Baby Carrots Are Yucky

Baby carrots can bite my butt.

I've been to Cosi for lunch two days in a row and opted for the carrots instead of bread or chips, because a girl has to look her best. And I have to say, baby carrots are disgusting.

I'm not a carrot fan by nature, unless they are cooked down to mush and covered in brown sugar, and these baby carrots are not helping the cause of carrot kind.

They are dry and tasteless and covered in a creepy white film. And the print from the bag keeps getting on my hands.

In my youth, I used to eat bags of carrots and celery during school as a snack to get me over that 1pm slump. Because when you are forced to eat lunch at 10:30 am, it's all downhill from there. But please do not think that I was snack food obsessed as early on as high school. The veggie treats were merely a clever counterbalance to my daily 3pm BK run. Ah, the metabolism of my youth.

So I guess there was a time when baby carrots were not evil. And celery too. But I must have reached my saturation point on both carrots and celery, because I can't stand the stuff today. I eat around them in my soup. I avoid it in my tuna. I remove each orange grated mound from my Chinese chicken salad.

But the baby carrot people are smart. They partner with the onion soup mix folks and they've got a good thing going. They tw0-step with the Ranch people and they're golden. They rock the Kasbah with the hummus gang and... you catch my drift.

I think hell is a place where you are forced to eat baby carrots all day while watching those around you eat fresh-from-the-oven, extra salty Cosi flatbread. And I have lived that hell for the last 48 hours.

Send Me and Shia to Promises

With all the androgynous underage "heartthrobs" that my husband can't tell apart* out there, Shia LaBeouf has always been a welcome respite of stubble and tamed Jew-fro. He is a real guy. A guy who looks like a goofy kid from your high school that no one would date until he went to college and became an "it" boy who pulled all the hot sorority chicks. Yes, I do have a detailed life plan for Shia should he ever exit out of the business.

I've loved him since Holes and Charlie's Angels Full Throttle. And now that he's a grown-up, smoking illegally and smashing into tractor-trailers, I love him a little bit more.

Sure he plays a high school student in Transformers (best movie ever), but the kid is 22. Plenty old enough for his recent DUI. So let's stop treating him like Miley Cyrus already!

Miley Cyrus is legitimately underage, and is also a legitimate role model to rock and roll tweens and Britney Spears defectors. When she does something scandalous (an no, I do not consider showing her shoulder to her dad a scandal) it will be news.

But when a kid gets in a tussle with a drugstore clerk, or when someone of age has a few drinks, this should not be news. Celebrity DUIs are always news, I know. And I do not have a problem with anyone exposing poor little Shia's accident. But if anyone has seen the headlines polluting my Google news today, you would be feisty too.

"Shia LeBeouf: 'I Don't Know How to Have One Drink'"
"Shia LaBeouf admitted to drinking problem in magazine interview"

Good Lord people.

The kid wanted to sound like a badass in a magazine interview. He wanted to shake off any lingering Even Stevens persona and embrace his black-leather-jacket-wearing Indiana Jones side. He did not admit to having a drinking problem.

I feel like Joel McHale on The Soup when he talks about how ridiculous The Insider is when they make a story about nothing at all. IT'SREALITYSHOWCLIPTIME!!!!!!!

Ah. That was pretty therapeutic. No need for a drink. Maybe Shia needs to blog….

*While flipping through a tabloid, CinS remarked that Zach Efron wears a lot of tight pants. He flipped some more, pointed to another photo and said, "See! Tight pants!" to which I replied, "Um, that's Chace Crawford. Different guy, same pants."

The Air-ess of Continental

I was a traveling fool last week. A fool I tell you!

I went to Florida for a meeting and had the pleasure of flying Continental, the last remaining airline to provide free turkey sandwiches to its passengers. Continental also decided to show a movie on my 3 hour flight, which could have been a good thing. The movie was Fool's Gold with Matthew McConaughey and Kate Hudson. I hate Matteo, and find him neither attractive nor talented, but the terrible accents of Donald Sutherland (British) and Malcolm Jamaal Warner (Jamaican) were entertaining enough to keep me tuned in.

While traveling, I noticed that there are a few things that I will do on a plane that I won't do anywhere else.

1. Drink Mott's Tomato Juice
2. Eat Peanuts
3. Watch Everybody Hates Chris
4. Spread cuticle cream all over my hands
5. Hate babies

My flight down to Florida was uneventful, but my flight home to Newark airport was full of zest.
As I waited for my flight to board at the airport Chili's, I met several people who had been stranded at the airport all day due to storms in the Northeast. These people were cranky and drunk. One woman was wasted and mistook the Chili's for a swingers bar.

I was sitting between the Swinger and her prey - a middle-aged man with long, gray hair wearing a suit that made him look like a pilot. His name was Mr. Robertson.
The woman was a Florida native and was being dragged to a wedding in Syracuse by her husband / boyfriend (who was not at the bar). She was talking over me, trying to drunkenly seduce Mr. Robertson, and literally asked, "Is there a Mrs. Robertson?"

I never thought people actually used lines like this. But it seemed to work.

Mr. Robertson got up from the bar, walked over to the Swinger and said, "Yes, she's home right now in CT. And actually there have been many Mrs. Robertsons..."

The pair left the bar together.

But the hot drunken action at the airport Chili's did not end there!

Two guys and a girl (and a pizza place) sidled up next to me to order a round of shots and a roadie to take to their gate. They were coming off the end of a vacation and heading back home to Jersey. They kept talking about how different things are "up north" as they reached all around me to pass drinks past my grill.

One guy apologized for invading my personal space, saying that he has no manners because he is from "up north." Um, you are in South Florida. Everyone in this part of the state is from "up north." You are just an ass.

When I boarded the plane, I was sitting behind two guys I missed at the Chili's. They were clearly there before boarding because they were drunk and rowdy. They were both gigantic and sounded like they were fresh off the set of the Sopranos. The guy in front of me was wearing a diamond bracelet and Steelers sweatpants that ended in a tight elastic band around the ankle. His buddy was wearing shorts to accentuate a calf the size of my torso with a giant wizard tattoo. The pair hit on every flight attendant on the plane and ordered several mini bottles of Scotch.

Halfway through the flight, the Wizard went to the back row of the plane to lay across a row of seats. His legs hung out into the aisle, blocking the bathroom. Apparently, the mob has a holding over the bathroom on Continental flight 400. Don’t Stop Believin.

When I landed, my bag was the first one out of the baggage carousel. I’d like to think it’s karmas way of repaying me for letting a couple sit together on the plane. But I have a sneaking suspicion that my bags arrived first because I was the least douchey person on my entire flight.

Medium Game 70489

I've been playing a ton of Sudoku lately. I have a game on my google homepage, one on my cellphone, and my weekly puzzles from In Touch magazine.

Sudoku is to 2008 as Snood is to 2002. Whenever I need a break from work, I play a game. Usually my workday involves me taking a break from non-work by doing some work, but I've had a lot going on recently and the Sudoku break is a welcome friend.

But the Sudoku is spilling out from my office and into my life. I play on my phone on the subway ride home, and I play on my couch with actual paper and pencil while watching TV. I can’t get enough.

When I play at work, I quickly minimize my window when someone stops by. I'm hiding my habit.

I think I may have a problem.

One of the many reasons I heart Sudoku is because I feel smarter playing Sudoku than I ever felt beating Tetris. Maybe because it involves numbers. Maybe because it requires no hand-eye coordination. Maybe because it hails from Japan.

I find that the best Sudoku mood music is Radiohead. Radiohead (in my opinion) is all mood music, but I often find it too moody for most of my moods. If anyone is following this train of thought then God bless you.

Anyhow, here I sit, listening to Radiohead, puzzling over Sudoku challenge #435612, and wondering if there is some kind of support group out there for people like me.

I am reading a mildly disturbing book by one of my favorite authors who specializes in writing mildly disturbing things. And I feel like a character from one of his pages. A woman who is obsessed with a Japanese puzzle game. A woman possessed by 1s and 9s. A woman who can’t stop with the Sudoku.

I think this novel is ripe with potential. You’re welcome Mr. Palahniuk.

PowerPoint, You Are My Only Friend

I've been working like mad on a deck for a pitch I have next week in sunny Florida.

For those of you not in the business world, "deck" is code for presentation. I have no idea how this phrase was coined, but I embrace it. The alternative is, as my husband would say, actually quite offensive.

I was on a conference call with a group of people who are working on some mobile marketing evangelism pieces, (my contribution: "MOBILE - You Know You Want To" bumper stickers) and one of the participants called the deck we were working on a "preso." As in pree-zoh.

Preso? Really?

Like lopping off two syllables of the word makes it that much more efficient in corporate speak.

As a rule, I hate corporate jargon. It inevitably and seeps into your everyday lexicon during business hours. But some people can't turn it off.

I'm sure we’ve all caught ourselves saying something completely corporate and douchey at an inappropriate time. But I hope you're trying to better yourself.

Imagine organizing something with a group of friends, let's say a bachelorette party or a baby shower. Both scenarios are good because you will likely be co-planning with some very close friends and some mild acquaintances.

Now, a lot of time, energy, coordination, and political-correctness go into planning such an event, so you may be tempted to lapse into corporate speak to get everything done in an efficient, polite manner. But please refrain! Can you imagine the horror of your planning compatriots at the following?

Hi Girls - Please find attached my draft evite for Jane's Bachelorette Party. If
you have any edits, please send them to me by COB today, as I want to send this
to Jane's friends tonight so they all have enough time to RSVP.

I want to make sure we're all on the same page in regard to the color scheme. I know we discussed using the brown and baby blue that Jane is using for her wedding, but
the invite I found was too cute to pass up! I hope you will agree.

Also, I am working on a Dick and Jane Q&A doc for Dick to answer for the preso we
will be showing at her lingerie shower.

I think that's it for my list of deliverables. Sally (cc'd here) and I also have been discussing party favors and penis straws, but I will let her send an update on this.

I'm sure the grown-up side in you finds such correspondence only mildly annoying, but the Frosted-Mini-Wheats-eating kids side is actually doubled over with mocking laughter. And the kids are right.

I am trying to rebel against corporate speak, but find myself powerless against its power. Maybe it's because I've spent that last 20 hours writing in it. Or maybe it's because my preso is so damn good that the Scientologists are interested in screening it during their clearing sessions.

RIP Olive Riley

I was watching CNN yesterday to keep up with my scandalous Obama cartoons, and saw a scrolling headline that caught my eye.

"World's Oldest Blogger Dies at 108"

I was wowed by this headline for many reasons.

108 is really damn old. I think any years beyond 100 are frosting. Most likely, drooling, bed-ridden frosting.

It's very cool that someone that old had the where-with-all to write. I can barely squeeze out something meaningful to say after walking around in the humidity.

How impressive that this woman learned, not only how to use the internet, but how to blog. My 60-something-year-old father can't even send an email.

Oh dad, your lack of computer prowess is so endearing.

My dad recently obliged his employer by getting a computer in his office. I personally have no idea how anyone does business without the internet, but my dad informed me that it is possible with a magical little device called a fax machine. My dad rocks the fax machine.

I knew my dad was in trouble when I sent him his first email and he never replied. When I called him to investigate, he told me that he never checks his email. Um, OK.
"What if a client emails you?" I asked.
"Then they'll call me. Just like you did."

Ouch. I would not want to be one of my dad's customers. I think some of his customers didn't want to be his customers either, because a few weeks later, my dad was checking his emails.
But instead of replying to an email, my dad just called. Not really the point. But it was better than the alternative.

I tried again to send dad an email, and this time he replied. It was his first email ever! So exciting. So forward-thinking. So illiterate.

It seems my dad had not yet learned to master the space bar. Yes, mydadhadnotmasteredthespacebar.

His entire message was written without spaces. And it all appeared in the subject line.

Had I known about 108-year-old Olive Riley sooner, I would have shipped my dad out to Australia for senior computer camp. But he probably would have been intimidated by her wheelchair. It was electronic.

Gamblers Not So Anonymous

Well I hardly post to this blog, and here I was, about to write about how the cool thing about New York City, after all the car horns, ambulances, super overpriced bodegas, etc. is that on any given night, you could end up anywhere... when I see my own wife calling me out on a blog.

Are you cereal? Time for some pwnage. Your entire post, Mrs. Blogtari, is what a 7 year old would call a "dumb poo poo head." It is completely skewed to make me look like a D-Bag, and you to be the awesome, forgiving woman married to aforementioned D-Bag. Your interpretation and/or retelling of the story is completely wrong, and I refuse to retract my statement about you being super annoying.

Where to start? First of all, whether or not I take gambling seriously has no bearing on my tolerance for super annoying behavior. When Frank Sinatra (when not D'Brickashawing all over the dollhouse at his speakeasy in AC) sings about "Luck Be a Lady Tonight", he refers to women at the craps table who are cheering on the shooter, blowing on dice, smoking cigarettes out of those Hunter Thompson/Breakfast at Tiff's long cigarette smoking things. He is NOT singing about: weebils singing annoying songs set to the nursery rhymes in "Nightmare on Elm Street." You were not watching the game in any way, but kinda dancing around the Wild Wild West (not a venue that Ole Blue Eyes had in mind during his heyday -- notice how all Rat Pack posters are in or in front of the Sands or the Caesar's, not Whiskey Pete's or Wild Wild Artemis Clyde Frog Big Metal Spider West) like a choder. You weren't even watching the game, or else you would have known that 5 was the point.

You also seem to take refuge in the fact that you were with your girlfriends. Actually, not a single one of them was annoying in the least. Only you, m'lady.

Drinking and gambling go hand in hand, so I don't think any gambler out there really expects that their gambling can only occur if only sober people are around. There's just no need to be a choder is all I'm saying. I enjoy drinking and gambling, usually have fun. But fun = things like your blackjack cohort yelling "El Busta-mon-te!!!" to the dealer when he busts, or making the Rajeesh Patel-esque broseph next to you feel awkward by reminding him of his inability to summon the testicular fortitude to double down on the soft 18. But "1-2, sneeze achew; 3-4 lock the door; 5-6 pick up sticks" is not awesome at all.

In fact, casino etiquette is very easy. Here are the rules:
1. Hitting on vs. staying on the 16 in Blackjack is not buying a car. Shit or get off the pot.
2. Always back up the pass line with odds.
3. Always bet on black, and when you lose your money (cause red rules), blame a crappy mid-90's movie whose star is in federal pound-Blade-in-the-ass prison cause its star "bet on black" vs. the IRS.
4. Always tip the cocktail waitress at least a dollar per drink.
5. Never order a drink with dairy in it.
6. Always be nice to the dealer, even when they are taking your money.
7. Make sure the dice reach the other end of the table when shooting craps.

Those are the rules. Here is Melissa's verison of Casino Etiquette:
1. Always complain that Blackjack involves (2nd grade) math.
2. Awkwardly throw the dice into the dealer's stack of chips, inevitably crapping out.
3. Always sing novelty songs while your husband is trying to throw the dice.

Oh, and I actually lost money with you doing that stuff. I was actually looking forward to crapping out. It was totally worf the 40 bucks to not hear anymore of that song.

Luck Be A (Silent) Lady Tonight

I'd like to open a lunch time poll. No, this is not about which Heather is prettiest, or which flavor of cornnuts are tastiest (kudos to those who get this reference), but about gambling etiquette.

As you may know, I just returned from a trip to Atlantic City where my husband and several other menfolk were gambling. I also returned from a trip to Atlantic City where I was scolded for "being really annoying" whilst said husband was gambling.

Well, excuuuuuuuse me!

And so dear reader, I turn to you.

I am of the school where "serious" gambling is conducted during business hours, or at the very least, while (mostly) sober. And any gambling past midnight, following several rounds of drinks at home/at a bar/from a giant plastic cup on the boardwalk, can no longer be categorized as "serious. "

Honestly. If you don't want drunk people to be annoying while you are gambling, then don't gamble when you are hanging out with drunk people. Or when you are also drunk and taking yourself way too seriously.

And if you are so inclined to put on your serious hat while gambling after hours, it is my opinion that you should inform others to go have fun some place else, instead of stewing about said annoyances in silence at the craps table.

Completely hypothetical example, of course.

But seriously, as a non-gambler, I just don't get it. Casinos aren't exactly fortresses of solitude, so why am I the one who is distracting?

Personally, I would love it if someone livened up my craps roll with nursery rhyme quips including, "ten, ten, for the men!" and "six, six, pick up sticks!" But that is probably because I am awesome.

The punch line of this entire rant is that with all my annoyances, CinS actually ended up winning money when I was around, and when he was alone, he won bubkis.

So what’s your opinion gang? Can a little liveliness bring luck, or does it distract from beating games of chance that heavily favor the house? I count on you to vindicate or school me. Cast your votes to the right.

Frank Sinatra's Got Lousy Taste

First, I would like to apologize to my loyal readers (all both of you) who have been eagerly awaiting my next post while I was out frolicking on the idyllic shores of Atlantic City. I was in a house without internet all week, but assure you that I have been blogging where it counts - on the inside.

And it's a good thing I went away too. I've been running out of material. But no longer, thanks to Chelsea Manor.

Chelsea Manor. Sounds glamorous, no?
I mean, it's a house with a name. That sleeps 26. And once had a speakeasy in the basement where Frank Sinatra used to hang out.
How could this house not be the funk?

I'll tell you how. 40-odd years of neglect and drunken orgies.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning.

We had 20 friends staying at the Manor this past week, spread across 9 bedrooms and one creepy gothic "library." And every single one of us shared the same sentiment, "If I had money, I would fix this place up and make it awesome." It's too bad the current owners don't feel the same way.

The main floor boasts a large entryway with a stunning inlaid Formica in mauve and tan. To the right, lies the dining room, complete with green felt table covering and china cabinet full of Southern Comfort hurricane glasses and creepy hand-painted cherubs donned with hot-glue-gunned lace. Beyond the dining room is the pool table, surprisingly clean and functional, against a backdrop of faux stained glass windows.

To the left of the foyer is the living room, where you can get a glimpse of the past by cowering in the corner amidst sunflower seed shells and cherry pits preserved from the Sinatra era. The bar in the back of the room includes a non-functioning sink that buckles under a 10-pound bag of ice. But fear not dear ice user, the Astroturf stapled to the bar will preserve this beauty for many years to come.

Beyond the living room is the sun room with poker table and 3 legged chair. At the back of the sunroom is a mysterious door that leads down a short flight of stairs to an unattached dungeon. Had we not been scared out of our wits, I'm sure we would have unearthed some animal bones in this cozy annex.

In the back of the house, the modern kitchen includes a stovetop range and dishwasher on an island that moves when leaned upon. I am quite suspect of the cooking / cleaning power of major appliances on wheels.

In the basement, the Sinatra speakeasy has been replaced by a large water stain and 300 variants of mildew. There is also a ping pong table and a craps table that features semen stains visible to the human eye without the benefit of CSI-grade luminal.

On the second and third floors, we come to a maze of bedrooms and bathrooms that would satisfy any Scooby-Doo chase scene enthusiast. The bedrooms are all fairly disgusting, but none is creepier than the "dollhouse."

The "dollhouse" is about 250 square feet (I think that's a generous estimate) with 2 bunk beds and plenty of pink floral wall paper. The ceiling slopes down against the far wall, cutting off the room from above and making the top bunk a very dangerous place for anyone over 3 ft tall. On the far wall is a tiny little door that went ignored for the better part of the week, and wisely so. When the door was opened, we discovered a closet, lined with pink silk, and completely empty except a solitary chair. Needless to say, no one slept in the "dollhouse" after that.

All in all, the Chelsea Manor was both much less and much more than we expected it to be.

Had the house been immaculate, we would have had much less to talk about all week. But then again, I may have gotten some because my husband would not have feared for the health of his genitals.

Blogtari: Texas Ranger

I was at the gym the other day and I noticed that one of the communal TVs had been changed from NY1 to the Hallmark Channel. Interesting choice.

One day, I watched a Hallmark Hall of Fame starring Dean Cain as a sheriff in a town plagued by the KKK. I was watching without the benefit of sound, so I'm unclear on the details. But it looked like a tear-jerker. It was exactly what I expected to see on the Hallmark Channel.

What I didn't expect was Walker: Texas Ranger.

Yes, our good pal Chuck Norris is still flying high on the Hallmark Channel. I must admit that I'd never seen Walker: Texas Ranger before and was quite intrigued by the promo I saw before the episode aired. The most I knew about WTR was that Ricky Bobby named his kids Walker and Texas Ranger and that my husband calls our local bar Walker's, "Texas Ranger."

So imagine my surprise when Chuck Norris comes on the screen, long leather fringed coat flapping the breeze, and proceeds to kick some major ass. Before the credits rolled, Chuck killed 4 dudes with a lethal combo of karate, judo, and old-fashioned bullets.

This show is awesome.

What was even more awesome was that Chuck's name appears in the credits about 100 times. He is obviously the show's star, but also its producer, director, screenwriter, and gaffer. He also wrote and performs the theme song. And if all this weren’t masturbatory enough, the opening scene after the credits showed Chuck doing push-ups for a solid minute before anything else happened.

I think I need my own show. I would do everything, just like Chuck. And the opening scene, after my rendition of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," would feature me ripping on innocents for a solid minute before anything else happened.