhere on the menu, but also not part of our everyday animal vocabulary. We were served ostrich, warthog, impala and kudu.
We did not learn what a kudu was until the end of our trip, where we not only saw them in the wild, but ate them again. To spare you the Wikipedia check, I have included a CinS-taken photo of some kudu... followed by a picture of what the kudu tasted like our first night in Africa. Sadly, our second taste of kudu while on safari was not as satisfying to the American palette. So now you know, always opt for the cheese sauce when eating mysterious game.
But before I reminisce, I must say that this last year was really no different than any of the eight years prior, except we now share a last name and a bank account. I guess that's what happens when you know someone so long. But I am happy to report that despite knowing my husband for nearly a decade, I am not bored in any way shape or form. It's a good thing he's so damn hilarious.
Anyhow, while eating our miraculously well-preserved wedding cake, I remembered it all - the joy of our wedding day, the excitement of our honeymoon, the patience of my then-fiancé in the year leading up to our wedding. But the memory that sticks out in my mind today is of a tiny little slice of our honeymoon - our first stop before the real vacation began.
We went to Africa for our honeymoon and the first destination on the list was Mozambique. Before flying all the way to Eastern Africa, we made a pitstop in Johannesburg, South Africa to get off the plane and to spend the night in a hotel before continuing on to the beach. So technically, our first night on our honeymoon was spent in Jo-burg.
Our travel agent booked us a room at a hotel near the airport. The idea was to eat some dinner, get some rest, and head to Mozambique refreshed and ready for yet another full day of air travel. We had very low expectations about this leg of the journey. And maybe that’s why it was so awesome.
The hotel was actually part of a casino resort that was done up like Caesar's Palace. It had everything - from the painted skyscape to the faux statue of David. We checked in to our room and headed down to the shopping and restaurant area for some dinner. We decided to go for the African Game restaurant, Tribes, to kick-off the journey. Being adventurous eaters, we perused the menu and scanned the list - beef, chicken, ribs, ostrich. Sounds good to me. We ordered the Game Platter - a dish we assumed would be a little of column A and a little of column B (with all columns appearing on the menu). When our food arrived, however, we realized our mistake.
The game platter included four meats, but only one - ostrich - was on the menu. The other three were not only not listed anywhere on the menu, but also not part of our everyday animal vocabulary. We were served ostrich, warthog, impala and kudu.
We did not learn what a kudu was until the end of our trip, where we not only saw them in the wild, but ate them again. To spare you the Wikipedia check, I have included a CinS-taken photo of some kudu... followed by a picture of what the kudu tasted like our first night in Africa. Sadly, our second taste of kudu while on safari was not as satisfying to the American palette. So now you know, always opt for the cheese sauce when eating mysterious game.
Friday, October 10, 2008
And That's How I Was Arrested for Excessive Force
OK, I get it.
When a chain like Jamba Juice makes its debut on the East Coast, most of the customers don't know their Razzmatazz from their elbow and spend valuable time in line hemming and hawing over their beverage options, much to the dismay of re-located West Coasters jonesing for a fix. I understand the frustration of my friends x years ago, but I also understand that for a time, when Jamba was new, that their frustration was unjust. It takes people a while to get into the rhythm of a new fast food joint. I get it.
What I DON'T get is how people can try a popular chain that has been in existence for YEARS, hell DECADES (well at least A decade), for the very first time in the middle of the NY lunch rush.
I was at Cosi (yes COSI, not some exotic eatery like Qdoba) picking up lunch and was in the salad line behind 4 Cosi virgins. 4.
And they were not all together either. This was 4 separate parties mangling the order of 4 separate meals.
How do you not know that the salad you are ordering doesn’t come with chicken? Does it SAY that it comes with chicken? Didn't the woman ask you if you wanted to ADD chicken?
How do you not know that you get bread with your meal? Bread is the entire point of the restaurant. "Whole grain or white?" is not a question on which the fate of the economy stands. Just choose some damn bread while it is still hot.
Why on Earth are you making your own salad? There are 700 other restaurants on this block that specialize in letting you make your own salad. In fact, their ingredients and dressings are much tastier. If you don't like what the Rock is cookin', get OUT OF HERE. Do not improvise.
It is clear that I have little tolerance for the uneducated. I should not go into politics.
Let me be clear. I have every right to complain because this behavior has not, nor ever will be, exhibited by me. In fact, I don’t even order sandwiches at Cosi because I never have before. And I don’t want to get tripped up in the ordering process and bring things to a screeching halt like the Visa Checkcard commercial.
I also will not eat at Subway. The assembly line presents far too much pressure to those who don’t have a usual order predetermined. And those sandwich artists do not mess around.
So please. If you haven't eaten here before, don't start now. Or at least have the human decency to do a dry run during a slow period... somewhere in the Mid-West... where people aren't so enraged.
When a chain like Jamba Juice makes its debut on the East Coast, most of the customers don't know their Razzmatazz from their elbow and spend valuable time in line hemming and hawing over their beverage options, much to the dismay of re-located West Coasters jonesing for a fix. I understand the frustration of my friends x years ago, but I also understand that for a time, when Jamba was new, that their frustration was unjust. It takes people a while to get into the rhythm of a new fast food joint. I get it.
What I DON'T get is how people can try a popular chain that has been in existence for YEARS, hell DECADES (well at least A decade), for the very first time in the middle of the NY lunch rush.
I was at Cosi (yes COSI, not some exotic eatery like Qdoba) picking up lunch and was in the salad line behind 4 Cosi virgins. 4.
And they were not all together either. This was 4 separate parties mangling the order of 4 separate meals.
How do you not know that the salad you are ordering doesn’t come with chicken? Does it SAY that it comes with chicken? Didn't the woman ask you if you wanted to ADD chicken?
How do you not know that you get bread with your meal? Bread is the entire point of the restaurant. "Whole grain or white?" is not a question on which the fate of the economy stands. Just choose some damn bread while it is still hot.
Why on Earth are you making your own salad? There are 700 other restaurants on this block that specialize in letting you make your own salad. In fact, their ingredients and dressings are much tastier. If you don't like what the Rock is cookin', get OUT OF HERE. Do not improvise.
It is clear that I have little tolerance for the uneducated. I should not go into politics.
Let me be clear. I have every right to complain because this behavior has not, nor ever will be, exhibited by me. In fact, I don’t even order sandwiches at Cosi because I never have before. And I don’t want to get tripped up in the ordering process and bring things to a screeching halt like the Visa Checkcard commercial.
I also will not eat at Subway. The assembly line presents far too much pressure to those who don’t have a usual order predetermined. And those sandwich artists do not mess around.
So please. If you haven't eaten here before, don't start now. Or at least have the human decency to do a dry run during a slow period... somewhere in the Mid-West... where people aren't so enraged.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Gotta Dry That Man Right Outta My Hair
I need to verify something. Do women wear showercaps these days? Clarification: I'm talking about Caucasian women under 60. Because if we've learned anything from VH1 dating shows, we all know that you can't get a weave wet.I ask because I do wear a showercap and my husband thinks I'm nuts.
I wear a showercap in the shower for many reasons:
- I do not wash my hair everyday, but I do shower everyday
- Drying my hair is a giant pain in the butt, so your theory that I can just get it wet and not wash it does not cut the mustard
- Showercaps are free at most hotels
- I enjoy looking like Toadstool while wet and naked
My husband is convinced that I am the only woman in the world (or at least that we know) who wears a showercap. But I don't understand how people can NOT wear them and keep their hair dry. It is a great mystery.
I once read in a magazine that some people tie their hair in a towel, turban-style, to keep their hair dry. I tried this once and ended up with a soaking wet towel. I live in Manhattan. I do not have the real estate in my bathroom to dry a soaking wet towel.
Maybe others have a shower that is set so low that they need to bend their knees to wash their face. I do not have a shower like this. Nor would I ever want one. A nice perk of being short is that my shower hits me square in the face and unclogs my sinuses.
I suppose if I could acquire a super power, it would not be the Alana (The 44oo)/Candace (Heroes) power of relocating to a vacation spot in my mind's eye, it would be the ability to keep my hair dry without embarrassment. Man, what an awful fantasy life I have.
Maybe the solution is to get a showercap so adorable that my husband wil be fooled into thinking that showercaps are awesome. Some designer pattern with skulls and/or neon houndstooth. That would rule.
Yes, I am accepting gifts.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Suburban Idiosyncrasies
Things have been quiet on the Blogtari front for the past few weeks. Let's just say that we've been especially introspective in the New Year. It certainly has nothing to do with a fear of offending particular readers by trash-talking them on said blog. Nothing at all to do with that. We love all of our friends and our acquaintances are in no way creepy.
Now that we've cleared that up, I'd like to share a tale that started before the New Year began. The Blogtaris headed home two weekends ago - together - for the first time since Memorial Day. I've been home on my own a bunch since the start of the summer, but CinS always finds himself working when it's time to trek to the 'burbs. But the irony is that CinS loves going home. Maybe more than I do. For those that don't know, "home" in this instance, is my parent's place in suburban Philadelphia. When we live on the left coast, "home" will be his parent's house in suburban LA. But despite "home" really being where my heart is, CinS loves it out there. I'm really very lucky.
Now that we've cleared that up, I'd like to share a tale that started before the New Year began. The Blogtaris headed home two weekends ago - together - for the first time since Memorial Day. I've been home on my own a bunch since the start of the summer, but CinS always finds himself working when it's time to trek to the 'burbs. But the irony is that CinS loves going home. Maybe more than I do. For those that don't know, "home" in this instance, is my parent's place in suburban Philadelphia. When we live on the left coast, "home" will be his parent's house in suburban LA. But despite "home" really being where my heart is, CinS loves it out there. I'm really very lucky.
Before our trip, CinS and I were talking about our weekend at home and he was getting all excited. Excited like a toddler.
"Can we go to Kohl's?"
"Yes."
"Can we eat at the country club?"
"Yes."
"Can I buy new Coffeemate flavors at the supermarket?"
And on and on and on.
You see, there are certain things that my husband does at home that he does no where else. He falls effortlessly into the suburban routine as soon as the commuter train arrives in Trenton.
On our way home, we eat dinner at one of three chain restaurants. Later that night, my mom goes upstairs to watch HGTV, while the rest of us watch TV on the couch until my dad falls asleep. After several naps, my dad wakes up to go to bed. As soon as he leaves, CinS raids the pantry for Oreos and M&Ms and switches on Cheaters.
I have never seen my husband watch Cheaters any place besides at my parent's house. It is a bizarre phenomenon. My parent's have just as many channels as we do at home, yet Cheaters draws him in like, well, like the MTV-generation to Cheaters.
Cheaters always makes me wonder if there is a stockroom somewhere filled with raw footage of people not cheating. Surely not every suspicious person out there is correct, but if there is no cheating, there is no show. So you have to assume that there is some tape out there documenting Billy-Bob's late night trip to the Wendy's . Probably reels of it. Think of all the production time wasted on a couple whose relationship isn't drawn and quartered all over syndicated late night TV. No wonder our fair host can't afford a full goatee.
CinS also buys a lot of hand soap when we go home. I don't understand why suburban hand soap is far superior to city hand soap, but there must be a clear distinction that I'm missing.
The final and most important item on the home checklist, is a visit to the neon graveyard. For those that don't know, my husband collects neon signs that, until we move to our mythical home with detached garage, reside in my parent's basement. He has about 9 signs in total, and most are covered with old blankets in a corner of the basement.
Every trip home, my dad jokes about bringing the neon Eagles sign to his office (he's got his suburban routines too), but this trip, CinS actually gave the sign to my dad. We hung it on the wall in the basement and lit it up to help the Eagle's season. But since the sign has gone up, the team has lost their last two games. (sorry fellow fans, this one's our bad)
I think the sign is pissed that it was taken from its friends beneath its protective IKEA fitted sheet, and singled out to shine alone on the basement wall. Or maybe it's feeling insecure about its relationship with the Statue of Liberty sign now that they aren't shacking up anymore. Maybe Lady Liberty has moved on to another sign from another town. If only there were some way we could put the Eagles sign's mind to rest. If only some soul-patched TV host with his SWAT team of cameras could investigate this matter properly...
Come on, Joey Greco, we can turn this Eagles season around yet.
You see, there are certain things that my husband does at home that he does no where else. He falls effortlessly into the suburban routine as soon as the commuter train arrives in Trenton.
On our way home, we eat dinner at one of three chain restaurants. Later that night, my mom goes upstairs to watch HGTV, while the rest of us watch TV on the couch until my dad falls asleep. After several naps, my dad wakes up to go to bed. As soon as he leaves, CinS raids the pantry for Oreos and M&Ms and switches on Cheaters.
I have never seen my husband watch Cheaters any place besides at my parent's house. It is a bizarre phenomenon. My parent's have just as many channels as we do at home, yet Cheaters draws him in like, well, like the MTV-generation to Cheaters.
Cheaters always makes me wonder if there is a stockroom somewhere filled with raw footage of people not cheating. Surely not every suspicious person out there is correct, but if there is no cheating, there is no show. So you have to assume that there is some tape out there documenting Billy-Bob's late night trip to the Wendy's . Probably reels of it. Think of all the production time wasted on a couple whose relationship isn't drawn and quartered all over syndicated late night TV. No wonder our fair host can't afford a full goatee.
CinS also buys a lot of hand soap when we go home. I don't understand why suburban hand soap is far superior to city hand soap, but there must be a clear distinction that I'm missing.
The final and most important item on the home checklist, is a visit to the neon graveyard. For those that don't know, my husband collects neon signs that, until we move to our mythical home with detached garage, reside in my parent's basement. He has about 9 signs in total, and most are covered with old blankets in a corner of the basement.
Every trip home, my dad jokes about bringing the neon Eagles sign to his office (he's got his suburban routines too), but this trip, CinS actually gave the sign to my dad. We hung it on the wall in the basement and lit it up to help the Eagle's season. But since the sign has gone up, the team has lost their last two games. (sorry fellow fans, this one's our bad)
I think the sign is pissed that it was taken from its friends beneath its protective IKEA fitted sheet, and singled out to shine alone on the basement wall. Or maybe it's feeling insecure about its relationship with the Statue of Liberty sign now that they aren't shacking up anymore. Maybe Lady Liberty has moved on to another sign from another town. If only there were some way we could put the Eagles sign's mind to rest. If only some soul-patched TV host with his SWAT team of cameras could investigate this matter properly...
Come on, Joey Greco, we can turn this Eagles season around yet.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Takeback the Morning
I am so over ESPN.
I am forced to watch ESPN every morning when I am getting ready for work. My husband does not understand the value of the morning weather or news, but he does see a profound beauty in watching the same episode of Sports Center that he saw the night before.
When we first moved in together, I tried to convert him from ESPN to the Today Show. But his hatred of Katie Couric prompted many a morning argument. In his defense, the Today Show is about 90% garbage. In my defense, that remaining 10% is chock-full of weather, news, and hilarious puns by Al Roker.
I then switched to NY1, because when you don’t have time to read the paper yourself, they do it for you. But Pat Keirnan was also annoying to my dear husband. Well then! You know what is annoying to me, buddy? You whining about morning news show anchors everyday! And so I gave up.
We've been watching ESPN in the morning for a few years now, and I have to say that it is the worst network ever. They are only concerned with two things: The Yankees and Brett Favre.
If you don't watch ESPN, you probably think I am exaggerating for comedic effect. If you do watch ESPN, you are rolling on the floor, doubled over with knowing laughter.
Brett Favre is everywhere. His retirement cock-tease has been all the rage on ESPN for years. Hell, I was even watching a game last weekend and one of the commentators kept dropping Favre’s name. ESPN must be on his payroll. All press is good press, right?
But the Favre issue is in now way as offensive as the Yankees phenomenon. As previously mentioned, I am over the Yankees. I was actually excited for this baseball season to end so I could stop hearing about the freakin' Yankees, their stadium, and their player’s martial affairs. Obviously, I knew all about the Yankee's last game of the season, and I was psyched. No playoffs= no more Yankees. But no.
ESPN did a 10-minute expose this morning about the Yankees NOT making the playoffs. Really? There is nothing else going all in the entire sporting world that you have to cover a team NOT doing something? This is quite possibly worse than "Who's Now?" (on-field success and off-field buzz)
I am forced to watch ESPN every morning when I am getting ready for work. My husband does not understand the value of the morning weather or news, but he does see a profound beauty in watching the same episode of Sports Center that he saw the night before.
When we first moved in together, I tried to convert him from ESPN to the Today Show. But his hatred of Katie Couric prompted many a morning argument. In his defense, the Today Show is about 90% garbage. In my defense, that remaining 10% is chock-full of weather, news, and hilarious puns by Al Roker.
I then switched to NY1, because when you don’t have time to read the paper yourself, they do it for you. But Pat Keirnan was also annoying to my dear husband. Well then! You know what is annoying to me, buddy? You whining about morning news show anchors everyday! And so I gave up.
We've been watching ESPN in the morning for a few years now, and I have to say that it is the worst network ever. They are only concerned with two things: The Yankees and Brett Favre.
If you don't watch ESPN, you probably think I am exaggerating for comedic effect. If you do watch ESPN, you are rolling on the floor, doubled over with knowing laughter.
Brett Favre is everywhere. His retirement cock-tease has been all the rage on ESPN for years. Hell, I was even watching a game last weekend and one of the commentators kept dropping Favre’s name. ESPN must be on his payroll. All press is good press, right?
But the Favre issue is in now way as offensive as the Yankees phenomenon. As previously mentioned, I am over the Yankees. I was actually excited for this baseball season to end so I could stop hearing about the freakin' Yankees, their stadium, and their player’s martial affairs. Obviously, I knew all about the Yankee's last game of the season, and I was psyched. No playoffs= no more Yankees. But no.
ESPN did a 10-minute expose this morning about the Yankees NOT making the playoffs. Really? There is nothing else going all in the entire sporting world that you have to cover a team NOT doing something? This is quite possibly worse than "Who's Now?" (on-field success and off-field buzz)
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Call Me! Call Me Anytime!
My office computer is PAINFULLY slow. Oftentimes, I whip up a post while waiting for my online sales database to load. Sadly, I am not kidding. It's astounding how inefficient it can be to work at a technology company.
This brings me to my ultimate pet peeve. My Brick.
My Brick is actually my cellphone. At first glance, you would think the Brick is, in fact, the first cellphone ever made. At second glance, you realize that it is actually the world's smallest laptop. I did not intend for that to sound awesome.
I used to have a gorgeous, slim, easy-to-handle Blackberry Pearl. It fit in my purse, had a lovely rollerball, and rocked a variety of badass ringtones. But when I changed jobs, I learned that my new employer does not support Blackberry. BOOOOO!
And so I had to get a new phone. But instead of choosing a phone that was to my liking, the Brick was thrust upon me. The Brick weighs about 4 pounds. It does not fit in the cellphone pouch in my purse. Its touch-screen features require a coke nail for proper use.
I keep waiting for a new work-supported phone to become available on AT&T so the Brick can have an "accident." But until that day, I suffer.
This brings me to my ultimate pet peeve. My Brick.
My Brick is actually my cellphone. At first glance, you would think the Brick is, in fact, the first cellphone ever made. At second glance, you realize that it is actually the world's smallest laptop. I did not intend for that to sound awesome.
I used to have a gorgeous, slim, easy-to-handle Blackberry Pearl. It fit in my purse, had a lovely rollerball, and rocked a variety of badass ringtones. But when I changed jobs, I learned that my new employer does not support Blackberry. BOOOOO!
And so I had to get a new phone. But instead of choosing a phone that was to my liking, the Brick was thrust upon me. The Brick weighs about 4 pounds. It does not fit in the cellphone pouch in my purse. Its touch-screen features require a coke nail for proper use.
I keep waiting for a new work-supported phone to become available on AT&T so the Brick can have an "accident." But until that day, I suffer.
The irony is that I am in mobile. And I work for a company that makes cellphones. It's really embarrassing.
Something else embarrassing about my phone is that I can't figure out how to silence my ringer once it starts ringing. There have been plenty of days when I have forgotten to switch my phone to vibrate and my entire office was treated to my lame ringtone of the moment. The latest ringtone (which is no longer topical AT ALL and thereby even more embarrassing) is David Cook’s Billie Jean. Yes, I am aware that American Idol has been off the air since May. I am also aware that I am 30.
Aside from being embarrassing and out-of-date, I also have a hard time hearing my DC ringtone. My husband is endlessly frustrated by my neglect in answering my phone. The other day, it came to a head.
CinS called me 9 times (as verified by my missed calls log) and burst into our apartment in a tornado of frustration.
"I called you 9 times! If you wanted to go out to dinner tonight, you should have answered your phone!"
"Oh. Sorry. It was in the other room."
"What if it was an emergency? You never answer your phone!"
"I'm sorry. I hate my phone."
CinS then proceeded to dial my phone while making exaggerated angry faces. He followed the noise (that I still couldn’t hear, but somehow he could), fished my phone out of my purse and held it up to my ear.
"Melissa, you are a professional woman. You cannot have a ringtone like this. Maybe if your phone rang like a phone, you would hear it. I don't care if all the other 17-year-olds tease you for not having a cool ringtone, but I need to be able to reach you. Change your ringtone now."
"But...."
"The only possible reason for you to have this ringtone is for when David Cook calls you."
I then exited my body to fantasize a tame, corporate rock-and-roll lifestyle in which David Cook calls me on a regular basis.
"Get a real ring please," my husband says.
And so I did. Now, when my phone accidentally rings at the office, I answer it with pride, not hushed tones. But I do miss DC. And definitely cannot show my face in the high school parking lot ever again.
The Blogtari Factor
A friend of mine IM'd me a link to the Gawker post about Sarah Palin's email account being hacked. At first, I was excited. I thought there would be some major scandals revealed like receiving bribes from Pro-Lifers and Oil Conglomerates, or at least an offer from CoverGirl for their Infallible Lip Color. But no. The Gawker article has absolutely zero substance. You can see some pictures of her kids. And no, they are not nudie pictures. Just regular, fully clothes pictures of her kids sitting in the grass.
SNOOZE!
In fact, none of the recent onslaught of Sarah Palin news has been very interesting. I do not need to know that she once dressed as Tina Fey for Halloween. I do not care she uses Yahoo! mail. I am utterly indifferent about the 3 different Palin action figures available today on political spoof sites everywhere.
The media should have quit while they were ahead - announcing Bristol's pregnancy from her Baby Daddy whose My Space profile does not want children.
Ever since Babygate, Palin has been a bore. In fact, I could argue that all of the Britney Spears-inspired media attention Ms. Palin is getting is doing far more to raise her party's profile than anything John McCain is up to. And the GOP thinks the "liberal media" is against them. Hmph!
I am very much looking forward to the debates so we can start talking about real political issues again. Because you know what else I don't care about? Obama's love of the NBA and McCain's lobby for proper healthcare for boxers! Yes, I am forced to watch ESPN, and yes, both candidates were interviewed to talk about their favorite sports. I miss Joe Biden and his Amtrak antics.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am not a hard-nosed politician. I enjoy my news in bite-sized, lowest-common-denominator chunks. But I do think it's a bit silly to turn our politicians into entertainers. They are not entertaining people. That's why they are in charge of stuff.
And news outlets, please lay off Ms. Palin. The more you make me think I should care about her, the more I may care about her. Let's just let her fade away into Geraldine Ferraro-like obscurity, shall we?
SNOOZE!
In fact, none of the recent onslaught of Sarah Palin news has been very interesting. I do not need to know that she once dressed as Tina Fey for Halloween. I do not care she uses Yahoo! mail. I am utterly indifferent about the 3 different Palin action figures available today on political spoof sites everywhere.
The media should have quit while they were ahead - announcing Bristol's pregnancy from her Baby Daddy whose My Space profile does not want children.
Ever since Babygate, Palin has been a bore. In fact, I could argue that all of the Britney Spears-inspired media attention Ms. Palin is getting is doing far more to raise her party's profile than anything John McCain is up to. And the GOP thinks the "liberal media" is against them. Hmph!
I am very much looking forward to the debates so we can start talking about real political issues again. Because you know what else I don't care about? Obama's love of the NBA and McCain's lobby for proper healthcare for boxers! Yes, I am forced to watch ESPN, and yes, both candidates were interviewed to talk about their favorite sports. I miss Joe Biden and his Amtrak antics.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am not a hard-nosed politician. I enjoy my news in bite-sized, lowest-common-denominator chunks. But I do think it's a bit silly to turn our politicians into entertainers. They are not entertaining people. That's why they are in charge of stuff.
And news outlets, please lay off Ms. Palin. The more you make me think I should care about her, the more I may care about her. Let's just let her fade away into Geraldine Ferraro-like obscurity, shall we?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Dolls
Hey reader(s?) - I know you've been desperate for a new blog post, and I apologize. I was in San Francisco last week for a conference and some fun. Note: these were two separate events.To maximize my fun time, I decided to book myself a flight home on the redeye. I have taken one other redeye in my life, where I stabbed Cillian Murphy in the neck with a pencil, so I wasn't really prepared for overnight travel.
I have some Ambien left over from my honeymoon, and thought it would be smart to take said Ambien to sleep through my flight home. I would awake at JFK feeling revived and alert, and then head home to work in my jammies all day. Despite the use of unprescribed drugs, my plan seemed very responsible. Round 1 to Melissa.
I arrived home at 8am and wasn't feeling very energetic. Round 2 to Ambien.
I crawled into bed to nap for a few hours. I got 5 hours of sleep on the plane, and was planning to round it out with 2.5 more hours before my 10:30 conference call. After almost 8 hours of rest, I surely would feel great for the rest of the day.
Instead, my ass was kicked until noon. I woke up to 3 voicemails and my alarm blaring. Ambien wins by a knock-out.
I also required a second nap yesterday from 5-730pm. Damn you, Ambien, you've already won. Do you really need to show off?
One of the reasons I took Ambien without consideration of the consequences, is because I am reading a new book. My friend Jen K recommended that I revive my love of Jacqueline Suzanne, of Valley of the Dolls fame, by reading her other books.
I am currently reading a terrible tale called The Love Machine. It follows the same formula as Valley of the Dolls. Woman takes tranquilizers, falls in love, drinks excessively, marries for money, becomes famous, and dies before her time. It is all very glamorous. Just like my Ambien coma. Sheer glamour.
I think I am still suffering from the after-effects of the Ambien coma and/or jetlag. I am barely functional, so please forgive me for having nothing at all amusing to say. I know that Jen K will be especially disappointed that the one post where she is mentioned is so lame (she’s been lobbying since her June wedding). But then again, I did mention her twice (now three times!) so that will probably make up for it.
I’m honestly about to pass out at my desk and drool all over my Sudoku. Maybe if I take this red pill I'll feel better.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Vampire vs. Werewolf
As Melissa mentioned in some blog last mumf, we once stayed up til like 2 on a Sunday night debating the merits of vampire vs. werewolf. Sure, the benefits of each have been covered extensively in the media -- Teen Wolf, Blade, and Once Bitten come to mind -- but when you really get down to brass tax, no coverage every looks in-depth as to the day-to-day practical implications of being a werewolf vs. a vampire.
At first, it seems like a no-brainer: why not be a vampire? Benefits include: living forever, flying, being generally bad ass, and having a city all to yourself at night if you want it. There are more types of people out there than food, so the blood variety must be extensive. And you always look good in black. But seriously, how would you do it?
For me, it comes down to this: being a vampire (Blade aside) means you're pretty much cut off for half the day. Forget the garlic, silver, or no reflecting business, that's besides the point. Being a vampire means that dawn to dusk is off limits for you. No more nice fall days. No relaxing stroll through the neighborhood on a weekend afternoon. If you're a collegiate vampire, sorry broheem, but no gameday for you. You never get to see a cool purple/orange sunset, and many of the sights to see in the world are closed off.
So you can move somewhere like Iceland or Alaska or Russia where for a large chunk of the year, it's only light a few hours a day. And if you're the aforementioned collegiate vampire, you go to a Sarah Lawrence or other liberal arts school that is sans football. Fine. But how do you make a living? What's a job you can get, besides night security guard or graveyard shift WaWa sandwich artist, that pays really well? Even assuming that a night security guard job pays well, then you necessarily are spending at least 6 hours of your available 12 at work. So really you have only a couple hours a day to do anything, at a time where most people are sleeping. So it's lonely as hell.
But still, everyone thinks being a vampire is so rulio. They wear black; listen to electronic music from the late 90s, hang out with other gothic vampire types, and get to Mike Tyson who(m)ever they want whenever they're hungy. So what?
As I explained ad nauseum to Melissa that night, I'd take Werewolf any day. First of all, a werewolf pretty much is a gnarly bloodthirsty beast only during a full moon. Even if there were 2 full moons a month, that's essentially 2 nights a month of inconvenience vs. half the day everyday of a vampire's existence. No, werewolves can't fly and aren't immortal, but they can also lead a semi-normal life. Look at Teen Wolf, he got to hang out during the day and even got to surf a van. That should be enough right there.
All you really need as a werewolf is a remote place to chill for 2 nights a month. If you have an internet connection, then you know when the full moons are coming. Hell, they're even printed on most calendars you'd get at the Hallmark store. So it's a full moon on a Tuesday in April. You're a werewolf in New York city and you work as an ad executive. All you need to do is to leave perhaps an hour or two early that night and take a train upstate or drive towards Albany. Even with a modest income, you'll be able to afford some small farmland within an hour and a half of NYC. So you get as much acreage as you can with your money, and set up an air mattress or whatever to inevitably crash on. Then the full moon strikes and you become a werewolf. But the beauty of it is that you're at your remote home outside the city, either locked in your small dwelling or surrounded by enough acres that you won't alert or piss anyone off. If you experience some bloodthirst, just populate your farm with some livestock and go to town. You'll be like a drunk chick at a pizza place in the Upper East Side on a Friday night.
When you wake up back in human mode, you get your shit together and catch a train back to the city, probably in time for work. Not to mention that some full moons will fall on weekends so even fewer people will notice your absence. The great thing is that you can even spin it to make you look normal. "Yeah I like to go up to my place upstate a couple times a month just to unwind and work remotely from my office there." While you're grawing cattle, your co-workers will think you're kicking back in front a fireplace with your laptop, checking and organizing your emails.
So there you have it. Lonely, poor vampire vs. Well-adjusted werewolf with a modest vacation home upstate. Take your pick.
At first, it seems like a no-brainer: why not be a vampire? Benefits include: living forever, flying, being generally bad ass, and having a city all to yourself at night if you want it. There are more types of people out there than food, so the blood variety must be extensive. And you always look good in black. But seriously, how would you do it?
For me, it comes down to this: being a vampire (Blade aside) means you're pretty much cut off for half the day. Forget the garlic, silver, or no reflecting business, that's besides the point. Being a vampire means that dawn to dusk is off limits for you. No more nice fall days. No relaxing stroll through the neighborhood on a weekend afternoon. If you're a collegiate vampire, sorry broheem, but no gameday for you. You never get to see a cool purple/orange sunset, and many of the sights to see in the world are closed off.
So you can move somewhere like Iceland or Alaska or Russia where for a large chunk of the year, it's only light a few hours a day. And if you're the aforementioned collegiate vampire, you go to a Sarah Lawrence or other liberal arts school that is sans football. Fine. But how do you make a living? What's a job you can get, besides night security guard or graveyard shift WaWa sandwich artist, that pays really well? Even assuming that a night security guard job pays well, then you necessarily are spending at least 6 hours of your available 12 at work. So really you have only a couple hours a day to do anything, at a time where most people are sleeping. So it's lonely as hell.
But still, everyone thinks being a vampire is so rulio. They wear black; listen to electronic music from the late 90s, hang out with other gothic vampire types, and get to Mike Tyson who(m)ever they want whenever they're hungy. So what?
As I explained ad nauseum to Melissa that night, I'd take Werewolf any day. First of all, a werewolf pretty much is a gnarly bloodthirsty beast only during a full moon. Even if there were 2 full moons a month, that's essentially 2 nights a month of inconvenience vs. half the day everyday of a vampire's existence. No, werewolves can't fly and aren't immortal, but they can also lead a semi-normal life. Look at Teen Wolf, he got to hang out during the day and even got to surf a van. That should be enough right there.
All you really need as a werewolf is a remote place to chill for 2 nights a month. If you have an internet connection, then you know when the full moons are coming. Hell, they're even printed on most calendars you'd get at the Hallmark store. So it's a full moon on a Tuesday in April. You're a werewolf in New York city and you work as an ad executive. All you need to do is to leave perhaps an hour or two early that night and take a train upstate or drive towards Albany. Even with a modest income, you'll be able to afford some small farmland within an hour and a half of NYC. So you get as much acreage as you can with your money, and set up an air mattress or whatever to inevitably crash on. Then the full moon strikes and you become a werewolf. But the beauty of it is that you're at your remote home outside the city, either locked in your small dwelling or surrounded by enough acres that you won't alert or piss anyone off. If you experience some bloodthirst, just populate your farm with some livestock and go to town. You'll be like a drunk chick at a pizza place in the Upper East Side on a Friday night.
When you wake up back in human mode, you get your shit together and catch a train back to the city, probably in time for work. Not to mention that some full moons will fall on weekends so even fewer people will notice your absence. The great thing is that you can even spin it to make you look normal. "Yeah I like to go up to my place upstate a couple times a month just to unwind and work remotely from my office there." While you're grawing cattle, your co-workers will think you're kicking back in front a fireplace with your laptop, checking and organizing your emails.
So there you have it. Lonely, poor vampire vs. Well-adjusted werewolf with a modest vacation home upstate. Take your pick.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Boys Don't Make Passes...
I wore glasses for a few years after college. Contact lenses and I do not get along, and the opthamalogical technology of 1999 was just not up to par with my cranky eye needs. So I wore glasses.
And like many girls in the early 00's who wore glasses, I was called Lisa Loeb by lame turds who thought it was clever to call girls with glasses Lisa Loeb. This grew old rather quickly, so I switched to contacts about four or five years ago. The contacts still bother me, but they are now mildly tolerable, as opposed to the searing sand particles of Y2K. I long for lasik.
Because I can't tolerate my contacts for more than a few days in a row, I sometimes wear my glasses during the week. Yesterday was one of those days. I wore my glasses throughout the day, and didn't feel any Loebier than I do on any other day. But my glasses definitely give me a little extra edge.
Let's back up for a minute.
My non-verbal cues are decidedly unfriendly. Throughout my life, I have never been approached at a bar or a networking event or even stopped on the street to be asked for directions. So I have decided that I look mean and unfriendly. Which is not necessarily true, unless it's hot and there are a million people breathing on me.
This is not a recent development either. I remember a trip to a bar in college with my two friends, Eryn and Erin. In the first few moments following our arrival, some girl approached Eryn to ask a question, and then a guy approached Erin to ask something else. What they were asking is beyond me. I've never been one to ask questions at a bar, other than "will you buy me a drink?" But the point is, these strangers approached the group of us, and chose to ask me nothing at all.
After this trip to the bar, I started to notice that strangers asked my friends all sorts of things, and no one ever bothered with me. A construction worker once heckled me, not with lewd comments or wolf-whistles, but with one simple word, "smile!"
So I must give off a nasty vibe. My aura is probably black.
But yesterday, in my glasses, three people asked me for directions on the subway. THREE! This is my all-time world record. I was so excited to be asked that I went out of my way to be extra helpful. Best informed tourists ever.
I may wear my glasses more often so I can yuk it up with the people. It will be great to help people who are lost downtown and to meet new people out on a Saturday night... unless it’s hot… and as long as they don’t start calling me Tina Fey.
And like many girls in the early 00's who wore glasses, I was called Lisa Loeb by lame turds who thought it was clever to call girls with glasses Lisa Loeb. This grew old rather quickly, so I switched to contacts about four or five years ago. The contacts still bother me, but they are now mildly tolerable, as opposed to the searing sand particles of Y2K. I long for lasik.
Because I can't tolerate my contacts for more than a few days in a row, I sometimes wear my glasses during the week. Yesterday was one of those days. I wore my glasses throughout the day, and didn't feel any Loebier than I do on any other day. But my glasses definitely give me a little extra edge.
Let's back up for a minute.
My non-verbal cues are decidedly unfriendly. Throughout my life, I have never been approached at a bar or a networking event or even stopped on the street to be asked for directions. So I have decided that I look mean and unfriendly. Which is not necessarily true, unless it's hot and there are a million people breathing on me.
This is not a recent development either. I remember a trip to a bar in college with my two friends, Eryn and Erin. In the first few moments following our arrival, some girl approached Eryn to ask a question, and then a guy approached Erin to ask something else. What they were asking is beyond me. I've never been one to ask questions at a bar, other than "will you buy me a drink?" But the point is, these strangers approached the group of us, and chose to ask me nothing at all.
After this trip to the bar, I started to notice that strangers asked my friends all sorts of things, and no one ever bothered with me. A construction worker once heckled me, not with lewd comments or wolf-whistles, but with one simple word, "smile!"
So I must give off a nasty vibe. My aura is probably black.
But yesterday, in my glasses, three people asked me for directions on the subway. THREE! This is my all-time world record. I was so excited to be asked that I went out of my way to be extra helpful. Best informed tourists ever.
I may wear my glasses more often so I can yuk it up with the people. It will be great to help people who are lost downtown and to meet new people out on a Saturday night... unless it’s hot… and as long as they don’t start calling me Tina Fey.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Target
I sort of want to buy some SPAM to follow one of the many tantalizing recipes I see in my gmail.I wonder, does SPAM have a chef on staff creating tasty(?) concoctions to make my folder of junk email more enticing? Must be.
I used to work for a company with a website, so I know a thing or two about search marketing and Google Ads. And there is some human out there lovingly creating those SPAM text ads. And that person is likely very underpaid.
As a former employee of an online marketer, I know that a lot of Ivy League smarts went into building the Google Ads algorithm. But I have to say that I seem to have outsmarted Google.
Google Ads thinks that I am planning a wedding in Dallas, TX.
I see ads for "Dallas Dream Wedding" and "Gowns Near Ft Worth" all the time. As a married New Yorker, it's a little disconcerting, yet kind of awesome. I feel like I am living a double life.
One as a bitter, 30-year-old New Yorker who is about to strangle tourists and FOBs on public transpiration, and one as a 21-year-old Texan about to marry and buy a 5 bedroom home for $100,000 where I can cook SPAM Vegetable Strudel.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Leave Me Alone David Boreanaz, I'm Trying to Sleep
If sleep were an Olympic sport, Misty-May and He Kexin would be in awe of my athletic prowess. Sleep is by far my favorite activity on earth. And for those of you who think this is pathetic, you clearly never had a good night's sleep.
When I lived alone in DC for a year and a half, I would be in bed at 10pm on weeknights. Good times. No late nights at the office, no phone calls after 9:30, no one hogging a communal bathroom. Ahhh. I awoke each morning, mildly refreshed and ready to start the day after a solid 10 hours of sleep. My skin was amazing.
But now that I share my bed with a night owl, I am exhausted.
For the past few weeks, CinS has been working like a dog and getting home at all hours of the night. In an effort to be supportive, I have been staying up until around 1am so we can spend some time "unwinding" together. Now, "unwinding" is not in quotes because it is code for something sordid. It is in quotes because unwinding can involve a variety of things that bring my husband joy.
May I submit, for your reading pleasure, the things that have been keeping me up at night.
When I lived alone in DC for a year and a half, I would be in bed at 10pm on weeknights. Good times. No late nights at the office, no phone calls after 9:30, no one hogging a communal bathroom. Ahhh. I awoke each morning, mildly refreshed and ready to start the day after a solid 10 hours of sleep. My skin was amazing.
But now that I share my bed with a night owl, I am exhausted.
For the past few weeks, CinS has been working like a dog and getting home at all hours of the night. In an effort to be supportive, I have been staying up until around 1am so we can spend some time "unwinding" together. Now, "unwinding" is not in quotes because it is code for something sordid. It is in quotes because unwinding can involve a variety of things that bring my husband joy.
May I submit, for your reading pleasure, the things that have been keeping me up at night.
- Watching back-to-back Bones reruns. You know your love of Bones has piqued when you break into interpretive dance each time the theme song is played.
- Crying over the DNC on DVR. I am an emotional basketcase. I was crying throughout Michelle Obama's entire speech, and again during Hillary's. I don't know if I'll make it tonight. Listening to three politicians I've heard of, may be a recipe for disaster. I guess I love my party. Who knew?
- Spectating Geometry Wars. For those less-versed in the X-Box arcade, Geometry Wars is a seemingly low-tech game involving shapes shooting other shapes to techno music. It's very Euro.
- Pillow-debating the merits of being a vampire vs. being a werewolf. I am not kidding. CinS is going for werewolf with a remote summer home. I am going for Vampire, because it's just sexier to be undead.
CinS will be out of town tonight for business. And while I will miss him, I will very happily watch TV in bed and doze off at about 9:56. No calls after 9:30 please.
Monday, August 25, 2008
I Now Pronounce You Rulio
My husband and I went to a wedding this weekend in glamorous Pittsburgh. The wedding was great, the city was fine (despite channeling a vampire movie with zero humans on the streets), but the absolute highlight of the trip was one of the wedding's groomsmen.
The bride's 11-year old cousin is the dopest kid ever. And without a doubt, the coolest wedding guest on record.
We first met the kid on Friday night, at the rehearsal dinner. He was ridiculously friendly, confident, and likely drunk, as he mingled with dozens of strange adults. His behavior reminded me that when I was 11, I did not rule.
At the rehearsal dinner, the kid informed me that he would be doing the worm at the wedding when he was introduced as a groomsman. Rulio.
The kid played it cool during the ceremony (as he should, kudos), but at the wedding reception, he was back in action.
He kicked off the night with a jaunty strut into the room (no worm), when introduced along with the bridal party. This was quickly followed by a full-on jam to Soulja Boy's Crank Dat. For those who haven't seen the dance, it is pretty badass, particularly when executed with panache by a gangly 11-year-old white kid.
Later in the night, as the party started to die down a bit, the kid saved the day. He marched out to the dance floor, gathered a crowd, and lived up to his promise of the worm. He did the worm on a cold marble floor. Now that's dedication.
The worm got everyone so revved up that the kid was then hoisted up in the air and thrown around by his fellow groomsmen. They were practically undressing him like he was David Cassidy incarnate. But it's all fun and games until a kid cracks his head open. This is did not actually happen, mind you, but his mother may have stepped in with these wise words.
It was very refreshing to go to a wedding with a crazy kid. We have no kids in our family, so not only did we go without any Soulja Boy-style antics, we also missed out on flower girls announcing that they have to pee, and ring bearers running down the aisle at top speed. At the time, I was relieved to not have to share the spotlight with a child, but looking back, our wedding video would have been way cooler with some Persian kid doing the C-Walk.
The bride's 11-year old cousin is the dopest kid ever. And without a doubt, the coolest wedding guest on record.
We first met the kid on Friday night, at the rehearsal dinner. He was ridiculously friendly, confident, and likely drunk, as he mingled with dozens of strange adults. His behavior reminded me that when I was 11, I did not rule.
At the rehearsal dinner, the kid informed me that he would be doing the worm at the wedding when he was introduced as a groomsman. Rulio.
The kid played it cool during the ceremony (as he should, kudos), but at the wedding reception, he was back in action.
He kicked off the night with a jaunty strut into the room (no worm), when introduced along with the bridal party. This was quickly followed by a full-on jam to Soulja Boy's Crank Dat. For those who haven't seen the dance, it is pretty badass, particularly when executed with panache by a gangly 11-year-old white kid.
Later in the night, as the party started to die down a bit, the kid saved the day. He marched out to the dance floor, gathered a crowd, and lived up to his promise of the worm. He did the worm on a cold marble floor. Now that's dedication.
The worm got everyone so revved up that the kid was then hoisted up in the air and thrown around by his fellow groomsmen. They were practically undressing him like he was David Cassidy incarnate. But it's all fun and games until a kid cracks his head open. This is did not actually happen, mind you, but his mother may have stepped in with these wise words.
It was very refreshing to go to a wedding with a crazy kid. We have no kids in our family, so not only did we go without any Soulja Boy-style antics, we also missed out on flower girls announcing that they have to pee, and ring bearers running down the aisle at top speed. At the time, I was relieved to not have to share the spotlight with a child, but looking back, our wedding video would have been way cooler with some Persian kid doing the C-Walk.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Stank
My walk to work smells like sewage.
Yes, it's sad but true. The majority of my 15 minute stroll to the subway is plagued with rotting garbage. And it’s not just any garbage, it's Chinatown garbage.
They say that your sense of smell is tied most closely to your memory. I really hope that each time I smell hot, rotting trash I am not whisked back to Canal Street. I've had enough thank you.
It's not all bad, once I clear the sewage radius, my walk is relatively scent-free. But one morning, I took the route that passes behind one of SoHo's swankiest restaurants. And I was very disturbed to inhale the scent of vomit wafting on the breeze. Not a lovely croissant smell, or even something mildly offensive and food-related like rotten bananas, but vomit. This caused concern. Did someone vomit on the street after the breakfast rush? Did someone puke in their kitchen? Why was I the only one with the common sense to put my hand in front of my nose? The whole scene was very strange. But I have vowed to not eat there again.
Sorry fellow NYers. I won't reveal the restaurant. I am most certainly over-reacting and would hate to ruin your good time with these nasty thoughts the next time you decide to dine here.
I find that I have an unusually heightened sense of smell, which is a totally lame super power (as proven by Pee-Wee Herman on Pushing Daisies) that causes more problems than rewards. Some scents are so strong to my delicate nose that I get completely turned off by common-place pleasing aromas. But then there are times when my super nose pays off.
A few years ago there was a cloud of maple syrup hovering over the New York area. I am not kidding. A strange maple syrup smell permeated the air over Manhattan and I smelled it first. OK, maybe I didn't exactly smell it first, but it did start over Lower Manhattan and I smelled it before anyone else I knew.
When folks (literally) caught wind of the scent, they were concerned. Was it bioterrorism? Armageddon? But I was unafraid. If this was the end of the world, it sure did smell nice. No one is worried that the whole of Chinatown smells like sewage, so why the concern over Eggos? It seems a bit counter-intuitive. If I was Shiva the Destroyer and planned to end the world, I would certainly opt for odor of Chinatown over maple syrup any day. But maybe Shiva’s got a twisted sense of humor.
Yes, it's sad but true. The majority of my 15 minute stroll to the subway is plagued with rotting garbage. And it’s not just any garbage, it's Chinatown garbage.
They say that your sense of smell is tied most closely to your memory. I really hope that each time I smell hot, rotting trash I am not whisked back to Canal Street. I've had enough thank you.
It's not all bad, once I clear the sewage radius, my walk is relatively scent-free. But one morning, I took the route that passes behind one of SoHo's swankiest restaurants. And I was very disturbed to inhale the scent of vomit wafting on the breeze. Not a lovely croissant smell, or even something mildly offensive and food-related like rotten bananas, but vomit. This caused concern. Did someone vomit on the street after the breakfast rush? Did someone puke in their kitchen? Why was I the only one with the common sense to put my hand in front of my nose? The whole scene was very strange. But I have vowed to not eat there again.
Sorry fellow NYers. I won't reveal the restaurant. I am most certainly over-reacting and would hate to ruin your good time with these nasty thoughts the next time you decide to dine here.
I find that I have an unusually heightened sense of smell, which is a totally lame super power (as proven by Pee-Wee Herman on Pushing Daisies) that causes more problems than rewards. Some scents are so strong to my delicate nose that I get completely turned off by common-place pleasing aromas. But then there are times when my super nose pays off.
A few years ago there was a cloud of maple syrup hovering over the New York area. I am not kidding. A strange maple syrup smell permeated the air over Manhattan and I smelled it first. OK, maybe I didn't exactly smell it first, but it did start over Lower Manhattan and I smelled it before anyone else I knew.
When folks (literally) caught wind of the scent, they were concerned. Was it bioterrorism? Armageddon? But I was unafraid. If this was the end of the world, it sure did smell nice. No one is worried that the whole of Chinatown smells like sewage, so why the concern over Eggos? It seems a bit counter-intuitive. If I was Shiva the Destroyer and planned to end the world, I would certainly opt for odor of Chinatown over maple syrup any day. But maybe Shiva’s got a twisted sense of humor.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Love In An...
I am not ashamed. I get all of my news in the elevator.
I work in a schmancy office building with TV in the elevators. And the elevator TV is super-informative. Not only do I get sports scores, stock market leaders, and celebrity birthdays, but I also get a word of the day. Awesome.
But the best part about the elevator TV is the subtle continuous advertising block. While you are catching up on today's headlines (delayed by 20 minutes) your subconscious is bombarded with countless travel ads. I now have an unexplainable to fly Korea Air. Not to go to Korea, per se, just to fly around with gorgeous flight attendants serving blue martinis.
Elevator TV is way better than the years of elevator music that plagued office buildings before the advent of flat screen technology. They always bastardized the greatest stuff, like when Opposites Attract was slowed down to a ballad and piped in over mall stereo systems nationwide. I'm sorry Paula, but without the dancing cat, this song does not hold up on its own.
Elevator TV is a great addition to my life. I have no patience for the news and need it delivered in appetizing segments by Matt Lauer or via the free Metro newspaper. Sadly, there is no free paper option at my current subway entrance so without the elevator TV, I would be blissfully unaware of critical tidbits like the Georgian/Russian conflict and the age Ed Norton turned today (39, Happy Birthday Ed).
But elevator TV has gotten me into a pickle once or twice. Some news is just too good to be kept to myself. Some news inspires comments, or at the very least, murmuring. This makes for an awkward ride when others are in the elevator with me.
But such is life. It has its ups and downs.
I work in a schmancy office building with TV in the elevators. And the elevator TV is super-informative. Not only do I get sports scores, stock market leaders, and celebrity birthdays, but I also get a word of the day. Awesome.
But the best part about the elevator TV is the subtle continuous advertising block. While you are catching up on today's headlines (delayed by 20 minutes) your subconscious is bombarded with countless travel ads. I now have an unexplainable to fly Korea Air. Not to go to Korea, per se, just to fly around with gorgeous flight attendants serving blue martinis.
Elevator TV is way better than the years of elevator music that plagued office buildings before the advent of flat screen technology. They always bastardized the greatest stuff, like when Opposites Attract was slowed down to a ballad and piped in over mall stereo systems nationwide. I'm sorry Paula, but without the dancing cat, this song does not hold up on its own.
Elevator TV is a great addition to my life. I have no patience for the news and need it delivered in appetizing segments by Matt Lauer or via the free Metro newspaper. Sadly, there is no free paper option at my current subway entrance so without the elevator TV, I would be blissfully unaware of critical tidbits like the Georgian/Russian conflict and the age Ed Norton turned today (39, Happy Birthday Ed).
But elevator TV has gotten me into a pickle once or twice. Some news is just too good to be kept to myself. Some news inspires comments, or at the very least, murmuring. This makes for an awkward ride when others are in the elevator with me.
But such is life. It has its ups and downs.
that was really terrible. i apologize. but it had to be done. it's for your own good.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Petty Cabs
The most recent census data pegs New York City's population at roughly 8 million people. You can break up that 8 million in so many ways -- by race, gender, creed (whatever the balls "creed" is, maybe it means people who realize that Creed is the worst music ever and people who don't), age, etc.
To think of it, there are so many demographics groups here: white men, black children, waiters, female bank tellers, gay hedge fund managers, Broadway performers -- the list goes on.
After 3 years of living in this dump, I think I've come up with the worst demographic out of all 8 million New Yorkers: Pedicab Drivers.
Pedicabs are the dumbest thing ever. What works great on the Atlantic City boardwalk or throughout the San Diego Zoo does not translate into New York streets. They're hawking (and/or "hocking" and/or however you spell the word for selling something that sounds like a bird of prey) the dumbest service: let me bike you around a crowded street at a third of the price of a car for thrice the price.
Maybe in or around Times Square, near where I work, it can make sense. If you want the novelty of getting your tourist lardass around 9 square blocks of traffic and don't care how much it costs, then a pedicab is totally werf it.
But if you're not traveling to Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., then it makes no sense. Which is fine. But it's ridiculous when you're trying to hail a real cab and one of these buttholes pulls over on their Huffy and tries to solicit a bike ride. Dude, I'm clearly a pissed off over-stressed corporatemonger trying to get home; nothing about my demeanor says I am a tween or overweight Midwestern mom trying to experience the excitement of Times Square tourism.
Say what you want about car service drivers who try to get people hailing cabs to pay $40 to go down to the Village -- at least it's a car that is nice and comfortable. In a city that caters to people blowing money on decadent excess, that's not a big deal. But pedicabs/bike taxis/asstrons offer no service that is even close to comparable to a vehicle.
Yet, every night I'm coming home from work late, I'm somehow a magnet for a pedicab solicitation. And everytime, the driver is either (a) a Scandinavian teen or (b) Port-au-Prince's finest. This past Thursday was the worst. Dude pulled over and even though I was shaking my head 'no' furiously and saying 'no thanks,' the petty bastard wouldn't let it go.
Butthole: C'mon, I can get you wherever you want to go in 10 minutes.
CinS: No thanks, dude. I'm waiting for a car.
Butthole: C'mon, where are you going? I can take you there faster.
*OK -- the empty promise of getting me somewhere faster than a machine with an engine notwithstanding, this is where you employ the conversation-ender; you realize that you are not dealing with a rational human, and it's time to initiate the stop-gap exit strategy. I learned this one from my father many years ago. Whenever we were at a car dealership, and a salesman wouldn't take the blatant "I'm just looking" non-commital/"back the fuck up buddy"/slow your roll answer, my dad did all you can do in this situation. Make an absurd low-ball offer that makes it clear that you are not going to negotiate anymore. Case in point -- a car dealer at a Mercedes dealership keeps hounding you, so you offer "$7000 cash for the new SLK". Then the dude will back off. Back to Thursday night...
Butthole: C'mon, where are you going? I can take you there faster.
CinS: Okay, fine. If you can get me to Tribeca in less than 10 minutes for under $8, I'm in.
Butthole: Sure, get in.
CinS: Dude I was joking. Do you know how far Tribeca is from here (here = Times Sq.)?
Butthole: Of course. It's only 20 blocks.
CinS: No, it's at least 50. It's 47 blocks down to Houston, because we're on 47th St. And Tribeca is below Canal, and Canal is at least 10 blocks south of Houston. [Note to self: Scandinavian teens and Haitians both suck at using the transitive property in real-life situations.]
Butthole: No, Tribeca is like 24th street and 6th ave. I can get there in 10 min.
CinS: Dude, that's CHELSEA. Tribeca literally stands for Triangle Below Canal. As in south of Canal. How are you not getting this?
Butthole: Below Canal?
CinS: Yes, dude. Below. And if you can get me there in less than 10 minutes for $8, let's go.
Butthole: No, I can't go that fast, but I promise I can make it in 20.
CinS: Ok, how much.
Butthole: $70
Burn in hell, Haitian.
To think of it, there are so many demographics groups here: white men, black children, waiters, female bank tellers, gay hedge fund managers, Broadway performers -- the list goes on.
After 3 years of living in this dump, I think I've come up with the worst demographic out of all 8 million New Yorkers: Pedicab Drivers.
Pedicabs are the dumbest thing ever. What works great on the Atlantic City boardwalk or throughout the San Diego Zoo does not translate into New York streets. They're hawking (and/or "hocking" and/or however you spell the word for selling something that sounds like a bird of prey) the dumbest service: let me bike you around a crowded street at a third of the price of a car for thrice the price.
Maybe in or around Times Square, near where I work, it can make sense. If you want the novelty of getting your tourist lardass around 9 square blocks of traffic and don't care how much it costs, then a pedicab is totally werf it.
But if you're not traveling to Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., then it makes no sense. Which is fine. But it's ridiculous when you're trying to hail a real cab and one of these buttholes pulls over on their Huffy and tries to solicit a bike ride. Dude, I'm clearly a pissed off over-stressed corporatemonger trying to get home; nothing about my demeanor says I am a tween or overweight Midwestern mom trying to experience the excitement of Times Square tourism.
Say what you want about car service drivers who try to get people hailing cabs to pay $40 to go down to the Village -- at least it's a car that is nice and comfortable. In a city that caters to people blowing money on decadent excess, that's not a big deal. But pedicabs/bike taxis/asstrons offer no service that is even close to comparable to a vehicle.
Yet, every night I'm coming home from work late, I'm somehow a magnet for a pedicab solicitation. And everytime, the driver is either (a) a Scandinavian teen or (b) Port-au-Prince's finest. This past Thursday was the worst. Dude pulled over and even though I was shaking my head 'no' furiously and saying 'no thanks,' the petty bastard wouldn't let it go.
Butthole: C'mon, I can get you wherever you want to go in 10 minutes.
CinS: No thanks, dude. I'm waiting for a car.
Butthole: C'mon, where are you going? I can take you there faster.
*OK -- the empty promise of getting me somewhere faster than a machine with an engine notwithstanding, this is where you employ the conversation-ender; you realize that you are not dealing with a rational human, and it's time to initiate the stop-gap exit strategy. I learned this one from my father many years ago. Whenever we were at a car dealership, and a salesman wouldn't take the blatant "I'm just looking" non-commital/"back the fuck up buddy"/slow your roll answer, my dad did all you can do in this situation. Make an absurd low-ball offer that makes it clear that you are not going to negotiate anymore. Case in point -- a car dealer at a Mercedes dealership keeps hounding you, so you offer "$7000 cash for the new SLK". Then the dude will back off. Back to Thursday night...
Butthole: C'mon, where are you going? I can take you there faster.
CinS: Okay, fine. If you can get me to Tribeca in less than 10 minutes for under $8, I'm in.
Butthole: Sure, get in.
CinS: Dude I was joking. Do you know how far Tribeca is from here (here = Times Sq.)?
Butthole: Of course. It's only 20 blocks.
CinS: No, it's at least 50. It's 47 blocks down to Houston, because we're on 47th St. And Tribeca is below Canal, and Canal is at least 10 blocks south of Houston. [Note to self: Scandinavian teens and Haitians both suck at using the transitive property in real-life situations.]
Butthole: No, Tribeca is like 24th street and 6th ave. I can get there in 10 min.
CinS: Dude, that's CHELSEA. Tribeca literally stands for Triangle Below Canal. As in south of Canal. How are you not getting this?
Butthole: Below Canal?
CinS: Yes, dude. Below. And if you can get me there in less than 10 minutes for $8, let's go.
Butthole: No, I can't go that fast, but I promise I can make it in 20.
CinS: Ok, how much.
Butthole: $70
Burn in hell, Haitian.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
People are Starving in Africa
Ug. I ate too much lunch.
One of the reasons I love living in New York is because all of the chain restaurants are now required to post the calorie counts of their foods. It makes ordering very simple. Sure, I could have that sandwich for 750 calories, but no one is going to feel good about themselves at the end of the day if that happens. After all, I do need to save room for my 1,324 calorie dinner.
But the problem is, the calorie counts have spoiled me. I've been eating reasonably-sized meals for about a month now and my stomach has thanked me by not making embarrassing noises from my cubicle.
But my streak has ended.
I went for lunch today at the giant chopped salad place, where I had been ordering a more reasonably sized salad wrap instead of the 2 pound salad. When I was ordering, I forgot to order myself a wrap and got stuck with a salad the size of my head. Normally, this would be a good thing, but after so many weeks of modest portions, my stomach is a big ole bloated mess. Ouch.
So now I am faced with the awkward task of attempting to mask my belching and strange stomach noises with extra-loud typing and throat-clearing. I am not fooling anyone.
Why do we eat ourselves into oblivion? It never feels very good when you're done. (says the person who has spent the last 800 Sundays immobile and hungover)
At times like these, I always think of the competitive eater. I know those crazy Japanese folks spend their lives traveling from contest to contest to make ends meet, but what about the everyday schlub who enters the Nathan's contest every July 4th? He is not an "athlete." He does not train. He must be feeling pain when he downs dog 22. It's just not natural.
I guess the difference between them and me is that it is socially acceptable to hurl after eating 40 hot dogs in 10 minutes. Puking up a salad is a little too Tracy Gold for my taste.
And speaking of... does anyone remember that made-for-TV movie she was in where she played a girl with an eating disorder? I think that was all a little messed up. Hey, former teen star who suffered through the death of Matthew Perry and getting constantly picked on by Boner! Why don't you play a character that hits a little too close to home? You won't even get an Emmy!
Kirk Cameron's all crazy too with his Jesus-freakery. And that little blonde one? Has that kid overdosed yet or is he slated for Dancing With The Stars 7?
It's a sad day when your show's jump-the-shark character becomes your series' most famous star. You all know who I mean. That troubled youth from Mike's class, who coincidentally needed a place to live, Leonardo DiCaprio.
But I digress...
A friend of mine IM'd me once to complain about eating too much and having gas. She works in an office with one private bathroom that leaves telling signs of the previous inhabitants, if you catch my drift. I told her to go fart outside. I may take my own advice.
For the rest of the day, I will be in Bryant Park, loudly flipping the pages of a magazine and clearing my throat.
One of the reasons I love living in New York is because all of the chain restaurants are now required to post the calorie counts of their foods. It makes ordering very simple. Sure, I could have that sandwich for 750 calories, but no one is going to feel good about themselves at the end of the day if that happens. After all, I do need to save room for my 1,324 calorie dinner.
But the problem is, the calorie counts have spoiled me. I've been eating reasonably-sized meals for about a month now and my stomach has thanked me by not making embarrassing noises from my cubicle.
But my streak has ended.
I went for lunch today at the giant chopped salad place, where I had been ordering a more reasonably sized salad wrap instead of the 2 pound salad. When I was ordering, I forgot to order myself a wrap and got stuck with a salad the size of my head. Normally, this would be a good thing, but after so many weeks of modest portions, my stomach is a big ole bloated mess. Ouch.
So now I am faced with the awkward task of attempting to mask my belching and strange stomach noises with extra-loud typing and throat-clearing. I am not fooling anyone.
Why do we eat ourselves into oblivion? It never feels very good when you're done. (says the person who has spent the last 800 Sundays immobile and hungover)
At times like these, I always think of the competitive eater. I know those crazy Japanese folks spend their lives traveling from contest to contest to make ends meet, but what about the everyday schlub who enters the Nathan's contest every July 4th? He is not an "athlete." He does not train. He must be feeling pain when he downs dog 22. It's just not natural.
I guess the difference between them and me is that it is socially acceptable to hurl after eating 40 hot dogs in 10 minutes. Puking up a salad is a little too Tracy Gold for my taste.
And speaking of... does anyone remember that made-for-TV movie she was in where she played a girl with an eating disorder? I think that was all a little messed up. Hey, former teen star who suffered through the death of Matthew Perry and getting constantly picked on by Boner! Why don't you play a character that hits a little too close to home? You won't even get an Emmy!
Kirk Cameron's all crazy too with his Jesus-freakery. And that little blonde one? Has that kid overdosed yet or is he slated for Dancing With The Stars 7?
It's a sad day when your show's jump-the-shark character becomes your series' most famous star. You all know who I mean. That troubled youth from Mike's class, who coincidentally needed a place to live, Leonardo DiCaprio.
But I digress...
A friend of mine IM'd me once to complain about eating too much and having gas. She works in an office with one private bathroom that leaves telling signs of the previous inhabitants, if you catch my drift. I told her to go fart outside. I may take my own advice.
For the rest of the day, I will be in Bryant Park, loudly flipping the pages of a magazine and clearing my throat.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Won't You Be Mine?
My husband and I are not friendly. We don't make friends on vacation. We don't talk to our row-mates on a flight. And we never, ever, talk to our neighbors.
We have been living in our apartment for 3 years now and do not know a soul on our floor. Sure, there's "Z," the flaming (both in demeanor and in hair color) 30-something who blasts En Vogue and other 80's R&B at all hours. And our loud sex next-door neighbors to the left. But since we've never spoken to any of these people, I would hardly call that "knowing" our neighbors.
Ironically, the only neighbors we have spoken to are the people on the other side of our living room wall (not the loud sexers. clearly, we share a bedroom wall), and these discussions are always nasty and involve noise complaints.
It all started when we got our new TV and surround sound system. We were enjoying our electronics on a mere 25 volume when we got a knock on the door. “Please turn it down,” the neighbor said. And we obliged.
Since we hadn’t met our neighbor, we had no idea at the time that the person who came to tell us to turn it down did not actually live next door. He was just visiting.
-5 points to our neighbors for pawning off the uncomfortable task of asking us to turn down the volume.
The next incident was right after we got Rock Band. We were rocking out on a Friday night and got a call from the doorman asking us to turn it down. It was only 11:00. On a Friday. But still, we turned down the volume on the game, but continued to sing our hearts out. I was way too drunk to remember this correctly (as I see Rock Band as an all-immersive experience involving both rock and partying like a rock star), but I'm pretty sure the doorman called a second time with another noise complaint.
-10 points to our neighbors for having the doorman do their dirty work. Twice.
-25 points for being lame on a Friday night.
Have I mentioned that our neighbors have a dog? No? Well, that could be because I assumed that you and everyone within a 50 mile radius have heard their dog yap its head off on a daily basis. They also use the hallway outside our apartment as their personal dog park, so the dog can chow down on a squeaky toy at maximum volume directly in front of our door.
-15 points for raising a dog with no manners.
The guy next door also smokes cigars. In his apartment. With the door open. So the hallway and inevitably, my kitchen, reeks of cigar smoke.
-5 points for your self-important nicotine habit.
The guy next door also is a major D-bag with non-ironic mutton-chop sideburns and a spare tire. He is some kind of photo journalist who is constantly name-dropping in the elevator to our other neighbors who have been trapped into conversation with him. I really, really want to smack this guy.
This morning, he and I left our apartments at the same time and shared the elevator. After we exchanged hollow good mornings, the D-bag actually said, "I think your husband hates me." Obviously.
"Oh, really?" I feigned innocence.
"Yeah. I think it's about that dumb karaoke game. I bet you hate it as much as I do."
"No way. I love it." And anything else that you hate.
"Really!"
"Yeah, it's one of the only games we play together."
"I bet he's always playing, like, Ghost Recon or something. Well, he should go to Iraq like I did and then he won't want to play those games anymore."
I am not kidding. He actually name-dropped Iraq. -50 points.
So the residents of 14B are down 110 points for the year. And it's only August. I guarantee they make it a cool 200 by the New Year.
We have been living in our apartment for 3 years now and do not know a soul on our floor. Sure, there's "Z," the flaming (both in demeanor and in hair color) 30-something who blasts En Vogue and other 80's R&B at all hours. And our loud sex next-door neighbors to the left. But since we've never spoken to any of these people, I would hardly call that "knowing" our neighbors.
Ironically, the only neighbors we have spoken to are the people on the other side of our living room wall (not the loud sexers. clearly, we share a bedroom wall), and these discussions are always nasty and involve noise complaints.
It all started when we got our new TV and surround sound system. We were enjoying our electronics on a mere 25 volume when we got a knock on the door. “Please turn it down,” the neighbor said. And we obliged.
Since we hadn’t met our neighbor, we had no idea at the time that the person who came to tell us to turn it down did not actually live next door. He was just visiting.
-5 points to our neighbors for pawning off the uncomfortable task of asking us to turn down the volume.
The next incident was right after we got Rock Band. We were rocking out on a Friday night and got a call from the doorman asking us to turn it down. It was only 11:00. On a Friday. But still, we turned down the volume on the game, but continued to sing our hearts out. I was way too drunk to remember this correctly (as I see Rock Band as an all-immersive experience involving both rock and partying like a rock star), but I'm pretty sure the doorman called a second time with another noise complaint.
-10 points to our neighbors for having the doorman do their dirty work. Twice.
-25 points for being lame on a Friday night.
Have I mentioned that our neighbors have a dog? No? Well, that could be because I assumed that you and everyone within a 50 mile radius have heard their dog yap its head off on a daily basis. They also use the hallway outside our apartment as their personal dog park, so the dog can chow down on a squeaky toy at maximum volume directly in front of our door.
-15 points for raising a dog with no manners.
The guy next door also smokes cigars. In his apartment. With the door open. So the hallway and inevitably, my kitchen, reeks of cigar smoke.
-5 points for your self-important nicotine habit.
The guy next door also is a major D-bag with non-ironic mutton-chop sideburns and a spare tire. He is some kind of photo journalist who is constantly name-dropping in the elevator to our other neighbors who have been trapped into conversation with him. I really, really want to smack this guy.
This morning, he and I left our apartments at the same time and shared the elevator. After we exchanged hollow good mornings, the D-bag actually said, "I think your husband hates me." Obviously.
"Oh, really?" I feigned innocence.
"Yeah. I think it's about that dumb karaoke game. I bet you hate it as much as I do."
"No way. I love it." And anything else that you hate.
"Really!"
"Yeah, it's one of the only games we play together."
"I bet he's always playing, like, Ghost Recon or something. Well, he should go to Iraq like I did and then he won't want to play those games anymore."
I am not kidding. He actually name-dropped Iraq. -50 points.
So the residents of 14B are down 110 points for the year. And it's only August. I guarantee they make it a cool 200 by the New Year.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Olympic Dukakis
I'm not so into the Summer Olympics. I can't get behind swimming, track and field, or softball. And as my friend Sharon said, I used to enjoy gymnastics, but now I'm just too preoccupied with the gymnast's freaky body types.
Besides, I feel like there are more lovable characters involved in the Winter Olympics, like that Apollo Anton Ono and the Flying Tomato guy. The only Summer Olympian I know is Michael Phelps. And his ears bother me.
I remember when I was younger and both the Summer and Winter games were in the same year. Now that was exciting. We used to have to wait four whole years for an Olympics., and there was a sense that the Olympics were awesome because they were so rare. Now that there's an Olympics every other year, it's decidedly less special.
Maybe it's because I am forced to watch Sports Center every morning that I don't have Olympics fever. Perhaps if I watched one of the 17 hours of the Today Show I would feel differently. I'm sure the Today Show is full of athletic stories of hardship and perseverance. Especially the Kathy Lee hour.
Ann Curry covering the top US athletes with grace and disingenuous smiles. Matt Lauer interviewing former medalists who are too old to expect gold a second time. Al Roker forecasting the weather and air quality of Beijing. Now that would inspire me!
But no, I am stuck listening to story after story about Brett Favre. Apparently, Brett Favre is the last remaining athlete on the planet. In addition to leaving Green Bay for the Big Apple, he is also the power forward of the Indiana Fever, and the best spiker on the US Beach Volleyball team.
This NBC Olympics monopoly is really bizarre. The Olympics are arguably the biggest sporting event possible and yet the network dedicated to sports cannot cover it in real-time. It doesn't seem fair. The Disney people really screwed the pooch on that one.
Anyhow, I'm hoping to get introduced to the US Olympic darlings at some point in the next week so I can tune in and root for my country. Because watching under-developed 16 year olds flip around on a bar is much more exciting when you know their morbidly depressing back story.
Besides, I feel like there are more lovable characters involved in the Winter Olympics, like that Apollo Anton Ono and the Flying Tomato guy. The only Summer Olympian I know is Michael Phelps. And his ears bother me.
I remember when I was younger and both the Summer and Winter games were in the same year. Now that was exciting. We used to have to wait four whole years for an Olympics., and there was a sense that the Olympics were awesome because they were so rare. Now that there's an Olympics every other year, it's decidedly less special.
Maybe it's because I am forced to watch Sports Center every morning that I don't have Olympics fever. Perhaps if I watched one of the 17 hours of the Today Show I would feel differently. I'm sure the Today Show is full of athletic stories of hardship and perseverance. Especially the Kathy Lee hour.
Ann Curry covering the top US athletes with grace and disingenuous smiles. Matt Lauer interviewing former medalists who are too old to expect gold a second time. Al Roker forecasting the weather and air quality of Beijing. Now that would inspire me!
But no, I am stuck listening to story after story about Brett Favre. Apparently, Brett Favre is the last remaining athlete on the planet. In addition to leaving Green Bay for the Big Apple, he is also the power forward of the Indiana Fever, and the best spiker on the US Beach Volleyball team.
This NBC Olympics monopoly is really bizarre. The Olympics are arguably the biggest sporting event possible and yet the network dedicated to sports cannot cover it in real-time. It doesn't seem fair. The Disney people really screwed the pooch on that one.
Anyhow, I'm hoping to get introduced to the US Olympic darlings at some point in the next week so I can tune in and root for my country. Because watching under-developed 16 year olds flip around on a bar is much more exciting when you know their morbidly depressing back story.
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