5 Reasons I Love The Great Food Truck Race

It’s NO secret I love TV.

I’ve been equally open regarding my love of food. So, whenever the worlds of TV and food collide, you can bet I’m buckled in for the ride.

There are tons of culinary competition shows out there (and I watch most of them), but one of my new favorites is The Great Food Truck Race. If Top Chef and Cannonball Run had a baby, it would be this show.

It’s an 8 week road trip from Malibu to Miami and the second season just started on Food Network.  After watching the first episode, I’m happy to report it’s still a tasty little morsel.

Here’s 5 reasons why:

1. Tyler Florence. Tyler Florence. Tyler Florence. Yum. 
2. The prize is for real. $100K in cash. Not a fake title as executive chef at a restaurant they may never work in. Not a restaurant makeover of a business that may not succeed. Cash. And while that may not go super far to support a restaurant with 4 walls, I’m guessing it’s a jackpot for one with 4 wheels.
3. The challenges in each city all come down to who makes the most money. Earn enough and you move on to the next. Earn the least and drive home, broke and humiliated in your giant yellow truck shaped like a banana. Ouch. That stings.
4. The cities they visit are like a character in the show. Teams start each leg from scratch without supplies, permits, parking spaces, or customers. And each place they visit throws its personality into the mix, for better or worse.
5. Food trucks are just plain awesome.

Forget restaurants.  Some of the best food in the city is coming from trucks.  We’re NOT talking street meat here. This is not fast food -- it's food served fast, with good, local ingredients. Plus each truck usually has a gimmick, which I kinda love. And they’re easy to find... like right now! 

A quick check of my handy Eat Street app (iPhone, I heart you so much I could EAT you), shows Korilla BBQ, who just happens to be in the race (go NYC!!), Cupcake Stop, and Feed Your Hole trucks all within a few blocks of my apt. 

Good thing I’m afraid of the dark, or else I’d be chowing on a Porkinator right now like it was my job.

Sold yet?

Whet your appetite with the meals on wheels that I've eaten recently (glamorous desk not included):

Wafels & Dinges
Motto: Good Things Belgian
Order: The BBQ pulled pork on a Brussels wafel, with a side of slaw and a coolickle (kinda like a red pickle)
Tip: Try their Spekuloos Spread – it looks like peanut butter and tastes like gingerbread cookie goodness.

Red Hook Lobster Pound
Motto: Serving the best crustacean in the nation
Order: Lobster roll, Maine style, on a buttery toasted bun split down the middle
Tip: Bring a $20 -- the roll is $16 alone, pricey but loaded with big chunks of tasty lobstah.

Mexicue
Motto: The sweet, sweet love child of red-hot Mexican cuisine and down-home barbeque
Order: A smoked short rib taco, BBQ beef brisket slider, and pulled pork slider.  I like to call that the Carnivore's Trifecta.
Tip: Budget about 30 minutes for this one, the line is long, but worth the wait. 

Eddie’s Pizza Truck
Motto: Home of the Bar Pie
Order: No clue.  The first time I tried to eat here, they closed the main window in my face.  The second time, they gave me attitude about needing to order through the passenger seat door instead of the giant, gaping hole on the side of the truck.  Needless to say, I left.
Tip: I hear the wait is 20 minutes.  Hopefully they're as good at making pizza as they are at being rude.

So, do YOU have any favorite food trucks?  List them below! 

And remember, this is best left to professionals: Don’t cook and drive.


tags: city life, entertainment, food

You Just Got Pringled!

What’s that? You say it’s about time for a new taste test?  I couldn’t agree more!

Rather than go for sweets like this time, or this time, I dug deep into the salty category. Think crunchy. Think crispy. Think potato(ish) chips.

I’m speaking, of course, of Pringles.

Now, I can already see you turning your nose up at the crisp that isn’t legally allowed to call itself a chip because it’s only 42% potato. Oh, what a misunderstood snack!

I think there’s something beautifully precise about their uniform shape and the way they line up in a stack. I like the irony of organized junk food.

Plus, Pringles don’t fraternize with your average low-rent bag of chips, all hap-hazard and broken with that weird stubby green one that you're never sure whether to eat or whether to write a letter to the company's CEO and report a tainted bag (or is that just me?).

NO!  Pringles are too good for that. Which is why they stand tall on the shelf in the high-priced nuts neighborhood.  Fancy.

Here’s my top 3 reasons to give them a pop:

• You have to love Mr. Julius Pringle in all his olden-timey barbershop mustache glory.
• The guy who invented the Pringle asked to be buried in a can, and he got his wish in 2008.
• The brand recently sold for $2.35B – that’s a lot of chips (or crisps, as it were)!

So, as I was saying, we tried a TON of Pringles. And by a ton, I mean 18 canisters. Didn’t know there were that many flavors? Neither did we. So, obviously, a blind test was in order to see who’s taste buds could tell the difference between BBQ, Sweet BBQ, and Cheddar BBQ.

Not as easy as it sounds.

My sister-in-law had the good sense to stay out of this one, but my brother and I went head-to-head, armed with nothing but our wits and a gallon of water...

Here’s how the 18 flavors tasted (we could have had 20 -- if not for the elusive Bacon Ranch and Mozzarella Stick!):

1. Original: 2 correct guesses (if we didn’t get this layup, we would have quit)
2. Sour Cream & Onion: 2 correct
3. Cheddar Cheese: 2 correct (helps that these are bright orange)
4. BBQ: 1 correct, 1 mistaken for Pizza
5. Jalapeno: 1 correct, 1 mistaken for Mexican Layered Dip
6. Pizza: 1 mistaken for Buffalo Wing, 1 mistaken for Cajun
7. Ranch: 2 correct
8. Loaded Baked Potato: 1 correct, 1 mistaken for Cheddar BBQ
9. Salt & Vinegar: 2 correct
10. Honey Mustard: 2 correct (and can I just say, yum?)
11. Buffalo Wing: 1 correct, 1 mistaken for Cajun
12. Dill Pickle: 2 correct (and tastes like your sneaker would after a long run)
13. Cajun: 1 mistaken for Sweet BBQ, 1 mistaken for Onion Blossom
14. Sweet BBQ: 1 mistaken for Pizza, 1 mistaken for Mexican Layered Dip
15. White Cheddar Popcorn: 1 correct, 1 mistaken for Loaded Baked Potato
16. Mexican Layered Dip: 1 mistaken for Jalapeno, 1 mistaken for Sweet BBQ
17. Onion Blossom: 1 correct, 1 mistaken for White Cheddar Popcorn
18. Cheddar BBQ: 1 correct, 1 mistaken for plain BBQ

By the end, we had a thirst that a thousand gallons of waters could not quench, and we had Pringles Claw from stuffing our hands in the tube. And I’m not sure who they think they’re fooling with that cap.

Let’s be honest: 1 can = 1 serving.

So who’s palate was the most particular? I'm only semi-ashamed it admit it was mine -- with 13 correct guesses. My brother got 8.  I think he was congested.  But the real winner here is Julius Pringle. I spent like $45 bucks on chips that are only 42% potato!

While we discovered a few new favorites (I'm talking to YOU Honey Mustard and White Cheddar Popcorn), I’m rather thankful we didn’t have access to the international flavors. The Prawn Cocktail and meaty Roast Turkey flavors popular in the UK, or Seaweed with its “natural ocean flavor” and Old American Circus (aka Funky Mustard) eaten in Asia just sound plain gross.

But if old Julius feels like taking a dip in a pot of chocolate, I’d be all over that!  Just sayin.

poll by twiigs.com

 
tags: food, polls

Happy Birthday to Me

Oh, what a difference a year makes!

On my last birthday, I turned 37 (ahem), and I was totally down in the dumps. Devastated. Depressed. Drowning.

Ugh. That blew.

That's not me!  I love my birthday!  It's the best day of the year!  If I had my wish, it would be declared a national holiday. And it would last 3 weeks. Seriously.

Last year aside, I have tons of amazing birthday memories.

Some of my favorites are from when I was little.  Like the time I turned 4 and my entire family -- grandparents, aunts, uncles, everybody -- went to Disney to celebrate and I met Goofy (see, I loved tall guys even back then). Or the time I turned 6 and my mom had a pizza party for me on the front lawn and invited every kid in a 5 block radius because we were new to the neighborhood.  Or the time I turned 10 and had my first sleepover party where we giggled about boys, ET, and Cabbage Patch Kids well into the night.

This picture you see here is from 1982, the year I turned 9 (if you count the candles on my cheesecake, you'll see 10, that extra one is to grow on).  I love this shot because I'm surrounded by the people who mean the most to me and I look really happy.  Hopeful.  Carefree.

Like a little girl should.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know I have 3 birthday rules.  So, with those in mind, here's 10 to-dos for today, one for each candle on that cake:

I will remember what it's like to be a kid, when everything seems possible.

I will not work.

I will eat cheesecake for breakfast.

I will read my horoscope and believe the good stuff.

I will wear my hair in a ponytail all day.

I will spend gobs of money on silly things.

I will ignore what I lack, and focus on all that I have.




I will paint my fingers and toes a happy color.

I will look forward to seeing and hearing from all the people I love.

I will chill out on my roofdeck and enjoy the day.





So, here's to turning 38!  At least I'm not 40. That means I still have 2 more years to get my shit together before I hit my "scary age."  And here's to each of YOU -- and to my trusty Amex card -- for helping me celebrate!

Now I think I'll close my eyes and make a really, really, really good wish...


tags: holidays

Hot Mess

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

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

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

I have become a Crazy Deodorant Lady.

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

Child’s play.

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

Sniff, sniiiiiff.  Nope. Still smelly.

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

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

So, back to the medicine cabinet. 

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

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

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





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

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

Share below...


tags: commercials, gross, health

Saving Big in the Big Apple

So I’m kinda obsessed with watching the Extreme Couponing show on TLC. Now, I know what you’re thinking: That’s 14 cats and a couch doily away from a very scary Saturday night.

But before you judge me too harshly, have you SEEN this show??

They make it look SO EASY to walk out of a store paying 10 cents for $1000 worth of groceries. (Nevermind why these savings wizards would expose all their secrets on national television so grocery stores can get wise and shut down the fun.)

These people actually get paid to take stuff home. Some may say it’s borderline stealing, but who among us couldn’t use 93 bags of croutons, or 105 deodorants, or 217 jars of mayonnaise?

I wanted in!

But is it an impossible dream here in NYC where a single bag of groceries can equal a car payment? Maybe. No doubt this savings quest would take unwavering dedication and a level of preparedness that I haven’t employed since I took the SATs.

Oh yes. Challenge accepted.

First I watched, re-watched, and re-re-watched an entire season of Extreme Couponing. Next, I became a student of the limits – many stores only allow you to purchase a couple of the same items at one time, a register can only handle around 250 coupons per transaction, each receipt can only print around 1000 lines. Then, I boiled down HOURS of footage to a 21-step extreme savings blueprint…

     1) Fall on hard times
     2) Have an epiphany that coupons pave the road to riches
     3) Start to pronounce it “Q-pon” (this is critical to success)
     4) Know that you or a member of your immediate family must be morbidly obese
     5) Spend thousands on newspaper subscriptions, or steal inserts from the neighbors and dumpster dive
     6) Gather a mix of weekly sales, store loyalty cards, and manufacturers rebates to ensure maximum savings
     7) Arm your family members, no matter how young, old, or feeble, with scissors and let the clipping begin
     8) Organize your new Q-pons in a 3-ring binder, accordion folder or shoebox
     9) Make a spreadsheet of items, quantities, and costs for each trip, arranged by aisle
     10) Spend 30-60 hrs/wk on Q-pon maintenance, between prep, dealfinding, shopping trips, and binder cleanout
     11) Pre-order large quantities so the store can't run out of sale items
     12) Pile into your minivan to visit a non-brand name supermarket in the sticks
     13) Strictly purchase what’s on sale, nothing else
     14) Expect to fill multiple carts, so bring along a helper (who you may or may not choose to berate along the way)
     15) Prepare to sweat it out at the register
     16) Ignore nasty looks from the people in line behind you
     17) Watch the cashier like a hawk
     18) Keep your cool when the register inevitably jams from all this Q-poning activity
     19) Take a bow as the manager grits his teeth over the Q-pon robbery that just occurred in his store
     20) Enlist an army to unload the van
     21) Stockpile all loot in every basement, garage, closet and crevice as though you are preparing for the apocalypse

Ok.  Sounds easy enough.  Sort of.

The final step was to put this plan into action. Armed with a binder, a stack of newspaper inserts, an excel spreadsheet, and a dream, I organized, clipped, counted, and hit the stores. I probably spent about 10 hours a week over the last 2 months in pursuit of savings on food, health & beauty, and cleaning products.

And you know what I learned?

It’s impossible to save 98% off your grocery bill.

I’m sorry, it just is. Over 9 weeks, I spent $432.78 on $1,248.03 worth of stuff. That’s 65% off. I know this because it’s all calculated in a spreadsheet. I saved on every bill using a combination of in-store specials, manufacturers coupons, and gift cards I got from cashing in points on my credit cards. Without the gift cards, the savings would have been more in the neighborhood of 38%.  Good, but not great.

I also learned that I don’t have the patience or complete lack of self-consciousness to haggle over tampon coupons with the same checkout lady who thinks it’s ok to put my toilet bowl cleaner in the same bag as my English muffins.

But I do take away these 7 Lessons in Saving from my adventures in frugality…

• Get a loyalty card for every single store you shop in. And use it.
• The NY Post generally has more/better coupons than the Daily News.
• Coupons are really only worthwhile when they can be used in conjunction with in-store specials. 
• Don’t bother using a coupon just because it’s about to expire. The only exception there is the buy one, get one free coupons. Those have the most savings of all, assuming you actually WANT the item.
• Buy only what’s on special, and don’t worry that you can’t actually make a meal out of pita chips, pasta sauce and marshmallow fluff. Eventually, they’ll put guacamole, macaroni, and ice cream on sale and then you’ve got a tasty 3-course meal!
• D’Agostinos and CVS have MUCH better deals and loyalty programs than Food Emporium, dirty Gristedes (they put the gross in grocery store) and Duane Reade.
• Get creative to find deals.  The Harmon Face Values section in most Bed Bath & Beyonds is good for health & beauty items, and Jack’s World/99 Cent Stores are worth a trip for random cheap food -- and it’s not even expired!

I’m sure my savings experience can apply to any big city. But if you live in the burbs, you can probably shave another 1/3 off the total. Plus then you get to drive to and from the store so you’re not forced to strap all your groceries to your back like some kind of urban donkey.

So what does $1200 worth of stuff look like?  Check out my linen closet, fridge, and fully-stocked pantry:

All I have to say is, wow, I'm anal.  My fridge door looks like Noah's Ark, with 2 of everything.  I should get a side job stocking shelves.  I'd have Gristedes in line in no time. 

Are YOU a coupon clipper?  Tell me why (or why not) below...


tags: city life, food

I'm Just Not That Into YOU

The title of this blog post, coupled with my colorful online dating history, might lead you to believe I’ve been dumped. Again. Actually, I kind of think I have been… 

Can you get dumped by someone you’ve never met? I dunno.

It all started a few weeks ago. I got another communication request from an eHarmony guy. That sounds so clinical, doesn’t it? Communication request. Ick. Sounds like something your boss would send you right before you get canned. No wonder online dating blows.

Anyway… he was 43 year old lawyer, went to Brown undergrad and Penn Law, owned an apt in Chelsea (?), Jewish, loved hiking, divorced, no kids, had a pet turtle.

Let’s call him Kermit.

(I’m referring to the guy, of course, not the turtle. A turtle named Kermit would be ridiculous.)

At a self-reported 5’10” he was 2 inches below my (shallow) minimum height requirement. Oh and he had red hair. Yep, he was a Ginger. And he had a bowling ball head. Oy. But from our emails, he was a nice enough guy. Responsible. Articulate. Punctual. He seemed like he could properly fold a map.

We had as much chemistry as... something with zero chemistry. 

Eventually, it came time to move beyond the email exchanges and hit the phones. Kermie said he wanted to talk and hopefully meet in person. So he called me.

I was on my way to dinner with some old friends from high school so I didn't answer. He left a message. I felt bad, so the next day I sent him a text, apologizing for missing his call. A few days later, he called me again. That time, I was on my way home from work and not particularly interested in walking and talking so I let it go to voicemail. He left another message. The next day I sent him another text, and made up a lie about why I missed his call.

Bad Jenny.

Then about a week passed -- no calls. I hoped he would just fade away and I would go back to being more selective about the emails I answer.

I was sitting at my desk on Wednesday when my cell rang. It was a 212 number that I didn’t recognize, but I picked up expecting it to be a good friend who I used to work with.  I was supposed to be meeting her for dinner that night.

Well, it wasn’t my friend. It was Kermit.

Imagine having that first get-to-know-you phone call with a guy you really like while you’re at work. That would be kind of awkward, right? Now, imagine that same call with a guy you’re not really into. Yeah.  Not good.

He opened with your standard chit chat. I was talking on my cell phone, but staring a hole into my office phone willing it to ring with the sheer power of my mind. I am sad to report that not only can I NOT bend spoons with my mind, I also cannot force the phone to magically ring. Where's Yoda when you need him?

The conversation quickly turned to the environment. Naturally.

On a good day, with a guy I’m SUPER attracted to, I’ve got about 3 minutes MAX of eco-convo in me. And even then, I don’t really buy it. I mean, can people who can’t accurately tell me if it’s going to rain on Saturday predict with ANY authority that the polar ice caps will melt away to nothing in 10 years if I don't immediately start driving a Prius?

I think not.

My inconvenient truth is that talking about the earth makes me sleepy. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

So when he started giving me the dirt on composting, you can be sure I wanted to hop over my desk and jump out my 15th floor window. True to form, Kermit’s into vermiculture. Not familiar? Me neither. I was told it’s when you use worms to eat your garbage so they can poop it out. You need about a pound of worms for every pound of food scraps. And all that chowing down on apple cores and coffee grounds makes the worms feel pretty amorous – each one pinches out a new baby worm every few months.

Wish you never knew that? Me too.  My big contribution to that conversation went a little something like this:

ME: So, how much does a worm cost?
K: Pennies a piece.
ME: That’s probably more than I would want to spend.
K: Why?
ME: I’m saving up to adopt a highway.

This was going NOwhere. Was my office phone even working? How could it ring 50x a day, and not ONCE in the past 10 minutes? I decided to turn the talk towards something I could relate to, so I could be 158,329% positive this was going nowhere.

ME: Seen anything interesting lately?
K: I don’t own a TV.
ME (Silence. Does not compute.)
K: Are you still there?
ME: No TV? What do you do at night?
K: Well, between work, caring for my turtle…
ME: Oh, go hug a dolphin!
K: Uh… what?
ME: Ever tried golfin?
K: At night?
ME: Nevermind.

FINALLY the phone rang. Ahhh. An excuse to hang up! I say goodbye and dance a jig of happiness.

That evening, I received the following text:

Jen. [Kermit]. Knw u wntd 2 date, bt am hvng 2nd thghs. We ddnt clck. Not intrstd in F2F mtg. Bst of lk. GTG!! :/

Please allow me to translate:

Hi Jen, it’s Kermit. I know that you wanted to date, but I am having second thoughts (or thighs?). We just didn’t click, so I’m no longer interested in having a face to face meeting (otherwise known as a DATE). But I wish you the best of luck. Got to go!! Weird smiley frown face.

Did he actually just dump me with a text message? He did, right?!? Before we ever even met?

Hey, Nicholas Sparks! Nobody said anything about dating here. I mean, it’s not like I wanted to have your orange clown wig babies or anything. Besides, it's just as well that you don’t want to meet ME because I have never wanted to meet YOU.

Frankly, I’d rather sit in soaking wet clothes while watching a Transformers marathon than watch worms take a dump.

Ugh, will it EVER end?  Lie to me below...


tags: dating

Cable Guy

I hate Time Warner Cable.

I’m sitting on my couch typing this blog post on Day 4 of living without a home internet connection. I have to wait until the morning to upload this at work.

My laptop has become a glorified doorstop.

I went to bed on Friday night at 2am -- I suppose that’s actually Saturday morning, but whatevs. I know for a FACT that my internet connection was working then, because I was online doing extremely important business (managing my Netflix queue).

When I woke up, around 9:30am, I immediately noticed an orange light flashing on my modem, inexplicably. That’s never a good sign.  So I went through all the typical troubleshooting steps – I rebooted the modem, and the cable box, and my computer. Blah blah blah.

No dice.

So I called the number on the original installation paperwork (I keep it handy in the TV cabinet for situations such as this). Miracle of miracles, I got a guy who picked up immediately! And then he put me on hold...

FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF.

After about 30 minutes, it became a game – guessing which pre-recorded message was next. It was a battle of the wills. I had too much invested, I couldn’t possibly hang up now. Then delirium set in, and I actually started to BELIEVE my call was important to them (silly me). Then came the anger. I would never get these 93 minutes back. Realizing I could literally die on hold, I hung up the phone and drank in the silence. Ahhhhhh…

I let my ear cool off for a minute, then phoned the number on the back of my bill. I spoke to an automated voice who’s cheerfulness just fueled my pissy attitude. Eventually, a technician came on the line and she quickly put me on hold to check my signal. In doing so, THE MOTHER EFFER DISCONNECTED ME.

Oh sweet Jesus! At this point, I was livid.

I called – AGAIN – and shouted at the robot. When I finally got another technician on the horn, I explained how incompetent the last one was and said I hoped she could actually DO her job. I can see now that probably set us off on the wrong foot.

She needed to test the line, at which point I BEGGED her not to put me on hold. She obliged, but couldn’t find a signal.

No shit, Sherlock.

She couldn’t tell me why it wasn’t working, or if someone else on my floor got cable installed and accidentally knocked mine out. She stated very matter-of-factly that a technician would need to come to my apt to investigate the root cause. Her calmness was aggravating.

The earliest I could get an appointment was on Wednesday from 11am-2pm. FIVE days later!?! I clenched my jaw and explained that in order to pay my bill in a timely fashion, I have to be gainfully employed and therefore could not take time off in the MIDDLE OF A WORKDAY to wait for the cable guy.

Equally unhelpful was her suggestion that I have someone over the age of 18 wait on my behalf. I explained I live alone (and thanks for rubbing salt in THAT particular wound).

Can I please just take a moment to say how much I DESPISE that we are all at their mercy? The cable company, the phone company, the electric company, the plumber. Utilities have the power, and they know it.

I took a deep breath and asked for an evening appointment. She didn’t have one. I asked for a weekend appointment. She DID have one of those. In two weeks. Unacceptable. I begrudgingly settled on an appointment for this Friday -- in the 8am-11am window – which just happens to be my day off. Excellent.

At this point, I couldn’t WAIT to get off the phone and slam my head in the freezer. I don’t care that it’s not her fault. I now hate this woman AND the company she works for. But apparently, she was not as sick of me as I was of her.

She proceeds to try and sell me whole house DVR services. Huh. First off, I live in a 550 sqft studio. I already HAVE whole house DVR on my ONE television. Secondly, ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME?

Now I’m a lunatic. I let out a crazy squeal of a laugh I don’t think I’ve ever heard before and ask, “Are you seriously trying to SELL me something right now?! You know you want to get off this phone as much as I do. Let’s end this nonsense.” She informs me that telling customers about the variety of services available is part of her job, and then says that if I receive an automated call asking me to take a survey on our conversation today, I should rate her service a 5, with 5 being the best.

Maybe she was a robot too.

I could take no more.  I hung up on her mid-sentence, wishing I had a corded phone so I could slam the receiver down on the cradle. (Pushing the off button really hard on a cordless phone just doesn’t have the same dramatic effect.)

The whole thing makes me want to scream! Life without an internet connection is like life without a nose. Sure, you can breathe out of your mouth, but who wants to??

Thank God for my beloved iPhone so I have at least some connection with civilization. While I wait impatiently for the cable guy, you’ll be happy to know I’m making the most of my analog lifestyle:

• I’ve labeled all the spices in my magnetic spice rack
• I read 7 months of back issues of Food & Wine and Bon Appetit
• I alphabetized my cookbooks (since my DVDs were already in order, naturally)
• I made homemade pesto
• I shampooed my throw rugs
• I shredded my 2010 credit card statements
• I cleaned my hairbrushes and unclogged my shower drain

I suppose this time offline has been productive. But the NANOSECOND that I get my internet service back, the FIRST THING I’m googling is whether or not Verizon Fios is available in my area.

So… have YOU ever had a temper tantrum over your cable company, or am I the only infant here?


tags: city life

Fly The Friendly Skies

I flew home from Del Boca Vista today, after spending a long weekend with the 'rents. I head south every other month to take my mom to her dr appointments, and while I wish it were under different circumstances, I love our visits because I miss them a ton.
 
Last time I was in town, back in April, my mom loaded me up with random groceries because she thinks the prices in NYC are too high.  And they are!  But unfortunately, I got stopped by Orlando International Airport Security for smuggling 2 very dangerous substances: Nutella and Laughing Cow Cheese.
 
I’m not joking.
 
They pulled me off the line, rifled through my bag, and confiscated these items. Why? Because cream-like substances can be used to make a bomb.
 
Oh please.
 
If I knew how to make a bomb using a jar of hazelnut spread and 2 wheels of Swiss, I’d take that evil genius and apply it to MUCH more worthwhile pursuits. Like hacking into the Powerball drawing, so I can quit flying commercial.

At the time, I was given 3 options from the humorless attendant:
1) Go back outside and check my bag
2) Throw these perfectly good, unopened items in the trash
3) Eat them on the spot

Let me repeat that last one... EAT them. On the spot.  Like I was just going to pop a squat in the middle of effing security to enjoy a picnic consisting of an entire JAR of Nutella and SIXTEEN wedges of cheese!

Morons.

Pissed, I wound up going with Door #2: The trash bin.  I hope they picked it out after I stormed off and THEY ate it and it gave them diarrhea for days. 

This time, I was traveling without any contraband. I breezed through the black diamond lane, reserved for only the most experienced of frequent flyers. When I got to security, I saw they are now using one of those full body scan machines that caused all that nakedness and radiation uproar over the holidays. Remember that? 

I took my shoes off, and narrowly avoided stepping on a bandaid that was stuck to the rug.  Gross.  Then I was instructed to stand facing the machine with my legs spread apart and my arms in the air for this virtual frisking.

Keep in mind, this is the most action I've had in a looong time.  So the only thought going through my head was: Am I wearing nice undies?  I concentrated to try and mentally feel what kind I had on, but it was impossible.

Try it yourself. Without using your hands. It really can't be done.

Anyway, I passed the test and eventually I boarded the plane. A woman and her lap child were sitting in my seat. 9F. I said, “That’s my seat.” Then I glanced at the 2 other kids sitting next to her, and I immediately offered to take her seat, 9A.

Well, let me just say no good deed goes unpunished...

No sooner do I sit down in the window seat, than a young girl sat down on the aisle. She showed me her seat assignment, 9B (aka the middle).  Said she was saving a seat for her friend, like it’s her spot on the lunchline. Her name was Chanel. I resisted the urge to introduce myself as Gucci.

She looked at me with dead doll eyes and I see she’s in a sorority. I say this not because of her vapid gaze (though that certainly didn’t help), but because of the small purple pillow she was clutching. Stitched to the front were letters I couldn't read. Alpha Delta Pi Phi Sigma. Omega Lambda Beta. Kappa Theta. Epsilon.

(I have no idea if those were her letters, they're just the only Greek letter names I know. And I’m not even really sure about that last one.)

Next, her friend, presumably named Prada, scurried in and sat down -- which would have been fine if that aisle seat didn’t actually belong to anyone. But it did.

Moments later, a dad in a Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food t-shirt, said, “That’s MY seat.”

Doll Eyes filled him in, and he said, “That’s cool.” He seemed down with a trade and strapped himself into 10D, another aisle seat, a row back. Well, that just happened to be the seat of a passive aggressive off-duty flight attendant.

She said, “That’s MY seat.” Papa Bear explained the seat assignment roulette we were playing.  She grunted, and grabbed her tote, accidentally knocking an old lady in the head.

Well, this Granny wasn't having it. And getting smacked upside the noggin did not sit well with her. She began to growl and mumble obscenities, one of which was NOT whippersnappers.

About 5 minutes later our actual flight attendant informed Papa Bear that he’s seated in an extra legroom seat and that'll be $45 bucks, thankyouverymuch. That went over like a fart in church. Mellow Yellow turns beet red. He glares at Chanele and Prada, and insists on a new seat with a regular amount of legroom. He gets 8C, and then settles down.

For now.

The girls in my row were blathering on and on about getting to England. I wondered if they boarded the wrong plane because MY ass was headed back to New York.  Then Chanel tapped me on the shoulder. She asked if I knew how "American text message minutes" convert when traveling overseas. Like unit measurements of time were somehow different across the pond?

I wanted to take their heads and clack them together.

Listen, I'm not trying to be mean.  Really, I'm not.  I’m sure the jello shots and jalapeno poppers at Tipsy’s last night were hella good, but come ON.

We were on the runway waiting for takeoff when Prada got the munchies. She put a bagel directly on the tray table. ON the tray table! No buffer.

I nearly fainted.

Let me just state for the record that there is ZERO chance I would ingest ANYthing that touched an airplane tray table. There is not enough disinfectant on the planet to make that ok.  That thing has more germs than the monkeyhouse at the zoo.

Chanel seemed unfazed. Perhaps they had super immune systems, due to all kegstands and spit-swapping, but I haven’t done that (in years).

Papa Bear was having none of it.  He turned around to inform the girls -- perfect strangers, mind you -- that we hadn't taken off yet, so they shouldn’t be using their tray tables. They flipped him off.

All this drama was suddenly making me hungry too. I spread out a napkin nest on my lap, took a small brown bag out of my purse, and ate a croissant using the bag as a barrier between my breakfast and my potentially dirty hands.

So I'm munching away.  And while I couldn’t feel my underwear, I absolutely COULD feel the giant, flaky hunk of pastry that fell down my shirt and nestled into my cleavage. But rather than fish it out, I decided to save it for later incase I got hungry in the taxi.

It’s not like anyone was going to see my bra at that point. I’d already gotten to 3rd base with the TSA.


tags: travel

Pepe Le Pew

Remember a little while back when I said I was emailing with an eHarmony guy from Long Island who seemed normal?

He was from Smithtown, 38, a lawyer, divorced with 2 young boys. 6'3" and had most of his hair. He got custody of the family dog. We went through the guided communication process, then exchanged a bunch of emails. Finally, he asked for my number so we could talk on the phone.

So we did. For 2 hours.

When we hung up, I definitely knew a lot more about him. His ex wife was lazy and yelled a lot. He drove a silver BMW. He liked egg white omelets with spinach and feta. He was a Dolphins fan. The only concert he ever went to was Billy Joel (of course).  He went to Hoftsra for undergrad and St. Johns for law school.  His mom and dad divorced after 30 years of marriage. His dad then remarried -- and had kids -- making his brothers the same age as his sons.

Unfortunately, he knew next to nothing about me. Why? Because this was a guy who loved the sound of his own voice. You know what his only question was?

He asked me what else I wanted to know about him...

Anyway, for all his jibber-jabbering, he seemed kinda funny. I like funny. So when he decided at the end of the call (based on all that stimulating conversation) that we should meet for dinner, I said ok. We made plans for the following night. Mexican. He cancelled about 4 hours beforehand. He texted the next day to reschedule. Sushi. And then he cancelled again. That’s where I drew the line.

I’m done with guys making plans they can’t keep.

So I didn't reply. And I didn't hear from him for a couple of weeks. Then he popped up out of the blue, all apologetic about being such a flake, and he asked me out again. For whatever reason, I said yes. But I wasn’t meeting him after work for drinks or dinner anymore. I decided on brunch and chose a spot in the 50s on the east side. Seafood. And he actually showed up!

I saw him pull up and attempt to parallel park. Let’s just say it wasn’t smooth. But he was definitely in a silver BMW so at least he was telling the truth about that. Unfortunately, when he got out, he expected me to be impressed. That ship has sailed. I drove a BMW too, back when I owned a car… except it was black.

He said hello and leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek.  Even outdoors, I couldn't help but notice the amount of cologne he was wearing.  He was like a king-sized Pepe Le Pew. It didn't take me too long to realize why he couldn't park and why smelled like he took a bath in CK One.

It’s because he was stinking drunk. Awesome.

We went inside and the waiter came over pretty quickly. Skunky slurred his drink order: Pure vodka. No ice. No slice. Did I mention it was 10am? I ordered a hammer to beat myself over the head. And a cranberry juice chaser.

Motormouth was at it again, this time, showing me pictures of his dog. Beast? Buddy? Barney? Whatever. He’s flipping through and I started to notice a theme. This dog is always accessorized. There he is with a sombrero. Next, it’s a pair of aviators. Then, an Islanders jersey.

Look, I like dogs as much as the next guy. (So long as the next guy is someone who feels generally lukewarm about the animal kingdom.) But I firmly believe with every fiber of my being that anyone who forces their pets to wear clothes is an absolute asshole.

For some reason that even I don’t understand, I still kept thinking maybe this date would get better. So we order, and I’m hoping that will sober him up. I got a crabcake sandwich on an english muffin. Normally on a first date, I might have gone with a side salad, but instead I ordered a side of fries. 

It's not like he was going to remember.

He proceeded to tell the waiter he’s a “big fan of Italian” then rattled off a bunch of pastas. He said he liked linguini, fettucini, tortellini – all the "inis" really. And then he ordered the seafood frittata.  Good lord.

He kept talking. And talking. And taalllkkkkiiiiinnnnnnggggggg. Then our meals arrived. Of course he continued, now with mouthfuls of eggy food. Mmmm. You know how you eat when you’ve had too much to drink? Like it’s your last meal? Yeah, it was kinda like that.

Towards the end of brunch, he leaned in and said, “Tell me about your fears.” Say WHAT? Here was a guy who’d barely asked me a single question about myself and now he wanted to know about my FEARS??

Uh ok.

Frankly, I’m really only afraid of one thing: Death. Not public speaking.  Not spiders.  Death.  Well, death and also having my ass suctioned to an airplane toilet. But mostly death.

As I opened my mouth to respond, I got a better look at his face.  I noticed a reddish mark by his lower lip, and came to the swift realization Pepe may or may not have The Herp. 

That's what I like to call the final straw.

So, I placed my napkin over my mostly uneaten crabcake sandwich. I then stood up and told him he should take care of the check, try not to kill anyone on his way home, and most definitely lose my number.

And that was the end of that.


Ok. Don't hold back. What would YOU have done in my shoes?  (Bonus points if you tell me about your fears...)
 

tags: dating

Red Means Go

So I kinda got hit by a car this morning.

I get it, I’m impatient. I cross in the middle of the street. I walk against the light.  But this one was not my fault.
 
I left my apt on my usual commute.  As I rounded the corner of 42nd and 2nd, I was greeted by a small festival going on in PIX Plaza.  I already been tipped off because I saw it on TV a few minutes earlier, while I was getting ready for work. 

Confession:
I have a longstanding love affair with Channel 11 morning "news."  There, I said it!

So my street was obviously making BIG headlines today, what with it being National Donut Day and all.  PIX was giving away Entenmann's donuts and collecting donations for the Salvation Army in the plaza.  I dropped a buck in the bucket and grabbed myself a chocolate frosted. 

You know the one?  With the yellow cake inside? 

Yum.

Anyway, with both my belly and my soul feeling good, I continued on 42nd Street towards 3rd Ave.  Aside from the sweet start, it was a normal morning as I walked passed the Helmsley Hotel, a Pax deli, and a Gap.  I stopped when I reached the corner, waiting for the light to change.

As it turned from green to yellow, I stepped off the curb.  Just then, a white BMW with Virginia plates started to speed up, clearly trying to beat the light.

You think you know what's going to happen next, don't you?  Not so fast...

The driver (a lady) must have had second thoughts when the light turned red because she jams on the brakes, which landed her right on top of the crosswalk.  Actually, she was about 3 feet past the crosswalk.  Since she was blocking the walkway, I went behind her car rather than face oncoming traffic.  That was my mistake.

Realizing she overshot the line, she flips the car into reverse and hits the gas.  Ok.  Except I'm sandwiched right between her car and a Moishe's moving truck.  Along with 4 other pedestrians. 

Who DOES that?

Assholes, that's who! 

So everybody scatters, but I'm too close to jump and she kinda backs into me.  Not OVER me, luckily.  But let's just say her back bumper and my thigh are now well acquainted.  So I bang repeatedly on her back window and say something profane (the likes of which the Salvation Army would not approve).

She sticks her hand through her sunroof and shouts, "Sorry," then runs the light anyway by making a right turn on red (a no-no in NYC), and disappears on 42nd.  Somebody caught her plate number, but I didn't bother to stick around.  I had a meeting starting in 10 minutes, and was already behind because I'd stopped for a donut.

So, that was my adventure for today.  Be careful out there, friends! 

And while you're on the equally dangerous sidewalks of New York, you might as well keep your eyes peeled for these jerks too:

• People who don’t look in same the direction they’re walking
• People who randomly stop in the middle of the sidewalk
• People who walk and wave their cigarettes around
• People who walk and pause to drink hot coffee
• People who walk and type

After all, getting rear-ended by a tourist holding a lit cigarette and a steamy cup of joe could end far worse than my little bumper mishap!


tags: city life