There Will Be Blood

Spoiler Alert: This post is gross.  Skip it if you're squeamish...

Back in April, I got the worst news ever: I needed a root canal.

Crap.

I just finished the 3 STEP process today.  It's June.

You know how root canals have this reputation of being a horrible experience?  Well, if you read anything about them recently, everyone says that's a myth.  They say with today's advanced techniques it's really not so bad.  Some might even say it's a breeze!

They lie.

Let me tell you the truth about my toxic tooth...

It all started because a filling cracked off when I was eating guacamole.  How that happened, I'll never know.  Anyway, we're talking about the molar waaaaay in the back of my mouth on the left side (the middle tooth in this pic).

Meet my rotten/robot tooth.

That stubby tooth next door is my deeply impacted wisdom tooth.  See, I have giant horse teeth and a tiny jaw.  I also am lacking the standard amount of choppers a grown adult should have (32) because a bunch of them were yanked out when I was a kid to prevent crowding.

Then I wore braces for 4.5 years.

The net-net is I have a nice smile, 26 visible teeth, and a massive phobia of dentists.  So wisdom and his 3 buddies are staying put.

Forever.

Anyway, it turns out when you lose a filling in that hard to reach spot, it's not great.  I say this because in all likelihood, the filling cracked a while ago but I didn't know.  And bacteria wormed its way around and killed my tooth from the inside.

Didn't even hurt.  So it wasn't until my guacamole was suddenly extra crunchy that I knew I had a problem.

It was like eating a driveway.

My sweet hometown dentist said, "uh oh," when he looked at the black spot my xray (see above).  Never a good sign.  Once he said the words "root canal" I basically zoned out of the rest of the words coming out of his mouth.

Blah, blah, blabedy, blah blah.

He referred me to an endodontist.  Apparently, that's a guy who does root canals, all day, every day.  And I'll be honest, I didn't look up much about this procedure.  Mainly because there was no sense in freaking myself out about the inevitable.

I'd rather just not know anything and let sheer horror wash over me in the moment.

Really test my fight or flight instincts.

So I'm in the chair for appointment #1 and I'm sitting next to a giant tray of truly medieval shit.  I don't even know what I'm looking at, but I know it's scary AF.

Doc comes in and makes a knock knock joke.  And I instantly know I'm in for a long day.

I brace myself for the actual root canal (which I naively believe is the worst part),  And it was no picnic.  After all, he's about to drill and scoop and stuff my roots with God knows what.  But first, he shows me this giant piece of rubber with 2 bars to keep my jaw open and a clamp to hook on my tooth.

Now, it's a party.

In all, 7 disturbing things were said:
1. Just so you know, your co-pay will be $550.
2. I call this tool Mr. Bumpy!
3. Has anyone ever told you that you have a very high threshold for pain?
4. Would you like to see your nerve?
5. Your roots are REALLY long.
6. Boy, that was kind of hard.
7. You have very beautiful eyes.

That last one made me throw up a little in my mouth.

After 2 hours in the coal mines, he patched me up and sent me on my way.  Before I left, he told me I need to see my regular dentist next for a crown, which is essentially a fancy slipcover for my weak, sad tooth (my words, not his).

He says the filling he used is temporary, but it should last several weeks.  Maybe a month!

Here's what actually happened:

Awesome.

Also, I received no antibiotics or pain meds, as stated on this form.  Granted, I had no infections or pain.  But still...

On appointment #2, it was time to get measured for my temporary crown.  In my mind, the worst was behind me.  This would be easy peasy!  Like going to the tailor to hem a skirt.

I was super effing wrong.

Here I am, back in my hometown that I love. I took the day off, thinking I might go shopping afterwards.  I flick on the TV and kick back for my "fitting."

Oh, and I also ignored it when they told me this appointment would take an hour and a half.

They must be wrong, I thought... and they were!  It actually took TWO and a half.

This time, 5 disturbing things were said:
1. Good news -- you don't need any novocaine today!
2. Your tooth has no nerve so you won't feel anything when I remove some of the root canal filling and screw in a post.
3. Your gums have grown over a bit, they will need to be shaved down.
4. It's perfectly normal to bleed.  Do not be alarmed.
5. That will be $408.80.

I'm not sure how to explain what happened here.  I think I joined Fight Club.

Except I'm not allowed to talk about Fight Club.  So let's just say it was like Game of Thrones combined with Gladiator combined with all the gory bloodfests ever made in the history of cinema.

Kinda like that. 

Turns out "shaving" my gums meant cutting around all the edges of my tooth like a mom trims the crust off a PB&J sandwich.  

So it hurts. And it bleeds more than you can imagine.

Good thing he did the post and re-building of my tooth first, because after the cutting I rinsed at least a dozen times and it was still bright red.  Like the shower scene from Psycho (if it was actual blood and not chocolate syrup).

I think I even made my dentist nervous.  So he put a solution on my gums to try and stop the bleeding.  

It tasted like pure evil.

Eventually the flow slowed, but it was still fresh on the purple oozy mold he took of my mouth.  And also on the temporary crown he put on my tooth (while dental elves were busy making the real one off my bloody mold).  

Afterwards, my gums felt like raw chopmeat.  I left completely sick to my stomach.  Needless to say, I did not spend the afternoon shopping.

Fast forward to today, appointment #3.  My temporary crown was still firmly in place when I sat down in the chair.

There was NO WAY they were going to pry it loose.  I assumed there would be another solution.

I was wrong.  Again.

On this final visit, 2 disturbing things were said:
1. Let me do it, you're too weak. (said the hygienist to the dentist as she muscled my temp off -- they're married, btw)
2. Let's watch Valerie Bertinelli make a salad.

To be fair, we had Food Network on while we were waiting for the permanent bonding agent to set so my new crown wouldn't fall off.  Or down.  Whatever.  Still, I'll never look at old Val the same again.

So FINALLY, it's over.  Aaaannnd I have a robot tooth.

For anyone who's still reading this (and keeping score), that's:
- 2 days off work
- 5 HOURS and 15 minutes in the dentist's chair
- 6 shots of novocaine (maybe more, I lost track)
- 2 crowns -- one acrylic, one porcelain, zero fit for a queen
- And $958.80 out of pocket -- and I have insurance!


There you have it.  My cautionary tale on why you never, ever, ever, EVER want a root canal.

Now, be safe out there -- make good choices!


tags: gross, health, rants

Something Foul Is Afoot

The unofficial start to summer is upon us, and that can mean only one thing.

Feet.

Sure, it ALSO means sunshine and ice cream, sprinklers and rainbows. But mostly, it’s time to unleash your pasty white dogs. This is my least favorite aspect of the season.

Let's face facts: Most of us should never allow our feet to see the light of day.

Case in point: I got in the elevator the other day at work, next to a guy in Tevas. I won’t go into all the things wrong with that statement, except to say that the posh company I work for is also home to the world’s top fashion magazines.

Frankly, I’m amazed he made it past security in those sweaty hogs.

Anyway, his feet were crazy looking.  I've never seen anything like them.

His toes were so flat and spread apart that you could literally fit another toe inbetween each one. It’s like they knew how ugly they looked, they got scared, they tried to get as far away from the next one as possible, and then they all got run over by a truck.

But the worst part was his toenails. They were approximately 64% longer than my fingernails.

Hey, could someone hold my hair for a sec?

BARF.

Anyway, it’s no wonder he had sandals on, because there is no way regular shoes could contain those funky toes.

In light of this unwanted encounter, I feel I am doing a public service by addressing summer feet now, before they get totally out of hand.

For the love of Dr. Scholl, hide your peds if they fit ANY of the following categories:

>> Frat Feet: are covered in bar sludge/beer from the night before
>> Jesus Feet: have dirty soles from walking barefoot in public
>> Middle Finger Feet: have a 2nd toe that is longer than the big toe
>> Shrimp Cocktail Feet: have toes that curl under from being jammed into small shoes
>> Nibble Feet: have toenails that look chewed on
>> Athlete Feet: have black and/or missing toenails
>> Troll Feet: are disfigured by bunions or corns
>> Ogre Feet: (see Troll Feet, add toe jam)
>> Finger Toes Feet: are so long they look like they could hold a knife and fork
>> Bearded Feet: are hairy
>> Weepy Feet: have so much chipped polish they are crying out for a pedicure
>> Sock Booger Feet: have pieces of lint stuck to them, lodged between toes
>> Smeet: are smelly feet


Be thankful I spared you a picture of my own feet in this post and went with my sandals instead.  Nobody needs to see that, primarily because my feet fit no less than 3 of the categories above (Middle Finger + Shrimp Cocktail + Troll). 

Embarrassing, but true.

Are you close-minded about open-toed shoes?  Kick your foot phobias below (toe-suckers need not reply -- save YOUR fetishes for a shrink).   

PS: NEVER EVER EVER do a Google image search for feet.  I can't even.  Just trust me.  Don't. 


tags: gross

Hot Mess

I’m not saying it was hot today or anything, but I think a pigeon spontaneously combusted outside my window.

I saw a ton of pics on Facebook with the temperature on people's phones and in their cars.  It was 103, after all.  So you may wonder why you’re looking at a medicine cabinet? Well, for starters, it’s MY medicine cabinet.

You may also wonder why it’s jam-packed with 10 deodorants? That’s because I think I might smell. I don’t believe I stink or reek (yet). But I’m pretty certain I smell. I mean, who can possibly stay fresh in this heat?

I have become a Crazy Deodorant Lady.

I'm obsessed. The human underarm is like a Petri dish. It’s loaded with bacteria. Sure, I’ve tried your typical girlie deodorants. Secret, Dove, Ban, Degree, Lady Speed Stick.

Child’s play.

So I upgraded to clinical strength – the kind you practically need a prescription to buy.

Sniff, sniiiiiff.  Nope. Still smelly.

How could this BE? I shave and shower! Daily! Since when is that not enough?

(Side note: While I'm oversharing, I should also mention I have sensitive pits. I once tried Tom’s all-natural deodorant, which had an apricot flair and was supposed to be gentle. And it was. So gentle, in fact, that I would have had similar success rubbing an actual apricot under my arms. Turns out aluminum is a pretty important ingredient. Won't make THAT mistake again.)

So, back to the medicine cabinet. 

You might also be wondering why I have Degree man deodorant in there? It's because I believe I have found the solution to my problem. See the cap? That’s Bear Grylls’ mug on there – he's the Man vs Wild guy on the Discovery Channel. That dude’s climbed Everest, eaten snakes, wrestled alligators, drank urine, given himself a guano enema AND used the corpse of a dead sheep for a sleeping bag.

If it’s good enough for THAT guy, it should be able to handle my 20 minute walk to work.

Let’s pray it does the trick. If not, I will have no other choice but to resort to this… (and you know how I love infomercials -- no, really, I do -- I'm helpless to resist):





I'm particularly horrified by "Lanny F." and his "odors in special places."

So, is this TMI about BO? Do YOU have any secrets for smelling sweet in this heat?  Don't make me sweat it out.

Share below...


tags: commercials, gross, health

Tinkle Town

I planned to come home tonight and blog. Sorry it’s been a while.

I flew down to FL last week to take my mom to some dr appointments. While watching TV on the plane I saw this ridiculous commercial for something called Pajama Jeans, and I found it hilarious. I didn’t sleep a ton while I was away, so I saw a lot of late night infomercials selling equally ridiculous and unnecessary products. I started thinking about writing another As Seen on TV post.

And I will.

But tonight, I just have to share what I saw on my way home…

When I left work a little after 6, it was cold and dark. I was outside my office building and feeling pretty good for avoiding stepping on a squishy roach in the middle of 45th street. I was flipping through songs on my iPod when I happened to look up and see a middle-aged woman ahead.

She was well-lit because she was standing in the doorway of a pretty posh deli, which was closing up for the night. I noticed the woman was wearing a brown tweed skirt, nude nylons, and white granny panties.

I know the color of her underwear, because they were around her ankles.

Just incase my retinas weren't completely burnt yet, I could also see her skirt was hiked up over her bare ass, which then gave me a clear view of the glass mug she was peeing in. While standing on the sidewalk. In the doorway of a deli. PEEING! 

Something tells me the mug didn’t say “World’s Greatest Mom” on the flipside.

In one swift motion, I saw her dump the mug out, midstream, and start to fill it again. She must not have peed for a week. At this point, I was passing by her, completely HORRIFIED. I couldn’t even hide it. I shouted, “Holy shit!” when my brain finally connected these disgusting dots, but she was unphased by me or by the owner of the deli who was now banging on the window. He was wildly waving a head of lettuce at her – I’m pretty sure that’s the universal symbol for "please stop pissing on my store."

Um, really lady?

I’ve seen many, many, MANY guys pee outside. Sometimes you witness the act itself, and sometimes it’s just the wet spot. Sadly, I don't think twice about it. I practically expect it. But it’s not every day you see a woman take a leak on a sidewalk.

We have shattered the porcelain ceiling.  Women have officially become disgusting. 

I need to look no further than the restroom in my own office building to see just how disgusting the fairer sex can be. It’s astonishing to me how many women don’t flush. Is this environmental?  It certainly isn't hygienic.  And you’re lucky, if it’s pee! At least once a week, I walk into a stall clogged with poo – or worse, blood. Ewww. It’s like toilet roulette.

If this happens in an office, no wonder it’s chaos in the streets!

Watch out for puddles...


tags: city life, gross

Trick or Treat!

I’m watching The Great Pumpkin right now. I forgot how much I hate Charlie Brown.

He’s just so depressing. That blockhead can’t EVER catch a break -- not even when he's out trick or treating.

All Chuck gets is a bag of rocks.

This got me to thinking about my own worst scores when I worked the Halloween circuit. (That sounds much worse than I intended. But in the wise words of Sue Sylvester, Halloween is the holiday where boys dress like girls and girls dress like whores.)

Anyway… back in Ye Olden Days (aka the 1980s), a sack of Halloween treats was fraught with danger. Would it be laced with Tylenol? Or perhaps a nice razor blade would be tossed in the mix? Or was all that candy-tampering just urban legend?

I dunno. Maybe it was a trick, but my mom examined our candy with the thoroughness of a forensic scientist. The hard candies went straight into the trash (or my dad’s belly) because they were deemed bad for our teeth. Once everything cleared inspection, my brother and I feasted on sweet, sweet chocolate.

Now, I don’t know what kind of loot people give out these days, but I grew up in your typical suburban NJ neighborhood. There was good candy -- none of it radioactive (contrary to some OTHER urban legends) -- and some families even splurged on the full size goodies instead of the mini snack size.

That was nice.

But occasionally, you got a rotten egg. Not literally, of course. That would be gross. So here are the 10 crappiest things I ever pulled out of my trick or treat bag:

1. A toothbrush
2. A small box of Sun Maid raisins
3. A popcorn ball
4. An apple
5. A couple of pennies
6. A #2 pencil
7. Easter candy
8. A single stick of Big Red gum
9. A slice of zucchini bread
10. A tooth stuck in a Milk Dud

I should probably clarify that last one, huh? It was MY tooth. Does that make it better?

Didn’t think so.

Ok, it was the 6th grade, and I was dressed as a Rockette, complete with fishnet tights and a sparkly top hat. I was out with a gaggle of 11 and 12 year olds -- my first unsupervised co-ed trick or treating adventure ever -- and we were about 5 blocks away from my house. My pillowcase full o'candy was getting awfully heavy.  So I decided to do the unthinkable: I ate a piece without it passing the mom-test.

I was born to be wild.

First, I ate a mini Hershey bar. It tasted like freedom.  I wanted more. So I popped open a small yellow box of Milk Duds. The caramel was irristable. The first one went down so smooth, I chased it with 2 more.

And that’s when it happened.

I opened my sticky mouth (probably to yap to my BFF about how I would someday marry John Taylor).  Only, my tooth didn’t come along for the ride. It just sat on my tongue, stuck in the Dud. The chewy candy must have created an unbreakable seal around an already loose molar, because I remember sticking my tongue into the gaping hole in the back of my mouth, and sure enough, it was gone. I tasted a little blood, but I didn’t panic. I just quietly drooled into my bag so I could cash the lump in later with the Tooth Fairy, and I tap-danced over to the next house.

In true Rockette form, I knew the show must go on.

So, my point is this: If you don’t want to be scraping eggs off your front door until Christmas, don’t hand out crap you find around the house, disguised as Halloween candy. And if you forget (or are too cheap) to buy the good stuff, at least have the decency to dim the lights and hide in the basement until the kids stop ringing the bell.

But MOST importantly, if you are a dentist, skip the toothbrush and go straight for the Milk Duds or the rocks. Those treats will totally pay for themselves.

What's the worst thing you ever got in YOUR trick or treat bag?


tags: food, gross, holidays, jersey

McBullshit

No doubt by now you’ve seen the photos.

The article about them on Yahoo alone has over 13,000 comments.  That same article has been shared on Facebook over 266,000 times.  And re-tweeted over 4,000 times.

Even my dad sent it to me!

I’m talking about the photos showing the contents of an unadorned Happy Meal left out to rot on a coffee table in your typical Manhattan apartment.

Only it didn't.

They say this “superfood” has resisted decomposition for 6 whole months. That’s 180 days. And it’s still fresh as a daisy, if that daisy was made of plastic.

Ahem. Bullshit.

Now, let me be clear: I have NO doubt this could happen. But here are 5 reasons I think this “experiment” is total crap:

1) Food left out in the open in your typical NYC apartment is a red carpet invitation to rats, mice, flies, ants, roaches, and other unsavory houseguests. Nobody in their right mind would open that Pandora’s box of vermin. Or are we to believe that the bugs in her house took a nibble of this hideous feast and turned vegetarian? If that’s the case, lock up your tofu, lady!

2) It moved. It's plain to see.  The bun. The burger. And most definitely the fries. MOVED! A lot. Plus wouldn’t the paper get all greasy? Also who's to say this is a Happy Meal -- I see no prize?  Or is it that it sounds much worse if we feed this cryogenic snack to our kids rather than ourselves?  And why is the lighting on these casual photographs basically the same every single day? Nobody's that anal.  Not even me.  Something’s fishy. Or burgery, as the case may be.

3) She’s an artist. A photographer who’s sold her work to famous people. Like SJP. Jeez, if I knew this counts as “art,” I would have photographed the back seat of my college roommate’s Subaru for 4 years. She loved Happy Meals, and no doubt had a few runaway fries left under the seat. Then I too could have been interviewed by Good Morning America. Why, I bet that type of notoriety might even help someone sell some actual art, since someone probably needs to buy a new coffee table and all.  But I'm sure someone never, ever thought of that...

4) IT’S NOT NEWS THAT MCDONALDS IS GROSS! Hey, is the sky also blue? Babies and puppies still cute? Here’s a tip: If you want to be healthy, don’t buy your food at the same place you buy gas. This Happy Meal that withstands the test of time doesn’t make me sick. Even Morgan Sperlock’s supersize adventure didn’t make me sick. What person who weighs less than 600lbs eats that much junk for every meal every single day? Anything in excess is bad for you.  Now Fast Food Nation? Yeah, that one made me kinda sick. But this is not that.

5) This whole issue is a non-story. Salt is a preservative and the burger’s so non-juicy it might as well be jerky. No moisture = no mold.  This has nothing to do with magically evil McChemicals, it’s simple science that even pirates knew (and those peg-legged bastards got scurvy and rickets). Besides, preservatives don’t kill people, bacteria does.


Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make a moisturizer out of salt and preservatives so I can become a billionaire and look like I’m 17 forever.  Right after I finish these fries...

They really don't stick around in MY house long enough to decay either.

 
tags: food, gross

Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite

I was in a meeting this morning and a colleague of mine whipped up her skirt and pointed to a raised red mark on her thigh.

“Does this look like a bedbug bite to YOU?” she asked, with a twitch in her eye and tremble in her voice. “I just got it on the subway.”

I shook my head and said, “Nooo!” (But honestly, I don’t know what a bedbug bite looks like.) Every few minutes, I inched my chair a little further away from hers just in case she had a stowaway in the hem of her skirt.

I read that somebody actually found an alligator in a sewer over the weekend. An ALLIGATOR! But bedbugs are all anyone can talk about. I’m guessing they’re Public Enemy #1 because, um… they live in your BED! At least cockroaches have the decency to form their dens in your walls. And rats rest their sleepy heads in underground nests, far, far away from your pristine memory foam.

Total amateurs like roaches, rats and alligators do NOT signal the apocalypse. Biblical plagues of locusts signal the apocalypse. Well, locusts and now… bedbugs.

Bedbugs are pure evil.

Paranoia is running rampant, with the bloodsuckers being found across the city in hipster retail stores, posh magazine offices, and iconic building basements. Even the movies aren’t safe!

What’s most disturbing is that the bugs can’t possibly originate in these places because nobody sleeps a la Costanza under the desk at work. So it stands to reason that they are hitching a ride from people’s HOMES into stores, offices, tourist traps, and theaters. Which means that NO amount of commercial fumigating will actually get RID of this residential problem, because they’re not attacking the SOURCE of the infestation.

These businesses are just a rest stop on the vermin highway. I’m itchy just THINKING about it!

I’ve known perfectly clean people who got hit with a case of the bedbugs. They are awful to get rid of. At first people live in private shame, scratching and stomping the bloody carcasses out with the heel of a shoe. When they realize the problem is bigger than their Birkenstocks, they call in exterminators with bedbug sniffing dogs. They throw out mattresses, bedding, and dressers full of clothes that may have been “compromised.” They rip up rugs and tear down curtains. They wrap their new beds and pillows in anti-bedbug plastic shields and sleep with the lights on. Even still, their eyes play tricks on them and their skin crawls, driven batty by bedbugs.

It’s like being a modern day Lady Macbeth. “Out, damned bedbug!  Out I say!”

I guess I should take comfort in the fact that I live in Manhattan. The most populated US city is only the 7th most bedbuggiest. Now, if I lived in Ohio, with THREE cities in the top 10, (or the Midwest in general), I’d really be in trouble.

Maybe the pests prefer the Midwest’s friendly hospitality. So stay mean, New York. Grrrrr!

And sleep tight…


tags: city life, gross, health

Would You Like a Defibrillator With That?

Look, I like junk food just as much as the next guy.

Maybe more.

But I’m noticing this disturbing trend right now of extreme junk food. And I don’t mean the disgusting crap that Andrew Zimmern swallows whole (like BBQ’ed raccoon). Or even the mass amounts of food that adorable linebacker Adam Richman shoves down his pie-hole (like an omelet the size of a bath mat).

This isn’t about the gross-out factor, or sheer quantity. It’s more of a mash-up of 2+ foods that eaten alone are pretty bad for you, but eaten together are a crime against cuisine (and your colon).

I suppose the original mash-up is chicken and waffles. Restaurant empires have been built around this concept, and it is good! But lately there’s been a surge of flavor combinations that seem to have been randomly picked out of a hat. While wearing a blindfold. In the dark.

WARNING: Your arteries may clog just reading this.

KFC

Fried Chicken x 2 + Bacon + Cheese + Mystery Sauce - Bread = The Double Down

I’ve got to say, initially I was intrigued. Fried chicken as bread? Sounded genius. Then I saw one in real life as I was shopping for new accessories at the HomeGoods on Post Road in Norwalk, CT, and was quickly cured. It looked like a greasy, oozy mess. And it’s no wonder -- the bread in a sandwich serves a purpose, people! It’s there to sop up all that grease and ooze. You take that out of the equation and you’ve got sandwich chaos on your hands. Literally.

BURGER KING
Cheeseburger x 4 - American ingredients + Italian ingredients = NY Pizza Burger
I have no idea why BK would want to get into the pizza game. But then again, I’ve never understood why Pizza Hut and Domino’s ever started serving up chicken wings or the carbohydrate coma known as “bread bowl pasta.” Either way, The King is smoking crack. Only available in their new Times Square Whopper Bar, this burger gut-buster is made up of 4 Whoppers which are topped with marinara, mozzarella, pepperoni, and a “nutless” pesto-flavored mayo. It is then served on a sesame seed bun the size of a steering wheel, and cut into slices like a pizza. They say it’s meant for sharing. With your enemies.

FRIENDLY'S
Mac & Cheese + More Cheese + Fried Tortilla = Mac & Cheese Quesadilla
This abomination is actually on the KIDS menu, though it might be considered child abuse to let your kid actually eat it. Particularly if you take them up on their offer to mix in bacon and/or Friendly Franks (which, incidentally, contain milk -- so if you’re concerned about keeping Kosher, back away from the hot dog, but if not, go hog wild). Inexplicably, the dish comes with a handful of pickles (which I detest) and ketchup. Why not a side of lard? Oh, because THAT would be gross.

DENNY'S
Grilled Cheese - Bacon & Tomatoes + Mozzarella Sticks = Fried Cheese Sandwich
Hmmm, so let me get this one straight: mozzarella cheese is breaded and fried, then covered in American cheese and bread, and fried again. It’s like mozzie sticks in grilled cheese clothing. It comes with a side of marinara sauce, which not only stays true to the sandwich’s Italian roots, but it also appears to be the healthiest thing on the plate. I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like, and this is even too much for me.

POP-TARTS
Pop-Tarts x 3 + Fruit Roll Up - Rice, Raw Fish, & Seaweed Wrap = Pop-Tart Sushi
Now I know what you’re thinking... you can’t order Pop-Tarts in a restaurant! This must have come from some wacky cookbook, with recipes for Twinkie Tacos, or Cheetos Meatloaf, or SPAM Fingers. Nope! Pop-Tarts World is an actual place that just opened across the street from our office in Times Square, and they are serving up sweet, sweet delicacies like Pop-Tart sushi. I do love a good Pop-Tart, but I like them au natural. In fact, I’ve never even toasted one. So maybe I’ve just been eating Tarts all this time (hold the Pop). I dunno. But to me, Pop-Tarts sushi seems like a culinary horizon better left unexplored (much like SPAM and ANYTHING).

DAIRY QUEEN
Chocolate Ice Cream - 1 Heath Bar + 1 lb. Crumbled Bacon = The Bacon Blizzard
Alright, I made this last one up -- I dream of being tempted by a bacon smoothie. But you believed me for a second, right? Don’t be surprised if you see a commercial where little pieces of pork fall slow motion-style into a swirling cup of frosty ice cream, that gets drizzled in maple syrup and chopped nuts as you watch those faceless red lips suck it down! And if they do, DQ can send the royalties to my new digs. Or they can just pay me in Bacon Blizzards. Either way. I’m easy.


Would YOU try any of these fast food mash-ups? Tell me why (or why not) below.

tags: food, gross, pop culture

An Open Letter to Commuters

Today was my last day making the commute between CT and NYC. Today, my commute took about 2hrs.

Each way.

Starting on Monday, however, I will go back to an easy breezy 15 minutes. Or 11 blocks. Or 4 songs on the iPod. Any way you slice it, it's a beautiful thing.

And commuting hasn't been cheap! Between rental cars and train tickets, parking lots and gas, getting back and forth to work since I was dumped has cost me $2,545.95. But I needed to get to work, to earn more money, so I could afford to commute, right?

Barf.

Anyway, I haven't used public transportation regularly to get to work in about 5 years. When I lived in the city, I walked, obviously. When I lived in Jersey, I drove (which, mind you, is its own personal brand of Hell -- trying to squeeze all that traffic through the Lincoln Tunnel is like trying to suck a bowling ball through a straw).

So I forgot just how HORRIBLE it is to be packed like sardines on a speeding train with hundreds of strangers.  It's like a smorgasbord of awfulness.

Riding the rails shouldn't be an assault on your senses. But it is. Don't know what I mean? Read on...

SIGHT: Just yesterday, I watched a grown man gnaw his fingernail off and pick his teeth with it. I know. I just threw up in my mouth a little, too. So, commuters, here's a tip: Handle your hygiene at HOME. That means no public nail clipping, nose picking, flossing, or scratching in inappropriate places. I don’t want to see it. Nobody does.

SOUND: Do I need to know that you forgot to thaw out the chicken? Must I hear you discuss the results of your pap smear? Is it really necessary to subject me to the lecture you are giving your teenage son for getting a ANOTHER speeding ticket? I know we're all busy at work and don't always have time during the day to tend to personal matters, but consider the train to be a moving office. If you are not working, chances are, the person next to you probably is, and does not welcome you yammering on your cell phone. So quit it. And please don't talk to me either. You sound like a freak and I'm not as friendly as I look.

TASTE: I totally get grabbing a snack for the ride home. Who doesn't get the munchies? But you shouldn't need to hunker down to a 3-course meal on the train. Somehow, I'm always sitting in the car with the broken air conditioning next to the guy -- or girl -- who is stuffing their face. The food you are eating on the train shouldn't be so pungent that I can taste it. This means no popcorn, no greasy fast food, no drippy bacon egg and cheese sandwiches, no strong-smelling foods of any kind. Try a pretzel. Or if you absolutely MUST consume a meal on the train because your kitchen at home burned down, how about a nice salad? Just don't get a fast food salad. Paying McDonalds (or Wendy's or Burger King) for a salad is like paying a hooker for a hug.

TOUCH: Keep your knees to yourself. Don't let them brush up against mine, and then casually leave them there, waiting for me to notice. Don't put them in between my legs and let them bobble back and forth as the train bounces over the tracks. And don't fall asleep and block me in with them. Don't touch me and I won't passive-aggressively try to trip you on the platform. Deal? Deal.

SMELL: In the morning, professional people should smell like soap, not stink like last night.  I can pick out who chopped onions for dinner, or who was out on a bender and slept in his suit.  Am I psychic?  No, I leave that to Paul.  I know these private things because my nose tells me.  And I don't even know your name.


Yes, navigating amidst the huddled masses is a sensory minefield. The next time you're on the subway, or Metro North, or NJ Transit, or the LIRR, look around. If at least 1 of your 5 senses ISN'T being offended, I will give you $1. But if it IS, you owe me.

I figure at that rate, I'll make back my $2500 in roughly 3 weeks.

So, am I being totally neurotic, or has ANYBODY had a similar experience?  Share them below!

 
tags: city life, gross, travel, work

Major League Eating

I’m bored with the World Cup and the stupid vuvuzela. I’m not impressed that George Steinbrenner turned 80 today. And frankly, I don’t care where LeBron James plays.

Yawn.

The ONLY sports story that caught my attention today is Nathan’s 95th annual Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Contest at Coney Island. And yes, I do mean sports story -- it was broadcast on ESPN.

Nevermind that I can’t even eat ONE hot dog (a mouthful of mystery meat makes me gag -- I can only stomach the mini kind, and then only with mustard, NEVER ketchup).

I’m in awe of champ Joey “Jaws” Chesnut who gobbled his way to victory by consuming 54 hot dogs PLUS buns in 10 minutes -- that’s about a dog every 10 seconds. After his 4th straight win, he was seen holding the coveted mustard yellow belt in one hand and a bottle of Pepto in the other. And that’s NOTHING compared to his showing last year, where he downed 68 of Nathan's famous franks!

But there was drama in Hotdogville.

His main rival, Japan's Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi got himself arrested for rushing the stage, probably overcome with grief because he couldn’t compete in the event he’d won 6 times. The guy even has a special visa to be in the country because of his skills as a competitive eater.  And as well he should -- The Tsunami holds the record for eating the most cow brains (57 in a mere 15 minutes). 

Yum.

He now sits, hungry, in a Brooklyn jail. Apparently, he was in a contract dispute with Major League Eating so he could not participate in this year's gluttony. The fact that such a regulatory body exists is fascinating. It’s like the junk food NFL. Its website even warns amateurs should not try "speed eating" at home. 

Joey Jaws had his rookie year in 2005, and is now the world’s #1 competitive eater, but I learned there are also 2 women in the top 50 rankings:

Sonya "The Black Widow" Thomas comes in at #5.  She is a 41 year old from Alexandria, VA, and is a slender 105 lbs. She’s eaten 552 oysters in 10 minutes, 65 hard boiled eggs in 6 minutes, and 80 chicken nuggets in 5 minutes. She believes the keys to her success are stomach capacity, jaw strength, and hand speed, but admits she needs to work on her "speed of swallow."  She went nearly unbeaten in 2004, if it weren’t for a controversial baked bean eating contest -- hers were too hot. Amazingly she is single.

And "Lovely" Juliet Lee, in at #11, is a 44 year old from Germantown , MD, who mysteriously also weighs 105 lbs. Hmmm.  Somehow this mom of 2 plowed through 7 chicken wings, 1 lb of nachos, 3 hot dogs, 2 personal pizzas and 3 Italian ices in about 7 minutes. She's never vomited, though had a close call after ingesting a world-record-setting 13.2 lbs of cranberry sauce.  As a child in China, she apparently only ate what she could catch on the beach. Especially if it was covered in nacho cheese sauce.

Looks like Sonya and Juliet still need their day jobs, but Joey Jaws earns an estimated $150K per year just from eating contests. I am a big eater too, but all I get is fat.

How many hot dogs did YOU eat today?

5 Reasons I Cannot Get Down with Jersey Shore

I read that a Jersey Shore spinoff is coming, called Wicked Summer.

PLEASE don’t let me get sucked into it.

I’m just coming to terms with the fact that I watched the whole first season of Jersey Shore. All 9 episodes. PLUS the reunion special. I also Jersey Shored myself. And I discovered my Jersey Shore nickname: Jenny Pepperoni.

The whole experience was so traumatizing, only now can I speak about it publicly.

If you have been living under a rock for the last six months and are oblivious to the cultural train wreck that is Jersey Shore, let me explain it in MTV’s own language...

If the Real World is the story of seven strangers picked to live in a house and have their lives taped to find out what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real (I just typed that from memory, btw… scary...), then Jersey Shore is the story of eight guidos picked to live in Seaside Heights and have their fights taped to find out what happens when juiced-up gorillas stop popping steroids and start pumping fists.

Needless to say, a love letter to the Garden State, it is not.

I guess I kept watching because I was waiting for it to get better. To find something remotely redeeming about this rag-tag gaggle of goons who carted all their earthly possessions down the Parkway in a Hefty bag. But it never did get better. It got progressively worse.

Here are the 5 myths I just couldn’t see past:

MYTH #1: The cast was from New Jersey.
REALITY: Only 2 of them were! Like the Jerz doesn’t have enough problems? We need 5 bozos from New York and 1 from Rhode Island (I’m talking to YOU, Pauly D!) mucking up our already questionable national reputation? Thanks a lot, MTV.

MYTH #2: Italians are loud.
REALITY: Douchebags are loud! They come in all shapes, sizes. And nationalities.

MYTH #3: People name their bodyparts.
REALITY: No they don’t. Calling your twelve-pack abs “The Situation” is a lame attempt to distract from your Toucan Sam face or your thinning hair (aka “The Problem”).

MYTH #4: Tanning is a way of life.
REALITY: So is skin cancer. Look, I’m not really a fan of the faux tan (recall my Ooompa Loompa incident), but having a personal tanning bed in your home or going tanning in a SALON daily when you are spending the summer at the BEACH is a sign of stupidity, not status.

MYTH #5: Your hair should defy gravity.
REALITY: You shouldn’t look like you’re smuggling biscotti under your bangs. So Snookie/Snickers, just say “no” to your home-grown Bumpit. And on the topic of dumb looking hair, Pauly D., human beings do not buy hair gel by the gross (that’s 144 buckets of Dippity-Don’t to you). And finally, Vinny, please fill in those eyebrows. You look like Joan Crawford.


Ah. I feel better now. The first step towards Reality TV Recovery is admitting I have a problem.

So what do you think? Did my love of Jersey cloud my view of Jersey Shore?

The Skunkies

What is $34.50, involves oily butter, and makes your feet stick to the floor?

Why it’s a trip for 2 to the movies (plus snacks), of course!

With this kind of investment, you’d probably want to spend your hard-earned movie money wisely, right? And there are PLENTY of people out there to help you do just that. From Razzies to Rotten Tomatoes, there’s no shortage of sites sniffing out the movie bombs.

I know this. Really I do. And yet, I keep watching stinkers.

And I don't mean movies of the “so bad they’re really good” variety. I mean just plain awful ones. The kind that make you want to plop down on your couch to watch TV instead because if you don't like the show, at least it was free (sorta). Or make you want to eat healthy carrots instead of a bucket-o-faux-buttery popcorn, because they help improve your night-vision (or so I hear).

For whatever reason, I continue to turn a deaf ear to the critics. So tonight, I am compelled to share 10 painful films that I have endured over the past decade. Let this be a cautionary tale.

I’m almost embarrassed to admit seeing most of these. And I’m certain I’ll never get the precious hours back that were spent throwing up in my movie-loving mouth as these interminable films droned on.

So, on with the show! Here are my WORST movies of the decade.

And “The Skunky” goes to…

2000: Battlefield Earth
Tagline: “Prepare for Battle.”
Star Power: John Travolta, Forest Whitaker
10-Word Synopsis: Futuristic Scientologists destroy Earth, enslave humans. Accidental comedy.
Stink Factor:

2001: Glitter
Tagline: “In music she found her dream, her life, herself.”
Star Power: Mariah Carey, Terrence Howard
10-Word Synopsis: Big-haired singer with dream. Should stick to singing, not acting.
Stink Factor:

2002: Crossroads
Tagline: “Dreams change, friends are forever.”
Star Power: Britney Spears, Dan Aykroyd, Kim Cattrall, Justin Long
10-Word Synopsis: See Mariah.
Stink Factor:

2003: Gigli
Tagline: “Murder, blackmail, temptation, redemption. It’s been a busy week.”
Star Power: Ben Affleck, Jennifer Lopez, Christopher Walken, Justin Bartha
10-Word Synopsis: Set in Jersey -- spoiler -- can't believe they didn't work out.
Stink Factor:

2004: Catwoman
Tagline: (they didn’t have one, so I’m adding my own: “Me-Ouch!”)
Star Power: Halle Berry, Benjamin Bratt, Sharon Stone
10-Word Synopsis: Woman becomes cat, fights crime. Really, Oscar winner? REALLY??
Stink Factor:

2005: The Gingerdead Man
Tagline: “Evil never tasted so good.”
Star Power: Gary Busey
10-Word Synopsis: Psychokiller comes back to life as cookie. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Stink Factor:

2006: Basic Instinct 2
Tagline: “Sometimes obsession can be murder.”
Star Power: Sharon Stone
10-Word Synopsis: Nobody needs to see your lady parts again, Sharon. Seriously.
Stink Factor:

2007: Who’s Your Caddy?
Tagline: “This summer, it’s the street vs. the elite.”
Star Power: Sherri Shepherd
10-Word Synopsis: Racial stereotypes abound. Title is most clever thing here.
Stink Factor:

2008: Pineapple Express
Tagline: “Put this in your pipe and smoke it.”
Star Power: Seth Rogan & James Franco
10-Word Synopsis: Must be high to understand unfunny reefer comedy. Have munchies.
Stink Factor:

2009: Jennifer’s Body
Tagline: “She’s evil… and not just high school evil.”
Star Power: Megan Fox, Amanda Seyfried, Adam Brody
10-Word Synopsis: Can’t resist things named Jennifer. But it’s no Juno, Diablo.
Stink Factor:

Ok, now it’s YOUR turn. Surely I can’t be the only one who watched horrible movies in the past decade. Add your own stinkers below!

Creepy Commercials

As you know, I just cleared out my DVR.

When I’m watching TV, like most people, I zip right through the commercials. (Even though I kinda love them.) But there are 2 that stop me in my tracks, mainly because they creep me OUT.

The first is for Tabasco and it involves singing pepperonis. Have you seen this? It is the stuff of nightmares! Now I can’t even LOOK at a pizza without expecting it to burst out in barbershop quartet-esque song. Let alone EAT one. Thanks, jerky Tabasco!




The second is for DirectTV and it involves an updated scene from Tommy Boy with David Spade and Chris Farley, who just so happens to be dead. And this isn’t the first time they used someone who died tragically in a commercial (hello little girl from Poltergeist). Super classy!




What do YOU think? Watch the commercials above, and then vote below:

poll by twiigs.com

Seven Strikes

So I’ve had a bunch of dates lately. Honestly, more than I’ve ever had in my entire life. I blame the Spring. I may need a spreadsheet to keep track of it all (ok, ok, I HAVE a spreadsheet to keep track of it all).

I met one of the Match guys for drinks at Dos Caminos. Let’s call him George Costanza (not because of the way he looked, thankfully, but because his screen name had a Seinfeld flair to it). He was 39, grew up here in NYC, lives on the UES. Emory undergrad, MBA from NYU, and manages a hedge fund (when he's not busy being an architect or an importer/exporter). 6’1”. Had an ex-wife and hair (on his head), didn’t have kids or pets. And loved TV.

Are you noticing a few scary patterns here? I know, I am too…

Anyway, from the moment we said wassup, Georgie was a step (or two or three) ahead of me. You might say, he was putting the cart before the horse. He was the Kramer to my Jerry.

We’d had a few email exchanges -- brief ones mainly focused on our mutual love of television and the time/date/place of our first meeting. The only personal nugget he revealed to me that wasn’t in his profile was his first name. So when he arrived (9 minutes late), said, “Hey, you!” as though he’d forgotten MY name, and went in for the hug, he was met… with a handshake. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! We barely knew eachother. There was no need for any more physical contact than you might have with a loan officer.

Strike one (half for the potential name-forgetting, and half for the huggy hello).

He led the way to one of the downstairs bars and he ordered our drinks. That was nice. A vodka martini for him, an Amstel for me. Right off the bat, he started talking about 24 (apparently he watched all of season 1 in BED with his ex-wife, "Susan"), and explained how we could learn a thing or two about torture from Jack Bauer. THAT is what is known as a Conversation Killer. It was a first date 1-2 punch of the ex-wife and the cheerful subject of torture. I had nothing to say. So I sipped my beer. Strike two.

We were seated pretty far from the bar, side by side on two stools, like we were waiting for the bus. It wasn’t long before he got up and stood in front of me, while I stayed put on the stool. In the time it took to drink a drink, he’d invited himself over my apartment TWICE (once to “see my DVD collection” and again, in an offer to hook my TV up to my laptop so I could download bootleg movies). I shrugged my shoulders uncomfortably. Strike three.

Costanza finished the last of his martini, leaving just 3 olives on a stick. He savored the 1st one like it was a chocolate éclair fresh from the trash, then chomped on the 2nd. He slid the 3rd one off the stick, swirled it around in his glass, and offered it to me. To me?? ICK!! Forget I don’t really like olives, but here was this stranger offering me the backwashiest one of the bunch. Gross. And, strike four.

He must’ve been sending secret hand signals to the bartender behind his back, because next thing I know, there’s another drink in my hand. Ugh. With a new drink, also came a new desire to sit down next to me. So he did. And he whipped out his Blackberry to show me pics of his nieces and nephews. A couple of pics, ok. But we must’ve looked at 150. And peppered between the photos of smiling children celebrating Festivus were weird things. Like a bacon-wrapped meatloaf. And a close-up of some woman’s cleavage. And a small white dog, wearing a motorcycle jacket while smoking a cigar. You can’t make this stuff up. Strike five.

Throughout the impromptu slideshow, he seized several opportunities to touch my shoulder, my arm, my knee. I kept slowly sliding further and further away until I only had 1/2 of 1 butt cheek still left on the stool. BIG strike six.

At that point we’d been there for over an hour -- and I was practically standing anyway, so I was ready to end the date. He really wasn’t such a bad guy, but he was just so forward that it put me off. So, I muttered something about having an early meeting (maybe I’M the guy here?), and put on my jacket. We went up a long flight of stairs where I’m 90% sure he was trailing behind to get a better look at my… behind (yes, ok, HE IS the guy). I’m feeling generous, so no strikes here.

When we got outside, I saw it started raining. Pouring, actually. So we both opened our umbrellas. And I turned to him to say thanks for the drinks, goodnight, and goodbye. He asked me to share a cab, and I politely declined, saying something stupid about loving to walk in the rain (PS: I don't). So that was it. The final moment. The end of the date. And he goes in for… the kiss (um, really?!?).

So, what did Georgie get? A face-full of my hair, which was growing denser by the minute in the extreme humidity. Striiiike seven.

Now, I’m not a baseball fanatic or anything, but I’m fairly certain you only get THREE strikes. And I think Captain Observant finally got the message too, because I haven’t heard from him. Except for the time he showed up on my doorstep with some bootleg DVDs.

Kidding.

So what do YOU think? Do I need to loosen up? Or does being an uptight sourpuss suit me?

Germs Make Me Sick

So I’ve been trying to mind my own business with this Swine Flu epidemic (only occasionally staring suspiciously at those who so much as sniffle). And I’m ok with my odds. I mean, how many millions of people live in NYC? Eight maybe? And there’s only been a couple of hundred confirmed cases of the dreaded flu in the whole entire US. I can live with that.

But do you know what stat really makes my skin crawl? The fact that the average desktop computer carries 400x more bacteria than the average toilet seat.

Hold up.

You mean MY keyboard? The same one I’m using to type on RIGHT NOW? Dirtier than a TOILET? Are we talking a public toilet, or the one in my house? And what about my mouse? Or my phone? Or my desk?

Blech. It’s enough to make me call in sick to my stomach.

We just moved offices at work, so I took the opportunity to give my keyboard a good shake shake shake. And it’s true -- it was not clean, but it wasn’t exactly a budding Chia Pet of Filth either.

I freed an inordinate amount of gray fuzz, a bunch of eyelashes (?) that I can only assume were mine, and slightly fewer poppy and sesame seeds than you’d find on an everything bagel.

Nasty gunk? Yes. Worse than a toilet? Not quite.

Of course, the biggest biohazards are what you DON’T see. For instance, it doesn’t matter that you wash your hands after you use the restroom. Chances are, you touch something on your way out -- the faucet, the paper towel rack, the door handle -- that’s just littered with bacteria from people (dirty dogs) who haven’t. That sneaky bacteria is just waiting to come along for the ride back to your desk. Which I’m sure it does.

Wheeee!

Another major culprit is eating lunch at your desk. Wayward crumbs encourage bacteria growth, which IS unfortunate because Dining al Desko is something I do pretty much every day.

Suddenly, my office is a bacteria cafeteria.

Well played, old germ. Well played.

The moral of the story? The 5-Second Rule is now officially off when something falls on your desk. Turns out, you’re much safer licking a toilet.

Old Wooden Teeth

Chemistry’s been a total dud (and by that, I do mean both the website AND the nonexistent “spark” from online dating). I can’t understand why every guy I’m matched with on that site makes less than $25k/yr and lives at home. It must say something about my personality, like I’m a caretaker, or a cheap date.

Anyway, after two Match misses, I finally went on a date with a guy from Chemistry. At 38, he was closer to my age. Lives in a walkup in the East Village. Never married and no kids, but unclear on his pet status. He was an even 6’ tall -- a nice change from the Hobbits I’ve been meeting. He called himself a “TV fanatic” (me too!). By day, he’s a composer who writes jingles to pay the bills, and by night he said he is opening an off-Broadway musical. Plus he plays about 85 instruments. Now, I’ve never dated an artsy guy before. I’m generally attracted to the complete Neanderthal opposite. So this was a change of pace. A broadening of my horizons, if you will.

Leading up to this point, I’d been calling him Old Wooden Teeth. Not nice, I know! But in all his photos, he had a very plastic smile that made his teeth seem fake – but not like veneers, or even caps. These choppers looked old school. Like George Washington and his sturdy wooden teeth.

Upon meeting him, I realized he also had a tiny, shrunken Beetlejuice head and exceptionally long ET “Phone Home” fingers. But I digress…

We decided on dinner and a movie. Or more accurately, a movie, then dinner. Wow, I thought, FINALLY a guy who wants to spend more than 20 minutes getting to know me! He was pretty insistent on seeing Rachel Getting Married, because it was the only Oscar-nominated film he missed. Nevermind that I’d already seen it, or that it’s WAY too heavy for a first date, or that it came out like 6 months ago -- he scoured the city to find the last movie theater on Earth that was still playing it.

Okay, fine.

So I arrived, and he’d already purchased 2 tickets. Score! No awkward conversations at the ticket counter! He looked basically normal (save the teeny-tiny head and super-long digits), but I noticed he was wearing a lavender scarf wrapped several times around his throat. I remembered seeing that same dainty scarf at Ann Taylor LOFT -- a thought I quickly dismissed.

We went directly to the snack counter. I decided I was paying, so I’m all ready for my $20 popcorn and a diet coke. He asked for hot herbal tea with honey. The snack guy looked at him like he had ten heads (ten very small heads). We settled on popcorn, a diet coke, and a steaming cup of hot water. Yum.

We made some idle chit-chat where he talked only about himself, his music, his “craft.” Didn’t ask me a single question. I soon realized that he didn’t want to get to know ME at all, he just wanted an audience. Awesome. So, the movie starts and we’re basically the only people there. He decided to dig into the popcorn after all, and our fingers occasionally touched. With the right guy, this is cute -- flirty, even.

Not this time…

I was feeling a little uncomfortable, like maybe I wanted to sit in a different row so we wouldn’t be so close to each other in this big, empty theater. So I did what I always do in these situations -- I built a Wall of Hair. What’s that, you ask? If I’m not attracted to a guy, I’ll flip my massive mane onto whatever side he is sitting. This accomplishes a few things: It creates a natural barrier between our heads, it prevents whispering in my ear, and generally discourages any unwanted coziness.

This has been an effective technique in the past.

So I’m quietly sitting behind my hair wall, going in for popcorn ONLY when the coast is clear, and I start to hear this strange humming. It’s really low, but really annoying. Humm, hummm, humhummm. I realize it’s coming from HIM. Terrific. Mozart goes on like this for about 45 minutes.

We’re well into the rehearsal dinner scene where Anne Hathaway’s character melts down, when I see this movement out of the corner of my eye. He was rooting around in his coat pocket for something. A mint, maybe? A cell phone? An asthma inhaler? Any of those items would have been acceptable.

When I finally peeked through the hedge that was my hair, I realized he was doing something in public, in the middle of a movie, that I only do in the privacy of my own bathroom: He was flossing.

Let me repeat that… He… Was… FLOSSING.

F-L-O-S-S-I-N-G-!-!

I was like, EWWWW, gross! Who DOES that?!? And what guy (who’s not a dentist) just randomly carries floss around? I mean, I hate when popcorn gets stuck in my teeth as much as the next guy. Well, clearly, NOT as much as the next guy. But you catch my drift. Maybe Woody was afraid of his teeth rotting, but this was insane.

Needless to say, I said I was feeling a bit “under the weather” after the movie, and I bailed on dinner. He’s since sent me an email to see if I’m better and to tell me he had a lovely time. I’m not writing him back. Telling a grown man that he should not publicly floss on a first date, is like telling that stinky kid in junior high that it’s time to start wearing deodorant.

It's an awkward conversation that I'd rather avoid entirely.

So give it to me straight -- am I being too harsh on him?? Should I have found his sudden dental hygiene urges charming? Discuss.

Toilet Bowl Boyfriend

In keeping with the rules of Lent, I ordered up a plain cheese pizza tonight. About 15 minutes after I placed the order, my phone rang. Naturally, I assumed it was the lobby telling me the delivery guy was on his way up.

It wasn’t.

My mom was on the other end. She likes to check in to make sure I made it home safely. It’s cute, really. So we chit-chatted for a few minutes, and I think I successfully convinced her I would survive yet another day in the Big Bad City. Then, I happened to mention that I ordered a pizza. Plain cheese – just like Jesus likes it.

You’re familiar with the phrase, “no good deed goes unpunished,” yes? Well, the conversation went a little something like this:

MOM: Oh no…
ME: What?
MOM: It’s just…well, I just thought you were in for the night.
ME: I am in for the night. The pizza comes to me.
MOM: But you have to open the door.
ME: Yes, that’s generally how food gets inside.
MOM: But you don’t know who this guy is.
ME: Yes I do. He’s the pizza delivery guy.
MOM: But you don’t know what he’s up to.
ME: Delivering pizzas, I think.
MOM: He could take advantage of the situation.
ME: What situation?
MOM: That you’re ALONE.
ME: Huh?
MOM: You hear about it all the time on the news.
ME: Mmm-hmm…
MOM: Flush the toilet when the doorbell rings!
ME: Okay…
MOM: Then, turn on the shower. Are you writing this down?
ME: Uh-huh…
MOM: I’ll send you some of Dad’s pants. Underwear too.
ME: (silence)
MOM: You can keep them on the couch.
ME: Awesome.
MOM: That way, he’ll know you’re not alone.

So, let me get this straight: I need to invent a hungry slob of a boyfriend who orders dinner, then leaves his dirty clothes strewn all over the living room BEFORE taking a dump (and a shower!), just to trick a random delivery guy into believing I’m not alone.

Being single is SO complicated.

Ooh That Smell

Work was crazy the whole month of February. So I was kind of in a news blackout. Well, I’m all caught up now, but I couldn’t let this story pass by without commenting. From the department of Old News, comes this gem…

Mayor Mike Bloomberg held a press conference to inform concerned New Yorkers that the maple syrup smell which has randomly flooded the air since 2005 can be attributed to…

New Jersey!

Ugh. How can this BE? I remember that smell! It was so strong. Like I was carrying pancakes in my purse. How on Earth could it have been coming from a totally different state? And New Jersey of all places! Like we need to add fuel to the Jersey Smells fire. This is serious. The time has come: We must stage an intervention. So here is my open letter to a state I love:

Dear Jersey,

You know the old saying, “It’s not you, it’s me”? Well, old friend, I have it on good authority that it is, in fact, YOU.

Shut down the factories. Roll up the windows on the Turnpike. Stand upwind during low tide. Generally just stop smelling. Please. Let somebody else be the Stinky State.

Signed,
A Congested Former Citizen