Ten-Foot Poles, Water Balloon Fights with Whippersnappers, and Erik Spoelstra's Eyes

Never have I been so grateful to be a Bay Ridgite until tonight.

Dear faithful reader, after several months of no posts, if you're still reading my blog, one of several things is true.

You are:

a) just that, a faithful reader, who doesn't mind that I'm treating you like a booty call, expecting you to read any old trash I put out at 11:00 at night
b) a family member and/or close friend who knows that I've been working on my thesis for the past three months and therefore have not had time to blog

or,

c) bored out of your mind, and possibly unemployed since you're on Facebook at this time of night.

Whatever the reason, I am as grateful to you as I am to my beloved hometown.

On that note, I'll begin my tale. Christmas vacation this year, due to the fact that the holiday fell on a Sunday, is going super fast this year. Hell, it's already Tuesday night. So I had the urge to do something different tonight, possibly go to one of the most recently gentrified Brooklyn neighborhoods that no one would have touched with a ten-foot pole three years ago and attempt to find the Next Great Hole-in-the-Wall (I know, I keep saying it should be a reality show too). I voiced said urge to the hubby this afternoon, who is a notorious creature of habit, with surprisingly little objection.

At approximately 5:00 we set off for the train station. At approximately 5:02 we turned back.

The wind and rain were just as ravenous as the snow had been exactly one year ago. Despite each holding an umbrella and walking only half a block, Dave and I looked like we lost a water balloon fight with some young whippersnappers in our building.

So we turned back, agreeing that this was the preponderant reason why we decided to live in Bay Ridge, the fact that if there's shitty weather and we want to go out, we don't need to travel far. Stumble home and change your clothes. End of story.

After doing just that, a little while later we headed out to the Kettle Black, our go-to sports bar in the neighborhood since Dave wanted to watch the Miami-Boston basketball game. We quickly found a spot at the nearly empty bar and I spent the next couple of hours mentally debating over which head coach was more visually obnoxious, Doc Rivers or Erik Spoelstra. Tough call: Spoelstra's eyes make him look like the spawn of Satan, but Doc always seems annoyed at everyone. Turned out to be a pretty good game, though.

While out tonight, I took in my surroundings and realized that there are several benefits to being a Bay Ridgite. One glaring advantage is the apparent lack of hipsters in Bay Ridge. Don't get me wrong; a few wriggle their way in here and there, like the bespectacled, plaid-clad, PBR-chugging beanpole I encountered this evening. But spotting the occasional hipster is akin to seeing Mickey in our apartment: enough to gross me out, yes, but not sufficient reason to move out and run for the hills.

The hipsters have no doubt avoided Bay Ridge like they avoid razors and deodorant because of the 35-minute R-train ride into Manhattan. Anything longer than 15 is intolerable for hipsters. And that 35 minutes only leaves you in the Financial District. To get to Union Square (aka the Hipster Mothership) it takes at least 45.

Don't get me wrong; Bay Ridge is not for everyone. I'm not going to say that I didn't roll my eyes a little at the barely-legal Italian girls who came in at 8:30 and commented, "It's so early this place is still a restaurant!" I guess they were perturbed by the fact that the "dance floor" was covered with dining tables. Sweetie, it's Tuesday.

But as I get older and realize that the need to be hip is waning as fast as my metabolism, I've come to appreciate bars like Kettle Black more and more. Good food, good sports, a place to sit, an internet jukebox, and a buyback after only two beers.

Damn, it's good to be a Bay Ridgite.

Educational Psychology, O'Keefe's, and the World Trade Center

I remember years ago my mom told me that everyone her age remembers where they were when they found out Kennedy was shot.  She was ten years old at the time, and she was in school.  I was probably about ten years old myself when she shared this information with me, and I remember thinking that I couldn't possibly fathom an historical event of that magnitude, something that hit so close to home that thirty years later you'd still be talking about it.

Historical events are things you read about in social studies textbooks, I had thought at the time, about which you take a test, and pretty much forget about after you pass (or fail) it. 

Suffice it to say that my outlook on the subject changed on September 11, 2001.

Just like my mother in 1963, I too was in school when New York suffered what was equivalent to an assassination, except I was a full-grown adult in college, as "adult" as one can be at nineteen, anyhow.  I was reveling in the perfect schedule I had that semester, specifically self-designed to ensure that I would be dismissed from class at precisely 11:10 AM every single day. 

When the first plane crashed at 8:46, I was sitting in Dr. Giaquinto's educational psychology class, a class I would have remembered for life if not for its juxtaposition to this tragedy, then for Dr. G, who was probably the best professor I ever had, hands down.

Upon being dismissed from this class at 9:30, I was blissfully unaware of what was going on.  This being ten years ago, no one had internet on his or her phone; I didn't even have a phone at the time.  And even if I did it probably wouldn't have worked.

I proceeded to my 9:40 math class, much less memorable than Dr. G's class.  When I was dismissed from that one, I discovered bedlam in the hallways. 

I heard snippets of conversations:  "Two planes hit the Twin Towers."  "Trains aren't running."  "Phones aren't working."  "I have to call my mom...does anyone have a quarter?"  "I can't get in touch with my dad...he works in Tower 1."

Confused, but not yet terrified because I didn't know what to make of the situation yet, I scurried down to the cafeteria.  I found familiar faces--my brother Tom, his girlfriend (now wife) Christine, and some of our friends.  Everyone was panicking, worried about family, friends, cell phone service, and how they were getting home.  Tom and I normally took the A train to school; we now had no clue how we would be getting home. 

We stepped outside and all we saw was black smoke.  Some people went down to the promenade to take pictures.  For what reason, I'm not sure. 

Eventually we settled in with a group at O'Keefe's on Court Street.  I don't know why we chose to go there; I guess we figured we would make the best of, for lack of better terminology, a totally sucky situation and get some lunch and beers.  We figured we wouldn't be going anywhere for a while, and when we did, it would probably be on foot and we would need our energy. 

O'Keefe's will always hit a soft spot with me because it was there where we were able to see horrifying images of exactly what was going on, and began to realize that this was serious business.  I mentioned to Tom that we should probably find some way to get in touch with our parents, given St. Francis College's close proximity to downtown Manhattan, just to let them know that yes, we were okay, and no, Christine and I didn't choose that day to go shopping at Century 21 between classes like we so often did. 

We did get home, eventually, at around 4:00 pm, via a ride from a friend.  At the time I was living with my parents in Woodhaven, and it might as well have been a ghost town.  I worked part-time at the library at the time, and I specifically remember riding past it, seeing the gates closed, and realizing there was no reason to call to see if I should come in. 

Over the next couple of days I started to see how this tragedy was affecting me personally, even though I was fortunate not to have lost anyone.  On the train en route to school on Thursday, a huge fight broke out between two men who didn't see eye to eye on the subject.  I was supposed to see Incubus in concert that Saturday, and my mom told me, "There's no way you're going."  (Incubus, or maybe it was Roseland Ballroom, was kind enough to refund my money, given the circumstances.) 

I started to get angry.  We're going to live in fear for...how long, exactly?  Why are we letting these people win? 

However, pretty soon I started to realize the error of my attitude, that I was being incredibly immature, and that this was so much bigger than a delayed train ride or a missed rock concert.  Out of the 4,000 people killed, I was lucky enough not to have known any of them.  Many people, including my own friends, were not so fortunate.  And for that, I realized I should be eternally grateful. 

I always get a little choked up this time of year when I hear a patriotic song.  It might be at school, at church, or on TV.  And sometimes I'll chide myself, saying, Calm down.  You didn't lose anyone on that day.  Think of all the people who did.  You should feel lucky.

But in actuality, that's not true.  Because as Americans, as New Yorkers, we are all family.  And I know I can't even begin to sympathize with those who lost their son, daughter, husband, wife, mother, father, aunt, uncle, sister, brother, fiancee, girlfriend, boyfriend, best friend, or cousin on that day.

But I know that the only thing we can do is stick together, boost each other up, try to keep going, and not let them win. 

Tomorrow, instead of mourning a loved one, I will be fortunate enough to watch the Jets season opener and 9/11 memorial ceremony with my husband. 

And I will, without chiding myself, shed a tear for all those lost in that horrible tragedy a decade ago. 

Groupons, Hoity-Toity Moisturizer, & Sunscreen for Snooki

Today I had what I like to call a date with myself.  I try to spend a little quality time with me, myself, and I at least a few times a year, and I encourage you to do the same, if your circumstances allow you to.

 Dates with yourself are great for many reasons.  Among other things:

• You never get nervous before a date with yourself, or wonder what to wear, or if you have a piece of spinach stuck between your teeth.
• You will never get into an argument with your date about where to go, what to eat, or what movie to see.
• You can be as cheap as you want to be.

In fact, the cheaper the better.  My rationale behind a date with myself was twofold.  One, I wanted to get out of the house on this beautiful day.  Two, I wanted to prove that I could have a glorious time in the city of New York on less than $25.  No small feat, I know.  But I was armed with some ammo, including some heretofore uncashed gift cards (other people's money--it doesn't count), my College of Staten Island ID that would grant me student discounts at any museum, and a Groupon.  Here was my plan of action:

1. Take the train and get off in Soho.  Use gift cards at Bloomingdale's and Sephora (two stores  I would never be able to frequent if not for the gift cards). 
2. Walk from Soho to Murray Hill and lunch at Red Sky (with Groupon previously purchased, $10 for $20 worth of food and drink). 
3. Take train to MoMA PS1 in Long Island City.
4. Take train home.

Here's what actually happened, along with the dollar amount spent at each stop, and a few adventures along the way.  Let's see if I met my goal of $25 or less.

1. Took train and got off in Soho.  ($2.25)

2. Arrived at Bloomingdale's.  After discovering that I would only be able to buy something from the clearance room with my paltry $25 gift card (which was shoved aaaaallllll the way in the back on the top floor) I actually found a top that I could afford.  The tag said $37, with a 40% discount on top of that.  I tried it on and, while I didn't exactly fall in love with it, I figured it was the best I was going to do with the money I had to spend.  I brought it to the heavily make-upped cashier, who greeted me with an overzealous smile. 

"Hi," I said.  "This is 40% off the ticket price, right?"

"It should be," she said cheerily.  That word should bothered me.  Why should it cost anything other than what the tag says?  "Let me just scan it to check."

She scanned it, and lo and behold, it wasn't the right price, supposedly. "Hmm, that's weird."  More words I'm not fond of.  "This is totally ticketed wrong.  The actual price is $60, marked down from the original $100." 

"So there's just a completely wrong tag on this?  That doesn't make any sense."  I made a face, which apparently, she wasn't fond of.

"Well, we can give it to you for the $37 it says on this tag," she said, as though she was doing me some kind of favor. 

"I don't even want it for that.  I want it for the price it was advertised.  If that's the best you can do, I don't want it anymore." 

Supposing a discounted sale was better than no sale at all, the girl smiled (a fake one, I'm sure) and said, "Sure.  We can do that for you." 

I wound up paying $21 for the top, but again, it was on someone else's dime, someone who apparently didn't realize there's no point in giving someone a $25 Bloomingdale's gift card.  So I'm not going to count that in my total.  In fact, I wound up with $4 extra on the card, which I can only assume will be as useful as sunscreen for Snooki.

Apparently once I made a stink, the price, supposedly set in hardcore stone, was suddenly malleable.  I tucked that bit of information away for the next time I went to Bloomy's (as if there would be one).

3. Went to Sephora with another $25 gift card.  Bought expensive hoity-toity moisturizer and cocoa butter.  Total was $27.22, so I wound up coughing up the rest out of pocket.  ($2.22)

4. Began walking uptown to Red Sky.  I could swear I rememebered the cross-streets correctly: 29th and Park, but when I arrived, Red Sky was nowhere in sight.  Circled five-block radius before calling 411 for the address, which is extremely tough for a New Yorker to do for two reasons: a) it's basically admitting you don't know where you're going, and b) it costs an arm and a leg.  ($1.25)

5. Found out that I was right all along, and Red Sky was located in a nondescript wooden building with no name on the outside that I had passed at least four times in my stupor.  Entered Red Sky, which honestly looked nothing like its website.  Instead, the inside looked like something out of Restaurant: Impossible (the "before," not the "after").  Figured I'd give it a shot, although the "Grade Pending" sign in its window wasn't doing it any favors. 

I actually had a fairly positive experience.  The waitstaff was extremely kind, and my $20 voucher allowed me to indulge in a rather tasty southwestern chicken salad and two glasses of sangria.  I was actually expecting to have to pay more, but the best moment of the day was when the waitress presented a $1 food bill to me.  ($10 voucher + $1 extra + $5 tip= $16 total).

6.  Decided to skip the museum since I was approaching my monetary limit and weary from my search for the elusive Red Sky.  Took train home.  ($2.25)

Total for the day: $23.97 (if my math serves me correctly).  Mission accomplished!

Just imagine, if I had actually brought a date in the form of another human being, my total would have doubled. 

So the next time you're worried that someone is going to quietly judge you or call you a loser for going out by yourself, comfort yourself with the idea of all the bucks you'll be saving.

You will, after all, need them for your next date with yourself.

Claritin, Bear Grylls Reruns, & the Big TV

It's seven-forty-five AM on a Saturday.  So why am I up, you ask?

Because with the husband still blissfully asleep, it's the only time he's home that I know I'll have the remote control.  ALL.  TO.  MY.  SELF.  On the big TV, no less. 

The only problem is, the only things on at 7:45 AM on Saturday are informercials and reruns of Boy Meets World.

Now I am probably better off in this category than most wives due to the fact that I love watching sports almost as much as Dave does.  Otherwise there'd be no chance for me to ever view the big TV.  I would be relegated to the bedroom faster than an overactive puppy when company comes over. 

I'm pretty sure my love of sports is the only reason Dave married me.  It certainly wasn't for my cooking skills.  So you'd think he would be satisfied with that while we're watching a game together, and leave the remote alone for three hours, right?

Wrong.  Apparently, in addition to pollen, my husband is also allergic to commercials.  And Claritin has no effect on this. 

Anyone who watches baseball regularly knows that commercial breaks last all of about thirty seconds.  But in those thirty seconds between the top and bottom of the first inning of last night's Yankee game, he managed to find three other programs to keep tabs on: Man vs. Wild, WWE wrestling, and the world poker tournament on ESPN.

I wouldn't mind as much if he flipped back and forth for a few seconds.  But here's the problem: Dave will flip to another program, get engrossed in that, and totally forget to go back to what we were originally watching.  And then when a commercial comes on in the new program, he has to flip to find something else. 

Take last night, for example.  During a Yankee commercial break, he snapped on Man vs. Wild.  Bear Grylls had found himself in the arctic terrains of Iceland, or something, and was demonstrating how to build a raft using leaves, twigs, urine, and a haughty Australian accent.  Within ten seconds I was bored and wondering what CC Sabathia, someone who's actually on our continent and way more relevant to our lives, was doing.  "C'mon," I whined (usually my choice of ammo).  "Change it back to the game!"

"Wait two minutes," Dave said.  "I just want to see if he makes it off the island."

Yes, the suspense about whether Bear would survive was killing me too.  Especially considering the fact that this was a rerun produced in 2008, and Bear has had three subsequent seasons of miraculously making it off the island, or out of the desert, or down from the tree (without any help from his trusty camera crew, of course). 

"Yes, because you might need these tips one day," I said.  "The only island you ever visit is Staten Island." 

Eventually the game was switched back on, but it was only temporary.  I was also lucky enough to see snippets of the world poker tournament, a match in Vegas where some rich guys you never heard of put up ten grand to try to win a pot of three million (more programming that's not at all irrelevant to our lives).
I did put my foot down about the wrestling, though.  I can't tolerate that for even a few seconds. 

I guess, when I think about it, men have their escape-reality shows just like women do.  I watch plenty of shows that have nothing to do with my life: Dr. Phil, Millionaire Matchmaker, Sex and the City. The difference is, I do it on my own time.  I would never subject my spouse to the garbage I watch on TV.

Okay, I'm lying a little.  I did put on Millionaire Matchmaker the other day while he was in the room.  And you know what?  I think he actually liked it.

 Now he'll probably kill me for blowing up his spot about it.  Good thing he rarely reads my blog.

Perhaps one day men and women will come together in peace and learn to love each other's TV shows.  I think if anyone can do it, it's Dave and I. 

In the meantime, I'll leave you with a little advice.  You know those T-shirts, mugs, and other assorted memorbilia you can buy as gifts that have folksy sayings on them like "King of the Remote"?  Well, don't buy them for your husband. They will only encourage him. 

I'm going to petition laboratories to start working on commercial-allergy medication.  Feel free to join me.

Retired Numbers, A-Line Skirts, & Montreal Expos Hipsters

Last night I took my dad to the Yankees-Angels game for his birthday.   A warning: if you go to a game with my dad, you'd better do your research ahead of time.  You must know all the Yankee retired numbers.  You must also know who wore them.  Finally, you must know in what order they were retired.  After years of going with him, I've finally got it down pat.  But he's stumped many a friend who has tagged along with us.  Personally, I think he's trained me well; if you want to be the ultimate fan, you need to know history as well as current news. 
  
Unfortunately, whenever we attend Yankee games, there are people in attendance who have no interest in being the ultimate fan.  Now, I understand that most people are not as obsessed with baseball as I am.  And that's most likely a good thing; I should probably be in some kind of Baseball Anonymous weekly group or something.  But I can't help noticing that many people who attend the game view it as a social experience rather than a sporting event.  And, as an avid fan, these people bug the hell out of me.  All of them are based on actual "fans."  If you happen to be one of these people, let me apologize now for offending you.

 That being said, please do not bother showing up for a Yankee game if:

• your idea of dressing for the game is whatever you wore to work plus a hat you borrowed from your brother.  I understand that many of you work in Manhattan, and come straight to the game at the end of the day.  But I can also assume that your place of business has a bathroom where you can change into more appropriate gear for a baseball game, and that doesn't involve high heels, an A-line skirt, or a three-piece suit. 
• you do The Wave.  I don't care if you started it or not.  If you participate at all, you're just as guilty, and if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.
• you spend an inning and a half arguing with your friends about whether it's pronounced "Ri-ANNA" or "Ri-HANNA."
• you're a hipster who purchased a Montreal Expos hat at a thrift store and subsequently color-coordinated the rest of your outfit to go along with it, right down to the red skinny jeans and blue and white Converse.  You're only here ironically, of course, because you couldn't possibly approve of a corporate conglomerate such as professional sports, yet you have no problem paying $11.50 a pop to drink their Pabst Blue Ribbons. 
• your solution to your ice cream dripping over the side of the bowl is to slobber all over it and lick it up.  This guideline is not only helpful when attending Yankee games, but also anytime you go out in public and expect to see other people.
• you hear Cory Wade is coming in from the bullpen and you go, "Who?"
• you see a clip of Bernie Williams playing guitar on the jumbotron and you say, "I didn't know he was a singer."
• you decide to deign us with your presence in the seventh inning, carrying NYY Steak souvenir bags, then proceed to antagonize everyone around you, especially the Angels fans sitting in front of you, who up to this point, were actually quite respectful.  You bang the seat in front of you, thinking Mark Teixeira is going to hear your colorful language from Section 9,999, Row ZZ, and hit a homerun, because, well, you asked him to.  You scream "Angels SUCK!" right before they put together a rally to take the lead.  (Hypothetically speaking, of course.) 

This last one is the worst of all the offenders and should receive a lifetime ban from all sporting events. Hey jackass, if you're such a rabid fan, why did you spend two-thirds of the game eating in a restaurant?  If you want to go out to eat, go out to eat.  Don't buy tickets to a baseball game the same day and pretend you care about what's going on.

Unfortunately, these are the people to whom stadiums are now catering, the people who go to a game and need it to be "an experience." 

Here's a novel concept: if you care about the sport, seeing it will be experience enough.  My dad and I brought homemade sandwiches, a bag of pretzels, and a couple of waters, and we had a blast.  We didn't spend a dime inside the stadium. 

Gourmet food has no place inside Yankee Stadium.  Neither does a Montreal Expos cap.

Dubious Question Marks, Swab Tests, and Finding Out You're Out of Napkins

As much as I find teaching fulfilling and challenging, I'm not going to lie: one of the best perks is the vacation time.  This summer has allowed me to do some worthwhile things: vacation with the family in Ocean City,  work on my writing, and catch up with some friends--namely, Maury, Judge Judy, and Dr. Phil. 

This afternoon I decided to check in with the good doctor.  Hell, it's cheaper than therapy.  Plus, watching the nutjobs on daytime TV suddenly makes my life seem quite normal, even boring.  The topic today was "Born to Rage: Out of Control?" no doubt using the question mark as a dubious reminder that even the most volatile lunatics can curb their behavior with a few trips through the McTherapy drive-thru.  

Today's show featured such illustrious guests as Lori, a woman who claimed she had no control over her destructive behavior and  "if you start with me, I'm gonna finish it" and Bryan, a man who found it necessary to throw objects at his girlfriend when he's traumatized by horrible tragedies, such as when she said they were out of napkins, only to find out that they were, in fact, not out of napkins. Lori's sister was at her wit's end trying to calm her down, and Bryan's girlfriend was wondering if she should wait for his raging behavior to subside before "taking their relationship to the next level", i.e., marry the wackjob.  Fortunately, Dr. Phil provided his patients with his trademark professional opinions:

 To Lori: You need to calm down.  You have children.  You don't want them to see you acting like this, do you?
To Bryan: Yes, you should work this out before getting married. 

In other words.......DUH!!!!!!

I mean, can I do this for a living?

Another "revelation" came to light over the course of the show.  Apparently there is something called the "Warrior gene" and, if you have it, you are more susceptible to responding destructively to becoming irritated by daily occurences that may not bother other people, such as getting cut off on the highway.  In other words, you get pissed off beyond belief by things that most people wouldn't even notice.  You can take a simple swab test to see if you have the gene, and the best part is, you can send away for the test yourself.  Dr. Phil proudly proclaimed he has a link to the website to purchase said test on his website, and I have provided it here for you, dear reader, just for shits and giggles. 

Both Lori and Bryan were determined, via the swab test of course, to have the Warrior gene.  Both seemed oddly proud of it, for some reason.  As many times as Dr. Phil urged his guests not to use the gene as an excuse for their behavior, they seemed to pay no mind.  Bryan announced, "Well, I'm happy about this.  This certainly explains a lot." 

So instead of taking responsibility for their childish behavior, now these people actually have an excuse for it? 

The point is, people need to start taking responsibility for their own actions.  I mean, next are they going to come out with a gene for every irritating habit that people have?  Is that friend of yours who's always late going to come running up to you the next time you meet for dinner saying, "Sorry I'm late, but you know, I have the Perpetually Tardy Chromosome."  Or, when some guy cuts in front of you in line at the supermarket, is he going to claim free pass, stating, "I have the No Sense of Social Decency Gene"?

Maybe we all need to go a little Dr. Phil on ourselves once in a while. 

Half-Eaten Mexican Food, Scream-o Lyrics, and Immanuel Kant

Very often I find myself wondering, Facebook: friend or foe?  I think of it as a friend when I chuckle at a relatable status update, use it to share a link promoting my writing (as I'm doing now) or easily round up a group of pals who aren't busy for a rousing happy hour.  I think of it as a foe when I read endless status updates from the crackberry addict who updates every twenty minutes, or worse, discover that since I'm aware of the fact that he updates every twenty minutes, maybe I too am an addict. 
      Still, there are certain posts that make me want to make the two-hour journey (so I've heard) towards deleting my account altogether.  That is, if I don't kill myself first.  A while back, I posted a blog that encompassed the Top Five Most Annoying Status Updates.
 http://girlseyeviewnyc.blogspot.com/2011/04/green-stuff-lie-rubbernecking-and.html (in case you missed it the first time)

      Well, after much careful investigating, I have discovered that five simply weren't enough.  And feel free to point out the fact that I may have been guilty of a few of these in the past.  Your knowing that proves my point even further. 

Without further ado, I give you:

The Most Annoying Facebook Posts--Part 2

 The My Food is Better Than Your Food Photo

Margarita B. Hungrie  YUM!!!! Here's my dinner tonight!!! Can't wait to dig in!!!

So, this person is sitting at a restaurant, and supposedly she's starving.  Here comes the moment she's been waiting for: the waiter is coming, and he's bringing her food.  Oh, it looks delectable.  But wait--before she takes a bite, she must whip out her iPhone and take a picture of it for all the world to see.  It's like when you're a kid at your birthday party and the cake comes out.  You're dying to eat it, but your mom says, "Wait!  We have to take a picture of the cake before we cut it!" 
    Here's a tip:  not only does no one care what you had for dinner, but if you're posting day in and day out pictures of your meals along with your check-ins at expensive restaurants, and I can clearly see under your work information that you're "self-employed" or "doing my own thing," it's only going to make me want to vomit up the Ramen noodles I'm eating on my couch in order to make ends meet. 

 The Song Lyrics That Can Be Mistaken for a Suicide Note Update

Jordan M. Brooding I hurt myself today to see if I still feel.  I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real.

This person is just dying (no pun intended) for concerned friends to make comments like, "OMG!  What's going on?  Call me ASAP!"  when all he really wants is to circulate the fact that he knows the lyrics to some obscure song penned by the latest scream-o band.  Get real: Mom and Dad paid for you to go to Dartmouth and now you're making six figures on Wall Street.  Those are the lyrics to "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails.  Trent Reznor hurts.  You don't.  Douchebag. 

 The Deep Literary/Philosophical Quote Update

Sudo Intellectual We are not rich by what we possess but by what we can do without.

This is the coming from the same person you knew back in college who never even showed up to philosophy class.  Instead, he would be out sitting on the grass, strumming a guitar, smoking pot.  And notice that he doesn't credit Immanuel Kant with the supremely wise saying, but rather lets people think that he came up with it all on his own.  This person wants to see how many people will "like" his status or say things like, "So true.  I am sooooo stealing this."  Remember: if it sounds too good to be made up within this century, it probably is. 

The Angry (but Censored) Rant Update

Effing Painintheass This f***ing c*** just cut me off.  S***!  What a d***!

Gee, good thing it's censored.  It's really hard to crack that code.  When we're really angry and blowing off steam, do bleeps come out of our mouths?  No.  So then why censor what you say on Facebook?  Because your mom is your friend?  Trust me, those asterisks aren't fooling her.  She knows what they mean.  Because your boss is your friend?  Well, he saw the pictures of you dancing topless on the bar at Calico Jack's, so I think that ship has sailed.

By now, you're probably feeling one of two ways: either you're disgusted by all these Facebags, or you're seeing yourself in some of them.  Or, if you're like me, you're a healthy mix of the two.  But the good news is, you can get help.  Call Facebags Anonymous, or post your own (uncensored) rants below.

Sublime, Canadian Cheapskates, and The Morning After

Welcome back, dear readers, after a long hiatus.  I have been busy with many projects...okay, I'm embellishing...I just got back from Las Vegas.  Dave and I stayed at the Hard Rock Hotel, which is an extremely image-driven hotel.  Don't get me wrong; there were things I absolutely loved about it, like the fact that obscure and eclectic rock played round the clock instead of sleepy elevator music or mind-numbing top 40's.  Gambling while singing along to Rancid or Rise Against was absolutely Sublime (pun totally intended).  But, for those of you who don't know me well, I consider myself pretty much the opposite of "image-driven," considering my idea of a perfect night out is finding any bar that offers a seat, a TV, and $3 drafts. 

So you can imagine my disconcertion when I encountered the rules that applied when attending the pool at the Hard Rock.  Now, I have watched the reality show Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock Hotel on TruTV and thoroughly enjoyed it, so I knew that Sundays there, which is when the Rehab party takes place, get pretty crazy.   However, I was not expecting to have to jump through hoops, or over red velvet ropes rather, to get into the pool on a random weekday.  While my loving, degenerate-gambling husband played his third poker tournament of the week (he actually won this one!) I decided to relax at the pool with some drinks, snacks, a magazine, and my I-pod.

Drinks?  Out.  You're not allowed to bring your own.  Snacks?  Same thing.  Bringing a bag in period was questionable, although considering they checked ID's at the door I was incredibly curious to ask in what bodily orifice they expected people to keep their ID's if they didn't want you bringing a bag. 

Finally on  the inside, after experiencing more invasion of privacy than I had at JFK, I decided to look for a lovely chaise lounge and set up shop.  I spotted several with "Reserved" signs as soon as I walked in.  Call me crazy, but I didn't think they were reserved for me.  I spotted some beds next to canopy-covered huts.  These seemed like something P.Diddy, or whatever he's calling himself these days, would reserve for his posse, so I assumed I couldn't sit there and kept on walking.  Next I spied some lounges slightly outside the Diddy huts.  I stopped a scantily-clad waitress and asked her if those were up for grabs. 

"Those are available for a $200 food and drink minimum," she informed me.

I gritted my teeth, trying to make it seem like a smile.  "Okay, then.  So where can I sit for free?"  And I use the term "for free" very loosely, considering I had already paid quite the bundle to stay at the hotel for four nights.  But I decided to leave that part out. 

The waitress shielded her eyes from the sun and pointed.  "Go over that bridge.  Make a left at the palm trees.  Make a right when you hit the waterfall.  Go all the way around the bar.  Make another left.  If you hit the fence, you've gone too far."  She then went off, presumably in search of customers who would give her larger tips than I would. 

I practically needed a GPS to get to the "free" seats.  When I finally did, I plopped down and prepared to soak in the sun.  I made friends with a Canadian couple sitting next to me, as we bonded over the fact that we were the cheapskates sitting in the "free" seats.  They seemed enamored with my copy of the Daily News and were mesmerized by the fact that our movie listings are by borough. 

All this culture clash was making me thirsty, so I decided to order a drink.  There were menus conveniently set up on the little tables next to our lounges.  (I'm surprised the "free" people get tables at all, but I decided to keep that comment to myself as well.)  I ordered something called The Morning After. I don't remember exactly what The Morning After encompassed, but I know it involved peach schnapps.  And I know it cost $14.  (That was the "small."  The large was $28.) And it took my scantily-clad waitress over a half an hour to bring my drink.  Then it took another half an hour, and a special request from me, to bring back the change from my $20 bill. 

I was beginning to get quite disgusted by the service at the pool.   If you're not a group of horny tattooed frat guys, the waitresses pay you no attention at all?  This wasn't fair.  I decided to order one more drink, converse with my new Canadian friends while they marveled at my accent, and then get the hell out of there.  I ordered a (small) Miami Vice, which is a heavenly nectar comprised of half dacquiri and half pina colada.  I expected the second coming of Christ to occur before I received my drink.

To my surprise, she returned five minutes later, with an enormous Hard Rock Hotel souvenir cup, filled to the brim with Miami Vice.  "They accidentally made a large," she said apologetically.  "But you can still have it for $14.  And you can keep the cup."

Faith in humanity restored, I handed over another $20.  She promptly handed me my change, which I promptly returned to her as her tip. 

This was the kind of service mistake I could get used to.  I sat back in my free chaise lounge, and soaked in an extra hour of (free) Las Vegas sun. 

Green Stuff, LIE Rubbernecking, and Skinny Girls Who Think They're Fat

When something exciting, tragic, or relatively mundane happens to you, what's the first thing you do?  Post it on Facebook, of course, so that 567 of your closest acquaintances can know.

 As a Facebook user for several years now, I have noticed that the same type of status updates seem to reoccur quite often.  Many of them are pretty obnoxious.  Now, I'm not saying that everything I post is of the utmost importance.  Quite the opposite, actually.  In fact, I'm definitely guilty of a few of these myself.  But you know me by now; self-deprecation is my specialty.  And if I bring a few others down with me, what the hell?  So whether you're sick of them as well or guilty as charged, read on to find out the:

                         Top Five Most Obnoxious Status Update Types

1. The Too-Much-Information Update

Sissy McSharestoomuch just hocked up some green stuff.  When will this cough go away?

Look, I know that when you have diarrhea it's the only thing you can think about.  And I'm sure that when I have children, I'll get really excited too when they go number two in the toilet.  Hell, it means the beginning of the end of changing diapers.  But for the time being, can you keep this information between yourself, your husband, and the Lord?  Thanks.

2. The Gripe Via a Letter to an Inanimate Object or Person You Encountered Earlier in the Day That Annoyed You Update

John D. Thinkshescreative Dear Drivers on the LIE, I wish you would realize that when you stare at an accident that happens on the opposite side, all it does is cause traffic.  Thanks, John. 

Okay, we get it.  You want to bitch about something or someone who can't hear you.  But instead of making the rest of us listen to it, why don't you grow a pair and actually say something when you're in the moment?  And for God's sake, if you're driving, get off the damn phone.  You'll cause another accident that will just slow the rest of us down. 

3. The Bogus Commemorative Month/Week/Day Update

Cammy C. Brainless It's Dog in a Cone Week!  If you have a dog who is wearing, or has worn, or know someone who has a dog who is wearing, or has worn, one of those cone neck braces, repost this as your status and keep it up for 37 hours.  Only 55% of my friends will repost this.  Will you be one of them?  You better be, or you're just a terrible human being who hates puppies!

This is the modern equivalent of a chain letter.  Some moron thinks up the idea, posts it as his status, and sits back to see how many people are dumb enough to copy and paste his idiocy.   A close relative of this status is the "Repost if you have the greatest children/mom/fish."  Because, you know, if you don't repost it, you don't really love your children/mom/fish.

4. The Ambiguous News Update

Bria Fishingforcomments can't believe that something so terrible could happen. 

This kind of status is akin to the skinny girl with low self-esteem who walks around saying she's fat.  The person who posts a status like this just wants people to post comments like, "What's going on?" or "Are you okay, sweetie?"  The best is when they answer with, "I don't feel like talking about it."  Here's a tip: when you don't feel like talking about something, don't post a teaser on a forum of 300 million onlookers.  Your status update is not a movie trailer.  If you have something tragic to discuss, pick up a phone and call your mom, or someone else who might actually care.

5.  The Braggart's Update

Rick O'Imsojacked just benchpressed 500 pounds at the gym!  Now for my daily 20-mile run!  Feelin' amazing!!!!!

If something truly great happens to you, like a new job, a baby, or an engagement, by all means, share.  That's what Facebook is for.  But sometimes you get the feeling that people just want to brag about their daily actitvities: how much they work out, how many A's they got this semester, or how much money they make.  Avoid these statuses like a cyberplague.  Do not, I repeat, do not, post congratulations or positive comments, or even "like" it.  This will only encourage the douchebaggery. 

Many of you may be thinking that I'm a hypocrite.  How can she be criticizing others when she's gratutiously using Facebook to promote her writing, you might ask.  And you'd be absolutely right. 

Because as much as we all bitch about Facebook, if it ever shut down we'd be lost.  I mean, how could I get through the day without knowing what someone I haven't seen since high school ate for lunch? 

Bread Focus Groups, Painful Literary Devices, and Other People's ID's

Continuing the chronicles of my search for extra pocket money, I give you the latest update.  I've gotten so desperate that I've started searching Craigslist under the "ETC" category.  While there are lots of advertisements for jobs that I don't care to mention (probably because they're not legal) I've been coming across these "focus" groups that promise several hundred dollars for an hour or so of answering questions.  One of them was a bread focus group.  Figuring I could put my constant consumption of carbs to good use, I applied for it.  Here's the email I sent them, word for word:

"Hello, my name is Elizabeth.  I am a 27-year-old woman living in Brooklyn.  I am inquiring about your bread focus group.  I would like to speak with you about participating; I certainly eat a lot of bread, so I might as well make some dough off of it!  (Pun totally intended.)  Hope to hear from you."

I can tell what you're thinking: I'm really desperate to get my writing out there.  So desperate that I will subject these poor apathetic marketing folks to painful literary devices and plays-on-words.  P.S.--I haven't heard back from them yet.  Guess they weren't impressed.  But the more disturbing thing to me, as I read the email back to myself, was that I unintentionally shaved a whole year off my life.  I'm twenty-eight--not twenty-seven--and I didn't even realize that I did this until I had already sent the email out. 

So now I'm left with a conundrum.  No, I'm not concerned that I inadvertently lied to the good people at Wonderbread, although I might have some explaining to do if they contact me and ask for some ID.  The problem is that I don't know which is worse: that I'm becoming so old that I'm actually losing my memory and for a few seconds, forgot my own age, or that I am subconsciously becoming the stereotypical woman who lies about her age.   Granted, if I wanted to, it would be extremely easy for me to pass for younger than my age, since I do look younger, I've been told.  But I've never understood why people do this.  I mean, if you're lucky enough to look thirty when you're forty, wouldn't you want to brag about it? 

Age is such a funny thing.  Before I was twenty-one, all I wanted to do was look older so that I wouldn't get questioned going into bars.  My friends and I used to go to such great lengths to become someone who was a few years older than we were, whichever older sister's friend's cousin's ID we happened to be using at the time.  We would change our hair, memorize strange addresses and Zodiac signs, and avert our eyes from the bouncer, hoping he wouldn't notice that, according to the ID, we were supposed to have blue eyes.  Then one night a bartender told us that determining who was twenty-one or older had nothing to do with your look, your lies, or your ID.  It was all about the way you carried yourself, your swagger, something he could perceive but couldn't describe, and you couldn't obtain it until you were actually an adult.  This little bit of information, to say the least, was very discouraging. 

Now that I am an adult, I sometimes wish that I hadn't spent so much time trying to grow up faster and just enjoy being a kid.  My concerns now, instead of whose ID I'm going to use on Friday night, are bills, careers, deciding when to start a family, and debating if I should dye my hair because I can see a few gray roots.  And I know that a lot of you reading this are probably thinking I should shut the hell up, because twenty-eight is still pretty young, and I have a lot of years of living (and whining) to do.  And you'd be absolutely right.

But although I am a little older, and I'd like to think a little wiser, I wouldn't trade the feeling of successfully sneaking into Salty Dog at age nineteen for anything. 

All right.  I'll shut the hell up now.

Wieners, Bay Ridgites, and Why You Should Never Wear a Wristlet to a German Restaurant

Last night Dave and I went to the only type of place where it's socially acceptable for adults to use the word "wiener" multiple times in succession.  We went out for German food, to the Schnitzel Haus in Bay Ridge.  We like to keep things interesting with our food selections; since moving to Bay Ridge, we have indulged in various cuisines, including Japanese, Chinese, Mexican, Irish, American (of course) and last night, German. 

Apparently many of our fellow Bay Ridgites (it's actually a term; I discovered this last night while reading the Bay Ridge Courier) had the same idea, because after making our 20-block journey to the Haus, we were told there would be a forty-five minute wait.  We decided to kill some time at nearby Bean Post Pub.  And this was where the unthinkable happened: we got a buyback that we didn't want.  How, you ask, would such a thing occur?  Well, the host at Schnitzel Haus told us to come back at eight for dinner, and Dave got the unsolicited buyback at 7:55.  However, in the name of all that was cold and frothy, Dave took it like a champ.  He guzzled that Stella like it was the last Stella on earth.  We made our reservation with a couple of minutes to spare. 

Upon returning to the restaurant, we were seated at the closest table to the door.  Dave and I had differing opinions on the quality of seating location.  "Great," I moaned.  "We'll be catching drafts every time someone opens the door."  "Nah, this is the best seat in the house," Dave argued.  "Cuz when it's time to stumble out the door, it's right there!"  I supposed it was valid logic.  And judging by the size of the beer glasses at this place, I could definitely forsee stumbling in the near future.  My only regret is that I brought a tiny Coach wristlet out as my purse rather than the huge cheap bag I usually use, so pilfering the decorative glasses was out of the question.  Mental note for the next time we come here. 

The food and beer was the best German food we had since we ate at Epcot's World Showcase.  Granted, I don't think we've had German food since then, but it was still pretty damn good.  Dave had a wurst sampler platter, including veal wurst, kielbasa, and frankfurter.  I had chicken schnitzel and fries. We got an appetizer called gebackener camenbert, which was a big, deep fried German cheese wheel.  The beer list was extensive.  We both started with Weihenstaphen, a light wheat beer.  Dave continued with Spaten Optimator, which was just about the opposite of a light wheat beer.  Other beers on the list included Radeberger, Bitburger, and Hofbrauhaus.  Each one come in its own decorative glass.  The prices weren't bad either; our Weihenstaphens came in a 22-ounce glass, and they were only seven bucks each.  Would have been even more worth the price if we had stolen the glasses, but that's a lesson for next time.

We had a wonderful time, but it wasn't just because of the food and beer.  A couple of weeks ago I blogged about my observation that New York is a land of instant gratification.  Well, if that's true, then Schnitzel Haus really must be from another country.  We waited a good hour for our main entrees.  But you know what?  It was actually refreshing to have a sit-down meal with my husband without the underlying feeling that the staff is  waiting to shoo us out the door.  We thoroughly enjoyed the jovial atmosphere and amiable staff, although Dave swears the busboy was trying to pick me up right in front of his face (he was waaaay too drunk to care, though).  They even sent us free shots to make amends for the long wait. 

So if you want to enjoy some quality German food and "bier" and actually have a conversation with your loved ones while waiting for your food, I urge you to give Schnitzel Haus a whirl.  Just be smarter than I was and bring a bigger purse. 

Schnitzel Haus website: http://www.schnitzelhausny.com/index.html

Bean Post Pub website     :http://beanpostpub.com/

Brake Lights & Menacing Looks

I'm really, REALLY excited!  And I feel really, REALLY lucky!  No, I didn't win the lottery.  But I did get a parking spot right outside my building, which makes me feel like I've won the lottery.  Now I can leave the house a whole two minutes later tomorrow morning than I could if I had parked around the block. 

Most of you know that I live in Bay Ridge, otherwise known as The Land of No Parking.  Finding a great spot is like a drug, an instant pick-me-up; if only there were more dealers around.  No matter how lousy your work day was, if you find a kick-ass parking spot when you get home, the day is considered a success.  People are funny about parking spots, especially when parking is scarce.  After our huge snowstorms, people would make comments like, "Well, I dug out this spot, and now someone else thinks they're gonna take it?"  What they don't seem to realize is that if you're moving your car, where are you putting it next?  Into another spot somewhere else, a spot that someone else dug out.  Digging out a car doesn't give you claim to a piece of asphalt.  Yes, you dug your car out and we're all very proud of you, but everyone else is in the same boat. 

Fortunately, we're almost halfway through March and we haven't been hit with any snow for a while now.  (Knock on wood.)  But that doesn't mean the parking situation in some neighborhoods is any easier.  Scarce parking turns people into stalkers.  Witness this scene, through the eyes of an otherwise sane person, who's looking for a parking spot.  You see a lone man emerge from a building.  He's holding a briefcase; could he be going to work?  Are those car keys in his hand?  Better follow him just to be sure.  (Inch car up and try not to make eye contact with the subject.)  He's crossing the street.  Is that his blue Volvo he's heading towards?  Please, please, please...damn it!  He's going to the train station.  Sometimes you can alleviate this false hope by simply asking the person if they're leaving.  One time I did this, and the lady at her car said, "Yes, but in a little while.  Not right now."  Thanks, that's helpful.  I wasn't asking for your evening plans; I just wanted your parking spot. 

When you're driving around looking for a spot, brake lights on another car might as well be Christmas lights.  But be forewarned; sometimes they too can give you false hope.  The worst is when you see them, thinking someone is leaving, but really they just parked.  But if you're lucky enough to find someone who is leaving, also heed this word of caution.  He knows you are at his complete mercy, and will therefore take every painstaking minute he can to make you wait for that spot.  He will walk around every orifice of the car, making sure they're all locked.  Twice.  Then he'll adjust the mirrors, despite the fact that he hasn't done that since he took his driver's test.  Then he'll take an extra long bite of his breakfast.  Then finally, sloooooowly, he will begin to pull out of the spot, making sure to shoot you menacing looks, implying that you didn't leave him enough room to pull out. 

The good news is that parking spots are recycleable, and hopefully soon he'll need the spot you're in, and you can make sure he receives his just desserts.  Hey, man.  Car-ma's a bitch.

Cinco de Mayo, Feathered Masks, and Green Beer

Two weeks from today is St. Patrick's Day, the day where everyone's a little Irish and a lot drunk. It's one of those holidays that we're not even sure what we're celebrating, but we certainly know how to celebrate it: by drinking massive amounts of beer and liquor. Despite the fact that I'm one quarter Irish, I seem to remember only caring about St. Patrick's Day approaching around the age of, oh say, 21.  At that age you will look for any excuse to go out and drink.  That's why the first week in May you wind up with a bunch of white girls saying to each other, "So what do you want to do for Cinco de Mayo?"  Try asking any one of them the historical background of the holiday.  And no, Jose Cuervo wasn't involved. 

Mardi Gras is another one.  For the uninformed, the original purpose of Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, was to have one last gorgefest before the deprivation period known as Lent.  I assume that back when the tradition started, people actually made sacrifices during Lent.  Nowadays, we'll take full advantage of the principles behind Mardi Gras, regardless of our religious observances.  Eat a lot of food?  Have a bunch of drinks? Wear brightly colored beads (what'd you have to do to get those?)?  Use mildly amusing noisemakers while watching strange men wearing masks and feathers march in a parade?  Those are some stipulations I could get on board with.  And on a Tuesday, no less.  It's the day before Ash Wednesday, when Catholics aren't supposed to eat meat, as well as every Friday during the stretch.  But what big sacrifice are we really making?  Every year during Lent Dave and I go to all-you-can-eat sushi on Fridays, which is even more gluttonous than Mardi Gras.  Let me get three spicy tuna rolls, an eel avocado, and a Philadelphia, and don't skimp on the cream cheese.  Yes, that's making a real sacrifice.  Can't you tell I'm depriving myself?  I'd normally eat six rolls instead of five.

But by far, the biggest let's-booze-for-the-hell-of-it holiday has got to be New Year's Eve.  Don't get me wrong; I love New Year's Eve.  But what are we really celebrating here?  That we managed to survive yet another calendar year without killing the people most near and dear to us?  We just spent thousands of dollars on Christmas; do we really need to eat dinner for a hundred bucks a head?  I firmly believe that three groups of people got together years ago, decided that New Year's Eve should be celebrated, and marketed their idea to everybody else.  Those three groups are restaurant and bar owners, cab companies, and teachers.  Restaurant and bar owners lobbied it for obvious reasons.  I could see them discussing it now: "You know, I don't think we sufficiently robbed our customers blind by jacking up our prices on Valentine's Day.  Let's make up a new holiday where we can make prix-fixe menus!"  Cab companies heard of the plan and soon wanted in on the action, since they knew that people couldn't drive home after consuming all that alcohol (not included in the prix-fixe).  And teachers loved the idea because it meant that they could get drunk and forget about the fact that their Christmas vacation was about to come to an end.  See, I knew there was a reason I loved the holiday so much.

I have to admit that I have fallen into the trap of all these faux-lidays.  I'm kind of excited that St. Patrick's Day falls on a Thursday this year, since it's the one weeknight on which I'll actually go out.  Hey, if drinking green beer will help commemorate the anniversary of St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland, or whatever it is we're celebrating, then who am I to argue?  If we do go out, we'll probably head to a local Irish pub for some corned beef and cabbage. 

Okay, I'm lying.  I hate corned beef and cabbage.  I'm totally in it for the green beer. 

Simpsons DVDs (With Commentary), Feminism, and Under The Sink

So I'm coming to the end of my winter vacation, what I hailed last Friday as the best perk of being a teacher.  On my week off I've gotten a chance to do some cool things.  I saw That Championship Season on Broadway and had dinner with my mom at Pig 'N Whistle the other day.  I did lunch and happy hour a couple of times with girlfriends.  I went thrift shopping in Greenpoint yesterday after having lunch with my grandpa.  I got to spend some time with my nephews, too, and last night Dave and I went for sushi at Bay Ridge Sushi (all you can eat!)  However, don't get mad at me when I say this, especially those of you who aren't teachers, but I just may--POSSIBLY--be getting a little bored.  Before you jump down my throat and say, "Well, why don't you go to work for me, then?!" please understand that I'm not complaining, just making an observation based on these clear cut signs:

• I'm eagerly waiting for the mail to arrive.  My mom told me this happened to her when she became a stay-at-home mom.
• I've been watching a marathon of VH1's reality show You're Cut Off all day, a show about spoiled girls who are suddenly financially responsible for themselves--and it isn't the first time I've seen these episodes.  Sample dialogue: "Tires are expensive.  And I have like, four of them."
• I'm refreshing my facebook page every five minutes.  People's statuses (stati?) about what they ate for breakfast or the mold they cleaned out of their refrigerator are extremely intriguing. 
• I'm watching Simpsons DVDs with the commentary on.  Go ahead, call me a geek, but sometimes finding out the story of how an episode was created can be really interesting.  Really.  You'll have to trust me.

Needless to say, none of these things are particularly productive.  I mean, it's not like I've been home all week trying to disprove the theory of relativity.  (I don't know if that would be productive either, since I really have no clue what the theory of relativity is or what it applies to.  But you get the idea--I've basically been a bum.)  And now that the sun is coming out after raining all morning, I'm feeling even more like a couch potato.  What is it about these sunny, fifty-five degree days in February that make you feel like you're a waste of space if you choose to stay indoors?  Anyway, I was looking for more productive things to do earlier today, so I asked Dave over the phone if there was anything he thought needed to be done around the house.  "How about cleaning out Under The Sink?" he suggested.  No, the capitalization is not a typographical error.  You'll see why in a minute.

"Got anything else?" I pleaded.  I was terrified of Under The Sink.  I will be frank with you; we live in New York.  In an apartment.  Next to the building's garbage cans.  Therefore, we have a mouse.  For the purposes of this blog, I will affectionately refer to him as Mickey, even though I want to crush his cranium every time I see him. Under The Sink is where Mickey roams.  I've heard him in there, rustling around in all our paper goods.  You would think my hearing Mickey would send me into the kitchen with a baseball bat, but actually it sends me in the opposite direction.  Dave says I'm in denial when it comes to Mickey.  I pretend he doesn't exist.  (The mouse, not Dave.)

 I've never understood why people, women in particular, are so afraid of mice.  I don't mean that to be sexist; I'm certainly no exception.  Feminism aside, and despite all the progress we've made since the Nineteenth Amendment, show me a woman who doesn't scream at the surprise sight of a mouse and I'd like to shake her hand.  Well, it serves me right for asking if anything needed to be done.  No good deed goes unpunished.   But I suppose it's not a good deed if it's done in your own house, just like when you're taking care of your own kids you can't call it babysitting.  So I decided to get down and dirty and deal with Mickey.  Under The Sink.

I took out everything we stored in Under The Sink (and threw out a lot of stuff, too).  So far, no Mickey.  I breathed a sigh of relief, until I saw what Mickey had left behind.  I won't stoop to the level of toilet humor; I'll let you use your imagination.  After cleaning up Mickey's, ahem, deposit, I started washing and replacing the stuff I had taken out.  In the process, I started to realize something: I was actually kind of upset that I wasn't able to spot Mickey.  I wanted to catch him, dispose of him, and show Dave what I'm really made of.  Not like your typical wife--me--who would go screaming in the opposite direction.  I faced my fear of Under The Sink.  And I survived!  Maybe I did manage to do something productive on my last official day off (weekends don't count; you have those off anyway).  In addition to tidying up Under The Sink, I was a little less afraid of Mickey. 

And if I can survive Under The Sink, could Behind The Toilet be far off? 

Website for Bay Ridge Sushi (3 Ave between Bay Ridge Avenue and Ovington Ave):
http://www.bayridge-sushi.com/

Pig 'N Whistle (there are several locations, but the one we went to was on West 47 btwn 6 Ave and 7 Ave):
http://www.pignwhistlets.com/

Fox and Fawn (thrift shop in Greenpoint; Manhattan Ave off Driggs):
http://foxandfawn.blogspot.com/
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Instant Gratification, Egg & Cheese, and Carmelo Anthony (Pt. 2)

     It's no exaggeration to say that New York City is a town of many nicknames: the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps, the capital of the world, the city of lights (okay, that's Paris, but I think it applies here too).  But I'd like to give NYC a new moniker of my own: The City of Instant Gratification.  Think about it: you can order any kind of takeout you want, in just about any neighborhood, and have it arrive in less than 30 minutes without changing out of your pajamas.  We have 24-hour delis at our disposal, within walking distance in most neighborhoods.  We are allergic to waiting, which is apparent any time we go anywhere outside our  five boroughs and can't understand why a damn egg and cheese sandwich takes longer than 45 seconds to prepare.  The same is true of our beloved sports teams, with whom we have a relationship not unlike that of an old married couple: we expect the world of them, get angry at them for doing stupid things, but in the end we know we can always count on them for comfort.  The problem is that our instant-gratification sentiment also applies to our sports.  We want to win, and we want to win this year, next year, and the year after that.  And God help the players, manager, coaches, trainers, or GM who didn't help that happen.  Case in point: the Knicks' acquisition of Carmelo Anthony last night.
     For those of you who may have spent last night on the moon, the Knicks traded four of their core players last night--Wilson Chandler, Timofey Mozgov, Raymond Felton, and Danilo Gallinari--to the Nuggets for Carmelo Anthony, Chauncey Billups, and three others.  I have mixed feelings on the situation.  Originally, when the trade talks first started, I was totally against it.  I'm a Yankee fan, and as such, I am used to seeing blockbuster deals with already-beens fizzle out in major disappointment (go to the dictionary and look up Kevin Brown).  True, Anthony is anything but an already-been; he's in his prime and his numbers for this season, this month in particular, are top-notch.  But in the back of my mind there's always the question of "does he have the Can't Play in New York syndrome?"  Plus, I was getting used to the chemistry of the core players, and even though they certainly weren't guaranteed a win every time, Knicks basketball was actually fun to watch for a change.  This was the team Dave and I had dubbed the "New York Stinks" just last year, as a play on words (yeah I know, real creative, especially for a writer).   So we'd most likely clinch a playoff berth this year, with no chance in hell of beating Miami or Boston, but so what?  It would still be a considerable improvement over last year. 
     Considerable improvement?  Gradual change?  Instant gratification does not subscribe to these notions.  And as much as I enjoyed studying Wilson Chandler's tattoos while he played, I am starting to agree with the Knicks' decision.  They had a shot to get one of the top three players in the league, and they went for it.  You can't blame them for that.  And when you break down the logistics, it really does make sense.  Gallinari has been spotty all season, and Chandler most likely wouldn't have been on the team next year anyway.  Chauncey Billups is a solid veteran. You get to keep Landry Fields, and even dump dead weight Eddie Curry to the Timberwolves in the process.  Call me crazy, but I'm starting to get (a little) excited.  As Boomer Esiason said on his show this morning, say what you will about the trade, but this is good news for the Knicks.  And good news about our sports teams makes New Yorkers excited. 
     Just don't screw us.  Because then there'll be hell to pay.

Seat-Holding, Noble Pils, Soggy Waffle Fries, and Carmelo Anthony

Mid-winter recess is, hands down, the best perk of being a teacher.  Although it's only a week long, it even beats out summer because by the time mid-February rolls around, you're sick of the winter doldrums and it's just nice to be able to stay in bed.  So what better way to kick off the break by going out for happy hour?  And what better happy hour offerings can there be besides $3.50 Noble Pils?  I met my girlfriends Jessica and Amy at The Wharf in midotwn last night and was pleasantly surprised by that special, but not without a few bumps in the road first.

When I meet Jessica for drinks, I always try to be punctual because she's usually early.  I can understand why; she grew up with ten brothers and sisters, and one can only assume that if you don't show up early to meals, you might not eat.  On this particular day, however, she got stuck on the 1 train (thanks, MTA; that last twenty-five cent fare hike was totally justified) and I found myself in the undesirable role of seat-holder.  Seat-holding, especially at a busy midtown joint on a Friday afternoon at five, is tricky business.  The key is to make some sort of contact with the seat or seats you're trying to save, either with your body or your personal belongings.  Then you also have to make sure you don't make eye contact with anyone who looks like they might be searching for a seat.  Finally, you must never, EVER, tell anyone that you are saving a seat.  You tell them someone is sitting there.  Watch how these two different scenarios play out:

SCENARIO 1:

Couple walks into crowded bar and spots Liz sitting next to two empty seats.  Her arm is draped over one chair, and her bag is sitting on the other.
MAN: Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?
LIZ: I'm saving them for my friends.  Sorry.
WOMAN: Are they here yet?
LIZ: Well, no.  But they're on their way.
WOMAN: But they're not here yet.  And we are here now.
LIZ: But I'm saving them.  I've been here for a half an hour.
WOMAN: Maybe we should have the manager settle this.
Woman asks to speak to manager. Manager favors flesh-and-blood present customers' money over potential future customers who may or may not show up.  Liz reluctantly moves bag and couple smugly sits down. 

SCENARIO 2:

Couple walks into crowded bar and sees Liz sitting next to two empty seats.  Her arm is draped over one chair and her bag is on the other.
MAN: Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?
LIZ: Yes.
Couple walks away, in search of greener pastures.

Do you see how a simple subtlety in your answer can change the whole course of action?  Don't feel bad if you didn't realize this at first; it took me a long time to get the vernacular down. The reasoning behind it is simple; you can argue that saving seats for people who aren't there is unfair, but you can't argue if someone is sitting there.  No need to elaborate that the people who are sitting there aren't on location yet.  After dodging a few would-be seat stealers, Jessica arrived, and Amy soon after that.  Amy was fresh off passing a licensing exam that she needed to start her new job, so our night out doubled as a celebration for her as well as my vacation launch. 

The Wharf is your typical midtown fare--two levels, a decent tap and appetizer menu, and gaggles of striped-shirted investment banker guys belting out "Pour Some Sugar on Me" at the top of their lungs when the DJ plays it, as if they're the only ones in the world who know the lyrics and are therefore part of some elite club.  What sets the bar apart is the beer prices.  A typical Manhattan bar would sell premium (read: anything besides Budweiser and anything that ends with Lite) drafts for at least six bucks a pint.  The Wharf has different selections each night on special for $3.50, and all drafts for that price all day, all night, every Saturday.  As soon as baseball season starts you will probably be able to find me there every Saturday afternoon.  We watched the NBA Legends/Celebrity game on ESPN, which might as well be called the Carmelo Anthony channel since every five minutes they gave us an update on where he might be traded.  God, I can't wait until the trade deadline so I don't have to hear this crap anymore.  I don't want the Knicks to give up Raymond Felton or Wilson Chandler, but that's a whole separate blog. 

All in all, it was a good night.  My favorite part of the night was when one of said striped-shirted guys, quite drunk at this point, eyed Amy's leftover soggy waffle fries and asked, "Are you going to eat those?  I'm starving!"  "Be my guest," she said, and he happily munched away.  "You know, they do cook food here," I said to him.  "Food that wasn't previously owned by strangers."  But he didn't seem to hear me.  He was too busy busting out his rendition of  "Here I Go Again (On My Own)." 

Website for The Wharf (located on 3 ave between 38th and 39th Streets):

http://www.wharfnyc.com/

Craigslist, Work Ethic and (Oh Yeah) Fugly Cheap Pleather Coats

As you, dear reader, probably know, I have been searching for freelance writing opportunities.  This is because, as much as I love living in New York, it ain't cheap, and I'm starting to think a supplementary source of income isn't a bad idea.  However, as much as I am putting myself out there for writing opportunities, I'm also exploring other avenues until something comes along.  The other day I noticed an ad on Craigslist for Pizzeria Uno's, which is located across the street from our apartment.  Upon applying to it, however, I got the same reaction from both Dave and my mom: "A waitress?  You?"  That's all they said, but what they didn't say spoke volumes, as in, "Don't you have to be nice to be a waitress?"

True, I have never worked in food service before.  And my idea of serving dinner at home is telling Dave I'll go pick up the pizza.  But I figure it would at least be a complete change of pace from my day job.  Still, though, I'm not sure how well I would fare if they ended up hiring me.  I mean, I became an elementary school teacher because I'm willing to put up with kids' crap, but not adults'.  At least when a kid does something obnoxious, you can chalk it up to the fact that he's six years old.  Adults don't have that excuse. 

My mom was like, "Why don't you go get a job in a store or something?"  I suspect that she made that suggestion because she mentally blocked out the time I worked at Bang Bang Boutique in Forest Hills when I was in college.  It was honestly the worst job I ever had, and the one I held for the shortest amount of time (about eight months).  I wasn't treated poorly or anything like that, but I just didn't care.  At the beginning of each shift, our assistant manager (who was two years younger than me) was always like, "Sell, sell, sell!  We're pushing the (fugly cheap pleather) coats today!  Always ask the customers if they need any help!"  (In case you haven't figured it out, my ad libs are in parentheses.)  My philosophy was, are you going to pay me more if I sell the (fugly cheap pleather) coats?  No?  Then I don't give a rat's behind if someone buys them or if they sit on the rack until polyester comes back into style (which will hopefully be never).  I'm still making the same six dollars and fifty cents an hour. 

It didn't take long for the powers that be at Bang Bang to discover my work ethic when it came to floor sales.  Pretty soon, I was relegated to door person.  For the blissfully uninitiated, the door person masquerades as a greeter ("Welcome to Bang Bang!" with a big smile on my face) but is really placed there as some sort of bizarre teenage bouncer, whose sole purpose is to check potential shoplifters' bags and "watch" people that the manager deems suspicious-looking.  What my manager didn't realize is that my retail work philosophy also applied here.  I didn't care if people brought bags into the store and I refused to watch customers because I didn't care if they shoplifted, and frankly, there was really nothing I could do if they did.  What was I, a minimum-wage-paid, 120-pound college student, going to do if someone tried something?  Run down the street and tackle them?  "STOP!  GET BACK HERE WITH THAT (FUGLY CHEAP PLEATHER) COAT!"   I think not.

Suffice it to say that retail wasn't the field for me.  Even if you don't consider the fact that I had nothing in common with the girls I worked with (many of whom, I know for a fact, did coke in the bathroom on their breaks) I'm just not a good salesperson.  I don't like pushing people into doing things or buying things they're not sure they want in the first place.  But I know a lot about food and drink, so I think I would be able to persuade a person on the fence to have a beer or two.  So we shall see what happens if, in fact, I do get called for an interview at Uno's.  I'll keep you posted.  In the meantime, I'd like you to post your best (and worst!) experiences in food service and retail.  Why?  Because misery loves company. 

Boulders, Mango Rolls, and Dog-Friendly Bars--Only in Brooklyn

One of the many reasons I love living in New York is that no two nights out are alike.  There's a neighborhood for any mood you can conjure.  If I'm feeling lethargic, I'll throw on a pair of jeans and sneakers and trudge over to the Kettle Black around the corner.  These days we've been doing a lot of trudging thanks to the snow.  If I'm feeling trendy and adventurous, I'll go to Brooklyn Boulders for rock climbing and try a new cafe in Park Slope.  When I'm feeling mellow and low-key, I'll hop on the train and wind up on the Lower East Side for cheap beers and old-school punk rock.  And if there's a game on and I'm feeling pumped, I'll hang on for a slightly longer commute to midtown or uptown for a power-packed, energetic happy hour. 

This past Friday night I was feeling in between low-key and trendy, so Park Slope seemed like the perfect neighborhood for relaxation.  My sister-in-law Christine, enjoying a well-deserved night out from my adorable four-month-old twin nephews, accompanied me.  We decided not to go in with a plan, but to meet at the train station and scour the neighborhood for something appealing.  I've found that sometimes the best nights start out like that.  And this time was no exception; we were lucky enough to find two hidden Brooklyn gems, one for dinner and one for drinks.

We ate at Ginza, a Japanese sushi-hibachi fusion restaurant.  It's one of those Benihana-esque places, but it had a more home-y feel to it.  There were hibachi tables, but we opted not to sit at them because I was planning on having sushi.  Christine had the teriyaki chicken and shrimp.  Without hyperbole, I can honestly say that Ginza had the best spicy tuna roll I have ever tasted.  You know how when you go to cheap sushi places, you get like a dot of fish and a pound of rice?  Well, Ginza's roll had a nice, thick slab of tuna (yummmmmmm! My mouth is watering right now!) with just a ring of rice around the edge.  My other notable roll was a mango-avocado shrimp.  I used to get grossed out by the thought of fruit with regular dinner food, like pineapple on pizza; now I'm becoming more acclimated to the idea because I've come across so many times, like this one, where it simply works.  (Another example is the chicken and sour apple sandwich I once had at a bar in Bushwick, but I digress.)  There is something about the tang of the mango merging with the crunch of the shrimp that creates some kind of new super-food.  Shrimp is good; mango is good; together they're phenomenal.  (Can you combine three sentences with semicolons?  Oh well.  I just did.)

After dinner we had planned on strolling around and looking for a wine bar or something, but alas, the weather cares not about your measly plans.  It was about 25 degrees out--with a wind-chill factor of are you kiddin' me?--so any place with heat would do.  Luckily the first place we came across happened to be pretty cool.  We huddled inside Great Lakes, a comforting and unpretentious bar.  And unpretentious isn't something you come across all the time in Park Slope.  Christine ordered a Blue Point toasted ale and I ordered a pinot grigio from the friendly female bartender, odd for us since she's usually the wine and I the beer.  I needed to warm up!  The usual Park Slope crowd encircled us, scruffy, skinny-jeaned dudes and flowy-skirted, bespectacled gals, (none of whom speak with New York accents) but everyone was amiable enough.  The bar had a couple of arcade games, including a Pac-Man turned on its side that doubled as an extra table, which I thought was pretty nifty.  You'll find the usual tap here, and not exactly an extensive wine list (red or white? pinot or chardonnay?) but if you don't have obnoxiously discriminating taste you can find something to drink.  And the bar, like many in Park Slope, is dog friendly!  I realized this when I looked down from my conversation with Christine and saw the head of the 130-pound boxer named Ceasar in my lap.  And he didn't even buy me a drink first.  Ba-dum-bum. 

So what did I learn from my ladies' night out in Park Slope?  Mango and shrimp go surprisingly well together. If you can't find a sitter for Rover but still want to get hammered, go to Great Lakes.  And if you have a canine-loving husband like I do, dog-friendly bars can be used as leverage for moving to Park Slope.  It may be on the table after this year's lease is up.  I already have the glasses; I'll just need to get myself a flowy skirt.  Stay tuned. 


The following are links to the locations I referenced in this blog.  I would recommend all of them, and at times I do have obnioxiously discriminating tastes. 

Kettle Black (Bay Ridge)----http://www.kettleblackbar.com/ Corner of 87 Street and 3 Ave

Brooklyn Boulders (Park Slope)----http://www.brooklynboulders.com/ Corner of 3 Ave and Degraw Street

Iggy's Celtic Lounge (one of my fave spots on the Lower East Side)--www.myspace.com/iggys
Ludlow Street between Rivington and Stanton

Jake's Dilemma (best happy hour on the UWS--FULL half price bar til 8)--http://www.nycbestbar.com/ Amsterdam Ave between 80 and 81 Streets

Ginza (Park Slope)--http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/ginza/ 5 Ave between 1st and 2nd Street

Great Lakes (Park Slope)--http://nymag.com/listings/bar/great_lakes/ Corner of 5 Ave and 1st Street

Puppy Bowl, Pepperoni Bites, and Revolutionary Rye Ale

So here's what happens on Superbowl Sunday when your team doesn't make the big game:

• Instead of watching relevant pregame information, you spend the entire afternoon watching junk on TV like the Puppy Bowl or 1,000 Ways to Die marathon.
• You get tired of waiting for the game itself to eat and you make your appetizers early. 
• It's 5:49 (more than a half an hour to kickoff) and you're already three Sam Adams in.
• You look forward to seeing the commercials.
• You bet on the game.  If you're smart.  Because you want to make it interesting.  This year I wasn't smart.

So here Dave and I are, two dejected, bitter Jets fans.  Superbowl, yeah, yeah, yeah.  At this moment  I am eating re-heated pepperoni bites and we're waiting for kickoff just because we call ourselves sports fans and well, how could we not watch the Superbowl?  Everything is compared to the Superbowl.  "The circus was as much fun as the Superbowl."  "These wings are like a Superbowl in my mouth."  You know there's a problem when Dave, who just might be the most sincere sports fan in America, just told me, "You know, I'm really looking forward to the half time show.  And I think they're showing a trailer for the new Transformers movie." 

The other day I asked for suggestions for foolproof Superbowl appetizers.  And when I say foolproof, I really mean Liz-proof.  I got many wonderful suggestions, and I decided to go with a (modified)
7-layer bean dip and pepperoni bites (my own creation--watch out).  Dave decided on Cajun fried shrimp and cheddar-jalepeno burger sliders.  Guess who won.

My segue into cooking started out innocently enough.  A bean dip shouldn't be too difficult; just layer the ingredients in a pan, stick into the oven and wait for the cheese to melt.  Well, the thing that I neglected to realize was that when sour cream goes into the oven, it curdles.  Not literally curdle, like sour milk.  But it just ain't right.  And it looks like cottage cheese when it comes out, which I know is really good for you and therefore I never wanted to eat.  I suppose I should have scooped the sour cream on top after the rest of the ingredients went into the oven.  I guess I shouldn't have modified the recipe after all.  So far, Cooking-1,
Liz-0.

Next I attempted the pepperoni bites.  Yesterday we purchased instant do-it-yourself pizza dough (just add water), pepperoni, and shredded mozzarella.  The makers of the dough should have added the words, "Do-it-yourself-unless-your-name-is-Liz-DiPietro."  I added too much water (wouldn't you know the one thing I had to add I screwed up on) and the dough came out too sticky.  So it was Dave to the rescue, who helped me add some pancake batter to the mix to dry it up.  When all was said and done, however, the bites came out okay, even edible enough to heat up a couple hours later.  We'll call this one a draw.  So the score is still Cooking-1, Liz-0.  I still lost.

The most palatable part of this day was the American Originals variety pack of Samuel Adams we found yesterday at Pathmark.  The one lone pack was sitting by itself on the shelf, calling to us like a beacon in the night.  It allowed us to check off two more varieties of the beer we had yet to try, Scotch Ale and something new and wonderful called Revolutionary Rye Ale.  The Scotch Ale tasted like you might expect, very rich, dry, and hoppy.  The Revolutionary Ale was a bit lighter and crisper, perfect for pairing with light appetizers like chips and wings. 

It's almost kickoff, and we're stuffed full, both of food and beer.  We just finished watching Christina Aguilera, who is looking more and more like Cyndi Lauper these days, sing the national anthem.  So if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go watch the game.  Why not?  It's an excuse to have another beer.

Snooki & Superbowl

If you're like me and you unapologetically love Jersey Shore, you watched it last night and saw Sammi and Ronnie get into their 253rd fight.  This one was about cleaning out the refrigerator.  (You also saw the 956th time Sammi used the word "honestly" in a bitchfest since the inception of the show.)  All I could think was, these two live with each other for 8 weeks out of the year, and they're freezing each other out all day over who should clean out the refrigerator?  (Freezing, refrigerator--no pun intended, I swear.  I only caught it as I was proofreading.)  If  Dave and I held grudges against each other over mundane household chores, we'd both be dead.  Well, okay, I'd be dead.  I have to say I have less to complain about my husband's housework ethic than the average wife.  He's a great cook, and his laundry theory is pretty much the same as mine: throw it all in and hope for the best.  So to shake things up a bit--and also a little inspired by this past week's Worst Cooks in America--I suggested that we each come up with two appetizers to make for the Superbowl this Sunday.

The only problem?  I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO MAKE!!!!

That's where you, loyal reader, comes in.  I'm asking for suggestions for delicious appetizer recipes fit for an un-domestic goddess such as myself.  Do keep in mind that when it comes to cooking I have the mental capacity of a nine-year-old.  No, that's not fair to nine-year-olds.  The mental capacity of a chimpanzee, aw hell.  The mental capacity of an orange.  I'll look forward to your feedback, as always.

While we're on the Jersey Shore topic, I have to wonder something.  On last week's episode, after purchasing a stripper pole for the house (what?  You don't have one in yours?) Snooki asked the clerk, "This isn't gonna show up as 'stripper pole' on my credit card, is it?"  Considering 5 million people just saw you buy one on national television, I think the secret's out.  Not to mention all the other things she's done on national television.

Ronnie was back with Sammi this week after she punched him in the face last week.  Don't feel too bad for him, though; I hear he's going to parlay the experience into a very lucrative duet with Eminem.  :)