The Land of Make Believe

Let me get this straight: I’m now a tasty crab instead of King of the Jungle?

What’s next? Am I adopted too?

I don’t even know the characteristics of Cancer, because I’m too self-absorbed to find out (a classic Leo trait).

I refuse to let myself get worked up about this new zodiac sign, Ophiuchus. As far as I’m concerned, it does not exist. The gods have NOT spoken. Especially since nobody knows how to pronounce this new word.

The reasons to ignore the existence of the mysterious 13th sign are obvious.

First off, the guy who dropped this astronomical bomb last week, is named Kunkle. That just seems made up to me. Parke Kunkle can pry a Leo horoscope reading from my cold, dead hand (being dramatic is Leo's domain too). Second, someone needs to fire the astrological naming committee because this new sign sounds like a disease -- “Oh, he’s got the Ophiuchus again, don’t let him use your Chapstick.” Third, this is not new news. Apparently, this sign has ALWAYS been jammed in there, if you followed Eastern astrology.

But we don’t.

Now, if you told me the almighty Oprah, an Aquarius, has grown so awesomely powerful that she’s created her own zodiac sign, I would believe that more. But back in reality, we’ve got 12 months, and 12 signs. Period. I was a Leo yesterday, I am a Leo today, and I will be a Leo tomorrow (loyalty, incidentally, is right in Leo's wheelhouse).

It reminds me of a few years back when they announced Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore. Sorry. You can’t just demote a planet. Didn’t they know the saying? My Very Eager Mother Just Served Us Nine… nothings? Um, nooo… it’s Nine Pizzas! You know it, I know it, and every 9th grader in Earth Science knows it too.

I wish people would realize that there’s a difference between an invention/discovery and flat-out make believe.

For example, if someone made a bag of chips with a flat bottom that could also double as a bowl for easy snacking? Now, THAT would be an invention, and a damn good one (if you're listening, Frito Lay, please ditch the noisy Sun Chips bag for this gem).

But changing well-established facts? That’s just a waste of time.

And while we’re on the topic, can the fashion industry please chill out too?

Skinny jeans are a known entity.  They are pants made of denim that are tight-fitting. But jeggings are the wannabes of the pants family.  They are jeans with tons of stretchy lycra baked in so people, like me, who are too fat for skinny jeans can still squeeze into the party. And Pajama Jeans are not jeans at all -- they are jean-colored sweatpants and a total abomination.

Let’s also agree that ankle boots are simply shoes that cover your whole foot and ankle. They are not called "shooties," a cutesy name derived from combining shoes and booties. Or "bootines" (I don't think anyone knows what two words were combined for this one). And don't get me started on the Snuggie, which is nothing but a flimsy backwards robe.

In general, let’s quit making shit up.

But don’t let me be the boss of you (like the Leo that I am). Do you disagree? Or see anything missing? Add it below!


tags: pop culture, shopping

Fun & Games

Did you know 1/11/11 was the 40th anniversary of the card game Uno?

No? Me neither.

But if I’m to believe a couple of guys dressed up as a Wild Card and a Blue #4 who were standing outside Grand Central this morning, it’s true.

Who said one is the loneliest number? I love this game!

I have the BEST childhood memories of playing Uno with my little brother and our grandma. I can remember spending summers at her house in Jersey, sitting in the dining room with its giant wooden chairs.

She was Italian, so every game began with a meal to keep up our strength.  She would buy Entenmann’s lemon pie for me and blueberry crumb for my brother. We’d eat a big ol’ hunk, then we’d break out the cards and play Uno for hours in tournaments that lasted until school started in the fall.

Skip! Reverse! Draw 4! SUCH fun.

Now before you get all, “Awwww,” on me, you should probably know one thing: I cheated my ass off.

(don’t worry, it has since grown back with a vengeance)

You should also know I'm not a dishonest person.  I didn’t initially set out to cheat. In fact, up until my brother was about 5 or 6 years old, I used to just naturally win every single game we played, given our 5 year age difference. But something awful happened when he started the 2nd grade. He got smarter!

So, I turned to a life of crime…

He'd ask all wide-eyed and innocent, “Wanna play Monopoly, Jenny?” Well, sure! And while he turned his back to see what hijinks Gobo was up to down in Fraggle Rock, I’d swap little green houses for big red hotels. And my $50 bills magically became $500s before he could say, “Do not pass Go.”

“Feeling like Scrabble?” Oh yeah! I think I even convinced him that we were supposed to pick eachother’s letters. He never questioned it, even with round after round of letters like XPQZKJY.

“How about a game of Life?” Ab-so-lutely! My little pink and blue peg people multiplied quicker than a wet Gremlin, just so I could collect more cash presents.

“Anyone for Battleship?” This was too EASY! Maybe we played it wrong, but we could never see eachother’s boards, so if F8 was called, suddenly my submarine just scooted across the ocean. Nobody’s sinking MY battleship!

But Uno? Ah, that one really made me flex my phony muscles. It was the ultimate cheating challenge. No board.  No tiny pieces to manipulate.  No paper money to steal.  The real key with Uno was that I always volunteered to shuffle.

Never trust the shuffler.

As the cards made shuffling sounds, I’d quickly slide the good ones onto my lap with my pinky and then pepper them back into the deck so they would come up every 3rd card.  When I dealt, starting on my left, I'd be flush with picture cards and they'd have nothing but numbers. I was like a budding Penn & Teller with my sleight of hand.

Keep in mind, I was like, 12 at the time. But the fun and games came to a SCREECHING halt one day when we were playing Life and my brother caught me with my hand in the money pot. Hoo boy. That was not my finest hour. 

But I think it was a growing experience for us both. He came to realize he could kick my cheating ass, in more ways than one (or uno, if you prefer). And I came to realize that nobody likes a cheater.

Lesson learned!

I don’t cheat at games anymore.  Mainly because they all watch me like a hawk.  I'm pretty positive that the minute my brother reads this blog post, he's going to fire off an email to me (he maaay still be a little bitter). But I do hope he will also remember the fun times we had as kids playing games like Uno.

I can't wait to eat pie and play games with his kids too. And I promise NOT to teach them how to play "Aunt Jenny Style."

What was YOUR favorite game to play (or to cheat)?  Confess below...


tags: family, jersey, pop culture

Dear Steve Jobs,

There’s a lot going on in the world these days. 100,000 fish just dropped dead in Arkansas. Australia is under water. Snowmageddon paralyzed the whole eastern seaboard last week. Brad Womack is back as the Bachelor.

But I’m laser-focused on one thing: Verizon getting the iPhone.

I check the news daily and I read discussion boards I don’t really even understand, desperately searching for kernels of information, rumors, whispers, and other assorted propaganda. I’ve asked sweet baby Jesus. I’ve asked Santa Claus. And now I’m asking you…

When are you releasing a Verzon iPhone?

I know you handed over the iPad. It's not enough. I need the phone. Just give me a date! We all know it’s coming! But WHEN?? I can’t wait much longer.

Do you SEE the ridiculous junk I’m still carrying in the hopes that my dream phone is right around the corner? It might as well be a tin can and a string.

I bought my Motorola Razr like 6 YEARS ago because I saw it on Entourage and thought it was cool. Even Johnny Drama has moved on by now! And don’t even get me started on my iPod. It belongs in a museum at this point. Plus the battery dies whenever it’s cold outside.

Like now.


It’s not right to make me suffer this way!

Verizon telemarketers don’t even bother to call me anymore to upgrade. Even THEY think I am a lost cause and they have horribly low standards. I see their flashy commercials, but I am not tempted. Incredible?  Ha!  I say Droid Schmoid. I’m holding out for the iPhone. And only YOU can make that happen.

I long for the day that I can download useless apps. I vow to cherish every swipe of my shiny new iTunes library. And I will honor my awesome video chat capabilities by putting on lip gloss before every single call I make.  That's a promise.

I will, in fact, marry my Verizon iPhone.

You know, the Consumer Electronics Expo starts on Thursday. Might that be a convenient time for you to steal the spotlight with this exciting news? I hear Verizon’s CEO is a keynote speaker. I’m sure he’d share the mic with you. Maybe give him a call. From your iPhone.

Otherwise, I think your birthday is coming up. Please, please, please take pity and give yourself the gift of ME. And roughly 90MM other Verizon Wireless customers.

But mostly, me.

iThank you for your time,
Your #1 Verizon iPhone Fan

 
tags: pop culture, shopping

Adios 2010

I am soooo ready to kiss 2010 goodbye.

Mwah.

What was supposed to be my best year ever turned out to be total crap. Dumped?  Check.  Homeless?  Yup.  Poorer?  You betcha!  2011’s got to be better, right?

(gulp... right?!)

Here are the important steps I'll be taking tonight to ensure that it is…

Watching Andy Cohen on Bravo
I cannot handle ringing in New Year’s Rockin’ Eve with pre-recorded musical guests and plastic Ryan Seacrest. And I'm sorry but watching Dick Clark struggle to speak brings me down. So I’m switching things up this year with Bravo and the irresistible Andy Cohen. He's not lighting a tired old ball -- he's dropping a blonde wig.  Plus, it's cable, so there's a good chance he will be counting down to midnight as he should be. Tipsy.

Eating 12 Grapes at Midnight
Following a tradition that started in Spain over 100 years ago, I am going to eat 1 grape for each tick of the clock so I can have good luck every month of the year. By the last stroke of midnight, I will have eaten 12. I wonder if it applies to anything eaten 12 at a time? Like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? Ham sandwiches?  I’m guessing no. But either way, it’s a good thing I have no one to kiss. My mouth will be too busy eating my future.

Reading My 2011 Horoscope
It seems that my life (and yours!) should unclench in the New Year.  Thanks to Jupiter, Uranus, the Moon, Venus, Pisces and a purple unicorn at the end of a rainbow, we’ll all get relief from our romantic worries. Then the Sun, Saturn, Mars, Capricorn, and the two-timing Moon and Venus get in on the action so our money problems ease up too. It’s comforting to know the trust issues and debt that I acquired as parting gifts in 2010 won’t stick around.

Wearing Bright Undies
Some people slip into sequined dresses, others sport tuxedos. Me? I’ll do like they do in South America and slap on some brightly colored underpants. Most popular is red to attract love, or yellow for prosperity. Maybe I'll wear both. Do you think size matters? If so, count me in for a scuba suit.


I think I’ll stop short of plucking all my eyelashes out and making a wish on each one. But I’m pretty much game for anything else.

Got any other crazy suggestions for good luck? Add them below!


tags: entertainment, food, holidays

On the Roadi

I recently discovered I've only visited 16 states. 

And I'm not talking a stopover in O'Hare on the way to LAX.  I'm counting states where I've spent at least one night. 

They are: Arizona, California, Connecticut, Florida, Illinois, Massachusetts, Missouri, Nevada, my beloved New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, and Washington DC.

That's 16 states (17 if you count DC) in 37 years.  That's kinda lame, no? 

I thought so too.  Which is why I was psyched when my good friend Jodi came up with a brilliant idea to visit all 50 states!  Not all at once, obviously.  We still have jobs.  And lives (well, at least SHE does).  But once or twice a year, we'll visit someplace new in search of adventure. 

This will keep us busy well into old age... just in time to let our wrinkly bikini bodies loose on all the Caribbean Islands.  Thank God for cruise ships, or we'd have to live to be 120.

Anyway, fate will decide the state we visit next, and YOU can follow along on our new blog, On the Roadi with Jen & Jodi.

We'll even be tweeting from the road(i) so we can instantly share the thrill of finding the world's largest frying pan (in Rose Hill, NC), or feel like giants in Tiny World (in Shippensburg, PA), or show our contribution to the Gum Wall (in Seattle, WA), which would be a fitting pit-stop considering how we first became friends nearly 20 years ago.

We're picking our first destination out of a hat on 1/1/11 from Fairfield, CT, where it all began.  I hope you come along for the ride!

So, how many states have YOU visited?  And have any cool tips on places to see and things to do?  Tell me below!


tags: travel, writing

“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