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.  :)