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.