fill your horns of plenty, folks.

I know I don't normally put stuff here that isn't my own original content. But this is truly too hilarious to pass up. Thanks to Kendra for finding and posting on her blog!

It's Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers. By Colin Nissan.

If you have been a loyal reader, you know how desperate Lauren and I have been for a chair for our living room. If you don't know what I'm referring to, first read this. Well, lordy be, we finally have a chair! But let me tell you, it was no cake walk.

'Twas a Saturday afternoon, 'round 4pm when we embarked on the F train to Red Hook, Brooklyn. From there, we transferred to a bus, and our excitement grew with every passing block. You see, for us, Ikea is mecca. And we make a yearly pilgrimage to our holy land for special things like kitchen trinkets, and sometimes furniture.

Happily we sat, flopped, and lounged in chair after chair on the display floor before settling on the wonderfully plush chair of our dreams. We also fought for the last cover of a certain style. We were unstoppable. I'm pretty sure I remember us high-fiving at this point.

After paying, we dropped off our furniture pick up form, and went to indulge in soda beverages and giant, salty soft pretzels, and paid a grand total of $4. We sat and gushed of our love for Ikea. 'Isn't it wonderful?' I said to Lauren. 'A chair and cheap, tasty treats while we wait! Glorious!'

Shortly after, the euphoria wore off and the cold, stark reality of Ikea hell set in.

They brought our chair out, but the cover we fought for had been sold. So then we waited again in the exchange line, but they only had a leaf patterned cover in exchange, and that's ugly so we decided to take the chair naked.

Wondering how we got it back to our apartment? This was probably our biggest mistake. First, we thought about renting a U-Haul. But the wait was 45 minutes, and we'd have to return it which would take hours, and at this point, we had already invested two hours of our night into this trip. And delivery was $100 so that was out. A cab, we thought!

Down at ground level, we were approached by a man in a leather jacket and he offered us a ride for $65 dollars. 'Hell no!' we scoffed. Then, another man approached us, who turned out to be what can only be described as the cabbie pimp. He bartered with us and I got him down to $50 +tip. And we were sent with Leather Jacket who was a little annoyed.

It was pretty uncomfortable since we had turned this guy down once already, and as we followed him down a darkened street in Red Hook, Brooklyn, Lauren and I started to have doubts; the secret kind where we just looked at one another with confused and worried expressions. We became especially concerned when we realized he was leading us to a Lincoln Town car and not a yellow cab. Having no clear other options (I mean, the dude had our chair!), we got in the car, which smelled horrendous, and began our return trip.

We hit true rock bottom back at our apartment, after literally rolling the box end over end up the stairs with the help of a friendly, (albeit stoned? neighbor, we realized that without the cover, we didn't have directions to put the thing together. The cherry on top of a poop sundae.

sugar and spice and crazy

Good day everyone. I'm home today feeling under the weather, but I can't sleep because a construction crew is jack-hammering outside my building. It makes me want to throw heavy objects out my window, but today I don't have the energy for that kind of psychotic behavior . So I'll write to you about my recent psychotic break. Oh yes, I went full on crazy last week, and I think I'm ready to share with the group.

Let me first explain. My Thursdays are jam packed, and last Thursday was especially busy. I had to meet a class on the east side (which is far!) at 8:30 am, then go to the public school where I observe from 12-3 which is all the way back on the west side, have class at that school until 4:30, and then run to campus for a class from 5-6:30. Somehow I had to find a way to eat something and stay hydrated.

I had about ten minutes to grab a slice of pizza and stop back at my apartment after my morning class. I speed walked, slice in hand, and as I ascended the stairs in my building, I heard a persistent high pitched beeping sound. Because my life is a joke, I assumed it was coming from my apartment, and I was right.

I set my pizza down and decided since I had such limited time, I would ignore the beeping, which I thought was coming from our carbon monoxide detector (I know, not a great idea, but I had to prioritize and pizza won). Soon the beeping intensified to a mind numbing shrill screech that I couldn't stand any longer. I dragged a chair out of the kitchen, grabbed the alarm off the wall and starting removing batteries, throwing them on the floor below me. The beeping persisted. Infuriated, I whipped it into the kitchen. Still it beeped. At this point I was outraged and could not wrap my overly-exhausted brain around the fact that it seemed to have a mind of its own, continuing on with no power source. I started to cry a little, frustration (and crazy) getting the best of me.

Then, I spotted our smoke detector, which had been removed from the kitchen because every time we used the oven it would beep. There was a battery in it that I thought was dead for months. I lunged for it. Ripped the battery out. The beeping ceased. I threw it on the floor just for good measure, laughing like a crazy person.

Then I left. I felt insane as I walked to school, realizing that I just flipped out on an inanimate object, cried a little, and then laughed madly all in the span of five minutes. Worse yet, I hadn't cleaned any of it up. The carbon monoxide detector was definitely still on the kitchen floor. The batteries were all over the floor of the living room, along with the kitchen chair. I thought about what Lauren might think when she came home from work to find things in such disarray. In the end, I have decided to ask for a straight jacket, such as the one pictured below, for Christmas this year. I will make that face whenever I wear it.

I live a neat, tidy lie.

Greetings friends. That's what my cooperating teacher at the Jewish preschool calls our students. I think it's pretty weird.

Anyway, something really disgusting happened this week and I had to share it. Yes, grosser than eating bugs in a falafel sandwich. Lauren and I made pasta with shrimp for dinner about a week ago. Due to our teensy-tiny kitchen, many times after we wash a pot or pan, it will sit out on the stove top. It's clean, just not put away.

A few nights ago, we made dinner again. That same pot was sitting there, with its lid on. We stood, staring at the pot. The conversation went something like this:

Lauren: It has to be clean right?
Me: I don't remember washing it.
Lauren: Met neither. But it's been a week.
Me: We probably washed it.

Guess what. We didn't wash it. It was full of hairy mold. That I scooped out while wearing a protective plastic bag over my hand while Lauren screamed. And let me tell you, it was oddly warm, as if it had created its very own ecosystem.

Sadly this isn't the first time something like this has happened. When we lived on Avenue B, a ziploc bag of liquified mold was found on our metal storage cart next to the fridge. For almost an hour, we thought it was bread that had molded for so long that it fermented into beer. It was the most exciting day until we figured out that it was actually a bag of rotten veggies.

Funny thing is, Lauren and I really pride ourselves on how neat and clean we like to be. But there's just too much evidence to suggest otherwise. At least once a week we find something completely heinous in the fridge. See the evidence of our latest discovery below:

Grad school: 1, Courtney: 0

It's only been 2 weeks, and grad school is kicking my ass. Here is a listing of things going on in my life, dumb stuff I've done, lessons learned, etc.:

1. It's Saturday night and I'm home in my pjs, doing some of the hundreds of pages of reading for next week. Farewell social life, see you in December.

2. Also, I spent all day in a required drug/alcohol/sexual abuse seminar. Informative, but extremely depressing. Also, it's SATURDAY.

3. The topper: I've been with the rugrats for a grand total of 9 hours, and my body is already breaking down. I'm sniffly, exhausted, and achy. This does not bode well for the rest of my semester.

4. Now, I should tell you the good things. Yes, there are good things! Although my school seems fixated on multiculturalism (apparently they think we're all a bunch of homophobic bigots), my classes are generally great. I'm learning a lot and find the readings engaging, despite the fact that I feel overwhelmed by it. And student teaching is a blast. Kids are awesome.

5. In the interest of full disclosure, on my first day of student teaching I almost killed a child. Well, it wasn't quite that dramatic, but she fell off a chair while sitting right next to me, and I only caught her after she slammed her face into the table.

6. The thing I learned about 2 year olds this week: they're really adventurous, but lack motor coordination. So they think they can do stuff, when really they can just flail about.

7. I fell up the steps the other night. I'm talking full on, sprawling across the steps between the 2nd and 3rd floors of my building. It was so loud that when I opened the door to my apartment, Lauren was sitting on the couch cracking up, because she heard the commotion and just knew it was me. The irony is not lost on me: I am not unlike an uncoordinated 2 year old.

8. Update: mums are thriving, as is Osama. I've lost all interest in killing him.

9. I found a small dead bug in my falafel today, and kept eating it until I found another. I'm beginning to question my judgment.

Well, that about sums up my life. The photo doesn't have to do with anything in this post, but a while ago, our can opener broke and we used one of those pointy-poky kinds to pry open cans. This was the result which I found awesome.

Indoor gardening is messy. So is grad school.

So I've officially started grad school. This means a number of major changes, including the fact that I will probably be too busy for hilarious situations to even occur in my life, let alone have the time to blog about them. But I promise to do my very best!

Check out my mum planting experience below. There aren't too many options for where to do activities that are normally done out of doors, so I used the living room. It was quite the project. But check out the finished product! They've bloomed quite nicely since that photo was taken.

Mousegate 2009: An Update

Another week has passed, and still no bloody dead mouse corpse.

For some reason, the exterminator only calls and schedules appointments before 7am, which is an hour and a half before I'm normally awake. But I've been patient because I've come to the conclusion that Osama is a genius and only a professionally trained mouse-hit man can end him. Last week I woke up at 6:45am along with Lauren and our futon-guest, Anna to anxiously await the exterminator's arrival. Right before he arrived, I got up to turn the air conditioner down and felt tiny terrorist claws run over my feet. Needless to say, I screamed like a child.

The exterminator--let's call him Mr. X--arrived and told us that if we wanted, he's 'spray' in the kitchen. From the respiratory mask he wore, we assume whatever it was, the spray was extremely toxic. Mr. X then told us that he'd put packets with poisonous cakes in them around the place, near the traps, in our bedrooms...everywhere.

So now we have traps rigged to snap with the slightest pressure (covered in Skippy peanut butter, because apparently Osama isn't classy enough for organic almond butter), some kind of biohazardous spray in the kitchen, and poisonous treats in baggies sporadically thrown around.

In essense, our apartment is the opposite of baby-proof. We might as well have live frayed wires next to buckets of water and littered the floor with used hypodermic needles from an AIDS clinic.

Funny thing, at one point, Anna and I saw Osama squeeze out the front door through a tiny hole where our door runner doesn't quite reach. Optimistically I thought maybe he'd indulged in one of the deadly bagged treats and left to die. But then I heard him rustling about and spotted him run under the fridge earlier today.

Lauren and I had a crazy moment last night after we heard Osama, when we were perched on the futon meowing at him. If only we weren't allergic to real cats.

the manhunt for osama

Don't bother combing the caves of Pakistan or Afghanistan. Osama bin Laden lives in my kitchen.

Except he has taken the form of a mouse, a tiny shitting-machine, elusive to all methods of capture. At first I decided to ignore him. I thought that maybe we could just live side by side, each pretending the other didn't exist. But I didn't go and shit in his kitchen now did I? No I did not. Being a vegetarian, I decided that killing him in the nicest, most humane way was best, so I went and bought a $25 electronic zapping trap. Supposedly with 4 AA batteries, little Osama's heart would painlessly cease to beat, and his tiny soul would float away to a much better place.

Instead, he scorned my nice-death gestures and shit on top of the trap. And on my bed.

By this time, I was pissed. My vegetarian-guilt flew out the window and a craving for Osama's spilt blood took over my mind. I went out with the intent of purchasing the most brutal killing machine built for total mouse decimation. I pictured a mini mouse sized guillotine. Instead I ended up with the traditional squish trap thingy. I knew that wouldn't give the dramatic crime scene bloodspray I wanted, but as long as it did the job, whatever.

Weeks have passed. Osama has shit next to the traps, has eaten cheese off of them, and just continues to mock me. I feel I've been outsmarted. I've been broken down. I'm less afraid at this point. Hell, I'm impressed.

An exterminator is due to come on Monday for the ultimate killing spree, hopefully armed with weapons that aren't sold to the general public.

'uncle' cliff and his expensive gifts

Every once in a while I have the pleasure of encountering a truly bizarre customer at Kid O. Last week while holding down the fort by myself, a beefy Miami beach-looking dude walked in and immediately came right up beside me at the counter, just a bit too close. I could tell he was one of those people with no regard for the personal space of others. He also didn't feel the need to obey common social norms, like staying in front of the counter at a store.

This is how it went down (it helps paint the picture better if you read all of his parts in a creepy, deep, beefcake-ish voice):
Him: (gesturing toward a wooden toddler bike) I want to buy this bike for a two month old.
Me: Well, that is very generous of you, but seeing as the child won't be able to use it for at least two years, perhaps I can recommend something along those lines for a younger--

He cut me off, and soon we settled on a ride-on toy that was appropriate for a one year old. It was our last one and had been out on the floor for a while, so I offered to clean it for him. As I began wiping it down, he decided to talk at me while leaning over the counter:
Him: I'm divorced. No kids. You know, it's real hard to find a good woman. Am I being too demanding? I've been drinking all day...
Me: Ummhmm. Do you want to fill out a gift card?
Him: Yeah but you write it. You have good handwriting? Put from Uncle Cliff. With Uncle in quotes.
Me: Okay...

Uncle Cliff with Uncle in quotes left without harming me or anyone else in the store.

Two days later, I saw a tall and beefy shirtless man wearing reflective sunglasses in my peripheral vision, and he barged into the store and stalked up to me, once again much too close.
Him: I don't know if you remember me.
Me: (taking two steps back) Oh I remember you.
Him: I need another gift. I want the same thing as the other day for a three week old. I'll pick it up later. I'm spending all this money on other people's kids so I'm going to go buy myself a present.

It was a much swifter transaction, but I couldn't shake the feeling that 'Uncle' Cliff was off to buy himself a hooker, get drunk, and diddle small children. Another day, another freak, I guess.

Below, enjoy a photo of Gary Busey, a similarly creepy person, though with less muscle.

winner: Kid O, I think, because at least we got a solid $400 out the dude
loser: the innocent children in 'Uncle' Cliff's life

a whale of a vacation

I just got back from a week in Cape Cod with my mom and one of the major highlights was whale watching. We drove out to the tip of the cape and boarded a boat that took us out to the Stellwagen Bank, an underwater plateau that is a popular feeding ground for whales. Check out these videos I took on the boat. The quality is pretty good, a little shaky, and try to disregard my commentary and gasps of excitement.

a matter of defecation

It has recently been brought to my attention that human shit seems to follow me.

Earlier this summer, I woke one sunny Saturday morning to find my wallet empty (as usual after a Friday night out), and headed to the Citibank ATM located conveniently down the block. It really was a truly glorious day, until I swiped my card for entry, pushed open the door, and was met with the most truly heinous odor I have ever encountered. It was like hot boxing with diarrhea. I quickly located the source of the problem: in front of the handicapped for the visually impaired ATM was a pile of human crap directly centered on an open newspaper. Nearby, a man stood holding a broom and dustpan, obviously a poor choice in cleaning supplies for this job.

The really sick part is that I still took out cash. Does that make me a true New Yorker yet?

If you've been reading my posts regularly, you know that I dealt with a lot of little kid poo this summe, but the real cake topper occurred Thursday night. I was out with Lauren and another friend Anna, and we stopped by the reliable Waverly Restaurant (for coffee ice cream, a grilled cheese, and a chicken salad sandwich) and I went to use the restroom. As soon as I opened the door, I noticed two human turds next to the the toilet. Right next to the toilet! I mean really, how does one miss?

We also have a mouse that has made our kitchen its bathroom. Hopefully the trend soon ends.

winner: bathrooms in the comfort of your own home
loser: my shattered confidence in the cleanliness of my local Citibank
auxiliary winner: our mouse, because he has succeeded in making us his own personal maids

My hair feels long again and it's stressing me out.

I used to get my hair cut by an adorable gay man in the East Village, who looked as if he took a break from gallivanting with the Lollipop Guild to style hair. Unfortunately, his services were a little steep and I decided to look for a cheaper option.

While perusing Yelp.com one day, I discovered what seemed to be the super cheap haircut mecca. The Aveda school: $20 haircuts by students. The catch is that they take longer than normal haircuts and you have to stand for part of it. I thought that sounded just fine; after all, what could really go wrong other than a terrible cut?

I arrived on the day of my appointment and was escorted to the back of the salon, where chairs were crammed together rather tightly. I noticed it was a little warm. And there were a lot of strong smells. I had a consult with my assigned student, who then consulted his teacher, and then had my hair washed. Back in the chair, after having the sides of my hair cut, I was asked to stand up so he could cut the back. I did as instructed and soon started feeling a little weird. I was suddenly really warm and a bit weak. Luckily I was soon told to sit, which I thought would make me feel normal, but I quickly realized things were getting worse, and fast.

I asked for some water. My student disappeared as I sat there all sweaty and clammy trying to get a hold of myself. (I was looked really good at this point, I'm sure.) I ripped off the smock that suddenly seemed to be choking me and told the student I wasn't feeling well. Even though I felt terrible, I was so mortified as another person came to see what was going on.

This is when I made a scene. Slowly my eyesight blurred and it sounded like I was underwater at the end of a tunnel. I was led by the elbow by someone out front where I was told there would be more air. I actually considered that I might be dying. I mean, doesn't it make sense that you would slowly lose your senses and then you would eventually just fade away into the light? Or dark? Whatever. This crossed my mind, as well as a terrible sense of guilt at being the ruin of my budding stylists' career (obviously he wouldn't be able to carry on his training after a client died in his chair, right?).

But alas, I lived. Slowly my senses returned, and after about a gallon of water and being seated in a chair in the front of the salon, I emerged with my haircut. Three hours after my scheduled appointment, and for just $25 (I had to leave the poor guy $5 for the trauma).

The question is: do I go back? Would you?

winner: my wallet?
loser: my poor, innocent Aveda student

potty training: a fiasco

For the past year I have spent my Wednesday evenings babysitting a cherubic little munchkin called Sabine. I met her mom at Kid O and immediately fell for this little girl—she’s just so darn cute, ask anybody. She’s the funniest kid—a little neurotic actually. She likes her toys to be neat and organized, and she gets stressed out about playdates with a certain little girl, to the point where she begs her mom to hide her favorite toys the night before the scheduled visit. (‘Hide baby flopsy, hide big flopsies, hide pink highchair…’)

Anyway, last week Sabine’s mom informed me that she had successfully potty-trained the tot. I was surprised by how quickly this happened, but excited at the prospect of not changing another poopy diaper. I was instructed to ask Sabine if she needed to ‘wee’ every 20 minutes or so in hopes of avoiding an accident.

So, I asked the ‘do you have to wee?’ question every 10 minutes, give or take, until I could tell she was getting annoyed with my persistence. Then as I stood stirring her pasta dinner, little Sabine appeared beside me, looked up and proclaimed, ‘I weed.’ I looked down and saw that since she was wearing a dress, the ‘wee’ had not only soaked her. No, she had gone, apparently beginning in her bedroom (I later learned from following the trail) and then came to find me, all the while still going. I changed her, found some cleaning supplies and wiped up the floor, from the kitchen, through the living room around the corner and into her bedroom.

I figured I was in the clear by this point. After dinner and bathtime, we were working on a giant floor sized jigsaw puzzle and Sabine had tons of energy. She was standing in front of me, jumping up and down with a big smile on her face. Suddenly she stopped and looked me dead in the eye. ‘I poo-ed in my underpants,’ she said. Shocked and trying to figure out how I missed that this was happening right before my eyes, I picked her up, held her at arms length, and rushed her to the bathroom. At first glance it seemed to be a false alarm. At second glance, we had poo on the floor, but then poo on the potty! It was exciting. Until she stood up and decided she had to wee. It went like this:

Her: I have to wee.
Me: Ok, just sit back down on the potty and go ahead.
Her: But there’s poo in it!
Me: It’s ok, poo and wee can go together!
Her: No.
Me: (audible sigh. Remove poo from potty with toilet paper.)
Her: (looking into now empty potty) It’s dirty.
Me: I will clean it after you wee. (really!?)
Her: (clearly not pleased with the arrangement, sits back down and goes wee.)

Conclusion: Sabine is evidently not potty trained.

Winner: Fantastik and paper towels
Loser: clearly, me.
Auxiliary winner: baby flopsy, because he was there throughout the whole ordeal for moral support.

farewell Hoboken

Sad to say, but in a only a little more than a week, Lauren and Morgan's parents will be leaving Hoboken to move to their sprawling newly built home in Warren County, NJ. I have mixed feelings about this move. On one hand, the headache of building a home will be behind them and we'll have an awesome place to visit on weekends. On the other, a home cooked meal with great wine and the people who have become family won't be be just a simple PATH ride away.

Oddly enough, the most bizarre cab experience of my life (and I think my three fellow passengers will agree) took place in Hoboken not too long ago. Lauren, Morgan, and another friend Shruti, and I piled into a cab for what we thought would be just another $5 quick ride to Maxwell Place. Our driver was clearly miffed that all four of us were going to the same place (because two stops means more money), and he repeatedly said so in Arabic to his wife over the phone as we began our doomed journey.

When Morgan let on that she could understand some of what he was saying, he began telling us how he thinks certain languages sound really bad when spoken, like Japanese, Chinese, and Indian (not all of which are actual languages). Shruti is Indian and decided it wasn't worth arguing, so she kept quiet.

We learned that he was from Egypt, and soon he was telling us that he auditioned for American Idol, and that yes, Randy called him 'dog' and Simon didn't like his performance. This of course led to a sample performance in the cab--he serendaded us to 'How Deep is Your Love' by the Beegees, and then promptly turned into oncoming traffic.

So there we were, parked in the opposite direction of traffic, when two cops pull up beside us. I understand he drove recklessly and could have caused a more serious problem, but these cops were major jerks. Our driver made the mistake of arguing and not giving his license and registration over immediately, and instead begged us for help. Feeling very awkward, we quickly paid him and exited the cab to walk the rest of the way.

Believe it or not, here is our Egyptian American Idol contestant of a cab driver.

If you can top that cab story, please do so in comments.

winner: the NJ police department
loser: Alaa Youakeem, our singing cabbie with poor driving skills

no chair, pube chair, fart chair, new chair

The seating situation in my apartment has become dire. It all started a little over a year ago when Lauren and I moved from Avenue B westward to Waverly Place. Our furniture situation on Avenue B wasn't much better than it is at present: the Ikea couch from Lauren's home in Maryland had caved in on itself numerous times, to the chagrin of many seated guests. We decided to bid adieu to it when we moved to the west side, with big dreams of a brand new futon sparkling in our minds.

However, things didn't go exactly as planned, but then again, they never really do.

The futon we had our hearts set on was out of stock, but we were desperate. We settled on the best they had, which turned out to be extremely uncomfortable, with no lower back support. That was our only seat other than my old red dish chair from college, which made unfortunate farting sounds every time someone moved while sitting in it. Fantastic.

Then, as luck would have it, Lauren and I found a great chair near the garbage area. It looked to be in excellent condition, though it had no seat cushion or cover. We dragged it up to our apartment, all the while discussing how we'd buy a cover for it and have a piece of foam cut to fit it. Yes, it was going to be great! Once placed in our living room, we saw the hair. Black, wiry, pubic. It henceforth became known as the pube chair. And worse yet, we never got around to covering it or getting a cushion cut for it. Weeks passed, and one day, while playing a particularly competitive game of Scrabble, Lauren leaned forward to make her move, and SNAP! The front left leg broke. A few days later, another friend took the 3 other legs off, and to this day it sits legless on the floor in the corner. Classy? We think so.

A few weeks ago, Lauren's mom took pity on us and offered to buy us a new chair. Finally, we thought, a comfortable piece of furniture! We browsed online, found the chair of our dreams, and ordered it. It was to be delivered to Kid O, and all went as planned until the delivery guy wheeled in the giant box. There I saw a problem: a large hole, out of which fell half of a splintered chair leg.

It has since become clear that we are not meant to have comfortable seating in our apartment. Only beds. Further proof: two nights ago, I sat on a folding kitchen chair and it all but bent and crumbled beneath me.

Currently, we're down to two cheap folding chairs, one legless pube chair, and one uncomfortable futon. During the time when we had ordered the new chair, I threw out the fart chair, and I'm pretty sure I saw one of the guys who sells books and records off of card tables on 6th Avenue sleeping in it the other day. So good for him.

Below is a photo from our New Year's party. A true testament to our lack of seating, these poor ladies had to sit...er lie, on the floor. This had more to do with the seating, and less to do with the 9 bottles of cheap champagne consumed.



winner: 6th Avenue book/record merchant
loser: our lower backs

financial planning & alcoholism

My plans to attend grad school this fall have prompted me to take a closer look at my budget. I've always considered myself to be a careful spender, but this scrutiny has definitely led me to rethink some decisions. And consider seeking professional help. Outside of rent, utilities, and transportation, my top five monthly expenses are:

1. Booze
2. Cheese: since the bulk of my grocery/eating out expenses are cheese or cheese-related, it's high on the list
3. Coffee: depending on the season (hot vs. iced), trips per day, and the barista, it really adds up
4. Sushi: Funayama's spicy lunch combo with miso soup is truly irresistible
5. Cookies: they've become a Pavlovian response to finishing dinner

Red flags? Sure there are. Let's get some perspective. My top five list could look like this:

1. Booze (okay, yes, that's the same)
2. Blow
3. Diapers (I could have a baby! That would be pretty unfortunate, especially considering the rest of this list)
4. Checks written to organizations that support child prostitution and terrorism
5. Monthly payments towards a Hummer that I've leased

See! The reality isn't so bad!

Anyway, the booze expenses were a tad disconcerting, but after a careful look at the AA website, I have concluded that I am not an alcoholic:

AA: Have you ever tried to stop drinking for a week, but only lasted a few days?
Me: No, why would I ever want to stop drinking for a week? That's just crazy talk!

AA: Do you tell yourself you can stop drinking any time you want to, even though you keep getting drunk when you don't mean to?
Me: Look, AA, I can't help having such a low tolerance for alcohol! Maybe if I wasn't such a lightweight I wouldn't get drunk all the time, ok!?

AA: Have you ever felt that your life would be better if you did not drink?
Me: Absolutely not! No way, nope. No! Seriously though, just back the eff off.

See, there's no problem here. Everything will be just fine! Who's thirsty?

winner: Funayama, Jack's Coffee, Lifethyme, Ray's Pizza, most bars in lower Manhattan
loser: my wallet

it's time for a ranking.

I find that working retail leaves me with a very strange and endlessly changing schedule. Sometimes I'm really productive with my midweek days off: a run, grocery shopping, laundry, and some cleaning can easily fill up a day. Other times, I only leave my apartment for a caffeine fix and spend the day lounging on my futon watching daytime television and eating cookies.

Sometimes it's an America's Next Top Model marathon from five years ago. Other days I'll watch a few hours of Home Improvement. I've watched too much Little People Big World. Ah, yes, daytime programming truly is a strange and beautiful thing.

Even more impressive than the shows in the middle of the day are the commercials. There are some seriously weird and semi-hazardous products out there. Below are my top five current favorites:

1. The Official Neckline Slimmer: a spring loaded contraption that when squeezed between your clavicle and chin, will firm and tighten your fat chicken neck. Comes with three springs of varying levels of resistance.

2. Latisse: the first and only FDA approved prescription treatment for inadequate or not enough lashes. I'm not sure what constitutes 'not enough' lashes, but apparently Brooke Shields is a sufferer who has finally found a solution to this devastating disease. She is the official spokesperson, and I hope she is ashamed of herself.


3. Bumpits: self gripping leave-in volumizing hair inserts. They come in four colors for 'perfect' color match. You'll also receive a complimentary mini bumpit, which gives you an unfortunately named 'bang bump.'


4. The PedEgg: A strange egg-shaped contraption that shaves callouses and dead skin from your feet. Drawback: you have to empty it of your heinous foot shavings after each use.

5. The Snuggie: a blanket with sleeves, allowing you to stay warm and use your arms at the same time. Say goodbye to the days of sitting uselessly under a blanket!



winner: anyone profiting from these products. seriously, kudos!
loser: Brooke Shields and anyone purchasing these products

auxiliary loser: Billy Mays (sorry, death automatically means you lose. RIP.)

let's talk about about water

Water is a mysterious and powerful substance. Its presence has the potential to flood, cause mudslides, to kill. Really, it can seriously fuck shit up. (Also, as pointed out by Lauren, it hydrates, makes things grow, and cures hangovers, but those uses are not the focus of this post).

A few weeks ago there was an article in the NYTimes that addressed the subject of rain rage. Apparently long periods of rain in cities can cause depression, impatience, and full on angry acts of rage.

This past week has been all about water in its many forms. First, let me say that I forgot my umbrella at a bar about 10 days ago. This umbrella was special. It had a long, wooden handle and it provided a wide area of coverage. I realized while walking home that I left it behind, but I didn't go back because we New Yorkers know that the 'umbrella circle of life' does in fact exist. That very umbrella was found where I work, and I know that if I wait, another will come my way. (Unfortunately this theory has since led to a few minor acts of accidental theft and a lot of soaked clothing, but that's another story.)

Sasha was visiting from Paris and I had a full weekend off from work during which I stayed in the city, a first in a very long time. And luckily, it wasn't forecast to rain! Lauren, Sash, and I made plans to visit Hoboken to swim at Lauren's parents' apartment. It has a rooftop pool with amazing views of Manhattan. That morning, we lazily got up, put on our bikinis, and hopped the PATH train across the Hudson. We found ourselves in the sort of heaven where washing machines and dryers exist in your apartment, sushi is ordered, wine is poured, and before you leave, Lauren's mom has ordered you a new chair for your apartment. It was glorious. We ate, we swam, we didn't cramp. Magic.

Of course, as soon as our happy trio arrived back in Manhattan, everything went to shit. As we exited the train, there was a crowd huddled in the entrance to the station, meaning only one thing: RAIN. And this was no ordinary rain. No, it was a torrential downpour. The kind where the streets are deserted, except for masses trapped under scaffolding and crowds gathered in storefronts staring skyward, praying for a break.

But we were still in our swimsuits! And home was just two blocks away. So we made a run for it. We were soaked and people stared, but there was something oddly freeing about running through the streets without a care. We felt like kids!

Then we got home and discovered we had no hot water...after we had not showered in the morning, swam in a pool, sat in a hot tub, and ran through the rain and puddles of the New York City streets. That was a whole lot of water that only one kind of water could erase: the water of a hot, soapy shower.

Our options were limited. We had plans for the evening and were in no shape to go anywhere publicly looking like we did. The best option was Lauren's sister who lives a short subway ride away. Unfortunately she was still in New Jersey, but she called her super and he agreed to let us into her apartment to shower. A little sketchy, but lucky for us. We hopped the train with towels in hand, and the three of us assembly-line style showered one after the other in record time. Then, wetheaded and wonderfully clean, we took the train back to Waverly Place.

No rain rage here, just minor rain annoyance. Ah, water. I'm hopeful for a hot and dry July. Except in my shower.

winner: the super of Morgan's building
losers: all tourists riding on double-decker tour buses wearing white ponchos, looking like cult members

auxiliary winner: Lauren's mom for buying us a new chair

the ultimate loser meal

My mom is absolutely obsessed with her vacuum food sealer.

This means really good things for me. Every time I'm home, I end up traveling back to New York with a big blue insulated bag full of meals for one. I put them in my freezer, and defrost them as needed. It's fantastic.

Mom has dubbed these sealed up goodies for my singular self 'loser meals.' After I was faux offended by this title, I admitted that it was pretty genius.

For my birthday this year, Lauren bought me an indoor grill so I can grill up some of my very own loser meals. Or, we can grill stuff together which would make us winners. In any case, it's exciting. Check out my first very own grilled loser meal!



winner: indoor grill
auxiliary winner: the concept of the loser meal
loser: n/a (when there's food involved, everyone wins)

lesson: the first date

Oh, dating. Sigh. Guys, here are a few helpful hints on what to do and not do. After tonight, I feel the 'not do' part is much more important to master, though perhaps more entertaining when botched.




Dear prospective date:

Please don't:

1. Have halitosis. I know you might not be aware that you suffer from this rank malady, but please practice good oral hygiene.
2. Tell me that you think you've learned everything that western civilization has to offer. That makes you sound douchey. And it's not true.
   
3. Talk about how volunteering is so narcissistic.
4. Tell me that foie gras is orgasmic. I'm a vegetarian.
   
5. Make me guess at everything. I don't know. Just tell me.
   
6. Spell words out for me. I'm a smart person, and am very good at spelling. Yoga. Y-O-G-A. There, I did it.
   
7. Categorize me. (i.e. "so you're really type A.") That's rude.
8. Tell me that pursuing higher education seems like a waste of money. I'm going to grad school in the fall, so I find that a little insulting.
9. Talk about your authenticity. That automatically makes you inauthentic.
   

Please do:

1. Buy my drink. You're making me coexist in your presence for the duration of this date, the least you can do is pay for my booze.
2. Tell me what you do for a living. Don't ask me if I've seen Fight Club and talk about Edward Norton and how what he does is similar to what you do. That doesn't make sense.
   
3. Move to Africa, since that's where you think you can learn something. Consider permanent residency. Think of all the learning you could do!
4. Erase my phone number from your cell.
   

Winner: Fight Club

Loser: my patience

disco what?

You are probably asking yourself some or all of the following questions:

1. What are discofries?
2. Is it possible to have a singular 'discofry?'
3. Where did I leave my keys?

I can help with the first two, but you're on your own for the third. Discofries are a delicacy found at my favorite NYC late night eatery, the Waverly Restaurant. This fine establishment is not a diner. Don't be fooled by its impossibly extensive menu. Yes, ma'am, you may have a baked Virginia ham steak with pineapple ring at 4:30 am. Dieting? Perhaps consider something from the Waist Watchers portion of the menu. Fancy a diet burger? Yes, that does come with cottage cheese, as do all options in this section.

Discofries are, in essence, cut potato wedges, fried, and then baked covered with cheese. The layman might know this delicious concoction as 'cheese fries.' But really, they symbolize much more. Many fantastic nights have ended at the Waverly Restaurant with friends, sharing discofries, grilled cheese, and on a special occasions, a quiche. See my good friend above, enjoying said fries. You can't fake pure joy like that.

I'm not sure exactly what I'll be posting here, but I can narrow it down slightly for you. There will be no post involving:

1. geometric equations
2. discussion of raisins or other dried fruits
3. smack talk about my friends (that's for my other blog)

That's really all I'm willing to rule out at this point. Everything else is fair game.

Also, I've decided to do a New York mag style scoring system for my blog, awarding winners and losers for each post.

winner: discofries, obvi
loser: Virginia baked ham with pineapple ring at 4:30 am