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.