“C” Is for Cookie (and for Cheapo)

Last week, I woke to find a white envelope slipped under my front door.

Was it a love note? A Chinese takeout menu?  No!

It was a card from my apt building. Wishing me happy holidays from all 17 people who work here on staff. That’s right -- SEVENTEEN total doormen, front desk guys, maintenance men, porters, and a partridge in a pear tree.

The first year I lived in this building, I received a similar note -- a tipping guide, if you will. And tip I did! I must’ve been rich that year because I gave everybody at least a little something.

Last year, though, was a cold winter. Downright frigid.  I’d just gotten engaged and had a whole new family to buy Christmas gifts for (on the same old salary), so I cut the building's staff off my list.

Scrooge! Grinch! Cold AND Heat Miser!

I know.  I felt kinda bad about it, really I did, but I’m not made of money! Besides, I wound up moving in March, so I wouldn’t even have been able to reap the year-long benefits of my yuletide generosity. I really had no choice, it was the only sensible thing to do.

Well… who’s the holiday jackass now? This guy!

I’m back, and though I’m still a broke-ass after my 3 moves and various other ridiculous associated expenses, I really couldn’t ignore how helpful the guys in my building have been. They brought a bunch of deliveries up to my apt for me before I even moved back in. They help me every time I come home with a rental carload of paper towels, cases of water, Nutella, and other necessities after my trips to Jersey or CT. They handle my drycleaning for me.  And they only asked me ONCE why they don’t see my “husband” around anymore.

I wanted to make them all gifts this year. Hmmm… but what to make? Scarves? Ornaments? Macaroni necklaces? Nah. I decided on cookies. Who doesn’t love cookies? But it’s insane to make over 200 cookies from scratch (my roommate and I did it once in college, but we drank a lot back then), so I had to cut some corners.

Here’s my 7-step recipe for when you’re long on time, but short on cash:

1. Visit your neighborhood grocery store and clean them out of slice'n'bakes. Mix in some variety -- I went for sugar, chocolate chip, chocolate chocolate chunk, and gingerbread. And get some pretty wrappings while you're at it.  Because handing someone a fist-full of cookies in a tissue says you just passed out on the F train due to low blood sugar -- NOT happy holidays.

2. Buy disposable cookie sheets. Even if you have a dishwasher, you'll be glad you did (if you feel guilty, recycle them when you're done, you crazy treehugger).  Grab a spoon, then scoop and roll little dough balls until your fingers hurt.  13 per tray -- but who's counting?

3. Bake as many as you can at a time, and keep an eye on those suckers. Flip the trays around, top to bottom, front to back, because nobody says "yum" when eating burnt treats, execpt your mom when you were 5 years old.  The bar is set considerably higher now, particularly when the recipients would prefer a gift you cannot eat.  Like cash.

4. You’ll never have enough cooling racks for this quantity of cookies, so line the few counters you have with paper towels for a quick cool down.  Extra points for neatness.

5. Organized cookies taste better, so count out all your supplies before you start. And save some for yourself.  One for Israel, one for me.  One for Vinko, one for me.  One for Sydney, one for me.  One for Kelvis, one for me... You get the idea.

6. Make an assembly line with all your pretty wrappings -- and start stuffing. Every package must look the same -- like little toy soldiers.  Showing favoritism in ANY way could result in an unwanted admirer or worse -- an angry doorman who “accidentally” lets the elevator close in your face.

7. Don’t forget to put your apt number on the treat bags -- they may not know your name, but they DO know where you live!









In total, I spent about 6 hours on a rainy Sunday and $88.47 to make 17 dozen cookies. That’s $5.20 per guy. Even with insane NYC grocery store prices -- I can live with those economics.

And I think they ate them. Well, I hope they ate them. But if they didn’t, I hope at least they don’t smush them into my mailbox or my front door while I’m away for the holidays. After all, it's the thought that counts, right?

poll by twiigs.com

Hey, do you know what else “C” is for?  Christmas.

Hope yours is merry!


tags: city life, food, holidays, polls

Miracle on 46th Street

I’m pretty sure I saw Santa Claus tonight. I’m talking actual, legit, Kris Kringle.

And no, I wasn’t drinking.  And thankfully, neither was he.

I was on my way home from dinner with my aunt and uncle. I was crossing 46th Street, and Santa was crossing 2nd Avenue. There was no sleigh in sight. But he had the wavy white hair, and a real beard, and the horn-rimmed glasses, and the belly full of jelly. He was trying to lay low in a gray wool overcoat, but he wore a bright red scarf, which I assume was Mrs. Claus’ handiwork.

He winked at me.  And not in a dirty old man kind of way. It was more of a I-know-you-want-a-Verizon-iPhone-under-the-tree-Jenny-but-please-hang-tight-because-it’s-coming-soon-hopefully-in-January-or-maybe-February-but-definitely-by-June-at-the-latest-according-to-the-Wall-Street-Journal-and-they-oughta-know kind of way.

I might actually have missed the big guy, if some schmuck wasn’t leaning out the window of a Prius shouting, “Hey, Santa! Rudolph tastes grrrrreat with ketchup!”

I have no idea what that means.

Anyway, I bet jolly old Saint Nick was in town shopping for Jingle Jammies. They don’t have Old Navy at the North Pole.

But regardless of WHY he was here, I saw it as a sign that I should fill my Grinchy heart with the Christmas spirit. I also breathed a sigh of relief that I bought normal Christmas cards at Target last weekend and didn’t go with the homemade cards I’d originally planned to send. I’m pretty sure they would have landed me on the naughty list.

What would YOU think if you got either of these cards in the mail?

Yeah, I know.  It’s probably for the best that I went the traditional route. Otherwise, my next blog post might have begun, “I’m pretty sure I had an intervention tonight...”

Oh and on a semi-relevant note, if you’re tired of listening to the same old Christmas carols year after year, you should totally download Target’s 14 fresh holiday songs for free. I’m particularly fond of Toy Jackpot by Blackalicious.

Seriously!

(I swear I haven’t been drinking. I HAVE been snorting mistletoe, but that’s really just to take the edge off. I mean, it’s not every day you see Santa Claus!)

Tell me about YOUR inappropriate holiday cards below…


tags: holidays, music

Set Sail

Last night I was lucky enough to be invited to a brand new restaurant -- Sails American Grill in Rowayton, CT. 

It was a friends and family preview. I’d never been to a restaurant opening before, so it was exciting! I did go to a chef’s tasting once, where you sit in the kitchen and watch them prepare the food you’re about to eat, but I didn’t think this would be like that. I’d expected it to be kind of like a cocktail party, where we’d be standing around chit-chatting and get a chance to sample little nibbles of what’s on the menu.

I was wrong!

It was a full-size, 3-course, sit-down dinner with the whole menu, which was amazing. AND there wasn’t a bill at the end of the meal, which was amazing-er. It was all complimentary but the vino, which I don’t actually drink. It gives me a headache (while I’m drinking it, that is -- I’m not talking about a hangover here) because I am allergic to wine.  So I'm typically the klassy girl who orders a beer.  Except last night, I had a Diet Coke.

I live on the edge.

It was such a unique experience to eat in a restaurant before it’s actually open. They officially open their doors to the public this Tuesday for dinner, so this was their opportunity to whip up the whole menu, train the staff, get feedback from diners, and generally just work out any kinks.

We had probably the best table in the restaurant, right in front of a cozy fireplace.  I'm guessing that was because I was with my dear friend and her husband who works with the guy who financed the place. It helps to know people...

Of course, I do not actually know "people" myself.  But I know a few people who know people! I’m like a social Kevin Bacon (btw have you seen his new Google TV commercial? LOVE it).

Anyway, this isn’t their first culinary venture, so THEY are all professionals at this. But it was new to me. So it was very cool to hear why they chose particular lighting fixtures to reflect the restaurant’s nautical theme. Or how they got the custom-made sails that hang from the ceiling, or where they found the trophies that sat on the fireplace mantle.

Usually, I don’t think about my plate beyond wondering what it will look like when it’s empty and all the food is in my belly. However, once they delivered all 4 of our entrees, alongside the wine/water/coke glasses and the bread plates, the table seemed kinda small for a party of our size. Now, how else would you learn something like that if you didn’t do something like this? So smart.

Ok, but enough about decor. I bet you’re wondering about the food… it was delicious!

(If I could think of a nautical metaphor, I’d use it here -- ship shape? Anchors aweigh? Red sky at night, sailor’s delight?)

The menu is really seasonal, so it was perfect for a cold night. I started with the roasted butternut squash bisque, and had a bite of the meatball sliders and the fried Maine clam bellies. Yum. For my entrée, I went with the grilled skirt steak marinated in black peppercorn cognac sauce because it came with truffle French fries. And for dessert I ordered up a frozen treat called the Salty Turtle mainly because I couldn't resist the name.  It was just a bonus that it came covered in cashews (my 2nd favorite nut, behind the pistachio).

I don’t think there was a bad choice on the menu. It all sounded good, and more importantly, it all tasted good.

I’ve already got my order all picked out for the next time we go -- I think the truffle mac & cheese and braised short rib flatbreads with a side of tater tots has my name written all over it. I'll wash it down with a rootbeer float for dessert. And then I’ll walk home.

To Manhattan.

So, matey, you should definitely cruise by Sails if you’re in the area -- or else walk the plank.  Ahoy!

Too much? Yeah, I thought I shoulda quit while I was ahead... but seriously, you should go. (And please don't talk like a pirate while you're there.  It's embarassing.)


tags: food

Time

Six months ago today, I took my engagement ring off. Well, actually, slammed it down on a coffee table, if you want to be accurate about it.

It seems like yesterday, and like a lifetime ago.

If you told me when I woke up that my day would end like that, I'd have laughed, even though we’d been “off” since the minute I moved in. We weren't always like that, mind you. For the majority of our relationship, we were great.  But once we lived together, we stopped communicating (except to bicker about home improvement), he stopped bringing me flowers (he used to give me a bunch every Tuesday like clockwork), he took off the ring I’d given him (which he once said meant so much). He refused to attend family functions. He stopped opening doors, holding hands, you name it.

Whether he lost that loving feeling on his own, or it was a reaction because he thought I'd lost it first, one thing was clear: He was not interested in me. At all.

Our entire relationship went downhill the day the moving truck pulled up. At the time, I spoke to friends who said this was normal -- part of the growing pains of living together. I spoke to him about it too.  And at first, he was apologetic -- I deserved better, he said. Then, he started ignoring the situation entirely, like it was all in my imagination. Finally, we started to argue.

I’d just assumed we would work everything out. Instead, it blew up after just 2 months of living in his home.

What’s funny is I actually thought things were getting better.  We’d just celebrated our 1 year “winkiversary” with a day trip to Mohegan Sun and then had brunch in Stamford. Money was tight, so instead of getting him the biggest external hard drive I could find for his extensive music collection (a thoughtful, if not romantic, gift), I settled on a card, which professed my love for him and reiterated my commitment to our relationship.

Two days before I took my ring off, he made a detour on the way home from picking me up at the train station. I’d been coughing for a while, so he decided it was time for me to see a doctor. “Someone needs to take care of you, for a change,” he said. As it turned out, I had bronchitis, but when we left the dr's office, I felt better. He does care about me, after all, I thought.

Then that very day, May 27th, I’d purchased his Father’s Day gift -- 2 season passes to a water park out on Long Island, where his family has a house. One for him and one for his daughter. She’d talked all winter long about taking me there so we could ride on the lazy river and eat churros together. I’d probably only have gone a few times at most, but since they spent summers out there, I thought they could really make good use of the tickets and have some fun.

I look back on that now and wonder when exactly he decided I wouldn’t be around come summer.

The end of my relationship began with a very simple question: “What are we doing this weekend?” It was Memorial Day and I was looking forward to a few days off, together, to continue what I thought was us reconnecting.

“I’m going to Long Island,” he replied firmly.

Something about the way he said it just didn’t sit right with me. So I paused a minute and asked, “Wait, YOU’RE going to Long Island, or WE’RE going to Long Island?”

“I’M going to Long Island,” he repeated. And with those 5 words, my world began to crumble.

He needed some space, he said, to decide whether or not we should continue this relationship. Nevermind, that the place he was going to clear his head would likely be chock full of people, dogs, and a baby. He didn’t need quiet time to think. He needed to get away from me.

Not long before this, I’d gotten an email from the catering manager at Metrazur, the restaurant where I’d hoped to host our wedding reception. It overlooks Grand Central Terminal, the same place where our relationship began. It would have been a lovely and romantic place to get married (pity you couldn’t make it). Anyway, she’d invited us to come in for dinner to try their food out before putting any deposits down. At the time, he brushed it off, but that night, he brought it up again.

“And YOU want us to have dinner there?” he stood to emphasize the point, practically laughing at how naïve I was. “WE’RE NOT GETTING MARRIED!”

Well, this was news to the World’s Dumbest Fiancée! At that moment, the tears stopped and my blood began to boil. I could not believe my ears. In the very same spot where he once proposed, he ended our relationship. Talk about coming full-circle.

I yanked the ring off my finger, slammed it down on the table and yelled, “Well then why the FUCK am I wearing this?”

I never saw the ring again.

I spent that weekend alone, in his condo, while he was off “thinking.” He left me his car, but I had nowhere to go. Pathetic, I know. Whenever I’ve told this story to my family and friends, invariably, the person asks, “Why didn’t you call me??”

The answer is that I thought he would come back.

I don’t know what it’s like for guys, but for girls, I think Hollywood has us convinced that guys come back. Time and again. Generally with grand romantic gestures. You know how it goes. He does something rash, he is miserable, the music swells, and he admits his life would be nothing without her. Then they kiss. The end.

Well, maybe I AM a moron because I truly thought the same would happen with us. I didn’t want to bring everyone into the drama, only to have him come back, sorry and looking to reconcile. “Yeah, um, you know that guy who made me cry that you now hate? Ooops, just kidding! Oh, and thanks again for the soup tureen -- the wedding's gonna be awesome!”

No! I wanted them to like him! So I said nothing, until I knew it was over.

That took a week.

An excruciating week. I wanted to fight for our relationship and fix things. He did not. I said I still loved him. He wasn’t sure. In the end, he wasn’t conflicted. He wasn’t emotional. He wasn’t sorry. And he certainly wasn’t the guy I fell in love with. He was just done. “Turned off,” in his words.

It’s funny, because he came into this relationship like he'd hitched a ride on the Acela. I came in on a Schwinn. Anyone you talk to would agree, I was so cautious. He set the pace on EVERYTHING -- and it was fast. He arrived at every relationship milestone, big or small, before I did. And while I was always playing catch-up, I actually enjoyed it, in a weird way. I’d finally met a guy who was upfront about how he was feeling. I could trust that, and just figure out how I felt. Knowing this, I suppose I should have seen it coming that he would also be the one to end things.

That’s a milestone too, right? Maybe more like a tombstone…

Anyway, I know, there are 3 sides to this story -- my side, his side, and the truth. I’m sure I made mistakes and I'd imagine that in his mind, the way he broke up with me is justified. And who knows? Maybe his family and friends were as glad to see me go, as mine were to see him go. He had a few big issues looming over his life before we ever met. None of which were my doing. But all of which I stupidly tried to help fix.

Big mistake. 

We haven't had any contact since June, and I suspect we won’t ever. To me, he's a heart-breaking memory. And I’m pretty sure I’m dead to him, if he thinks of me at all. It's just as well. I suppose if he’s done me ANY favors in all of this mess, it’s that. None of those pesky, regrettable text messages or phone calls that drag on for months  In that sense, it was a clean break. But only in that sense.  And while my relationship ended 6 months ago when I took my ring off, it wasn’t until I moved back into my own apt that I officially started thinking clearly.

I got my life back in August. Now it’s time to move on with it. Again. To meet new people. Again. To date. Ugh.

Again.

I should probably issue an apology to the first 5 guys I meet. It won’t work out. And it’s not them -- it’s me. No REALLY, it’s me. I wish somebody made dating palette cleansers. Just pop a few to wash away the past and be minty-fresh for the future.

The thought of dating anyone new once made me sick to my stomach. I still don’t love the idea, but it’s time. Time to dust off those dreadful online dating profiles and open the floodgates to all freaks and losers who live within a 50 mile radius. Maybe I'll find a gem in there.

You know, winter’s coming up -- if I’m lucky, I’ll meet a guy that still believes in that grand romantic gesture. Like peeing my name in the snow.

And when things get more serious, and I’m ready to invite him over for dinner, I’ve got just the dish. There’s a famous recipe called Engagement Chicken. It originally came from the Barefoot Contessa. Legend has it that staffers at Glamour magazine would whip this up for a cozy dinner at home with their boyfriends, and poof! He’d pop the question.

I won't be making that.  But a hearty helping of PLEASE Don’t Be An Asshole Pork Chops just might be in order.

Wish me luck...


tags: breakup, dating

5 Reasons I’m Confused by Eataly

When I want authentic Italian food, I just go to the Olive Garden.

I kid!

It’s no secret that I love to cook -- and eat -- Italian food. It takes me back to my roots. Well, at least half of my roots. So obviously, when I heard about Eataly, Mario Batali & Lidia Bastianich’s artisanal marketplace/upscale eatery, modeled after a shop that started in Torino, Italy, I needed to check it out for myself.

Eataly opened at the end of August in the Flatiron district, right across from Madison Square Park. One of my absolute fave restaurants in the city is Otto, another Batali hot-spot, so I waited for the buzz to die down a bit and I booked a trip.

Passport not required.

Sadly, I haven’t been to Italy yet, though my friends and I have recently made a pact to go for our 40th bdays (which, for the record, won’t be until 2013). We’ll be on a quest to eat and drink our way down the boot. Yum. But when we go, I really hope it’s nothing like this. Eataly is total sensory overload.

After spending almost an hour and a half to buy 13 items, I was left with the distinct feeling that this Epcot international pavilion-on-steroids wasn’t really for locals. It felt more like a money-pit for tourists. I guess they are trying to be authentic, but alongside an ATM from a bank that I assume only exists in Italy, are kitschy things like day-glo orange Crocs.

Just like grandma used to wear.

Anyway, I really enjoyed the honey, prosciutto, sopressata, taleggio, and sun-dried tomato pesto sandwich I made for lunch. So much so, that I made a second sandwich with the left-overs the next day. But the handmade thin spaghetti and jarred marinara sauce, topped with basil and freshly-grated parmigano reggiano that I made for dinner was just... ok.

Eh. No great shakes.

I hadn’t planned to get jar tomato sauce. I was expecting something homemade. Fresh. But it was really the only thing they sold. Kind of a head-scratcher, no?

Here are 5 more things about Eataly that just confused me:

1) Traffic Flow: This place would be great if there were no people inside. Everyone here looks lost and annoyed. Including the staff. Eataly could actually learn something from Ikea with their one-way aisles that force you through all the departments in the store with clearly marked paths. Or maybe they need an Italian cowboy to wrangle the herd. Because it’s total chaos in there. BUT on the upside, if an assassin is on your tail, and you need to lose him/her quickly, just get swept into this maze and sail away to sweet freedom.

2) Atmosphere: Would it kill them to get me in the mood with some music or something? If there was any, I couldn’t hear it over the hustle-bustle. I can’t imagine coming here to have a romantic dinner, or any dinner, for that matter, in their 7 mini-restaurants & cafes. I mean, who thought it was a good idea to scatter random tables inside a grocery store? But if you did eat here, I think it would elicit the same warm comfort you’d expect from a prison cafeteria. You’d be jostled and smacked in the head with a tray, while hungry people stuck in undisciplined lines secretly whittle a shiv in the hopes it will land them in solitary confinement, and out of this over-crowded hellhole.

3) Product Names: There’s a dizzying array of interesting products on the shelves, but someone should remind them that Eataly is located in America. We don’t read Italian. So it might make sense to slap some labels on the shelves to help dummies like me translate the food I bought. Because apparently, a log-shaped white cheese with a goat on the wrapper isn’t goat cheese. Go figure.

4) Prepared Foods: Here’s an idea… have some! Not everybody feels like waiting on 7 lines to buy 7 ingredients, only to go home and cook them all. Some people like to just heat and eat. Is the “vegetable butcher” who can take the time to cut your veggies to order, then too busy to box them up into a mixed green salad? Or what harm could it do to make a lasagna bolognese, slice it up into chunks, and charge $14 a serving? Somehow, I think they could swing it.

5) Sweets to Go: This was the most disappointing area of all. I was hoping to take home something sweet -- a pint of gelato, a cannoli, tiramisu. Or maybe all three! But I went home empty-handed in the dessert department because the only treats they had looked like they were meant to be consumed in the congested store. No thanks. So I wound up ending my meal with a jar of Nutella (that I already had in my pantry) and a spoon, which honestly was the most heavenly thing I ate all day.


As I was leaving, I heard somebody on the sidewalk call this place "Shitaly."

I wouldn’t go that far, but the whole experience was pretty disappointing. I found myself racing through the store, elbowing into people, like I was playing Supermarket Sweep. Except I couldn’t move very fast and I had to pay the bill at the end, which, incidentally, came to a whopping $102.31. For 2 sandwiches and 3 bowls of pasta. That I made myself.

It reminded me of online dating. What seemed great in pictures was a letdown in real life.

Maybe I’m missing the mystique. I’ve been off the market for a while. If you’ve been to Eataly and you two hit it off, tell me about it below!


tags: city life, food, shopping

But Wait... There's More

As I was saying before I was distracted by public urination, when I was in Florida I watched a good amount of late night infomercials. It seems EVERY 80s supermodel has been busy in the lab formulating their own face creams and/or exercise equipment and/or hair products. And every popstar is plagued with acne.

But you cannot avoid the omni-present Snuggie.

I couldn’t help but notice this blanket cult is now singlehandedly trying to resurrect the Macarena. I hated that song when I was in Mexico on spring break in 1995, and I don’t like it any better now with the words changed up. Heeey get a Snuggie!

Get out of my head.

In their quest for world domination, they will not rest until we are all roaming the earth in these flimsy backwards robes. Do yourself a favor and look away when the commercial comes on, or you too will be sucked into their vortex. Heeeeeeeey get a Snuggie!

You never know what brilliant discovery you’ll find on TV. Recall the time I bought a ham at 2am? In the cavernous void left by bearded Billy Mays, several new pitchmen have arisen and joined the mission to separate me from my hard-earned dollars.

Damn them and their persuasiveness!

Here are my current television temptations:

TV Hat: How do I not own this? Let me thank the guy (and yes, I said guy -- one glance and you know this goofy facemask was NOT designed by a woman) who Gorilla-glued a plastic pouch to the brim of a rather large hat so I could slip my “digital MP3 player” in and feel like I’m inside my own hands-free personal theater. The “privacy shade” does makes your face look like it’s stuck in a shoebox, so it’s not for the claustrophobic. But they must be popular because they are all sold out of the color “Camo.” I guess I won’t be blending in with the wildlife while I watch Gossip Girl in the woods. Let’s just hope it gets better reception than my radio underpants.

Heel Tastic: In watching this one, I learned that some people actually need to groom their feet with a belt-sander. That’s rough! Now, my feet are not so crusty and jagged that they pop balloons or tear holes through nylons, but I’m fascinated by this soothing roll-on balm. They attribute the baby-softness to “natural Neem and Karanja oils.” A quick googling tells me Neem is a vegetable oil that smells strongly of peanuts and garlic. So, really, who’s to say if your feet are smooth or rough? They will stink so no one will want to go near them. Because feet are gross. Evil genius.

Blo & Go: How did they know I’ve been struggling with my blow-dryer? My arms get SO tired. I often think, my hair would look amazing if only I had another set of hands. OR a wall-mounted suction cup from which to hang my dryer! That would be like getting a salon-quality blowout right in my own bathroom. Well, my prayers have been answered. And no worries about it crashing to the floor from the sheer force of the blow, because this gadget comes with a sleek black bungee cord to keep that sucker sturdy. They’ve literally thought of everything. I’m going to look awesome.

Pasta Boat: I remember making lasagna once and shouting an f-bomb for every slimy noodle I fished out of a boiling pot of water. True story.  They were so freaking hot. Now, if I’d only had one of these babies, I could have microwaved, drained and served dinner in minutes AND not have frightened the neighbors! Chubby Cathy Mitchell makes it look so easy. Who needs my Italian mom’s recipes? Can you say free full-color recipe booklet? Plus, if I order now, she’ll cut the price in half. Kathy’s good like that. But wait… there’s more! She’ll DOUBLE my order AND throw in a bonus food chopper. It’s an offer I simply cannot refuse.


Even when I’m not sleep-deprived, I think it would be fun to own the 4 products above. But you totally have my permission to steal my wallet, drop it in a bucket of water, and stick it in the deep-freeze it if ever order the Chillow, Spray-on Nylons, or the Butler Toilet.

Friends don't let friends buy random useless crap alone.  Have YOU ever ordered anything you saw on TV?


tags: commercials, pop culture, shopping

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

The Great Pop-Tart Pop Off

As I type this, I’m eating a Hot Fudge Sundae-flavored Pop-Tart. Raw.

Didn’t know that flavor existed, huh? Me neither. Admittedly, this snack is randomo under normal circumstances. But these aren’t normal circumstances because I recently purchased 19 different varieties of these sugary breakfast treats.

Yep, you read that right.

I bought 19 boxes of Pop-Tarts from about 5 different stores. I would have bought 20, if I could have found the last one I was looking for (Apple Strudel, you are an elusive and mysterious flavor).

You’re probably asking yourself, why would someone embark on a Pop-Tart quest? Particularly someone who’s not 10 years old. Who doesn’t have kids. Or a particular affinity for breakfast. Or, for that matter, sweet snacks.

The answer is I have too much time on my hands. Simple as that.

So I headed up to Fairfield, CT with nothing but a bag of uncooked toaster pastries and a dream, and asked (begged?) my favorite taste testers to help me crown the Top of the Tarts.

Unlike our M&M challenge, it seemed impossible to evaluate each of these flavors on their own and rank them. There were just too many. So in the true spirit of competition, we assembled a March Madness-style bracket on the dining room table and laid out the Sweet 19.

Each of us went into it with a very clear favorite – the ladies for Strawberry, the guy for Cherry. (Full disclosure: my all-time fave is Strawberry Frosted followed closely by S’mores – these are the only 2 flavors I’d ever tried prior to this and to this day, I’ve NEVER eaten a toasted Tart).

There were a few rules: 1) skip all the product line extensions like 20% fiber and no frosting -- no sense eating a healthy, naked Tart, 2) similar flavors had to play eachother at the outset of the game to establish flavor family dominance, and 3) we had to cut the crusts off so we could taste the true fillings without too much cardboardy coating.

Now, if you simply can’t bear to read my play-by-play on Pop-Tarts, I understand. Just skip to the bottom and see who wins. I won’t judge you (yes I will).

For everyone else… let the Pop Off begin!

ROUND 1:

• Blueberry Muffin vs Blueberry vs Wild Grape: Plain Blubes is the first W on the board by virtue of it being “least offensive” and because it’s “blue inside" unlike "albino Blueberry Muffin” and it’s not “disgusting” like Grape.
• Cinnamon Roll vs Brown Sugar Cinnamon: Roll, with its “fancy icing,” wins because Brown Sugar’s icing “looks a lot like skin.”
• Cherry vs Strawberry: The biggest upset of the night, Cherry could only win “if there was no Strawberry in the house,” according to 2 of the 3 judges. Chalk up one for the ‘Berry.
• Chocolate Chip vs Chocolate Fudge: Even though Chip had “lame icing,” Fudge’s flavor was “not fudgy at all.” Chip was the obvious choice for anyone who "likes their chocolate to taste like chocolate.”
• Hot Fudge Sundae vs Ice Cream Sandwich: Both of these ice cream spin-offs were “pretty bland,” but in the end “vaguely marshmellowy” Sundae won out over “makes me sad” Sandwich.
• Wild Berry vs Raspberry: There was no way “funky smelling” Wild Berry could topple Raspberry. “Oh yeah,” it was unanimous on this one.
• Strawberry Milkshake vs Vanilla Milkshake vs Orange Creamsicle: In this “creamy showdown,” the now discontinued “different” Orange Creamsicle rose to the top because Strawberry gave us “a sweets headache” and Vanilla had a “horrible icing job.”
• Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough vs Cookies & Cream vs S’mores: You have to admire the "artful striped filling” of the “delicious” S’mores, which edged out “dry like sawdust” Cookie Dough and Cookies & Cream, which “took too long to get to the taste.”

ROUND 2:

• Blueberry vs Cinnamon Roll: BBerry got lucky because Roll “was never really very good in the first place,” but we were all pretty certain “nobody can eat a whole Blueberry, let alone 2.”
• Strawberry vs Chocolate Chip: A tough one since Chip was “kinda nice,” but in the end, the “Strawberry Mafia” muscled out a victory.
• Hot Fudge Sundae vs Raspberry: Another unanimous vote for Raspberry, because Sundae “kinda sucked.”
• Orange Creamsicle vs S’mores: Having a “campfire in your toaster” seemed more appealing than “melted” ice cream with an “orange-ish” taste. Chalk another up for your buddy, S’mores.

ROUND 3:

• Strawberry vs. Blueberry: This one was really “no contest” but someone cast a “spite vote” for Blueberry. Strawberry still got 2 “jammy thumbs up.”
• Raspberry vs S’mores: This loss was “painful” for S’mores because Raspberry “cheated.”

ROUND 4:

• Strawberry vs Raspberry: Do you really have to ask who won this final flavor showdown?

WINNER: Strawberry*
(*under protest – my brother thinks his wife and I rigged it for Strawberry – I cannot confirm or deny this ugly rumor)

Yes, it’s a boring outcome, but the bottom line is most of these new flavors are either gross or tasteless. Tried and true is the way to go. Strawberry is #1 in America (and in my heart) for a reason!

It just tastes good.

But if the Pop-Tart elves are ever looking for new flavors to ruin, we’d like to toss a few into the ring: Strawberry Cheesecake, Lemon Meringue, Boston Cream Pie, Peanut Butter and Jelly (only strawberry, grape is gross), Chocolate Peanut Butter, and Chocolate Mint (make sure it's green inside). Produce those, Kelloggs, and we’ll schedule a rematch.

That is, if Cherry doesn’t still hold a grudge for being eliminated in Round 1.

So did we get it right? What’s YOUR favorite flavor? Do you like ‘em raw or toasted? And please don’t tell me you’ve never tasted a Tart, because I will be forced to point at you and chant, “Liar, liar pants on fire!”

Hmmm. Maybe I am 10 years old, after all…


tags: food

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