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.

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.

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.

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:

1. I do not wash my hair everyday, but I do shower everyday


2. 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


3. Showercaps are free at most hotels


4. 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.

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.

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.