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?

Go Nuts for Donuts

Ever want to be Michael Vale? You know, the “time to make the donuts” guy?

No? Maybe that’s just me. Because tonight, I was a mustache and a paper hat away from hopping behind my local Dunkin' Donuts counter.

It’s true, I’m not big on the Dunk, but I love me some Donut. And Boston Kreme is my fave. Now, I had no plans to eat donuts tonight (and yes, I am the type of person who would make such a plan in advance), but I was walking down 2nd ave on my way home from work, and I was overwhelmed by the smell. The delicious smell of donuts. Resistance was futile.

Can I help it if one (or three) followed me home?

Now, if the incompetent donut wrangler behind the counter had her way, I would have gone home empty-handed. She made me work for it. She was “listening challenged.” Maybe she got mesmerized by all the donut flavors. Or maybe she was wondering how many Coolatas it would take to fill a bathtub. Or maybe she was still in shock that Adam Lambert lost. I don’t know.

I approached the counter, I looked her in the eye, and in a sweet voice sang, “I’d like a Boston Kreme, please!” After all, I was excited. I was having a spontaneous donut! She nodded (a universally accepted sign of understanding an order), then called out over her shoulder, “A cruller?”

“No,” I huffed, trying to speak more clearly, “Bos-ton Kreme.” She smiled weakly, turned back to the Wall O’ Donuts, paused and asked, “Blueberry crumb?” I immediately scanned the room for a camera, didn’t see one, and shouted, “BOSSS-TONNN KREEEME!”, then angrily pointed my whole arm in the direction of a rack holding about 2 dozen of them.

Her face scrunched up, as she pawed at the rack and dumped THREE donuts in a bag (please see above to witness that I actually only ordered one). I swear I heard the guy in line behind me mutter under his breath, “Somebody’s hungry!” But when I whipped around to glare at him, he was pretending to read his mail. Jerk.

Anyway, I DID get my donut(s). And ol’ Dumbo Ears didn’t have time to spit on them or drop them on the floor, which was nice. But it turns out the bigger test of willpower is NOT whether or not you can resist walking by your local DD -- it’s whether or not you can resist eating all three donuts for dinner (PS: I can, but only because the last one was judging me).

Want to save yourself the humiliation (and calories) of eating actual donuts?

DD has invented a way for us to play with their food with the Donut Creator tool where you can also vote on your favorite pre-designed goodies. I’d imagine one or more will be offered in-store for purchase.

Just make sure to enunciate when you place your order…

A Night at the Roxbury

Can you fall in love with a motel? If so, consider me smitten.

I spent my Saturday night at The Roxbury. Now, hold on to your head-bob -- this isn’t a creepy dance club.

It IS a sleek, chic, unique and totally magnifique motel in the Catskills, owned by two dear friends, Greg & Joseph. It’s like a little slice of Soho in the country (and I DO mean country, on the way in I passed a livestock auction and an Elk’s Lodge hosting a something called “pan cake brkfst” -- I’m thinking they ran out of vowels).

Anyway, absolutely everyone should pay them a visit (and yes, that means YOU). Here’s why…

The Scenery:
I thoroughly enjoyed the 150-mile ride through winding roads alongside babbling brooks and tree-lined hills. I even spent some quality time with nature -- and I have the muddy navy blue ballet flats to prove it! I can’t really imagine myself visiting in the winter (mainly because I don’t ski -- skiing combines everything I hate: runny noses, freezing cold, and athleticism), but I’m dying to do it all over again in the Fall to see all the amazing colors of changing leaves. And if you do enjoy barreling down a mountain at breakneck speeds, I hear Hunter, Windham, and Bellayre are nearby.

The Décor:
I don’t even know where to begin here. You can look at the beautiful photos on their website, but nothing compares to seeing these rooms firsthand. Each one draws from art, TV, movies, fashion and design from the 60’s and 70’s. But not in a lame Planet Hollywood/Hard Rock Café kind of way. Think more artistic than tchotchkes. Every inch has been carefully curated, every detail lovingly assembled into colors, textures, and themes inspired by The Flintstones, The Jetsons, I Dream of Jeannie (the iconic pink genie bottle bathroom is a showstopper), The Partridge Family, and more. And the mirage doesn’t stop there -- the slick main kitchen and living room, the sparkly Shimmer Spa, the futuristic outdoor green glass fire pit, and the custom light fixtures hanging in the entryways (one of which looks a cross between the ornate glass ceiling art at the Bellagio and the Weight Watcher’s Hungry Monster) -- are like a dream. A very stylish, posh, slightly trippy, orange and lime green dream. Am I booking the genie bottle on my very next visit? Yes, Master!

The Bed:
Sleeping on a cloud doesn’t do this bed justice. It’s more like sleeping on a fluffy marshmallow, on top of a pile of feathers, on top of a puff of air, on top of a bowl of cotton candy, and then, oh yeah, the cloud. Add the 42in flatscreen TV (did I ever tell you I sleep with the TV on?) and it was a little something I like to call, Slumber Heaven. Zzzzzzz.

The Snacks:
You know that main kitchen I mentioned earlier? It’s stocked full of goodies all day long. You’ll find croissants, cinnamon buns, scones, yogurt, and OJ in the morning. Want a little something to nosh on while perusing the DVD library? Try a wasabi peanut. Feeling the chilly mountain air? Warm up with some white chocolate hot cocoa. Need something stronger? There’s wine and bubbly in your mini-fridge, and you can even order a cheese platter, perfect for midnight snacking. What more could a hungry girl (or guy) ask for?

The Hosts:
I was honored to receive the red carpet royal treatment -- I might as well have been wearing a tiara (which, incidentally, they do have on-hand if you are so inclined). But it wasn’t just MY stay that Greg and his staff wanted to make unforgettable -- they went the extra mile for everyone. You’ll never EVER find more thoughtful hosts. Seriously.

In Short:
I am in awe.

It blows my mind that they haven’t been doing this for decades, but the fact is The Roxbury has only been around for 5 years. Greg & Joe gutted a dilapidated strip of efficiency apartments and transformed them into an award-winning oasis. It’s plain to see they are doing what they were born to do. And since they are far too modest to brag about their extraordinary achievements, I’ll do it for them.

Oh, wait. I think I just did!

So, which room would YOU stay in? Take a look and write your favorite(s) in the comments below.

Predictions (aka The Mush)

Nobody really wants an endorsement from me (see Top Chef ringer Fabio, for example).

But since I watch about a million TV shows, I can’t help but have some favorites in the many reality competitions that are coming to an end this week and next. Even though I know it will ultimately be their doom...

Below are my picks to win. Feel free to read this through your fingers, like you might watch a traffic accident:

The Amazing Race
True, this one wrapped on Sunday, but my money was on Margie & Luke, the bionic mom and deaf son duo. They were actually in the lead for most of the finale, but bit it in the end over a particularly vexing surfboard puzzle. I was sad, but not surprised, when Phil Keoghan, my 2nd favorite reality show host (my 1st being The Bachelor’s Chris Harrison), stood on a bluff in Hawaii and informed us that the pair came in 3rd. Poo.

Hell’s Kitchen
To tell you the truth, I don’t actually care who wins this one tonight. Personally, I’d like to see chef Gordon Ramsay get right up close to the camera and shout, “Suck it, Donkeys!” then storm off the set. I guess I kind of liked 400lb Robert earlier in the season, before he was sent home with chest pains. Since I’m picking, though, I’ll go with Paula. Who’s that? Well, she’s mousy and plain and doesn’t have the personality God gave a rock. But the other finalist has a serious mullet and I just can’t abide by that.

Dancing with the Stars
I’ve loved Gilles & Cheryl from the beginning. While this Sex & the City shower guy could have chemistry with a doorknob, the fact is he’s a terrific dancer. And Cheryl’s a great choreographer. So together, they’re pretty sizzling. She’s already won a mirrorball trophy or two (and made me love a country song against all my better judgement), and I think she can do it again. I’d also like to state for the record that if Gilles ever leaves his wife, he can paso doble his way over to my deluxe studio apartment any day. Ole!

American Idol
Ok. If Adam Lambert in all his guyliner and black-nailpolished glory doesn’t win, I WILL stop watching this show. (Until next season when Evil Ryan Seacrest sucks me in. Again.)

Check back on the comments next week and we’ll see how I fared. And share your own predictions below!

Love

On Wednesday night at 9:48pm, I became an aunt for the very first time to a beautiful baby girl, named Grace Elizabeth. She surprised us all 3 weeks early, but I think she just really wanted to make a dramatic entrance on her first Mother’s Day.

Mission accomplished.

While she is just one of the many babies being born in my life right now, of course, she is by FAR my favorite. She is 6lbs 10oz and 20 inches of pure joy. Here’s just a few of the thousands of reasons why:

1) From the minute I saw her, less than an hour old, she was pink. Perfectly pink like every little girl should be.

2) She has very long fingers, so delicate you can’t even believe there are any bones in them. But she’s strong too, especially when she does not want to stick her arm inside her onesie, or keep her fingers inside her mittens, or her feet inside her socks. No doubt she will be tall, and artistic with hands like she has.

3) She has the most adorable dimple on her right cheek, just like her daddy. And watching my little brother (who’s a very big 6’5”) care for this little peanut is so sweet and gentle, it brings tears to my eyes in the best possible way.

4) Her hair. As a baby, I was bald until I was about 9 months old (I’ve made up for lost time, tenfold). My brother, on the other hand, was born with a good amount of black hair, that later turned orange-ish (the Turnip Phase, as it is affectionately known in my family), which then settled on the most gorgeous platinum blonde by the time he was about 3 months old. His daughter, is the perfect middle ground -- light blonde downy fuzz around the edges, and silky soft light brown hair all over her head. No turnips here -- that must be my sister-in-law’s good influence!

5) I remember the stories of the day I was born, hearing that my grandmother and my father got soaking wet in the hospital parking lot from all the rain that day. The same thing happened to me the night Gracie was born as I was leaving the hospital. The downpour made me smile and feel like my grandmother, her great-grandmother, was still here, watching over us.

Lots of surreal memories swirl in my head from a day that began with a 5:30am phone call and ended at 3am the next morning when I fell asleep on my brother’s couch in Connecticut. I remember seeing “Deadliest Catch” playing on the TV in the unfamiliar hospital waiting room as I sat alongside a concerned father who would later be sent home for the 3rd time as his single daughter left with false labor pains. I remember getting text message updates from my brother throughout the day and night, which I then relayed by phone to my parents all the way in Florida and by email to my aunt in New York, realizing what a blessing technology can be, wondering how people ever managed without this kind of lifeline. I remember getting cash from the ATM and offering it to my brother, as if he was going to tip the doctors after delivery for a job well done.

I remember sitting downstairs with him in the small window of time he had after my sister-in-law was given an epidural, as he ate a turkey wrap in about 3 bites -- looking in one second like a little boy, and in another like a grown man -- his face full of awe, excitement, and exhaustion. I remember as a new mommy, daddy, and baby slept in the hospital, I came back to their quiet house, with everything still frozen in the bright disarray of a surprise 4am water breaking. And finally, I remember that their cat saw this as his opportunity to mess with me by throwing up all over the house (fyi, the cat and I are still not speaking).

I sat in the hospital, waiting for the news, my mind wandering to the other newborns in the nursery. There were 7 altogether, including Gracie, 3 girls and 4 boys. I couldn’t help but wonder if all these babies, were bonded in some way -- linked for coming into the world at the same time, laying side by side. I wondered where life would take them, who they would become.

As I leaned against the glass, I wished them health, I wished them happiness, and I wished them love.

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.

Mr. Wrong

I wanted to say a big thanks to everyone who answered my little survey and sent me lovely emails about my novel!

I'm sure 14% of you will be thrilled to know that my paper mache boyfriend is drying as we speak. Luckily, I had more than one copy of my manuscript laying about -- and you actually encouraged me to blow the dust off the cover and take a peek inside.

In a nutshell, my novel, Twenty-nine, is a coming-of-middle-age story. The dawn of a new decade forces Katherine Hunter to take stock of her life and she isn’t at all happy with what she sees. Guided by her addiction to horoscopes, Kate navigates her way down a barbed path to the big 3-0, along the way juggling age-old friendships, romantic disasters, a stagnant career, and the evil beast that is her bathroom scale.

I thought I’d share a few snippets from one of my favorite chapters -- titled “Mr. Wrong.” Somehow, it rings as true to me today as it did when I wrote it more than 6 years ago…


“I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

To many people those eight words were filled with hope. It was a chance to live the fairy tale. Happily ever after. To Katherine Hunter, those words were anxiety-filled disaster balloons waiting to pop and ooze all over her head. The last time Kate naively agreed to a fix-up was the summer after she graduated college, during one of many off-periods with her ex, Jack. The fix-up was with a red-headed, bird-faced octopus who got a swift knee to the nuts when he got fresh and forgot the meaning of “no.” The experience was enough to make her swear off blind dates forever.

Still, the offers came in over the years from unsuspecting folk who had not yet heard her “Under No Circumstances Shall Ye Set Me Up” manifesto. These people -- cab drivers, co-workers, friends, bosses, her mother, her tailor, her dental hygienist -- were all well-intentioned, but they never really took anything relevant into account when looking for love.

They'd say, “I have a brother (son/friend/dog walker) who is single (divorced/just got out of a bad relationship/incarcerated) who wants to (needs to/should/would if he knew what was good for him) go out with a nice girl like you.”

These collective yentas, invariably married or live-ins, and their star-crossed love connections had little motivation other than the fact that Kate and Prince Not Particularly Charming were both single. Nothing like putting two strangers at a dinner table in front of a hearty helping of small talk with a side of uncomfortable silence, Kate thought. Basing a date on this criterion was the social equivalent of setting up two people because they both had noses…


I won’t give away the meat of the chapter, but let’s just say that Kate eventually goes on another blind date. And it doesn’t go well.


… Kate stood up and walked out. In the one stroke of good luck that evening, a taxi of mercy sat outside the restaurant with its vacant light lit and whisked her across the Hudson to pick up her car. While exiting the Holland Tunnel, her cell phone rang. It was Alex.

“Do not speak. Pat’s a freak. He sent his friend Ed. And now you are dead,” Kate inadvertently rhymed turning this debacle into Dr. Seuss for pathetic singles. (I do not like guys with fake names. Please do not play these foolish games.)

Silence from the other end was broken by a male voice, “Kate, it’s Henry.”

“Ah. Well, pal, same goes for you. Please tell your wife that the next time I want to have an evening like I just had, I’ll head down to the Port Authority, find a man eating from the garbage, ask him to dinner, and then let him shit in my purse.”

“Come on, he was that bad?”

“He wasn’t even there! He sent a stunt double to determine if I’m datable!! Regardless, I’m becoming a lesbian tomorrow. Please be sure to pass it on.”

Kate snapped her phone shut and looked at the rear-view mirror in disgust as her cab driver with no vowels in his name raise his unibrow in interest. "Perhaps a nun would be a safer bet," Kate muttered under her breath as they sped off into the night.



So, what do YOU think of blind dates -- love them, or loathe them? And has anyone EVER been on a good one?

Loyal Readers

I’ve been SUCH a slacker this month with my posts.

It’s not you, it’s me! I’ve wanted to blog. Really, I have. And trust me, I still do have a LOAD of meaningless things to say (especially since my Experiment is working).

I just haven’t found the time. No excuse, I know.

Earlier today, an anonymous Loyal Reader reminded me that I need to “get a typin’.” (I swear, it’s not my mom – she doesn’t understand how to work the computer). Anyway, he (or she) is totally right! But I need to get going on more than just my blog -- this friendly kick in the ass has also reminded me that what I REALLY need to get going on is my book.

My what? My book!

I originally started this blog as a way to get back into writing after a long hiatus. (If you already know this story, feel free to sing along.)

Follow me waaaay back in time to 2002. I was about to turn 29, and I was having a crisis of sorts. I wasn’t happy at my job, in my relationships, or with my living situation. To me, turning 30 was a very scary proposition, mainly because I had a long checklist filled with empty boxes (House, husband, kids? Nah, nope, nada!) Before I started a new decade, my life needed a spring cleaning. And I needed to shake things up a bit. So I took a vacation all by myself to the Cayman Islands for 10 days, and started writing a novel.

It was about a single girl. From Jersey. On the verge of turning 30. (They say write what you know, right?)

I wrote it in real-time from my 29th birthday until the time I turned 30. I’d work out the next plot point or piece of dialogue in my head while I was driving home from work. I’d jot down notes on napkins and gum wrappers during the day as something funny occurred to me. I slept with a notebook next to my bed. I knew exactly where the story began, and exactly how it would end, but the journey in between was shaping me as much as I was shaping it.

In the end, I wound up with a 280-page manuscript that was kinda funny and kinda touching, part fantasy and part based on my actual life (and the people in it).

Anyway, I spent the next year editing the story -- punching up the funny, filling in the blanks, and soliciting feedback from my close friends and family on ways to make it better, tighter, smarter. Now keep in mind, this was never meant to be the next Great American Novel -- it was nothing more than a summer beach read, a guilty pleasure. Written to be read in a weekend.

Because I started my career in book publishing, there was this false notion that I had all these industry contacts. Newsflash: The turnover in publishing is worse than at your local deli, so any experience I got there was pretty much useless (unless I wanted to order a turkey sandwich, in which case, the new guy behind the counter could bang one out just as good as the old guy).

I told everyone it didn’t matter if it ever got published. “It was fun just writing it,” I’d say. Sounds a lot like, “it was an honor just being nominated,” doesn’t it? Well, I was full of total crap. While I WAS afraid of having my writing and my story (which was loosely based on ME) judged by perfect strangers, I really wanted to get it published. Really bad.

Then, life got in the way.

Soon after I was finished editing, and re-editing, and re-re-editing my manuscript, my mom got sick. Most of my free time and energy went into helping my parents out. As it should. And thankfully, she's better now! But this lasted for several years, which left my poor book alone to fend for itself (it turns out, unpublished novels are very shy, lazy creatures who stubbornly refuse to see the light of day unless somebody actually sends them someplace -- who knew?).

So there mine sat, collecting dust. Which is exactly what it’s still doing right about… now.

To tell you the truth, I’m overwhelmed just thinking about reading it again -- it was such a snapshot of my life at the time. And that was my big “hook” -- the author has written it in real-time as she, herself, was turning 30! “What a wunderkind,” they would say.

Now, all these years later, I am more like stale Wonder Bread -- my pop culture references are hopelessly out of date and I’m actually closer to 40 than I am to 30 (and yes, the mere thought of that still makes me throw up a little in my mouth). And that long checklist I had filled with empty boxes? Still mostly unchecked.

So, Loyal Readers, I’d like your help…

poll by twiigs.com

Don’t see an answer you like in this multiple choice? Write your own below!

Finger Lickin’ Good

For a while now, tiny food has been the trend. From burger sliders to 100-calorie snack packs, everyday foods have downsized. And I’ve enjoyed the miniature movement (mainly because it makes me feel like a giant).

Slowly, though, big foods are creeping back. Maybe it’s a sign of the times -- get more for less.

The trailblazer was probably Mega M&Ms but they are a mega letdown. Recently, my brother tipped me off to Giant Cheetos and I was skeptical. After all, a Cheeto the size of a small lemon accidentally appeared in someone’s bag a few years back (a spokesperson chalked it up to “Seasoning Accumulation,” calling the orb “beyond dangerously cheesy”).

This time, however, it is intentional. And it IS fun to think about a Giant Cheeto the size of a beach ball, or even a baseball. But if you are expecting that, you will be disappointed. If, however, you always dreamed of eating a cheesy corn snack roughly the size of a golf ball, allow me to submit a Giant Cheeto for your chewing pleasure.

Chester Cheetah and I have always been pretty tight. I am a bit of a doodle connoisseur. I like them crunchy. And I like them puffy. And now… I like them giant. (PS: I do NOT like the Natural Cheeto -- that is what I call, a waste of time-o).

Anyway, I had a mini sleeve of 5 Giant Cheetos, and not once did I have the urge to jam all 5 in my mouth at once just to see if they could fit (yes, I did). In a nutshell, it is a big-ass ball of cheese. It still turns your fingers bright orange, an unfortunate side effect (much like the exploding dye pack on expensive clothing or stolen money) that makes it futile to deny eating the whole bag.

I do feel like if I ate a regular-sized bag, they just might rub the roof of my mouth raw. But in small doses, they are good times.

So I ask, why stop at the humble Cheeto? Here’s my list of junk foods that I’d like to see jumbo size:

1) I’d like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup the size of a manhole cover
2) I’d like a Combo the size of a fireplace log
3) I’d like a strawberry frosted Pop-Tart the size of a pillowcase
4) I’d like a Dorito the size of a boomerang
5) I’d like a vanilla McDonald’s milkshake served in a bucket (complete with a harness for hands-free snack enjoyment)

Anything you’d like to super size?

Code Yellow

It’s Peep Season!

I mean, what would Halloween be without candy corn? Christmas without candy canes? Valentine's Day without conversation hearts? Easter just doesn’t taste like Easter without at least 1 rack of these irrisistable sugar-crusted chicks. In fact, they’ll pop up in about 69% of all Easter baskets (making the other 31% of baskets officially sucky).

Personally, I like ‘em stale. Chewy, even. And I like to eat their blobby little heads first.

But who among us hasn’t put one of these fine fellows in the microwave just to see what would happen? For the love of science? No!

For the love of marshmallow.

Peep-a-mania is running wild. The Washington Post conducts an annual diorama contest. The Seattle Times, National Geographic, and even the American Bar Association host their own Peep-offs. There’s a Peep-eating contest (the record holder at 103 in 30 minutes is called Dennis Gross -- coincidence?). Peeps have gone medieval with Peep jousting (watch the clip to the end for the Peeps Civil War).

Yes, there’s even Peep porn (my eyes, MY EYES!).

If I’m feeling naughty, I’ll eat the King of All Easter Candy -- the Reese's Peanut Butter Egg, which is, quite possibly, the finest treat in all the land. But, if I’m feeling dainty and sweet, I go Peep.

The only question is what color?

poll by twiigs.com