I Hate Fantasy Sports

This is a “rant” that has been coming for a long time, but something last night triggered it. I realize that my only other posts to this blog so far have concerned sports in some form or another, so suffice it to say, I do enjoy watching and playing sports.

However, I think that with little exception, Fantasy Sports = the dumbest thing ever.

DISCLAIMER: I do participate in fantasy football, baseball, and basketball.
Why? Because there is one thing, and one thing only, that fantasy sports is good for, and that is keeping in touch with your friends. The football, basketball and baseball seasons collectively span the entire calendar year, so it allows me to keep in touch with two groups of friends. One is friends from high school/back home. We have 8 people in our league – 5 in LA, 1 in Chicago, 1 in D.C., and me in New York. So we are spread out a bit, and the message board allows us to: post messages to the whole group, finalize details about when someone is coming into town, post funny stories from the weekend or whatever, and generally, keep in touch with dudes we would not otherwise email or call too often, much less on a daily basis. My other “league” is for fraternity/college buddies. Same deal – dudes all over the country, but those leagues feature more “your momma”-esque jokes, some of which are wonderful and/or morbid.

So I spend a total of about 12 min. a week on fantasy sports. I log on, see if anyone has written anything, maybe change my players around for that day/week (depending on the sport, all in all takes about 1 min. at most in any event), and sometimes, I will post something too. Usually it’s a question like “who’s gonna be around the weekend of the 12th, I’m coming home” or “dude, if you are coming to NY, here is the subway you take to my house.” Obviously plenty of my posts are also “you know you are a fat choder when…” but you get the point.

So if fantasy sports is something I appreciate because it allows me to keep in touch, how could I hate it so much? Simple. Everything I have described above is a “positive externality” (Econ 10 in the house) of the fantasy sports world. On the whole, fantasy sports is really dumb, ESPECIALLY IF YOU LIKE SPORTS.

Fantasy Sports has ruined sports for me in a lot of ways. To begin with, the name is dumb as hell. Fantasy? Really? My fantasies include (in no particular order): a huge basement bar full of neon signs, being able to fly around the world whenever I want, dating exotic supermodels, winning a case in the Supreme Court, having a cool kid(s), driving a Ferrari on the Autobahn… things like that. My fantasy has never nor will never include: managing a team of athletes who would probably hate me if they actually knew me.

Big sweaty dudes dunking or hitting ground rule doubles a fantasy does not make.

Like most dudes, I like and follow the teams that I grew up with, which usually means the teams your father liked. I had two friends whose father is from St. Louis, so they follow the Cardinals. I grew up watching Laker games with my dad, so that’s a no-brainer. And most of my friends in New York grew up with fathers or parents that liked the Yankees, so there you go.

But Fantasy Sports has taken the life out of following a team, and instead, focuses the attention on random (and usually mediocre) players. Unless you have the entire Yankees line-up on your team, you’ll find yourself “caring” about whether a player on the Red Sox (i.e. Yankees’ bitter rival) had a hit that night.

Case in point. I had two roommates in Philly that were both football fans like myself. One was an Eagles fan, just like me. Living in Philly, obviously, Eagles games were televised. But while I was watching the Eagles game, he was sitting on the couch with his laptop open, checking the latest stats. “Oh dude, Fred Taylor just rushed for 4 yards.” Or, “Sweet! Rob Bironas just kicked his third field goal.”

Which brings me to last night. I went to a Yankees game with two friends, both of whom are Yankees fans. Now I am not a Yankees fan by any stretch, but, I do like watching a ballgame a few times a season, it is the last year of Yankee Stadium in New York, and it was a nice spring night. (Plus, I generally support any New York team provided they are not playing one of ‘my’ teams because it’s always more fun when your city is in the playoffs/wins championships, etc.) And they were playing the Tigers, who I couldn’t care less about, so why not root for the Yankees?

There we are, standing in line for our dogs and beers, and some choder with a Yankee hat on asks my friend (actual verbatim): “Do you know if Curtis Granderson [infielder for the Tigers] had a hit already? He’s on my fantasy team.” My friend said he didn’t know, but immediately conveyed to us that he wished that this so-called Yankee fan burn in hell slowly. Not because of his betrayal of the team or whatever sports nostalgia reason, but purely because that dude was the lamest human being ever to walk to the Earth when he asked that question.

Fantasy Sports (the sports part of it) suck. You are not a real GM. Instead of wasting hours on fantasy sports trying to find the best players for the lowest value, why don’t you just quit your job and try to be a real GM? That would be a better use of your time.

So would spending 30 minutes to whine about fantasy sports on a blog that only your wife and a couple of friends read. Reality Pwn.

Guest Star

Our friend Eric has been salivating over this blog since its inception one month ago, and has repeatedly asked for a user name so he could post. Not being a legal Blogtari, I had to decline. But seeing as he practically lives in our apartment and spends his non-apartment time with my husband anyway, I guess he's an honorary member of the family.

Eric also deserves mucho propos for his determination to be published. Eric posted a comment to one of our Blogtari posts that is less of a comment and more of a stand-alone post. It's got all the grammatical prowess of a classic Blogtari post, and so I must share it with you all.

Thank you Eric for your readership, your spell check, your dedication to Facebook, your way with the ladies, and most importantly, thank you for making today's post so effortless. I really didn't have much time anyway.

Facebook Rebuttal - by Eric Blogtari

I just had a moment of online clarity. I have 202 friends on facebook and I've been checking out this new hip Facebook chat feature.

So, the last three times I've logged onto facebook, I have clicked the chat button to see who of my friends were available to converse with me. Was thinking of opening a few conversations with something to the effect of, "hey isn't this new chat thing cool, we are such pioneers." Sadly, however, at no point during these three occasions was anyone online who I had the slightest desire to converse with.

I think this must be a testament to the current state of being for social networking in which we have hundreds of friends from all points of life (including ex's, that random
guy you met that time at that networking event and were too nice to click "decline," and in some cases people you really don't know but thought there was a chance you were just being forgetful so you hit "accept" and then later realized you were right and don't know the person at all).

This is the equivalent of having 1,000 channels and 50 Ondemand channels and yet there is nothing on, except different, you know, because its actual people you're supposed to be friends with. Anyway, since I know no one is listening, I'm gonna go accept that latest request-- 203 friends may change everything.

You Know It's Time to Burn Your Pants When...

It's Tribeca Film Festival time here in NY, and my annual quest to rub up against indie stars began this past Friday at the premiere of From Within.

Since I'm no longer working in Tribeca, I was a few days late in purchasing tickets this year, and so none of the films I'm seeing are actually in Tribeca. Touché DeNiro. And because the film venue was out of my element, I was unsure if this film would be treated like every other TFF premiere - bedazzled with paparazzi and stars in hideous Project Runway gowns.

ALSO, this past Friday came at the end of a very long week. A week that called for baggy pants.

So now you know my mindset as I left the house on Friday in puke-green cargoish pants, a purple track jacket, and elf shoes. I simply could not be bothered to look nice. And I was very confident that Laura Allen, Adam Goldberg, and Rumer Willis would NOT be in attendance.

Well, you know what they say. One out of three ain't bad...

Not 10 minutes after we arrive, a van pulls up and the cast of the film climbs out in dapper suits and Project Runway gowns. Damn it.

It was the usual rigmarole of indie casts. People that looked entirely unfamiliar, but were well-coiffed and decidedly the cast. My friends spotted two familiar faces atop 6-foot, willowy bodies. Apparently some gangly twins from America's Next Top Model were in the movie. You go girls! Oh, and I can see your nipples.

And just past the twins, we saw Rumer Willis. She actually looked quite beautiful. Thank you itchy hair extensions. (more on this later)

The cast had arrived, the paparazzi were shooting, and we entered the theatre. We strategically chose seats directly behind the row that was reserved for the cast.

Laura Allen was at the end of the row. I calmly explained to my friends that she is the star that gets killed off my favorite cable dramas, The 4400 and Dirt. One of the male leads sat right in front of my friend Jen and Rumer Willis sat right in front of my friend Gloria. Gloria was very excited and inconspicuously snapped a photo of Rumer's hairpiece with her cameraphone.

We were all a twitter. Our spirits did not dampen as Rumer began to pick at her head and continue to do so for the entire film. But there was something much more exciting on the horizon... As we were getting settled, in walks Bruce Flippin' Willis! BRUCE WILLIS!

My love of Bruce Willis cannot be contained within the internet universe that holds this blog. Jen and Gloria's love for Bruce Willis also knows no bounds. So you can just imagine the severe hyperventilation that occurred moments before the film as Mr. Willis' gorgeous head glinted in the theatre lights. Glorious!

But by the time the lights went up for cast Q&A, I realized something. I was dressed like a schlub. A lesbian schlub.

I was finally in a position to make eyes at Bruce Willis, and I was wearing the worst outfit ever. And it was Passover. So of course I hadn't gone to the bathroom in a solid week.

And there it was. My big moment. Squandered.

I called my husband after the movie to tell him what happened. He reassured me that I am beautiful. I sighed happily.

When I arrived at my buddy's place after the movie to see my loving husband, he laughed in my face when he saw what I was wearing. Then he hugged me with great sympathy, and whispered in my ear,

"You can make eyes at as many celebrities as you want, honey. As long as you always wear this outfit, I have nothing to worry about."

No Facebook, I Do NOT Know Rachel Rosenbloom Goldfarb!

I love Facebook. I am on it every single day from 30 to 120 minutes, depending on my mood. It's quite pathetically awesome of me.

One of my favorite Facebook features is the "People You May Know" section of my home page. In my early days of Facebook (all of one month ago), I discovered many people I actually knew and have since befriended. Thank you Facebook. I can now stalk all sorts of folks I never would have thought to seek out on my own. And isn't stalking always more fun when it's someone you don't see everyday?

But these days, my social network seems to be tapped out. Faceboook is incessantly recommending the same 10 people. None of whom I have heard of before.

But there does seem to be a pattern here. All of these "people I may know" have the most ridiculous Jewish names ever. It's a little crazy. I know that I am a Jew who lives in New York and went to a predominantly Jewish college and joined a 99% populated Jewish sorority, but COME ON! I have a Muslim husband for G-d's sake! I lived with a Chinese chick! My co-workers live in Texas and shoot things! Throw me a bone here Facebook.

I think this is a sign from Moses. I either need to A) lead some kind of youth group in my spare time instead of Facebooking, or B) make some new friends ASAP. I think I'm gonna spend the weekend eating ham and cheese at a singles bar.

Sports Dude

Since when did I become the “sports guy” at my office? This sucks. Somehow I pigeon-holed myself into becoming the dude everyone feels compelled to talk about sports with. First, a disclaimer: I enjoy watching and playing sports. But I will never understand people who attach their success/happiness/sense-of-self-worth in life with their team’s success.

Like Tom Brady throwing a touchdown and dating models somehow makes a cab driver’s life in South Boston better.

I consider myself a knowledgeable NBA fan, with the Lakers as my all around favorite sports team. (As an aside, what’s not to like about the Lakers? They’re the only consistently legit professional sports team in LA, have sweet yellow jerseys, and with the exception of Bird, Jordan and a few others, have featured the best players in the NBA for the past twenty years.) I also follow the Philadelphia Eagles, my college football team, and international club soccer, but that’s about it.

And I guess it’s my fault, too. I play on a co-ed soccer team, I started the office softball team, and I’m a dude (we have a lot of women in my office). But still, why do I have to be the sports dude at work?

Every day, without exception, one or both of two guys I work with stop by with the daily sports chat, which is torture, especially since I often am forced into pretending to care. Worse still, the combination of the two covers all horrible bases.

The first is the “I follow all sports and all teams” guy. He is like a lame version of SportsCenter: instead of discussing sports news, scores, and updates from relevant topics such as the NBA playoffs, the Super Bowl or March Madness, he feels compelled to wax poetic on topics such as: Iona Women’s College Basketball, the Little League World Series, and Division III lacrosse. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I did get a Temple v. Xavier Women’s basketball report once. At least he enjoys watching the games and I guess it makes him happy, but it’s relentless.

The other guy is similar, but instead of covering all sports, he focuses on all things sports relating to his hometown. Wait for it…. Cleveland. “The Mistake by the Lake” as I have heard it is referred to. Every morning, “Did you see the Indians’ game?” First off, that offends my past, present, and future soul – to think that if I were to follow any baseball team day in, day out, that it would be the Indians. The only Indians team I’ve ever liked is the one featuring Willie Mays Hayes, Roger Dorn and Rick Vaughan. (Please tell me you got that one.) Anyway, I have since learned more than I care to admit about the Indians, the Cleveland Browns, and of course, his favorite topic, LeBron. (If you happen to be reading this and follow the NBA, I hope you also realize that while LeBron is great, he is no Kobe, he sucks on D, can’t hit clutch shots [yet], and racks up his wins against the likes of the Milwaukee Bucks and the Knicks).

So, there is no hope for my Sports Dude status. As much as I try to underscore that I do not follow neither Iona Women’s College Basketball nor monitor what LeBron had for breakfast this morning, I know that my status as sports dude is cemented. In fact, just while writing this, each of the two independently stopped by my office to share their thoughts on tomorrow’s NFL Draft, which of course, is icing on the cake considering that it’s a bunch of idiots sitting in Radio City Music Hall for 2 days watching team executives briefly announce people’s names.

Then again, while talking about sports when you don’t want to or don’t care about the sports being discussed might be miserable, at least it kills 7 minutes of the day where I’m not talking about work.

Foot Fetish

April is my favorite footwear month. Everyone is just so dang confused.

As a born-and-bred East Coaster, I have a twice-yearly ritual that generates serious mockery from my West Coast friends and those blessed with a larger closet. Each spring and fall I switch my closets, swapping my sweaters and wool socks for t-shirts and sandals. And once I switch, I refuse to go back.

You will not see me in boots after April 15. I don't care if there is a freak snow storm and my toilet water turns to ice, I will not wear a shoe that is higher than my ankle.

I do not wear flip-flops after October 1. I will cram my tootsies, sweating and gasping for air, into a closed-toe sneaker despite global warming.

But that's just me. Most of the universe is not so anal-retentive or closet-space-challenged.

Case in point, my ride to work today.

On the subway I saw many women, as I do each day. But today, the array of footwear was outrageously complex.

First there were the flip-floppers. The flip-floppers are girls after my own heart. They have clearly switched their closets for spring and are rocking peppy pedicures for their commute. I have an especially soft spot for the casual flip-floppers like myself, who prefer comfort to fashion for the grueling urban jungle.

I also spotted some fancy-flops. I personally do not wear flat shoes and am condemned to travel in flip-flops or sneakers, but those blessed with great gams wear enviably cute and comfortable flats all day long. The fancy-flops are a new find for me. These flip-flops are patent leather or metallic and are probably as painful as my heels but look deceptively comfortable.

Then there were the regular flats, which I find to be the most appropriate shoe for spring, but I don't wear them for fear of looking like a midget, so I will second the appropriateness of the flat with a peep-toe heel.

An interesting note on today's flats. I've seen a lot of flats with what looks like an elastic fabric "trim" around the foot area. I've seen so many the past few days that I thought it was some new, ugly shoe trend. And then it hit me. These girls are wearing peds! Like my mom used to wear because she thought they didn't show outside her shoe, but soon learned better. And I thought I was living in Manhattan!

There were still some sneaker girls, and although I switch from sneakers to flip-flops, I'm sure people with bunions or chipped toe-polish do not, so I will give them a pass.

All in all, I was pretty satisfied with the spring footwear today, but then the doors opened at 34th Street.

A train must have arrived from Canada, because just about every woman who got on the subway was wearing boots! It will be 77 degrees today. This is unacceptable!

I do NOT understand girls that wear sundresses and knee boots. Maybe I'm missing something.

Watch, I will meet my friends for happy hour tonight and they will all be in sundresses and knee boots. And I will eat my hat.

But the moral of the story is this. When you live in a deciduous forest, the seasons change. And your closet should change with them. If you don't like it, move to LA.

I Smell Like A Cab

Despite the beautiful spring weather of late, I have yet to soak up any rays and am left looking sickly and pale.

I didn’t think I looked that bad until I visited the phosphorescent ladies room at my office on my way to lunch today. I looked like a zombie. A zombie who apparently has not slept - or eaten brains - for about a decade.

I promptly marched to the Sephora by my office and purchased some powdered soul in a box. I even had the make-up lady apply the soul all over my face with a giant brush so that I could stop terrorizing small children on 42nd Street.

I felt instantly better, as if I had eaten the brain of Einstein himself. I felt so good, in fact, that I wandered around the Sephora looking for other life-affirming, springtime treats.

I need a new summer fragrance, so I decided to try one out at the Sephora. I spritzed myself with something light and flitted happily around the store smelling yummy and looking like I'd been outdoors in the past 4 months. My day was starting to turn around.

But now it is several hours later, and the perfume's lovely top-notes of peony and patchouli have faded. And what I am now left with is the unmistakable smell of pine. And it's driving me crazy.

I guess this is what’s called a "woody" fragrance, but this is ridiculous. I've gone from flesh-eating zombie to fertilizer-eating evergreen within 2 hours.

I want to wash it off, but the smell is so engrained in my nose that I won’t be able to escape even with sanitary pressure points.

It looks like my well-intentioned trip to Sephora has backfired. That’s what you get for stealing your soul from a little paper box.

Plug Alert!

Unlike us Blogtaris, I have friends who have blogs that are about something. Whether they are saving the world or saving a new mom's sanity, these ladies have something meaningful to say. And more often than not, meaningful = product placement.


And so I am inspired to do some product placement of my own. Ahem....


I am obsessed and in love with Teavana teas. They are million-dollar loose teas that are sold at the King of Prussia mall (and probably hundreds of other locations, but KofP is my mecca). They have a gagillion teas, and lucky for me, most are of the decaffeinated variety.


Did you know white tea can help reduce signs of aging? A cup of Lavender Dreams is like drinking a steamy cup of George Michael's Diamond Cream. But without the internal bleeding.


Did you know we drank roobios tea in Africa and now enjoy it flavored with real dried blueberries every night? Did you know that my entire pantry now smells like a giant blueberry? Did you know that this is actually quite off-putting?


Did you know that green tea isn't as good for you as you think it is? Did you know not everything from Asia is healthy? Especially not the hundreds of elderly Chinese at my neurologist's office on Canal Street.


Did you know that mate tea is better than Red Bull? Did you know you won't crash after drinking a cup, AND you won't have a creepy yellow tongue? Did you know that the two cost the same per ounce? Did you know that a buzz without Red Bull mouth is priceless?


I bet you didn't know any of these things. And now you do. That's the beauty of product placement. An unintentional education.

Enjoy the Sunshine! If You Dare...

First, I'd like to give props to the old ball and chain for his first post. I'm sure no one is surprised that it is about intramural soccer.

Second, I'd like to discuss the glory and curse of springtime in Manhattan.

It's about 75 degrees today, one of the first nice days in the city, and the world is abuzz with joy and new sunglasses.

Coporate monsters are filling the streets, buying $10 lunches, and scouring Bryant Park for a place to dine.

"What a good idea," they cry. "Let's eat lunch in the Park today!"

"Surely, no one else will have this highly original idea, and if they do, the
weather will put me in such a great mood that I certainly won't show violence
towards my fellow man while standing in line for a burrito."

Oh you simple, Vitamin D-deprived souls.

I've never seen my street so crowded. I've never seen a line for a lunch spot wrap around the corner. I've never seen so many people pretend, through gritted teeth, to be enjoying the weather. It's just too much.

I am one of the chosen few who is not enraged today. But then again I have the common sense to eat at my desk and avoid the deathmatch ring that is Bryant Park. I may run into trouble later, however, when I need to get to the train station carrying two large suitcases full of winter clothes that won't fit in my tiny, over-priced apartment.

Gotta love the city in the springtime.

Heartbreak and Happiness: A Tale of Co-ed Intramural Soccer

There I was, just sitting there. In all my games, I always stood on the sideline throughout the entire game -- shouting out at someone and no one in particular. If I couldn't be on the field, then maybe yelling "man!" would let a teammate know a defender was charging them, or that "backdoor!" let our defenders know a striker was sliding behind our back line. Always standing, but not last night. For the first time, I came out of the game with a couple minutes left, and took a seat on the turf along the fence. I tried not to think about the game, but instead, let the cool breeze wash over me while getting comfortable on the padding provided by the rubber turf pellets. After all, we were down 3-1 in a game that felt like 10-1, and against a team that either was putting on a passing clinic or was just toying with us.

I thought to myself, "That's it. No more soccer. This is my last season." Why bother with the effort, the money, the time -- only to be demoralized by a group of strangers? Surely, there are better ways to spend a Thursday night in Manhattan. I thought about all of this while coming to the sad realization that I'm not good at soccer, that I'm overweight and can't keep up out there with everyone else, and that my hand-foot coordination is mediocre at best. I specifically considered the fact that the best thing I had done so far that night was block a couple shots with my butt. "At least our jerseys match nicely," I thought. Ordering jerseys and fronting $1400 for a team registration fee -- those are what I bring to the table. Sure, going to the bar afterward is always fun, and seeing everyone once a week is something I look forward to, but was it all worth the dejection of being slaughtered for 44 minutes after a long day of work? That's what was running through my mind at three and a half minutes left in what was inevitably a one-sided victory.

But then, something strange and unexpected happened.

A goal with two minutes left came out of nowhere, and put us down only 3-2. Respectable, I thought. It'll look a lot closer on paper than what occurred on the field. I'll stand back up. Applaud this valiant effort from my teammates. Sure, it'll be too little, too late, but it's nice nonetheless. Of course, the other team will wise up, play lock down defense, and kill the remaining two minutes on the clock.

And then, it really happened.

A ball cleared up the middle ended up being the perfect pass, leaving Josh 1 on 1 with their goalie as the two scrambled for the loose ball near the net. Pre-game pitchers and mid-game cigarettes notwithstanding, Josh slid in, punching the ball into their net and tying the game with a minute or so to spare.

A 3-3 draw is what the website will show as the result, but it felt like we won the whole thing last night. We are in that team's head now, and know we can beat anyone out there. This is what the Giants must've felt like after barely losing to the Patriots at the end of the regular season last year. Sure, they didn't win, but a game like that turns it all around.

I take it all back. That is a great way to spend a Thursday night in Manhattan.

And I'm never sitting down at a game again.

Slip-N-Slide

Question: Do women wear slips anymore?

Answer: YES

I was walking to the train this morning and saw the woman in front of me wearing a skirt that came above the knee, with sheer hose and a slip dangling out the bottom. I checked her other items, desperately seeking striped legwarmers or pink highlights to prove that the visible slip was the next big hipster craze, but she looked as "normal" as could be. For someone wearing a slip.

I don't understand the purpose of a slip, especially in this day and age. Perhaps a slip was used under sheer or tight fabrics so the ladies of yore wouldn't show too much junk. Perhaps a slip was worn to smooth unsightly bulges. Perhaps a slip was just something that felt nice and silky under a scratchy Amish wool skirt.

The slip probably had many good uses at some point, but surely one does not need to double up with a slip AND sheer hose, which would alone serve the purpose of said slip in any of the above examples.

I had a slip recommended to me once, and because I cannot wrap my brain around wearing one, I ignored the advice and quit my job instead.

I was interning in the ghetto one sultry DC summer, and had to hoof it 20 blocks to my office from the Metro. Needless to say, I dressed in office-appropriate sleeveless blouses and skirts so I would not melt into the molten pavement of the Alexandria projects.

My office was spread across two stories and had a large spiral staircase in the middle to join the floors. And some perv timed his day so that he could look up my skirt as I descended the staircase. As horrifying as this sounds, I do believe that I had not yet discovered my love of the thong at this tender young age, and so I wasn't all that traumatized upon hearing the news.

What did traumatize me, however, was my boss's recommendation for me to wear a slip under my skirts to avoid this from happening again.

I had a bad reaction to her suggestion.

• How the hell was a slip going to prevent someone from looking up my skirt? Wouldn't he just as easily look up the slip?
• Why do I need to wear an extra, unneeded layer of clothing in 100 degree heat with 97% humidity?
• Why was I the one given a stern talking to? Was there not someone at this workplace sexually harassing interns?

So after much thought and consideration, I realized that this slip-requiring job was not for me. I told my boss that I got Mono so I could leave gracefully and still use them for a recommendation for my next internship... where I planned to wear pants.

Cheesesteaks in September Can Eat My Poo

My silly husband refuses to participate in this blog. I feel that it is only fair for him to participate, seeing that this blog's genesis is a last name that I stole from him.

But he won't do it. He feels his rants are too derogatory and spirit-crushing for this audience. I don't know what kinds of G-rated fools he thinks are reading this, but since most of you know him, I doubt your delicate constitutions will be tarnished by reading the same garbage you hear on any given Saturday night.

And since he won't blog himself, I feel the need to do it for him....

This Blog is Lame

(in the voice of Cheesesteaks in September)

Oh Jesus. My wife has a blog.

I am Melissa and everyone needs to know how awesome I am every day on my
blog.

I live in New York and make observations. I'm real observant! No one else
can observe things as well as me. This is why I have a blog.

Oh Moses, I am really going to try and blog about something awesome today, like maybe about American Idol or that How I Met Your Mother made me cry last night.

(For those of you who do not know my husband, all sentences after "My wife has a blog" are meant to be read in the CinS imitating Melissa voice. I do not mean to imply that my husband cried during How I Met Your Mother. Yes, that was me.)

But wait! I just observed that my cubicle neighbor is taking a poo. That would be great for my blog. I can even make a sassy pun about feces.

I'm sure if he ever actually blogged, his tale would be much more civil, and may actually be about something. But the world will never know....

Cheddar Bay Biscuits ROCK!

I met a friend for lunch today at the Red Lobster. Yes, I'm well aware that I live in the veritable restaurant capital of the universe, and that the Red Lobster can be found in multiple sub-par suburbs throughout the Grain Belt. But I am also aware that the Lobster is a feel-good romp through fat-doused seafood and sugary cocktails. And sometimes, your Monday just needs some Lobster.

The Lobster of choice is located in Times Square. This means three stories of Lobster, complete with a giant neon lobster set against rolling neon waves that my husband would sell his soul to tack up in our mythical garage, where all things neon go to die.

And at the Times Square Lobster, my gal-pal and I were definitively the only New Yorkers in the joint. Even the staff was painfully transplanted from Missouri. And I mean my-waiter-just-ingested-a-small-planet Missouri, not St. Louis Missouri.

At the Lobster, you can spend just $20 and gorge yourself on shrimp, crab legs, Caesar salad, and the best damn biscuits this side of my aorta. And although the seafood is dry and the asparagus is skinny, you are still sublimely happy. There's a lot to be said about eating corporate-tested recipes alongside your fellow man.

I've never been to the Lobster outside of New York, but I can't imagine any other location being as satisfying and inspiring. I hear that most Lobsters incur a one-hour waiting period and are packed with obese families in elastic-waist pants. My Lobster, however, is filled with tourists in their big-city finery looking for a little piece of home in the Big Apple.

And the tourists are happy. They are comfortable. They know what to order. There are no pesky adjectives on the menu, or fancy ingredients like a remoulade.

Because the tourists are happy, I am happy. Although I wish I could join them to flit off to see the Legally Blonde matinee, just dining alongside them fills me with peace.

Forget Disneyland. The Red Lobster is the happiest place on Earth.

...And That Was The Last Good Deed I Ever Did

I was flying to LA last night on one of the few planes that actually took off from JFK, when I was presented with a karmic dilemma.

As I was settling in to my luxurious aisle seat close to the front of the plane with perfect viewing-distance from the TV screen, a flight attendant approached to ask if I would give up my seat so a woman could sit with her family. The catch: her seat was in the last row of the plane.

I've been feeling generous and compassionate lately, so I offered my seat - only after confirming that my new last-row chair would recline. The answer was yes, and so I hiked back 15 rows and settled in yet again.

In my new seat, things weren't so bad. The gentlemen next to me were of normal stature, the hipster-male flight attendants were showering me with affection, and my new book was riveting. Karma was smiling down upon me. I was the Earl Hickey of American Airlines.

I was a very happy passenger for about 3 hours. They saved me a sandwich. When I declined the sandwich (having already spent $15 on an airport tuna salad) they brought me a bowl of warmed nuts from first class. I was comped 2 beers and headphones. Life was good.

And then, it happened. We hit horrible turbulence. The movie was one that I actually wanted to see, but my chair was broken and I had no sound. My book lost its luster. My iPod was dead. The "advanced" Sodoku puzzle from In Touch magazine kicked my ass. My pen died. Someone took a giant dump in the bathroom not 2 feet from my nose.

If a crying baby dropped from the ceiling like an oxygen mask and spit-up on my nose, it would not have surprised me. This was the worst flight ever.

How on earth could the universe treat me this way? Had I not graciously allowed a woman to sit with her family on a painstakingly long cross-country journey? Had I not sacrificed the sound of National Treasure: Book of Secrets so that the bond of family could survive in this cold, cruel world? What more did the universe want from me?

Apparently, the universe wanted me to land 40 minutes late, wake my parents at 11:45 pm, and be the last person to deplane on my flight of 300 passengers.

But you know what else the universe wanted? It wanted my suitcase to be the first off the plane.
Aaaaaah. Karma.

I Can Sell Ice to an Eskimo... er, Inuit

This afternoon, I was walking down the street when a guy stopped to ask where I get my haircut. As you know, my hair is quite the topic of conversation, so naturally, I thought this was an innocent question.

"In Philadelphia," I replied.
"Well, you can get your haircut right here in New York by one of the top 10 stylists in the country!"

Oh crap. I fell for the sidewalk sting.

It turns out this guy was a salesperson peddling $400 hair and spa packages. After telling him several times that I didn't have time, was on my way to a meeting, and just flat out wasn't interested, I finally put my foot down, walked forward, and thanked him for his time.

Yes, I THANKED the salesman for his time.

He was selling me a ridiculously unnecessary item, albeit for my own beautification, and I thanked him. Why did I not only feel the need to apologize at my disinterest, but also thank someone harassing me on the street?

He complimented my coat.

I recently took a new job in sales, and I think I can learn a thing or two from this super-aggressive Fekkai-peddler. Sure, he didn't close the deal. Yes, at one point he randomly mumbled the names of all the retail stores across the street. And certainly, he didn't enunciate. But what he did achieve was a reaction from his customer.

My new plan: compliment the coat. I think I may be screwed this summer.

She's Just Bein' Miley

My iPod is boring.

I have thousands of songs, but I feel like I'm stuck hearing the same crap over and over again. Maybe this is a sign that all my music sounds the same. My husband would certainly agree, but then again, all his SoCal punk crap sounds the same to me.

In an effort to stimulate my ears, I downloaded some new music to my iPod last night and have been "enjoying" it all day. I grabbed the new Raconteurs, which is sort of enjoyable, but their music always needs to grow on me to appreciate it fully. I also snagged the new Panic! At The Disco, which I was CRAZY excited about, but it is whiney and slow. I should have taken the new naming construction of their song titles (from 20 words to 3) as a bad sign.

And after all that alterna-rock that sounds like everything else on my iPod, I downloaded two treats. The new Madonna / Justin Timberlake song that makes me want to bedazzle my purple unitard with "ThugLife," and Miley Cyrus.

Yes, Miley Cyrus is on my iPod. And I am not ashamed to admit it. Mostly....

Let me first explain to you my love of Miley Cyrus. Yes, I love her giant-gummed smile, her pandering to TMZ at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, and her wig-donning alter-ego, Hannah Montana. But what I love most about Miley is that when I first heard "See You Again," I thought it was the worst song ever to become my favorite song.

When I learned that this ingenious song, filled with synthesizers and echoes and the phrase, "she's just bein' Miley," was "created" by Ms. Cyrus, I was thrilled. Good for you Miley Cyrus to make an old, pop-hating lady like me rock out like an 11-year old with 3-D glasses. I feel like I can baby-sit someone now and be relatable. Or go to a Bat-Mitzvah.

I bet there are hundreds of girls planning Hannah Montana / Miley Cyrus Bat Mitzvahs this year. And the truly lucky girls will be able to afford to give their guests hit pink iPod nanos filled with Miley Cryus tunes.

Short N Sassy

It's totally gross outside. The kind of day that makes one reconsider their highly-stylized Posh Spice haircut.

My hair's been gone for about 2 months now, and I think it's very strange that my haircut is a common topic of conversation. Last week, I ran into someone I hadn't seen for a while and we must have talked about my haircut for a solid hour.

How much did you cut off? (see before and after photos at right)

When did you decide to do it?

Is it easy to style?

I wonder if I suddenly showed up somewhere with crazy long hair if people would react the same way....

Does it reach your ass?

How long does it take to blowdry?

Are you a hippie now?

It may be that when you don't actually have much to say to anyone, it is best to talk about glaringly obvious physical changes. The same thing happened to my husband when he grew a beard for the winter. But could you imagine gabbing about other glaringly obvious physical changes like weight gain, acute acne, or baldness?

When are you gonna upgrade those pant to a size 10?
Doesn't Proactiv help festering boils too?

When are you just gonna shave it all off and stop looking like a child molester?

But I guess small talk is better than no talk at all. Especially when someone's complimenting your new hair.

A Snapshot of NY Living

I work in midtown Manhattan, right by Bryant Park, and my subway lets me out about a block and a half from my destination. But what a block and a half it is!

First, there's a migrant worker dressed as a chicken passing out coupons to Ranch 1 on the corner. This chicken has been out all week and each day looks increasingly defeated. The strangest part about the chicken is that he's out at 9am. Who on earth is craving cutlets first thing in the morning? Maybe that's why he's having problems getting rid of his stash of coupons.

Once your mind starts reeling over the chicken, you can instantly find solace in the local sidewalk preacher. She LOOOOOVES her some Jesus. She also seems to love plastic fetuses in all stages of gestation. Maybe she thinks they're her congregation. I learned all about Easter from the sidewalk preacher, and now she's moved on to general Jesus good-deedery. But never a mention of the fetuses. Not even an informative sign.

There are also a startling number of amputees on my block. They are all missing a leg. If I was missing a leg, I'd totally rock a Heather Mills and have many legs with varying toe-pointedness so I can wear all kinds of cute shoes. And I'd also have a peg-leg. A traditional wooden peg-leg would be awesome. I'd probably rock a Heather Mills for the peg-leg too and involve all different shellacs.

The last highlight of my walk is the sassy, topical homeless man. I have a strong suspicion that he's not actually homeless because I only see him occasionally - usually when some glaring NY Post headline dominates an entire week of news. Por exemplo, this gem of a sign: "I only need $4300 to get a girl like Spitzer."

Oh Times Square. You are filled with thousands of tourists each day, but what they don't know is that the best sightseeing in Manhattan happens in the meager stretch from Broadway to 6th Avenue on 42nd Street.

Idol Dish

In case anyone cares, I watched American Idol last night. Here's what I got out of it:

• I don't know any Dolly Parton songs other than the neglected 9-to-5
• Carly's husband should be cast in a Lifetime movie as the scary tatooed man with a heart of gold
• My boy David Cook isn't actually balding, as demonstrated by his new hairstyle
• Ramiele continues to flaunt her chubby knees
• My husband has a low-tolerance for my Idol obsession and would rather be playing Rock Band

Who's The Man?

My husband and I "hosted" a dinner last night to celebrate the end of the Persian New Year. A bunch of friends joined us to indulge in meat, dip, and bad wine. But my favorite part of the entire night was hailing a cab in the ridiculous thunderstorm that erupted during the dessert course.

There I was, with three dudes, hiding and shivering under one of NYC's many scaffolds, waiting for an empty cab. Three passed us during the 15-minute wait, leaving us stranded and moist. Why did these cabbies foresake us? Because we were cowering in the corner like a bunch of wimps (granted, wimps is not the most accurate word choice here, but for the sake of this blog's PG-13 rating, I'll go with it).

Realizing that the "men" weren't going to move until the skies cleared, I darted out into the rain and leapt in front of a speeding cab. Victory! But as I climbed in, I noticed that the guys were gone. Apparently, our corner-perch was a little too close to the rain for comfort. I think they were taking refuge in a bank.

My husband caught on, grabbed the guys, and they darted to the car. But when they got there, they were a mess - my buddy actually squealed as he got into the cab's front seat.

I've never felt more testosteroney in my life. Who says chivalry is dead?

Reality TV Update

My friend spotted a tantilizing description on her Time Warner Cable guide last night, "Flavor of Love 3: The women perform a hip-hopera."


It's descriptions like these that can convert any high-brow PBS veiwer into a stark-raving mad fan of Celebreality. Kudos VH1. Kudos.


I, of course, am a frequenter of Flavor of Love 3 and Rock of Love 2, and have been known to tune-in to Celebrity Fit Club, Celebrity Rehab, The Pick-Up Artist, My Fair Brady, Mission Man-Band, and the new train-wreck that is I Know My Kid's a Star. I also watched that testosterone knock-off of The View in the early 00's simply for Sr. Bonaduce. I did not however, watch him Break. I prefer my Bonaduce healthy and gravel-voiced, as opposed to 'roid raged and gravel-voiced.

But VH1 nonsense aside, I am also a giant 13-year-old girl and loves me some American Idol. And I'm super-excited that today is Tuesday so I can watch these fools belt out some Dolly Parton. Aside from 9-to-5, which no doubt Kristy Lee Cook will butcher, I don't really know any Dolly songs, which means tonight's show will be just as boring as the last 2 weeks. This season is the worst so far... yet I can't stop obsessing! I'd like to think it's becasue I'm in a crazy pool, but it's really due to my inappropriate obsession with David Cook.

Mr. Cook, with his giant dome-over, is the man. I had a dream that he was in a boy-band in the late 90's and made a zany, mad-cap romantic comedy with his band. Sort of like On the Line, but with more than 2 N'Syncers. I have deep-seeded problems.

If only all my inappropriate reality TV obsessions were on some sort of dating show. Now that's Celebreality worth watching.