Five Alarm

I woke up at 2:20 this morning to the smell of smoke.

As you know, I threw my back out again. So I've been rocking the heating pad quite a bit. My first instinct was that I forgot to shut it off and my couch was on fire. But I got up and it was fine.

False alarm.

So I stumbled into my kitchen. Maybe a dishtowel magically ignited on the gas stove (that I haven't used for weeks).

Nope.

Then, I opened the front door -- the smell of smoke was even stronger in the hallway.

Now totally convinced my apartment building was on fire, I did a few things, while still half asleep:

1) I switched from pajama pants to lounge pants. A subtle difference, unless you consider that my pajama pants were covered in green butterflies and my lounge pants were plain navy blue. That felt more presentable. At 2am. I also put on a bra. No butterflies there.
2) I gathered up my purse, wallet, keys, and cell phone. And just for good measure, my cell phone charger.
3) I brushed my hair and my teeth. And then put my toothbrush in my pants pocket.
4) I grabbed a granola bar, a bottle of water, and a bottle of Advil liquigels (because the extra-strength Excedrin tablets I've been popping for my back are slowly giving me a stomach ulcer).

Oddly, I didn’t put on shoes – but maybe I didn't notice because I had socks on my feet (that’s how I always sleep).

Then I sat on the edge of my bed, with my purse on my lap, waiting for the fire alarm to go off. It was kind of like waiting for a bus. But nothing happened. So I called the lobby downstairs. Maybe they didn't know about the fire that surely must have been raging directly above or below my apartment, based on the strength of the smell.

It was my duty to call! Nobody answered.

So I struggled to open my window, not because they're hard to open, but because everything's a struggle when your back hurts. I finally got it open only to find that all of 40th Street was full of smoke. My heart started racing. And I immediately shuffled over to my kitchen table to grab a piece of mail and stuffed it in my purse. My renter’s insurance policy arrived the other day. I thought it might come in handy incase all my new stuff burst into flames.

Then I went back to the window. This time, I pressed my face up against the screen, straining to see the street. I'm on the 28th floor, so you can't see much. I could hear sirens, but it didn't seem like anything was happening directly below on 40th or 2nd. So I looked to the right, and saw TONS of red and white fire truck lights.

Aha!

At this point, it was about 2:45. In the morning. And I realized it wasn't a fire in my building after all, just a ton of smoke. Seeing the blaze was a block away, I went back to bed. In my navy pants. With the toothbrush in my pocket.

This morning when my alarm went off, part of me thought the smoke was all a crazy dream.  I grabbed a tissue off the nightstand and blew my nose.  What came out looked a bit like soot, so I flipped on my beloved Channel 11 morning "news."  Surely, if anything happened, it would be a top story (right after a hula hoop contest -- or something equally ridiculous).

Turns out there WAS a fire. On 39th and 3rd. A 5 alarm fire, no less, with nearly 200 firefighters on the scene. It started shortly after midnight in the kitchen of a restaurant, and quickly spread to the neighboring restaurant. When they zoomed out, I realized I knew one of them -- The Frontier Coffee Shop! I once had a great piece of apple pie there, shortly after I moved into the neighborhood.

The first time.

It always struck me as an odd building amidst all the skyscrapers, kind of like the city grew up around it. While sitting in a corner booth reading a magazine and eating my pie, I remember overhearing a woman at the table next to me and the waitress whispering that disgraced NY Governor Eliot Spitzer used to come in for breakfast after he’d worked up an appetite with his… female constituents.

If the Wild West had a Denny’s, it could have been inspiration for the Frontier. I guess it was the American dream for a couple of brothers back in 1974 to build a Greek diner with a cowboy theme. Looking at the charred exterior of the building, your heart can’t help but break for the family, their 40 employees, and the 15 people who were hurt battling the blaze when the roof collapsed.

I truly hope they rebuild. And when they do, I’ll come by -- in my leisure pants -- for a piece of pie.


tags: city life, food

See, I Read!

Well, the summer’s essentially over. And for once, I’m thrilled.

While I only made it to the beach one time, I did manage to squeeze in a few beach reads. But not your typical chicklit by Jennifer Weiner or Sophie Kinsella or Lauren Weisberger or Candace Bushnell. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

And I didn't swipe a single virtual page on a Kindle, or Nook, or iPad. I went old school and bought actual books.

Remember those?

Well, I’ve been on this non-fiction kick the last few years -- with the exception of my vampire infatuation, which I think is now cured. To be honest, I don’t read as much as I should (I burned out loooong ago when I worked in book publishing and had to read 2 books per week). When I DO read I plow through a few at a time. I guess you could call me a binge reader.

Then, my eyes get tired and I go back to my first love: TV.

Anyway, fluffy summer romance wasn’t really where my head was at. At ALL. But my life definitely influenced my reading list. First up was a book that took me back to my youth, when matters of the heart were far simpler…

Talking to Girls About Duran Duran: One Young Man’s Quest for True Love and a Cooler Haircut

By Rob Sheffield

IN A NUTSHELL: Music can transport you back to a specific time and place like nothing else. So I hopped in my Delorean, plugged in my Walkman, and dove headfirst into this Reagan-era coming-of-age memoir set to a soundtrack by the Go-Go’s, Prince, Bowie, Madonna, and of course, Duran Duran. Each chapter is linked with a song that offers a lesson that made him the man he is today (a writer for Rolling Stone), and reminds you that everything you need to know about the opposite sex, you learned from pop music. The more I read, the puffier my hair got. It also confirmed what I always knew… EVERYBODY had a crush on John Taylor (and probably still does).

LOVED THIS AS MUCH AS: But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn


Once I got my appetite back (I lost about 20lbs following my breakup, mainly because I was so sick to my stomach I couldn’t eat), I decided I needed to start reading about food and stop eating it…

The Man Who Ate the World: In Search of the Perfect Dinner
By Jay Rayner

IN A NUTSHELL: An arrogant but charming British restaurant critic explores the haute cuisine scene from Vegas to Paris (via Moscow, Dubai, Tokyo, NY, and London). This guy gets paid to eat. You want to hate him. But you don’t. Even when he racks up a $2000 dinner tab at a 3-star Michelin restaurant in Paris (just one of the SEVEN he visited during his week in the City of Lights). His writing is so vivid, it should come with a snack, and he’s witty enough (especially when he’s had a bad meal) that you should take care not to shoot that snack out your nose.

FITS IN PERFECTLY WITH: Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain and Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica


Finally, I began reading Eat, Pray, Love (which has been sitting on my bookshelf for about 4 years) because even though she was the dumper and not the dumpee, I could relate to the desire to disappear for a year. But it was too schmaltzy. That’s when I found its unsentimental counterpart…

Drink, Play, F@#k: One Man’s Search for Anything Across Ireland, Las Vegas and Thailand
By Andrew Gottlieb

IN A NUTSHELL: This one’s fiction, but it’s a parody of a true story. And it’s about as deep as a puddle, but that’s what I liked about it. Unfortunately, it’s pretty tame, given the awesome title’s promise. I was looking to live vicariously through a scorned dude as he boozes, gambles, and screws his breakup blues away (especially since I’m pretty tame and have done exactly none of those things myself). What I got was a lukewarm adventure. Lite beer dressed as stout. All foreplay, no happy ending. Except for the actual happy ending where he meets his future ex-wife. I mean, new girlfriend.  Blech.

MADE ME WISH I WAS READING: Are You There Vodka, It’s Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler



As I type this, I’m lying in bed strapped to a heating pad because I hurt my back. Again. Somehow, I was able to move tons of boxes THREE times without incident. But reaching down to help my mom move her seat in a rental car on Sunday pushed me over the edge. I think that’s summer’s final FU. Message delivered -- a cruel summer indeed.

So, any other reading to recommend? Hurry up and tell me before my back gets better and the fall TV shows start!


tags: entertainment

Empire State of Mind

Well, it’s official. I’m a New Yorker.

Huh?

I can understand why you might be confused. This isn’t news. I moved back to the city nearly 3 weeks ago! I’m already registered for jury duty in NY, courtesy of my previous life in the Big Apple. I’m even a registered voter, having voted for both the 2008 presidential election and the 2009 mayoral election at PS 116 on 33rd & 3rd.

What suddenly makes it so official now? I have a New York State driver’s license.

Well, technically, I spent 2.5 hours at the Herald Square DMV to get a flimsy piece of paper with the words "New York State Interim Driver's License" printed at the top. And yes, I said "interim," as in temporary. And yes, I said "Herald Square," as in the same landmark where that giant Macy's is located. 

At first I thought it was a little strange that the DMV was on the 8th floor of the Manhattan Mall (turn right past Mrs. Fields).  But I’m from Jersey, and no stranger to malls, so I thought that was NYC helping me feel at home. And I must say, blaring Michael Jackson’s greatest hits over the loudspeaker was a fine way to make the time fly as I waited on FOUR separate lines.

I passed my eye exam.  I took a questionable picture.  I gave them all kinds of proof that I am who I say I am.  And they took my $65 check, so I’m guessing that’s sufficient. Of course, I never left the DMV in Wayne, NJ without a shiny new license in-hand, but they claim this paper is legit. Plus a woman with meaty hands, named Rita, confiscated my NJ one on the spot, so I HOPE it’s legit.

I guess the true test will be if I get my actual license in the mail sometime in the next 2-8 weeks (my mail situation btw has proven to be its own nightmare -- the US Postal Service has NO idea where to deliver my stuff anymore -- I sent myself a test letter last week from my own apartment building and it got re-routed to Fairfield, CT).

Anyway, all this time, my license has been the one big holdout -- no matter where I lived, it always declared Pine Brook, NJ was home. But I had no choice now. My license expired yesterday.

And Pine Brook isn't home anymore.

I suppose there was no real rush in getting a new one, seeing as though I don’t actually own a car these days (whatevs), or have any domestic air travel planned (eh), and I’m hardly ever carded at bars anymore (poo).  But still, I wanted it. If for no other reason than my occasional need to rent cars. Or just incase my wallet ever gets stolen, this will help the handsome, (tall), single police officer who finds it track me down.

Or, you know... just for the car rental thing.

The truth is, I was born a New Yorker. Honestly! My homage to JLo with the “Jenny from the ‘Brook” blogger nickname is no accident -- I came into this world at Albert Einstein Hospital in the Bronx in August 1973. We lived there until June 1979 when the neighborhood started getting a little rough (read: another GIRL kindergartener was regularly doling out beatings over the rights to a blue tricycle -- in Catholic school no less!). So shortly before my 6th birthday, we moved to the good old Garden State.

And I’ve been a Jersey Girl ever since.

It’s only fitting, I guess, that I’m back to being a New Yorker, since the rest of my life has come full circle too.

There’s nothing I can’t do, now I’m in New York…


tags: city life, jersey

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

Home Sweet Pineapple

I moved back into my old apartment this weekend. It feels good to be back in NYC. I don’t belong in CT anymore. Maybe I never did.

As you know, this was my 3rd move in 5 months. Losing everything at once -- my home, the man I loved, and the family we were creating -- was almost unbearable. So there isn't a big enough word to describe the relief I'm feeling right now.

I am home. Finally.

I have my stuff back. Finally!

And I can move on -- FINALLY -- from what has been the worst summer of my life.

It's almost surreal.  I feel like I want to swallow my key so no one can take it away from me. And I just might (if I smother it in cheese first).

I lived with my brother, sister-in-law, and niece for 10 weeks.  Ironically, that's EXACTLY as long as I lived with my ex-fiance. Hardly seems like any time at all, in the scheme of things, you know?

I know the only way I was able to get through any of this was with their support. Welcoming me into their home without any idea of how long I would need to stay was an incredible gesture that I will never forget. They were there for me in ways I didn't know were even possible. It definitely brought us closer together.

I will miss so many things. Our Sunday family dinners. And watching Sesame Street every morning with my niece. Actually, I won’t miss any of those things because I’ll be back often -- but as a visitor!

Now, I know there’s been some concern over whether coming back to my apt would stir up too many memories, but I’m glad to say it’s no more than usual. And I haven’t cried in 2 days. That’s got to be worth something, right? Plus, the building made some changes -- they removed the doors from my kitchen, changed the kitchen sink faucet, gave me a new peephole, and new blinds. The roof deck is now open. They even paved 2nd ave for me. And I’ve replaced all of my bright red accessories with things that are soothing blue.  It’s like a totally different place. So I can totally forget.

Sort of.

Anyway, when I decide to try this relationship thing again -- IF I decide to try this again -- God help the poor guy. Seriously. Aside from my brand-new RAGING trust issues, there are about 50 people he's going to have to assure that he won't break my heart or else they just might break his legs.

Eh. Maybe I'll save everyone the trouble and just become a nun.

But only if I get to keep my apartment.

PS: If you’re wondering what’s up with this picture, it’s Spongebob Squarepants’ home because I’m also thinking of a very special Spongebob fan who turned 8 today. Even though I can’t be a part of her life anymore, I hope she knows I loved her very much and would have absolutely adored being her step-mom. I hope she doesn't miss me at all, but I miss her tons.

PPS: Now that my life is back in order, I can officially look forward and stop looking back. This means no more posts about my breakup or my relationship. You can be the judge of how successful I am at that...


tags: breakup, city life, family

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

M&M (&M&M&M&M&M)

I knew this week was going to be tough, with my birthday on Aug 3rd and my fake wedding day on Aug 7th (even though we never set an official date, we were getting married on the 7th according to our wedding gift registries).

But I’m TIRED of feeling awful. You know what makes me feel better?

Chocolate. And potato chips. And aerosol cheese eaten directly from the can. Kidding about that last one. I put it on a cracker first.

Anyway, I’ve been wanting to try pretzel M&Ms. I mean, I like salty-sweet just as much as the next guy! But I felt I needed to try this new combo in the context of some tried and true flavors. So I gathered 7 packages of M&Ms, and 2 of my favorite people, to put the candies that melt in your mouth (not in your hands) to the test.

In the tradition of my hard-hitting culinary investigative journalism on the subject of Giant Cheetos, I submit to you…

The Great M&M Taste-Off of 2010.

To follow along with the row of M&Ms in the picture, begin with the stinker on the right and work your way left. Oh, and the big brown blob below the row of M&Ms is a Junior Mint (we needed a palette cleanser).

#7: Coconut (white)
Nobody expected to like this one. And… no one did. While it “came in fun colors,” unfortunately, “it’s just not good.” The flavor is pretty “mild,” and it doesn’t have the texture you’d expect from something coconutty, so it feels a “bit like paste” in your mouth. It’s the only bag that went directly into the trash, with a definitive “there’s not a chance I would eat that.”

#6: Almond (orange)
This one was a disappointment (much like the over-hyped mega-M&M that came in sophisticated colors like beige -- like the world is clamoring for more BEIGE candies). Its “nutless taste” was surprising, given the size of the nut inside. Maybe it “needed salt?” Any way you bite it, it was “boring” and “not worth the extra fat.”

#5: Plain (red)
This was the most surprising. The one that started it all was “sweeter than I remember” and the “crunch was more satisfying than the taste.” The milk chocolate “isn’t rich, which is why you can eat a whole bag,” but the sweetness was “gross after a while.”

#4: Dark Chocolate (brown)
With this one, it’s important to note that nobody in the room thought they liked dark chocolate. And I’m guessing in the authentic flavor department, these are to actual dark chocolate, what Taco Bell is to Mexican food. But nevertheless, “once the taste got going, it’s not bad.” And everybody agreed, “I’d eat it before coconut.”

#3: Pretzel (red)
The reason for the taste test did not disappoint… most of us. Cries of “oooh” and “I’ll have another!” were tempered by its dismissal as a “novelty.” The perfectly round shape makes them "fun to shoot across the table." All of us were curious, “what does it look like inside?” and I wondered, “why no yellow?”

#2: Peanut Butter (blue)
A crowd-pleaser, this “cousin to Reese’s Pieces” had a “strong peanut butter taste” and was “very creamy.” We felt that while you “don’t really taste the chocolate, it’s ok.”

#1: Peanut (green)
What can you say about this guy that hasn’t already been said? You can’t deny this “lumpy classic” is “satisfying.” Its “filling, peanutty taste” is what kept us going back for "more, please!"


And there you have it. The Peanut M&M reigns supreme. For now.

After all, you never know what the folks at Mars will come up with in an attempt to keep a 70-year-old brand relevant. Remember the limited-edition Strawberried Peanut Butter M&Ms they introduced with the Transformers movie last summer? I never understood the connection (did Optimus Prime have a sweet tooth?), and I couldn’t really figure out if I liked them. Even after eating the whole bag.

Somebody had to.

While we’re on the topic of eating a whole bag, PLEASE BRING THE CRISPY M&M BACK. They were delicious. Maybe I should start a Facebook group to rally people around a Crispy comeback. It worked for Betty White.

So, did we get it right? Weigh in below:

poll by twiigs.com

tags: food, polls, pop culture

Birthday Wishes

Today is my birthday.

I love my birthday. While I absolutely hate aging, the presents and the cake help me forget that fact. I guess that’s the point.

I moved into NYC on my birthday weekend in 2008, exactly 2 years ago. I was turning 35, which sounded SO old at the time. Mid-30s. Ick.

I’d been living in Pine Brook, having spent the better part of the previous 3 years taking care of my mom. My parents just retired to Florida back in 2005, when she came down with a severe case of rheumatoid arthritis. It’s a crippling auto-immune disease, which attacks the joints and makes even the most simple tasks -- tying your shoes, buttoning your shirt, cutting your food, walking -- incredibly painful, and sometimes downright impossible.

Her illness came on like a freight train, and I did the only thing I knew to do. I brought them back home.

Those 3 years were tough, no question, but it was worth it, because with the help of chemotherapy, my mom is now doing much better managing this illness, and my parents are now back in Florida full-time. So my birthday weekend in 2008 was a time of celebration -- a fresh start for all of us. We were all getting our lives back and starting on a new adventure -- me in New York and my parents in Florida. It was exciting!

And it WAS a great year -- my mom’s health improved, my beautiful niece was born, and I’d met someone.

Last year, when I turned 36, my birthday fell on a Monday. August 3, 2009. I’d just come off a weekend of celebrating with my family and friends in Fairfield, CT, and was taking a train back to the city on Sunday afternoon. My ex-fiance (my boyfriend at the time), met me on the train as we passed through Stamford. I couldn’t WAIT to see him.

Just a few days earlier, he’d told me he loved me for the first time. We were on the phone, actually saying goodnight, when he blurted it out. I was totally taken off-guard. I even think it surprised him. At the time, I wasn’t ready to say it back -- over the phone just didn’t feel right. But sitting on that train next to him, I knew I too was in love and I couldn’t wait to get back to my apartment to tell him.

My birthday came at an early stage in our relationship -- I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He poured his heart out in a card, where he promised to be mine. Always. He gave me two CDs he made for me -- the beginning of our Infinite Playlist. And he gave me a gorgeous silver cuff bracelet. Those things meant so much to me, but the ultimate birthday present was him. Finally having someone to share my life with. Someone to love. Someone who loved me back.

That was the most precious gift of all.

I’ve been lucky enough to have some amazing birthdays. I’ve gotten cars for my birthday. Twice! I’ve had surprise parties thrown for me. I’ve been sailing on a boat in Newport on my birthday. I’ve gotten iPods and TVs and handbags and presents in little blue boxes. I’ve eaten more cheesecake than any person should (always plain, always New York style, occasionally with strawberries or cherries -- on the side), and each year, my wish was the same: I wished I would find someone to grow old with. And I did! I thought my birthday couldn’t get any better than this.

It was #1 with a bullet.

So here I am. It’s 2010, I turned 37 today and NO part of me feels like celebrating. The card I got last year is packed away in a storage unit in Norwalk, CT, the box is labeled “Don’t Open This.” When I left his condo, I placed the bracelet and a stack of CDs -- each one professing his love for me -- on the dresser, along with a few other reminders I couldn't keep. This was all supposed to be SO different. I was supposed to be days away from getting married to a man I thought was the love of my life. It turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

And now, on Day 1 of a new year, I’m completely overwhelmed by the thought of restarting my life.

Again.

Especially since I just DID that 2 years ago. And there were tears that day, too, but they were happy tears.  I just can’t muster up the enthusiasm for a celebration this year.  I will make 3 wishes, though. And I know you aren’t SUPPOSED to share your wishes, or else they won’t come true. But keeping my birthday wishes to myself didn’t exactly make them come true either. Obviously. So, here goes:

I wish I could not cry once for an entire week. Hell, I’d even take an entire day.
I wish I can find the strength to look forward and trust my own instincts again.
I wish I will find the courage to date someone new and believe what he says.

Maybe by the time I turn 38, these wishes will become reality. Time will tell…

 
tags: breakup, holidays

Grab Your Things, I’ve Come To Take You Home

My apartment search hit a major snag this week.

After combing the city for a new place to call home, I’d finally settled on a brand new neighborhood. The Upper West Side. It would be a fresh start with no memories of tables for two at the local Italian restaurant, or walking down the street hand in hand on the way home, or stopping for a quick smooch at a red light.

A clean slate.

And in that new neighborhood, I found the holy grail of New York City real estate (aside from a rent controlled apartment, which I actually DID find, but it was a 6th floor walkup with no sink in the bathroom -- someone would have to pay ME $1100/mo to live there, not the other way around). I found a brand new building. Ahhhhhh.

New floors that nobody put their stinky feet on. New toilet that nobody put their sweaty ass on. New refrigerator that nobody put their sloppy leftovers in. All. Mine.

Sure, there were some concessions I would have to make. For starters, it was smaller than my last apartment, so I would continue to pay for a storage unit because all my stuff wouldn’t fit. Oh, and I’d need to downsize my bed from a queen to a full because the sleeping alcove was smaller than my last apartment. Plus, I’d need to factor in a commute because it wasn’t within walking distance to work, like my last apartment was. And it was $200/mo more expensive than my last apartment after I’d negotiated that sweet $500/mo decrease. Ok. But it was NEW. I’m a sucker for anything new.

New neighborhood. New apartment. New life.

Did it feel like home? No. But no place I visited did. So I applied for apt 6D. And one day ticked by. Then two. Then four. Then, I got concerned. So my broker contacted the office and found out that they needed to investigate my application.

Hmmm. Well, I did have FOUR different addresses on the application and the support materials: I had a NJ driver’s license with my Pine Brook (#1) address -- that expires in August, and I’d held off on updating it, not for my love of Jersey, but because I thought I’d be getting married next month and would have a new name in addition to my change of address (turns out, um, not so much). On the application, I’d listed my current address as Fairfield, CT (#2), which is true, but because I’ve only been here for 2 months, I had to list my previous address too.  Since that was Stamford, and I was only THERE for 2 months, I skipped back in time and listed my New York City (#3) address instead. But my bank statement had my Stamford, CT (#4) address, the most recent statement available was for June and the bank hadn’t updated their records yet -- we only officially broke up on June 2nd. Turns out my credit report listed Stamford too.

So… it looked shady.

So shady, in fact, that they thought I’d been evicted from my NYC apartment. EVICTED! How f’ed up is THAT???

This breakup just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? So, they had to validate my banking information. Fine, my bank confirmed I have an account with enough money to cover the security deposit and 1st month’s rent (and not a penny more). And, then my job confirmed that I am employed and my salary is exactly what I said it is. But when they went to confirm my rental history with my old apartment building, nobody would call them back.

That didn’t exactly help my case.

Finally, a full week after submitting the application, I’d had enough. I asked my broker to push it -- to just find out what it would it take to move this forward TODAY. So she did. The girl in the office went to her manager, who went to the building’s owner, in the hopes that he would override the need to verify my rental history. After all, I’m 36 years old, I have a good job and I pay my bills on time. That should be enough, right?

Wrong.

He looked at the application, and decided he felt uncomfortable with it. It looked out of the ordinary with all the addresses in such a short time. Who moves that often? Plus he didn't like my debt (nevermind that a good chunk of it is as a result of all these RIDICULOUS moves).  If I didn’t get evicted, then maybe I skipped out on the rent. What if I did the same to him?

Now, it didn’t matter if my old building returned their calls to confirm I was a good tenant. Now, I needed a co-signer because I was deemed unreliable.

Say WHAT?

I was devastated after hearing this. Ok, fine, so maybe I wouldn’t get THIS apartment. I could live with that. But under these circumstances, what if I couldn’t get ANY apartment, because who’s to say that I wouldn’t encounter the same questions no matter where I applied? I felt sick to my stomach. A person can only take so much, and I’d reached my absolute limit. I came home from work on Thursday night, went straight to bed, and sobbed myself to sleep.

On Friday morning, I went to work in a fog. I texted with a dear friend of mine, who generously offered to co-sign for me. I called my mom, who told me to tell the new building to stick it, and then go back and clear up any trace of that Stamford address -- on my bank statement, credit report, whatever -- then get a Fairfield license so everything would match, and start again. And I had lunch with my aunt, who offered to go to the building with me and explain the moving expenses and why I’d had so many addresses, surely they would understand.

All these options felt awful.

It got me to thinking. Why do I need to restart my life? He didn’t. There’s one less person in the bed next to him. He orders 1 medium pizza for dinner instead of 2. But really, his life has gone on largely uninterrupted. Mine, on the other hand, was shredded... And that's not me being dramatic. It's just a fact.

But what was WRONG with my old life? I got along perfectly fine on my own. Maybe instead of a restart, what I really needed was to pick up where I left off -- before we ever met.

So around 3pm, I googled my old apartment building. At least THEY knew I wasn’t shady and I paid my rent on time. I originally wanted to live ANYWHERE but there, so it was the first time I’d looked it up. But lo and behold, out of the 279 apartments in my old building, there were just 2 alcove studios showing as available -- and 1 of them was my ACTUAL APARTMENT. Like it was sitting there, waiting for me.

I immediately went over to the building. It turns out someone moved into my old apartment shortly after I left. They lived there almost 3 months and moved out only a few days ago. The new rent on my old place was now $325 more per month than I was paying, PLUS I’d already paid a $2500 lease-break penalty to move out back in March, but I didn’t care. So I filled out a new application. And got APPROVED on the spot. 

Co-signer my ass…

I won't be moving in for a few weeks, while they paint and clean the apartment.  So he gave me the option to come back later to sign the lease. “No thanks,” I said, “I’ll sign it now.” He said I could come back next week to drop off the 1st month’s rent. “No thanks,” I said, “I’ll write you a check now.” I even booked the elevator time. I don’t trust ANYTHING anymore. I was leaving nothing to chance.

I’m the kind of girl who looks for signs. If it wasn’t enough that my actual apartment was available, or that I'd originally moved into this place 2 years ago almost to the day, or that the check I wrote was #2873 (28 is my apt number and I was born in 73), or that the doorman greeted me with a giant, “welcome home!” when I entered the lobby, then all I need to do is look at the name of the building’s leasing agent to know this is the right move. He is the same guy I renegotiated my rent with last August. The same guy I gave my notice to last February. And the same guy I signed my new lease with on Friday.

His name? Paul.

You know, I lost a lot in this breakup. Too much to mention here. But the biggest loss was my home. Intentional or not, he took that from me.

I’m taking it back.


tags: breakup, city life