The Tomato Diaries

I've Got 99 Problems, but Delta Skymiles Ain't One.

2011-09-01T14:09:00.002-04:00

I had zero luck with the bit of business travel I did last week, due to the mashup of summer thunderstorms + LaGuardia which = delays. Not Delta's fault, but annoying nonetheless.

So imagine my surprise when I got 2,500 extra SkyMiles from Delta for my troubles! They certainly didn't need to do that, so I sent them a note thanking them (I'm a big believer in customer service working both ways).

This next bit is a bit overboard, though. Still, it's nice. But if Delta really wants to get on my goodside, they can tell the Port Authority to CLEAN THEIR FUCKING BATHROOMS once and a while.

-------------------------------------------------------

Dear Ms. Blue Eyes,

RE: Case Number 4309491

Thank you for sharing your concerns regarding the service provided while
traveling with us. On behalf of Delta Air Lines and Delta Connection
carrier, Shuttle America, it was very nice to receive your email
complimenting the service you received and I sincerely apologize for the
inconvenience caused due to the delay of our flight.

Your thoughtfulness in writing means a great deal to us. Our goal is to
surpass our customer's expectations every day. We appreciate your kind
comments and will continue to work hard to provide superior service. We
believe our employees are our most important assets, and I am happy to
learn that they exceeded your expectations. Be assured we take our
commitment to serving you very seriously, and we will continue to work
hard to provide superior service

Additionally, I understand importance of your time and the trouble you
experienced when your travel was negatively impacted due to the delay of
our flight for weather-related conditions. Your feelings are important
to us, and I have shared your comments with the responsible leadership
team.

Ms. Blue Eyes, I want to thank you, again, for taking the time to write
regarding the service we provided. Your future business as a SkyMiles
member is important to us, and I hope you will continue to choose Delta
for your air travel needs.

Sincerely,

Coordinator, Customer Care
Delta Air Lines
----------------------------------------------------------

Everything's Sunny in Toronto

2011-07-07T16:39:00.002-04:00

Blue Eyes surprised me with a trip to Toronto for the Fourth of July weekend. Last time I was there was in 1992 or 1993, for all of 48 hours, young, with no money. I remember an overcast fall day, the CN Tower looming somewhere in the distance, and a place called the Moose Bar. When we drove in from the airport, I was struck by the multitudes of gleaming new construction lining the lakefront. There's been a hell of a lot of movement up north since I was last there.

Yet it's still so very Canada. Waiting for a streetcar on King Street, we asked a couple passers-by if they knew how frequently the trolley came.

Helper 1: "Oh, it's a lot more frequent than the Queen Street streetcar."
Helper 2: "Yeah, that's true."
Helper 1: "Do you want me to look it up for you?"
Us: "No, that's not necessary."
Helper 1: "No, really, I can do it right here on my iPhone."
Us: "Truly not necessary."

And their version of razzing the opposing team (Phillies played the Jays) consisted of multiple iterations of the following:

"Hey Polanco! You're a terrible player!"
"Yeah, you're horrible!"

A more creative quip came from a quartet of drunken twentysomethings that looked like they were members of the Royal Canadian Hacky Sack team.

"Victorino, why do you have double ear flaps [on your batting helmet]? Look at the double ear flaps. I hope you get hit in the ear!"

No shit, that is the worst of what we heard at the game. Quite a welcome change from the usual "Asshole! Asshole!"

At The Keg, Canada's version of Houston's, we sat at the bar eating chicken wings and watching sports highlights. A commercial came on the air for some show we'll call "Canada's Next Top Junior Philanthropist." Blue Eyes and I reflected that the majority of new reality shows stateside are generally some variation of "America's Next Top Skank."

Speaking of, young Torontonian girls are an interesting crew, more like something you'd find in the outer boroughs of New York City (read: bridge and tunnel). They like to dress up with the hotsy-totsy outfits (miniskirts up to their ass, stilettos that could give one a nose-bleed), even if they're only hanging out at a mid-level restaurant or on the roof of Wayne Gretsky's sports bar. While lounging with my sweetie on an oversized couch I watched these girls struggle with general insecurity, outfit creep and complete lack of party etiquette (their noses were buried in their smartphones almost immediately). Never have I felt so glad to be 41.

My favorite random thing was in the gift shop of the Hockey Hall of Fame. I thumbed through the rotating shelf of personalized key rings because I'm always looking for a souvenir for any one of the strange-named children in my family. I came across the usual suspects: Michael, Brandon, Doug. I also found Claude and Rene. It's the demographic after all.

Our hotel, the Sheraton City Center -- whose decor was weirdly reminiscent of a Disney World hotel circa 1976 -- was across the street from a glass structure that housed both a TD Canada bank and a Starbucks. And by "housed both" I mean it looked like the branch manager could reach behind him and pull his own cappuccino. Starbanks, on dit.

By far, my favorite Canadaeque quirk could've been a PSA for your tax dollars at work: clean up after the Pride Parade. When New York does the Pride Parade there are half a million people on Sixth Avenue for an hour and then a bunch of shit littering the street for days. When Toronto does the Pride Parade, there are 1.2 million people for half the day not an errant paper to be found afterwards, like something out of fucking Burning Man. Here's how it happens: at the end of the parade a fleet of street Zambonis follow the last float down Yonge, and following them are people sweeping the sidewalk. And those sidewalk sweepers are RUTHLESS. If you are hanging with your peeps afterwords trying to work out where to grab a brew, do NOT get in the way of the street sweepers. They will sweep the trash through your group. Now, that's how I would run my city.

If you go, be sure to Bixi all over town. I experienced a sense of exhilaration I haven't really felt since I was about 12. Until I woke up the next morning, of course.

And beware: Toronto is a lovely place to be in the summer months. But the sun doesn't go down until about 9:30/10:00, which can make for a brutally hot day under the right conditions. Somebody turn off the sun!

PS: We found the Moose Bar. It's called the Loose Moose, and it's as douchey as ever. But I love it.

Top 10 Awesomest Things about Iowa City

2011-06-10T10:55:00.000-04:00

10. Breakfast wings*.
9. Bats in the Octagonal Barn's belfrey during the wedding speeches.
8. Chorizo & egg tacos at the farmer's market.
7. Photos and stories of politicians visiting the Hamburg Inn during caucus time.
6. The fact that there are separate bars for "the writers" and "the poets".
5. The Hy-Vee on S. Gilbert. You can seriously fit like 12 Key Foods in there!
4. How freaking hot it was -- ok, that was maybe not so awesome.
3. The very determined guy fiendishly mowing the Rosengreen's lawn during their wedding eve barbecue.
2. The girl who works at the bookstore with the Eustace Tilley tattoo on her bicep.

And the number one awesome thing about Iowa:

Blue Eyes walks in to get a fountain soda. He jiggles his full drink a little when reaching for a cap, splashing some on his wrist. A guy behind him in line -- a big, hulking guy who looks like he's either on, or trying out for Buckeye football -- reacts to this by saying "Oh no! Here, let me get you some napkins!**"

*Really just wings for breakfast, but it gave me a great idea to open a wings only cafe with breakfast and dessert wings!

**Cut to two days later, when we arrive back in New York at LaGuardia. I go to the ladies' room, and am greeted by pee all over the seat. Point, counterpoint.

Stay tuned.

2011-05-05T13:54:00.001-04:00

Uh, if you haven't figured it out after months of radio silence, we're on hiatus kids. Sally needs to finish the damn book.

Be back soon.

Not for the Lactose Intolerant

2010-12-10T17:09:00.005-05:00

In preparation for our apartment building’s annual Christmas party, I spent last evening rifling through my recipes hoping to find just the right thing to tempt my fellow denizens and win top prize for Best Sweets. While I was grabbing a cookie recipe that won me the Blue Ribbon at an office holiday party of yore, I spotted an old box I had snagged from my grandmother's house a couple years ago. Never one to leave well enough alone, I opened it up figuring I might find an unusual dish that I could offer up for the Best Savory category.

The tin box is cream with red lettering on front that reads Abbott’s, a dairy local to Philadelphia. Consequently, the focus of the recipes is any product originating from a cow’s udder. Between the state of the card stock and my grandmother’s adolescent scrawl on the back of some of the cards, I'm pegging the recipe tin to date to the late ‘30s or early ‘40s. Put these predominant factors together – recipes of a certain age + extreme lacto – and you can only imagine what delights I found inside.

Now I like milk. I like cheese immensely. Ice cream: come on. Buttermilk even has its place in my palette, and cottage cheese is a lovely source of protein. But the recipes that the chefs de cuisine at Abbott were offering up during the early third of the 20^th century were so god-awfully disgusting, I felt the need to don an adult diaper as a precaution.

Intriguingly, the recipes are prefaced by a couple cards with quotes from various “authorities”, just in case you needed a little encouragement before heading down the dairy vortex. Here's one, an endorsement of moo juice and argument for its contribution to the creation of a perfect race:

“The people who have made liberal use of milk as a food have, in contrast, attained greater size, greater longevity, and have been much more successful in rearing their young. They have been much more aggressive than the non-milk using people, and have achieved much greater advancement in literature, science and art.”

Say, Dr. E.V. McCollum, is that right? I don’t know if there’s empirical evidence to support this, but I’m guessing there are a number of math geniuses out there who were raised on Lactaid. Just sayin’.

“The white race cannot survive without dairy products.”

How now, Herbert Hoover. Just the white race? Although I got a couple hits on Google, it's unlikely we’re going to find that one in Bartlett’s. Still...

“Drink buttermilk and live to be 100 years old. It's an old saying, carrying an important truth. Drink lots of it, especially in the summer.”

Agenda-pushing much, U.S. Department of Agriculture? Nothing says refreshing like buttermilk on a 100 degree day, especially back when ice came to your house via a delivery truck and there was no such thing as central air. Imagine if Coors sold buttermilk instead of the horsepiss they call beer? Picture the Silver Bullet as a rancid-tasting heavy cream beverage downed by cheerleaders and aspirational douchebags in one of their ubiquitous TV spots. Ahhh...refreshing!

“A high place in the diet should be given to ice cream, iced puddings and frozen custards. Their combination of sugar and fat gives them high nutritive value.”

Now, that's research I can get behind, Dr. Woods Hutchinson!

And now for the recipes themselves, there were far too many to catalog for one blog post, so I pulled some of the highlights.

Buttermilk stew: doesn't that just say “home cooked meal” to you? When I first read this I mis-read ‘invalid’ as ‘not valid’, which is much more apropos.

Chicken baked in milk. Did anyone see last night’s episode of ‘The League’, when Ruxin creates a stink bomb from milk and raw chicken? If you did, my issues with this recipe need no further explanation. However, I did like this line: “A tough fowl is made tender and tasty if baked in milk.” Well, this tough fowl is made tender and tasty if baked in bourbon.

Molded cheese salad: Did you ever see one of those jokey books that catalog Fifties housewives and the Jello mold dishes they used to slaved over for holiday boozefests? Take that conceit, blow it up 1,000 times and addict it to crack. The mere mention of whipping the gelatine to the consistency of whipped cream is gross; folding cottage cheese and mayonnaise into that chiffon makes Buttermilk Stew sound like Filet Mignon.

And finally: A Surprise Salad. Did your husband bring home the boss for dinner again without giving you the heads up? Well, delight your guest with this cornucopia of whatever you can find in the liquor cabinet, such as olives, cornichons, maraschino cherries – hell, throw in some beer nuts while you’re at it. Then cover with cottage cheese to obscure the ingredients. As long as everyone’s so drunk they have trouble reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, no one will notice that they’re slowly being poisoned. Serve on a bed of lettuce for an instant sheen of class.

Now I know where my grandmother got her wild idea for the déclassé Cream Cheese Balls she used to offer up during the holiday season (for the record, it’s cream cheese and horseradish rolled into balls, and dipped into chopped Lebanon bologna, a lunch meat popular in the Harrisburg to Philadelphia quarter).

As a self-professed dairy freak, the recipes in this box are a one-way ticket to veganism.

Insane Clown Makeup

2010-10-01T16:15:00.003-04:00

Today I would like to talk about makeup.

If you're a fairly regular (or were a regular reader) of this blog, you'll know I don't usually feel the need to be all girly and direct conversation toward beauty products, like some girls' blogs do. I don't even wear that much makeup, actually, but that doesn't mean I don't like it. I like playing with it, I like leafing through InStyle Magazine's Best Products issue, I like wandering around Sephora and testing the merchandise. I may not make myself up every day like RuPaul, but I'm not exactly worshiping at the altar of Tilda Swinton either.

Here's what: I just got back from a two-day lunch hour fishing expedition for eyeliner. See, my current eyeliner is nearing the end of its life as an unwieldy nub that keeps getting lost in my makeup box. This is the eyeliner that I paid about $28 for at Henri Bendel's, $26 of which regularly migrates from my lash line and ends up a great smudge along the upper part of my lid. Laura Mercier has some nice products, but her eyeliner can kiss my ass.

Before I spent another monthly 401K contribution on a bunch of high end products that will wind up similarly annoying me, I did a little poking around on the interwebs to find some guidance in solving my predicament. I quickly realized my curse is not so much the vessel but a design flaw: Sally's got squinty eyes, which means my lash line naturally hits the top of my lids, unless I walk around with my eyes at half mast, which is a recipe for disaster for a variety of reasons. Thus, my lid architecture precludes me from using pencil liner.

Understandably, I started looking into liquid liner. Do you know how the higher end beauty companies gouge you on that shit? I couldn't find a solution for under $30, let alone $28. Under my new semi-self imposed austerity kick, I am done with shelling that much sausage for something I'm not convinced is that much of an improvement – I still look like I just rolled out of bed, no matter the time of day. So back to square one.

A little more Googling revealed that L'Oreal has a nice product for around $10, which still seemed like too much for liquid liner, especially when one is subjected to the dingy lighting and apathetic customer service of Duane Reade in place of the aesthetic pleasure of a Sephora or Saks counter. After snorting at my prospects at the L'Oreal kiosk, I detoured to the cosmetic stands to see what they had available. Almay, Neutrogena, Maybelline and Cover Girl were all about the same price point; Rimmel was a little less. I passed by a couple brand names I had never heard of (and very possibly had grammatical errors in the display signage), finally landing in front of Wet-N-Wild, where I found, and promptly purchased their $2.99 liquid eyeliner product.

It got me thinking: When did we girls adopt the philosophy that the more expensive, the better the product?

There's something to be said that Maybelline Great Lash mascara is the #1 seller in the US, even among celebu-styletards. I remember getting by just fine on Wet-N-Wild from junior high to senior year in high school, when I was a little more flush from babysitting money than I had been in the past and the relative caché of Clinique curried favor. It just got worse from there. Once I started working, Clinique took a back seat to Lancôme, which took a back seat to the hipper Stila, which got completely annihilated by every other micro-product rollout.

My most egregious example of trading up is the assload of Laura Mercier I bought right before my wedding, a brand I had convinced myself was the best of the best. Six months later, I realize I was wrong; there's really nothing in the Mercier bundle that I couldn't have purchased at the fucking Walgreens on Royal Street the morning of the wedding. Now I'm stuck with an eye shadow trio I don't like, a foundation primer I don't use, a lip pencil that scratches and an eyeliner that winds up everywhere except where it belongs. Thank God I had the foresight not to buy the eyebrow gel.

After I got back to the office I decided I need to find a new model for my beauty product purchasing habits. I guess it just comes down to what am I not willing to downgrade? Eyeliner, shadow: expendable. Mascara: worth plunking down more money for the funky wand in Chanel's Inimitable brand. Blush: I like the Clinique cream stick. Concealer: Benefit's the only one that really masks that stubborn dark circle under my left eye. Foundation: whatevs. Lipgloss: I can't deviate from the poison ivy kiss of death formula special to the Buxom line.

So there you have it. I'll be experimenting this weekend with my Wet-N-Wild, probably getting inky brown stains all over my hands and clothing. If it's too difficult to apply, or I start foaming from the eye socket because the product's chemical makeup is akin to whatever's floating around the Gowanus, then I'll throw it out. It's only $2.99, after all!

One last thing: I have this fantasy running in my head that Wet-N-Wild, which has been around forever, started losing market share once the Urban Decays of the world started elbowing their way in. The company's response was not to move from the price point they had ruled for ages, but to start a new line at a higher price point. Same makeup, different name…and that name was MAC. Suckas!

If only that were true.

Bobby Flay Cannot Aspic a Horse.

2010-08-24T16:26:00.001-04:00

Blue Eyes & I went to Saratoga this weekend, where it proceeded to piss down rain the entire time. Fortunately, it was umbrella giveaway day (golf-size umbrellas, not those cocktail-quality jobs you buy on the street for $5). Double fortunately, the Hampton Inn ("the new hotel in town", as about 15 people informed us) gave us Club House reserve seating for FREE!

Bottom Line: win some, lose some. But there was an interesting incident in the Fourth Race.

We noticed Bobby Flay had a horse in the game, and it was a favorite. Naturally we both put money on it. 5 min before post, when the trumpeter started up and the horses marched by, I realized this horse had no chance of winning. First of all, both the jockey and the horse were dressed like school crossing guards -- all yellows and fluorescent orange. Secondly, it was wearing a blinders. Fine, if you have a horse that prefers to get a load of the grandstands or the people mowing the infield while it's running, but in the pouring rain? "That horse does not wear that hat in the pouring rain and win this race," quoth I.

I was right. It lost.

"Hey Bobby Flay," Blue Eyes and I imagined yelling, spotting Chef Flay waltzing around somewhere in midtown. "You and your crossing guard horse owe me $10 bucks!"

Then Blue Eyes wondered aloud if horse meat would suddenly make an appearance on the menu at Bar Americain. I proceed to roar with hysterical laughter.

Even better? The horses' names. It's Tea Time upset Triple Cream. And the cow ran away with the spoon.

Shit You Can Say to Babies While You're Skyping With Them

2010-08-12T13:29:00.002-04:00

A helpful list of conversational topics.

1. Who's a big [girl/boy]?
2. Show me your teeth!
3. Where's [mommy/daddy/family pet]?
4. Patty cake, patty cake, etc.
5. Shake it! Shake it! Shake it! (encourages dancing and/or jazz hands)
6. Clap for [baby]! Yaaaaaay!
7. Oh, you're so busy, baby! Busy baby!
8. Where are [baby's] ears? (repeat with other facial parts)
9. Ahhhhhh BOO! Ahhhhhh BOO!
10. Say CHEEEEESE! (approach webcam with face while repeating - this generally gets a big laugh)
11. One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, etc. (present corresponding digits to the web camera while reciting)
12. Where's your [dolly/truck/favorite toy]? Show me your [etc.].
13. [For babies old enough to approach and stand at baby gates]
[Baby's] in jail!
[Baby's] allowed one phone call!
Where's [baby's] lawyer?
[Mommy/daddy] didn't read me my Miranda rights!
14. Do you want a cookie? Ask [mommy/daddy] to give you a cookie! (watch baby turn around in earnest at parent, start to melt down when said cookie does not materialize)
15. How big is [baby]? [She's/He's] sooooooo big!
16. Say bye-bye! Bye-bye, [baby]!

Above list applicable to babies 3 months to 1 year.

‘100 Questions’ About Why This Show Is Even On TV

2010-06-25T12:29:00.000-04:00

There’s something rotten in the state of Thursday night television, and that stink has a name: “100 Questions” – a laugh track bolstered piece of dreck that NBC has shoehorned into the 8:30 time slot that used to belong to ‘Parks & Recreation’. Let’s all hope this is just some creative summer scheduling and nothing more sinister, such as NBC pulling a fast one and replacing ‘Parks & Rec ‘all together because it’s (a) smart, (b) quirky and (c) laugh out loud funny – the perfect storm for cancellation, natch.

Generally I don’t like to dis television, mainly because there’s so much bad out there I wouldn’t know where to start (e.g. have I said word one about how I believe ‘The Bachelor’ is an allegory for the destruction of modern society?). But in this case I feel as if I must take fingers to keyboard and weigh in on my dissatisfaction with this new show.

Thursday night NBC television is generally very good, but a little bit like a hostage situation: if ‘The Office’ and ‘30 Rock’ lure you in, ‘Parks & Rec’ keeps you watching. I’m relatively apathetic toward ‘Community’, although last month’s paintball episode went a long way toward changing my mind (well, that and Joel McHale’s abs, but I digress). Besides, I’m generally too tired from the work week to be bothered to push a couple buttons on the remote and see what else is on TV. The Thursday lineup is satisfactory and has been satisfactory for a couple years now.

So why mess with perfection and shove this new “comedy” down our gullets? Because that’s what NBC does. They couldn’t find a home for it on another night, like Tuesday at 10:30, when I’m otherwise occupied with more interesting fare such as ‘Memphis Beat’ on TNT [Speaking of TNT, this is a perfect segue to the whole ‘Southland’ fiasco. That show, NBC’s first foray back into 10:00 slot long-form drama post-‘ER’, was SO GOOD I WANTED TO PUNCH SOMEONE. And just like that, NBC removed it. What did they put in its place? ‘The Marriage Ref’ – ostensibly to fill the gaping void that ‘The Newlywed Game’ left behind when it went off the air 35 years ago. Meanwhile, TNT gladly took NBC’s sloppy seconds and aired the full 13 episodes and then ordered up seconds. Its ratings are solid and people are happy it found a home. Well done, you NBC jackhammers. Did we learn nothing at summer camp?]

Anyway, back to ‘100 Questions’. After having watched the first episode, my overriding reaction was that it felt a whole lot like ‘Friends’, but wasn’t. It was ‘Ghost of Friends’. It was as if ‘Friends’ was that legendary high school football hero/prom king kid and ‘100 Questions’ was its dorky younger sibling. As if someone took the sitcom ‘Friends’ and put it through a washing machine – an industrial washing machine – and now all that is left is a stretched out, faded remnant of a formerly cherished piece of clothing.

The show’s similarities with ‘Friends’ continue: the funky, sizable New York apartment no character in the cast could remotely afford unless the show were taking place during the Eisenhower era, the smart alecky Chandler character, the Phoebe, the Joey. Everyone’s in their early thirties, unsuccessful at work and clueless in love. Apart from for some forced elements of pathos, it could be the same show. But it’s not.

It sucks.

A big part of the problem is the writing. As a self-professed writer myself, I’ll be the first to defend my brethren, but for this case specifically, I have to back away and cast the first stone. ‘100 Questions’ smacks of corporate whitewashing: either the writers wrote a pilot they thought the suits would want to buy, or they took a more interesting pilot and blanched it into something that looks like something else. Either case, the writers sold out and now we’re paying the price.

To say nothing of the “jokes”. Let’s analogize it this way: on ’30 Rock’, a joke will be hiding somewhere, and just as you’re rounding the corner it’ll jump out and kick you in the nuts. On ‘100 Questions’, the joke is standing directly in front of you waving its arms like an air traffic controller. Like, you know how when you’re driving down 95 toward Florida you start seeing signs for South of the Border? The joke experience on this show is just like that. “Here it comes…here it comes…here it comes…wait for it…and there it is.”

I’m going to refrain from ripping into the actors* since I think they’re okay, but moreso, I feel kind of bad for them. I lived in LA – I know the drill. You bum around testing for show after show, thisclose to going to network a million times, then you finally land a gig, but the gig is as appetizing as warm tuna salad someone left behind in the cafeteria. Two days ago. Provided they’re really lucky, the show will get canceled and the actors can start the whole process again (see: Mark Feuerstein). But if there’s ever justification for developing substance abuse problems, this cast gets a pass.

So I summarize: this new show? It’s so dreadful; I would rather watch back-to-back episodes of ‘According to Jim’. The episodes of ‘Friends’ in constant syndication all over cable? Well that’s just rubbing salt in the wound. NBC: for the first time ever, would you please justifiably cancel this crap sandwich and rearrange the Thursday night schedule back to normal^**?

* Sophie Winkleman, the lead actress, has a name that sounds like a character in a Beverly Cleary book. Apparently she went to Royal Shakespeare and has a bunch more theatre under her belt, though you wouldn’t know it from this show. She’s also Lady Frederick Windsor, but that information is superfluous. Anyway, I just wanted to say Winkelman.

** [Update] According to Wiki: “May 2009 the network announced that the show would debut mid-season in March 2010 on Tuesday nights at 9:30 pm, after NBC's coverage of the 2010 Winter Olympics was completed. However the show was later pushed back to debut on May 27, 2010, with the episode order reduced from thirteen to six.” [Ed: that’s not good. Maybe there’s hope after all.]

Daily Intel Quiz!

2010-06-11T16:52:00.002-04:00

I love this feature on NYMag.com. Of course, my liking or loving it has a lot to do with the person who’s the subject of the quiz. This week it’s Hamish Linklater, late of ‘New Adventures of Old Christine’ (the best thing about the show, really) and currently in Shakespeare in the Park. Again (I saw him last year).

Anyway, I thought a good way of burning up the next 25 minutes waiting for my vacation to start, I’d fill out the survey like I’m a someone, and more importantly, someone the reader actually gives a shit about. Here we go!

Name: Sally Blue Eyes (nee Tomato)

Age: 39 (for two more weeks)

Neighborhood: Brooklyn Heights

Occupation: researcher, blogger

Who's your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?

Lennie Briscoe, and by extension Jerry Orbach. I read somewhere that when he and Jesse L. Martin used to stand around the set between takes they - both veterans of the theatre - would sing showtunes together. If I had ever had the fortune to witness that, I would've turned into a puddle of goo.

What's the best meal you've eaten in New York?

The brasciole at Frankie’s Spuntino. Always the brasciole. Every. Time.

In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?

Try to make sense of raw numbers.

Would you live here on a $35,000 salary?

I did, back in the early ‘90s – and it didn’t end well.

What’s the last thing you saw on Broadway?

A View from the Bridge. This is a good time to give a little shout out to Liev Schreiber – hope he wins this weekend!

Do you give money to panhandlers?

It depends.

What's your drink?

Dirty Martini or Brooklyn Lager, depending where I am.

How often do you prepare your own meals?

A lot! Can I just say that I’m in love with my new All Clad 3 ½ qt. pot from Cook’s Companion? Thanks, Martini Tracey!

What’s your favorite medication?

Dirty Martini.

What's hanging above your sofa?

Two views of UVA, which will find a permanent home in Blue Eyes’ parents’ basement one of these days.

How much is too much to spend on a haircut?

Forget haircut. It’s the single process and highlight deal that will kill you. Also, the $70 I just spent two months ago was too much.

When’s bedtime?

After Chelsea Lately.

Which do you prefer, the old Times Square or the new Times Square?

Old.

What do you think of Donald Trump?

I try not to.

What do you hate most about living in New York?

Sometimes I get really fed up with someone ALWAYS being in front of you. In line, on the street, anywhere really. From time to time, I’m a person who needs to be where others are not, and NYC is a hard city to make that happen.

Who is your mortal enemy?

The MIT guys who play quiz at Last Exit.

When’s the last time you drove a car?

At my mom’s? A couple months ago, maybe?

How has the Wall Street crash affected you?

My 401K was illin’ for a little bit, but otherwise, no great changes.

Times, Post , or Daily News?

*snort* Please. The New York Times or nothing.

Where do you go to be alone?

Walkabout.

What makes someone a New Yorker?

That little heart skip you get when you come back to the city, no matter how long you’ve been gone.

On Changing One's Name

2010-05-14T17:04:00.000-04:00

I’m a Jennifer. The natural assumption is that I am – like so many of my generation – named after the heroine of the popular tear-jerker, Love Story. I am not; my namesake was just some kid my mom student-taught. We have a Polaroid of her floating around somewhere. In it, a seven year-old in a red minidress shields her eyes from the sun’s glare as she smiles for the camera, a hand on her hip validating the sassy personality to which my mother took a shine more than 40 years ago. I often put my hands on my hips while I make sassy remarks. I’d like to think this is not pure coincidence.

Because my name was #1 on the baby name popularity list up until the mid-Eighties, in school it wasn’t out of the realm of likelihood that I’d sit in a class with four or five other Jennifers. Indeed from high school through college at least half of my social group shared the same forename. Jenny, Jennie, Jen, Jenn: with or without one’s last initial attached, there are only so many iterations of Jennifer to go around. So we ended up calling each other by our last name; it was just easier for us to keep track of each other.

What Jennifer lacks in distinctiveness my maiden name makes up in spades. I’m a Blessman: German in origin and few in number. When I was a kid I didn’t like it, since the “bless” part made me an easy target for schoolyard taunting. Fortunately, you hear one Blessman joke you’ve heard them all. The teasing pretty much dissipated by second grade, but over the years other torments settled in its place, often in the form of epic misspellings. Despite my frustrations, over the years I gradually got used to and eventually grew to love my last name, kind of like an arranged marriage.

And now I’m letting it go. I got married at the end of March, and currently I’m in the process of changing my name. It wasn’t a decision I got talked into or that I struggled with at all. Nor was it a political statement or an indication that I’m not a liberated female. Call me old school if you want, I’m an old school kind of girl. It came down to simply this: I waited almost 40 years to find the love of my life – I’ll be damned if I’m not taking his last name.

I went about the process very methodically: SSN, passport, driver’s license, bank. So far, the change has been as surprisingly swift as it has been easy. What I wasn’t counting on was how, well, weird it is to see my new name in print, on an official document recognized by the US Department of State, no less. It’s even more jarring when it comes time to sign my autograph. The flow I’ve perfected between first and last names comes to a screeching halt mid-signature. I am once again a grade-schooler, learning to sign my name carefully in cursive.

I’ve done the legwork without incident; now every time I take my new name out for a spin my confidence plummets and I start to second guess my decision. Have I been too hasty? Can I stop the process? How can I possibly give up my last name? Blessman is my identity! Then I remember that the trepidation bubbling up is from the same person who wrote a blog under an alias, the blog her future husband read for months before contacting its author to go on a date. Identity is identity – it has little if anything to do with a birth name.

So I remind myself that it’s time to move on. As I sad as I am to leave Blessman behind, my melancholy is a little tempered by knowing that a new Blessman is in the world: my 7-month old niece Lila. Now she gets to struggle with the teasing and the misspelling and the random folks lighting up at the fortune of this child having such a blessed name. Now she gets to hate it, be baffled by it, intrigued by it and eventually fall in love with it, just like I did.

At our wedding, my maid of honor’s speech centered around an episode from our first week in college, wherein I lined up all the Jennifers on our floor and established nicknames for each. I ended with me, suggesting that everyone “Just call me Blessman.” Jenna finished her by reminding everyone that now that I’ve joined my life with my husband Marcus, I’m henceforth a Tonti.

After dinner, my friend Kathryn pulled me aside and very earnestly asked whether our friends indeed had to refer to me now by my married name.

“Of course not,” I replied. “I’ll always be Blessman.”

Sally, Sally, Married Gally + Bonus! Dogs as TSA Agents

2010-04-02T14:23:00.001-04:00

So here I am! Married! Woo! Details to come. But first a word about the new flight safety rules recently signed by Obama.

Pres. Obama: I'll tell you how to fix the entire security problem, quickly and cheaply, and devoid of human error.

It's called dogs. Dogs at the airport. You take out the xray machines, the security chuppas, take out the standing-around-swinging-their-dicks-around TSA goons and replace them all with dogs. Dogs will find trouble faster, and more accurately than the aforementioned band-aids we've been using since 9-11.

How awesome, really? You're killing two birds with one stone: reducing cost of operating the TSA, and getting valuable dogs out of the pound and working for a living. It's win-win, baby!

Dogs love jobs! Hire them!

A Listicle of 19 Things That Are Bothering Me, In No Particular Order

2010-02-24T15:11:00.001-05:00

Everybody is out to get me. It’s personal. It’s all about me. Of course it’s not. This is stupid and all these grievances (except one) in the grand scheme of things mean absolutely nothing.

So…. the purpose of the list is to present all the factors that are contributing to my overall crunchiness to the universe in an attempt to air, then exorcise them. Because right now? Today? I could not be any sicker with myself than I am right now.

1. My hair is gray. GRAY. There is no way around it. I have to dye it every four weeks unless I want to look like Joan Baez. FUCK.

2. And it won’t grow. Plus, this piece hangs down on the left side of my face always falling onto my lip glossed lips and sticking.

3. I am done with winter.

4. I am done with wearing a scarf. Frankly, it’s amazing that I haven’t yet:

a. Choked myself

b. Hung myself

c. Set myself on fire

5. My face is breaking out for no apparent reason. Not even hormonal. It has to be stress. But why would I be stressed? Oh right…

6. I am done with planning this wedding. And by done, I don’t mean ‘Woo, I’m done!’ I mean, ‘Stick a fork in me.’

7. I hate the people on the train in the morning that stand in the door and don’t budge.

8. I despise even more that no matter what time I get to the platform, there are four-five trains going in the opposite direction for every one going into Manhattan.

9. I’m extremely worried about my cousin’s health.

10. That stupid, locker room, low-ceiling shower of ours LOVES to run out of hot water mid shampoo.

11. Allergies. Yes, in the middle of winter. I look like I have pinkeye.

12. I haven’t gotten decent exercise for months.

13. My left elbow kills all the time. I know it’s probably caused by some ergonomic misfire of mine at my veal booth desk and I should go to the doctor, but I’m lazy.

14. My stockings have three runs in them, none of which I noticed until this morning.

15. Work is boring me.

16. Why won’t New Orleans vendors respond in a timely manner?

17. My purse does not quite work in my new bag – the straps are everywhere and keep getting snarled.

18. It’s going to snow AGAIN, which will undoubtedly impede Big Yellow Hair’s ability to get to PA in a timely manner for my shower this weekend, and probably delay my brother and his family on Friday. See item #3.

19. Why do people keep talking about McDonald’s at lunch when really the only lunches I’m allowing myself between now and the wedding are salad and soup? STOP TALKING ABOUT MCDO!

And so this is what they mean when they say that even the most even-keeled person freaks out the month before the wedding. “They” are correct.

Now, let’s put things in perspective:

1. I am incredibly lucky, period.

2. I have a fiancé who puts up with my craziness when I get all mental and crabby.

3. My bridal shower is this weekend, and even if a few fewer people are coming than planned thanks to the weather, it’ll still be a wonderful day.

4. The mere fact that Big Yellow Hair is even attempting to come to the shower is -- well, I don’t even have words.

5. I have a good job, people respect me, and I can make faces at my boss when clients piss me off and he laughs.

6. I should stop bitching about the subway, because hello, I live in New York City. Deal. Also, my commute is one stop. ONE. Is it the 2+ hour trek I used to do from Pennsylvania? No. So shut it.

7. Oh yeah! That mascara I bought yesterday is totally waterproof and lengthens! Even with allergy eyes!

8. That bag that my strappy purse sits in, annoying me? It’s Tory Burch. I LOVE it like I have not loved a bag in years. YEARS. The solution to my problem is simple – replace the strappy bag with one of my clutches so I can carry around the Tory and stop bellyaching every time I can’t locate my keys.

9. I fit in my wedding dress, with room. That was not the case when I bought it, so there.

10. My hair might be gray, but I have hair. And oh boy is this mop getting cut off after the wedding. I cannot wait.

11. I get to see the little Lilac this weekend!

12. This wedding, when all is said and done, will be the bomb. Dot com. I am really, really, really excited about it in the micro, and I’m really really really excited about spending my life with Blue Eyes in the macro.

So, I guess I just need to breathe. I will snap out of this at some point.

I really am done with winter, though.

[UPDATE: per the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse out there yesterday/today, my boss of all people just reminded me that it's probably a good luck charm for the marriage, even though it's really annoying. Plus, my friend Becki got married *in* a frigging March snowstorm and she's still happily married 15 years later, so I'm shutting up now.]

The Lila Show

2010-01-25T17:01:00.000-05:00

In case you kids didn't know, Sally's now an aunt. Niece Lila is a trip -- totally looks like my grandmother Rose and eats like my brother. So, so cute. Anyway, here's a little smidge of what's going down in the 4 month old's life:

Buddy: One of my recruiters just showed me a candidate who lives in....get this..... Budd Lake, NJ.
Sally: Home of cars at the bottom of the lake [ed: obscure reference to Anthony La Paglia movie: ‘29th Street’]
Buddy: hehehehehehe
Sally: How's that wee one? Getting bigger, I hear?
Buddy: Good. Slept 7 hours straight last night.....too bad it was from 7 to 2.
Sally: ha ha ha!.
Buddy: She's such a pain in the ass though. She'll sleep soundly if she's swaddled, but she's like Doug Fucking Henning. I'm going to have to get a straight jacket.
Sally: It’s like a library here and I just burst out laughing like a psychopath.
Sally: Check it out: her rap name should be ‘Lil Houdini’.
Buddy: Really. Schmoopie, who has had nothing but sweet things to say and always looks cross at me for making silly comments came down[stairs] in a huff saying "what a pain in the ass".
Sally: She's just taking a disco nap.
Sally: Let's get the party started!
Buddy: The funniest though was yesterday when I had her alone. She went totally ballistic right before I fed her and was insane. Maggie was shaking like a dog shitting bones, and wouldn't stop. It's like having someone with post traumatic stress syndrome living at home. You would think she was in Iraq, for christ’s sake.
Sally: LOLZ!!11!!1!!!!.
Sally: That dog kills me. She's so weird. Speaking of, bring her down for my shower.
Buddy: We will. Seriously though. I was praying Schmoop didn't come home. She always knows when I throw a fit by the dogs reaction, and I swear to god I did nothing [this time].
Sally: I think she'll be a happier dog when Lila gets older. This is just too much for the princess.

Hey, I Know It’s Christmas.

2009-12-15T16:45:00.002-05:00

It’s that time of year: try hard as you may, there’s no avoiding the sensory assault called Christmas music. And this is coming from someone who *likes* Christmas music. Unfortunately, however, there’s a massive difference between the delight of catching a pick-up jazz combo riffing on ‘Winter Wonderland’ in the Times Square Station and being forced to withstand Paul McCartney’s ‘Wonderful Christmastime’ while shopping for socks at Target.

Speaking of shitty Christmas tunes, I’ve been unfortunate enough to have one lodged in my brain for over a week now: Bob Geldof and Midge Ure’s insipid ‘Do They Know it’s Christmas’. “But it’s a classic,” you say. My 15 year-old budding liberal, snootily progressive self would agree, but my 39 year-old self, the self whose 15 year-old self had no idea she’d be forced to withstand this song at least a billion times in the subsequent 25 years, begs to differ.

Since I first heard it two weeks ago at the café downstairs, over and over the song plays in my head, as if I’m perpetually on line at the Duane Reade. Every attempt to get it out of my mental loop fails miserably: iPods don’t work, humming different songs doesn’t work. I would have to exorcise it from my short term memory bank, if not for just this year. But how?

And then, while washing my coffee cup out this morning, I not only sang the song to myself, I started to analyze the lyrics. I got half a stanza into it when I figured out that the entire conceit is patently ridiculous. “I could tear this thing to shreds,” I thought, while scrubbing the lip gloss marks from the rim of my mug. That’s when it hit me: it’s only when we actively engage with an incessant song loop does it disappear from our brains. Here is my big chance rid myself the demon!

I present to you for your consideration:

Do They Know it’s Christmas

a rebuttal

It's Christmastime

(No shit.)

There's no need to be afraid

(Afraid of what? The Grinch? Pedophile Santas? There’s no need to be afraid of anything at Christmas, except maybe a faulty strand of Christmas lights buzzing you like a jumper cable or creating a bonfire out of your dried-out fir tree.)

At Christmastime, we let in light and we banish shade

(This is scientifically impossible if Christmas falls on a day with more than 50% sunlight. Even if it’s winter, you usually can count on some shade. Hell, Punxsutawney Phil always sees his goddamned shadow.)

And in our world of plenty we can spread a smile of joy

Throw your arms around the world at Christmastime

(This would be a nice sentiment, if not for the 2/3 of the world population who don’t celebrate Christmas. Those people are a lot less keen on the idea of hugs and kisses in the name of a Jewish prophet, whose birth actually took place in June but moved to December by the Catholic Church in order to go mano-a-mano with the Pagan heretics celebrating the Winter Solstice. That’s not even touching the whole issue of “Santa.”)

But say a prayer

Pray for the other ones

(I don’t make it a habit to practice any of the rituals associated with organized religion. Also: you’re not the boss of me.)

At Christmastime it's hard, but when you're having fun

(That’s what she said.)

There's a world outside your window

And it's a world of dread and fear

(World poverty is shameful, but let’s remember there are a hell of a lot of starving people right here in the U.S.)

Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears

(Especially if they’re cutting onions, because holy shit, do my eyes water with the onion-cutting.)

And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom

(“Clanging chimes of doom”? Isn’t that laying it on a bit thick? What is this, a zombie movie?)

Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you

(Well, that’s a little crass, Geldof.)

And there won't be snow in Africa this Christmastime

(One would normally think it doesn’t snow anywhere in Africa; in fact, it does, but mostly in South Africa. There are even a few small ski resorts in Morocco, and even the Sahara has seen a few flakes fall, albeit for 25 minutes in 1979. But there ain’t no snow in Ethiopia this Christmastime or any other time.)

The greatest gift they'll get this year is life

(Oooh) Where nothing ever grows

(Erroneous. Why would agriculture be the root of Ethiopia’s economic base if nothing ever grew there? I would modify “ever” in this sentence with a more factual “in the past 18 months,” although they’ve had drought troubles before. That of 1984-1985 was compounded by the fact that the president wanted to spend money on defense [!?] rather than address the problem of feeding its starving, displaced citizens. So on that count, I could see where Geldof would want to increase media exposure to help out.)

No rain nor rivers flow

(This is the root of the problem. If you were writing an article about Ethiopia circa 1984, that would be your lede.)

Do they know it's Christmastime at all?

(Not based on the Western calendar [see reference to Jesus’ true birth month above]. Although about half of Ethiopians are Christian, they observe the day on January 7. So arguably, they wouldn’t know it was Christmas unless they had familiarity with the cultural and religious norms of the western world.)

(Here's to you) raise a glass for everyone

(Here's to them) underneath that burning sun

(What?)

Do they know it's Christmastime at all?

(See argument above)

Feed the world

(http://www.heifer.org)

Feed the world

(https://secure.unicefusa.org/)

Feed the world

(http://www.amnesty.org/)

Let them know it's Christmastime again

(What, airdrop a box of t-shirts misprinted with the World Series losers of 1993? – bonus points if you know which team that was – see above for more concrete ways of participating in ending world hunger, regardless of the time of year)

After all that media hoo-ha and the ensuing Live Aid concert [full disclosure: Sally attended], it’s interesting to note that famine scholar Alex de Waal argues that, "The humanitarian effort prolonged the war, and with it, human suffering,” although the citation comes from Wikipedia and the dude arguing the point has his own issues.

Also: this song is retarded.

And the Boobies.

2009-12-04T16:35:00.004-05:00

Things are moving along with the wedding. We have a date, places, airline tickets, hotel reservations, photographer, bouquet and officiant. We still need rings, music, suit, and license. To the best of my knowledge, we’re over the hump of nailing down the big stuff – now it’s all cake, so to speak. I realized for the first time the other day that I’m starting to have fun working out all the other details, now that the logistical nightmare part of things is over. I got my shoes, got my purse, and I figured out how I’m wearing my hair. I also found the perfect lingerie for under the wedding dress. Which, much to my persistent dismay, I learned I cannot wear with the wedding dress. Here’s why.

I had my first fitting last Saturday. Since I knew I’d be in PA over Thanksgiving, I called up the DB and scheduled some time with their seamstress. I got an Eastern European lady on the phone – presumably (and correctly) the actual seamstress – and soon found myself desperately trying to decipher her accent without asking her to repeat herself a thousand times. By the end of the 10 minute call, I guess I was amply satisfied that I had scheduled the appointment and had not inadvertently joined the Communist Party.

NB: Here’s when not to schedule a dress fitting: the day after Thanksgiving. I tried to walk off as much of the previous day’s excess at the mall as possible before my appointment. 3:00 rolled around, and Mas and I grabbed my bag o’dress and headed over to the World’s Sorriest Strip Mall (Sparkles Beer Store? Dollar Tree?). I weaved my way through the hoards of giddy bridesmaids trying on their polyester uniforms, ducked into a fitting room and put on my fancy new lingerie. Then I put on the dress, or rather, almost put on the dress. The lingerie expanded my waistline too much and the dress wouldn’t snap shut. Enough of it peeked through the bust and the back that I looked like I was wearing a girls’ undershirt underneath. The lingerie that I had spent $50 now served no purpose other than to mock me from the tissue paper-lined box in which it came. I would have to freeboob it, I cringed at the thought.

Fortunately, it was only the lingerie and not the Thanksgiving dinner that prevented me from fitting into the dress. I got it on fine and headed over to the alteration station. En route, the cap sleeves dropped off my shoulders and I tripped over the train three times. I had gone from Pretty Princess to Miss Havisham in mere moments. All I needed was a tiara dangling off a heavily-hairsprayed bun atop my head and some blue eyeshadow to round out the horrorshow.

Taking a step back, I soon realized (read: mas told me) all I really needed was a serious hem, bustling and an extra inch around the waistline. All of these concerns were parroted back to me in heavily accented English when Sofia joined us.

“Yas, the shoulders.”

“Yas, a hemming.”

“Yas, we do the bostle.”

“Yas, we take out a little so to can sit down on wedding day. And I think we put in some boobies in for you.”

She looked me up and down and then winked as if to say: Gentlewomen, we can rebuild her, then set about on her task of measuring, draping and pinning, all the while spinning me around like a lazy susan. I expected cartoon birds and chipmunks to appear out of nowhere, singing a little sewing song out of a Disney movie. Instead, I got my mom staring at me with her purse on her lap, her stern visage advising me against eating anything but beansprouts until the wedding, and Sofia, quietly mumbling to herself in Hungarian.

And almost as soon as she had started, she had finished. “I like your shoes,” was the last thing she said to me before disappearing behind the iron curtain of the alterations room.

I shuffled back to the dressing room where I quickly dressed and vacated the space for a belligerently impatient bridesmaid, then ducked my head into Sofia’s office. She pulled out her notebook to show me the list of alterations. It was time to get down to business.

“Okay, so the shoulders, I pull them up,” she started, pointing at each item as she went down the list.

“And the hem, also up.”

“And some of the bostle.”

“We take out on sides. That cost the most,” she said, circling the hundred plus dollar figure in red ink. Suddenly I rued every food and alcohol calorie I had consumed between dress purchase and this appointment.

“And the boobies,” Sofia concluded, finishing her litany.

I shuffled over to the register and wasn’t surprised to learn that everything Sofia had to do to rework my wedding dress would cost about the same as buying another whole dress. Lovely. Well, I guess it’s not as bad as it could be. I mean, I can’t walk into the wedding looking like Bride of Frankenstein.

APB

2009-11-20T09:14:00.000-05:00

So Sally's changing some things around. You'll notice she deleted her Tumblr account. Here's the problem - there are way too many ways of communicating these days and not enough to say. I still struggle with taking down *this* here blog, but something keeps me from doing it, so Tumblr went the way of the Desert Inn and Stardust in Vegas.

More to come. I swear. Okay, I hope to blog more soon!

Circus Wedding

2009-10-21T17:10:00.003-04:00

Sorry folks - been hard at work nailing down some of the deets to the wedding. Blue Eyes and I have been hard at work getting all the venues secured (locked down!) now we're on to the other ephemera, such as photographers, flowers, etc. (approaching lock down!)

Most of the legwork we've done ourselves, with some helpful hints from friends and friends of friends (thanks friendses!), but we've also approached the CVB and they've been nice enough to push out RFPs for some of the services. We've gotten pretty decent leads, however there are a few respondents who are just so not right (ed -- names have been changed to protect the innocent).

Case in point: for "entertainment" I've received proposals from some booking agent who works with a Caribbean steel drummer named Coconut Bob.

Just now I received an email from a guy called Dr. Amazin', a hypnotist who combines his unique brand of mentalism with "comedy and R&B". Why am I thinking Kanye wearing spinny spiral glasses? Apparently the good doctor is "everyone's favorite" so don't even try to book another hypnotist for your big day.

Last but not least, Blue Eyes found someone who may wind up officiating. It's mostly due to the fact that he's very flexible: the ceremony can be short or long, it can be religious or secular, top hats and tails or cutoff jeans, laugh riot or deadly serious. Best of all, he can do it at sea as well as dry land because he's a riverboat captain. I'm not sure how I feel about having the Captain of the Pinafore marry me to my beloved, but we'll work that out in due time.

Meantime, I have to figure out my flowers. If we go with any or all of the above, I was thinking about draping myself with the wreath they use at the Winner's Circle at the track.

Say Yes to the Dress.

2009-09-18T12:14:00.003-04:00

So this is what it’s like wedding dress shopping: hot, with lots of fabric. I though it would be more fun, like a movie montage, as my future sister-in-law offered. It is not, at least, not for me. After visiting three places, I think I’ve figured out why movies always have montages of women trying on bridal gowns: because the actresses are not so skilled at their craft that they can sustain more than 15 seconds of being corseted up and spinning around in tulle before they start throwing shoes and headpieces at the crew. That means the director has to chop the scenes up and piece them together in the editing room, like a smiley quilt set to music.

For me personally, here’s half of the problem: I’m no Heidi Klum. I have a long torso, short legs, and a bit more meat on my bones than is optimal to trying on samples that run about two sizes too small. You should’ve seen me at Nicole Miller Tuesday night: six times in a row, the poor salesgirl diligently (and laboriously) pushed and prodded my size 14 body into size 10 dresses. I was 5 lbs. of sausage getting squeezed into a 3” casing. I found a dress, believe it or not, but the chances of it being “the dress” are hampered by its material, which is a wrinkly, silky taffeta just this side of pewter. Big Yellow Hair’s comment is that my mom would probably run down the aisle after me with an iron. So that’s out.

The night before, I went to a bridal gown resale place in Chelsea. They had a surprising number of really nice dresses in my size either marked down from the designer, or “gently worn.” Trouble was, they were all so over the top with the pouffiness, in order not to trip I had to walk taking giant side-steps, like a speed skater. Could you just see me coming up the aisle, like on the opening credits of ‘The Monkees’? It didn’t help that the girls in the dressing rooms on either side of me were tiny Asians who probably weighed 85 pounds soaking wet. Both Size 0s stood on their little boxes, admiring themselves in front of the full mirrors, as I emerged in a dress two sizes too big for me, my hands out in front of me like a zombie so that the front of the dress wouldn’t fall off my shoulders. Godzilla takes The Bridal Garden.

The first place I went I actually found a dress, and barring something astounding happening at J. Crew next week, I think that dress might be it. Unbelievable, since that place was David’s Bridal, or The DB, as I’ve come to calling it. The DB is not the romantic dress shopping experience, The DB is the “I don’t know where to start” dress shopping experience. You walk in, register with the front desk, where you answer a bunch of questions about your wedding. This is important, because you better have solid answers about your wedding. I did not, and this annoyed my receptionist:

-- “When’s your wedding?”

-- “I think it’s at the end of March 2010.”

-- “You don’t have a date yet?”

-- “Kind of.”

-- “Okay. How many in your wedding party?”

-- “Just the one.”

-- “One what?”

-- “My best friend.”

-- “Maid of honor?”

-- “Yes.”

-- “Junior bridesmaids?”

At this point I’m thinking both “what’s a junior bridesmaid again?” and “what part of ‘just the one’ did she not understand?”

-- “No.”

-- “Flower girl?”

-- “No.”

-- “Will you be wearing a veil?”

-- “No.” I can’t deal with my own hair, why would I put more stuff on my head?

-- “Tiara?”

My face gave her her answer: Give me a fucking break.

Receptionist finally backs off and calls for a bridal consultant. Let me tell you right now: I was sweating this part. It being my first true attempt at dress shopping, I did not want some 20 year old cheerleading me through the experience. “That looks awesome! That looks awesome too! Everything looks AWESOME!” The fates were with me that day, because I got a no-nonsense woman in her late 50’s with a patient demeanor and an eye for what might look good on my body. In essence I got a duplicate copy of my mom.

We rifled through the racks of dresses my size and picked out a couple that I liked, that my mom liked, and that the lady thought might be good for me that I wouldn’t necessarily pick out myself. Again, let me stress the heat factor and the amount of fabric. Add to that, the soundtrack: whatever syndicated station they piped through the place focused on the greatest hits of 1983. The bizarre juxtaposition of trying on wedding dresses while grooving to “White Lines” made me feel like I was once again shopping for my eighth grade prom dress.

All the while, next door to me a young lady, whose wedding dress was a crimson bridesmaid dress, had herself in a fine fettle because she realized she was too fat for the dress she had already purchased. My poor consultant pinballed between us trying to talk both of us down from the ledge; me, because I was prancing around like an ass in the Cinderella pouf-pouf my mom had picked out, and next door because her wedding was in two hours (wedding FAIL).

The last dress I tried on was the one I wasn’t exactly thrilled about, because it had lace. I had fancied myself more a plain dress girl, but turns out the lace one really fit me the best. And it perfectly fits in with the New Orleans wedding that we’re planning. The consultant liked it. My mom loved it. And a 20 year old salesgirl working with another bride to be cinched it: “Ooh, that looks awesome on you!” So I think we might have a winner.

The whole experience has left me in a state of detached bemusement at the irony: after always being on the other side of the dressing room, sitting in the chair like a Bodhisattva offering my opinion about the dresses my friends try on, I finally get to be the Bride-to-be trying on the dress.

Except now I’d rather be back in the chair.

Ring a Ding Ding!

2009-09-14T11:50:00.003-04:00

Gotta love how Miss Farrell drunk dials Don the night after their parent-teacher conference. I think we're not seeing the last of her.

Oh! And here's a picture of Don about to smash Sally's face into corned beef hash.

I Heart 'Mad Men'

2009-08-31T14:51:00.004-04:00

For those of you 7 faithful readers of this blog, you will no doubt know that my favorite show in the whole wide world is 'Mad Men'. This season is no exception. I don't have a whole lot to say about it as we're only 3 episodes in, but I will as plot lines start unfolding a bit more. Meantime, here's a few words about last night's Kentucky Derby party and coinciding Roger Sterling weirdness:

Big Yellow Hair: So when we were watching MM last night and the blackface scene came on, we started hysterically laughing and I said to DJ DJ 'I HAVE to call Sally right now!' But we were watching it TIVO'd and I didn't really want to call you at 1:30 a.m. Then when I went upstairs to bed and checked my phone I got your text [which read simply 'BLACKFACE??!!!?!??!' --ed] and I realized that this is why we've been friends for 20 years.

Sally Tomato: [gets blubbery realizing it has indeed been 20 years] I'm laughing my ass off right now.

BYH: And I mean, come on, blackface? Matthew Weiner has balls, baby.

ST: Here's a small sampling of indignities - and this isn't even touching Don's compulsive whoring around...

1. Anonymous/spontaneous gay make-out session with bellboy
2. Drinking and smoking while pregnant
3. Pot-smoking in the office
4. Date rape
5. Betty has no problem with her kids playing with the plastic dry cleaning bag over their heads
6. Peggy flatlining: "I had your baby. I just gave it away."
7. Juvenile pickpocketing
8. Some NAMBLA shit with Betty and that weird kid Glenn
9. Admitted accordion usage
10. Grandfather making little Sally read aloud the racier passages of Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire' (penance for pickpocketing)

I mean come on, blackface is the least of it.

CALLED IT.

2009-08-21T12:17:00.002-04:00

Vineyard Countdown: Obama has a tee time with Vernon Jordan (big deal - Blue Eyes played with Jordan a couple years ago -ed). Sasha and Malia are going to the Flying Horses Carousels, home of the real brass ring (OF COURSE THEY ARE). [Boston Globe]

Only question remains -- is the dog coming?

Vacation, Vacation

2009-08-19T15:46:00.003-04:00

Did you ever feel like you need a vacation from a vacation? I do, often. And fortunately for me, this past weekend was just that. Actually, no, it was more like a vacation from the week between my vacations, which was mind-blowingly horrendous, work-wise. All I have to say is we got some unprofessional-acting bitches up in this place and I'm tired of being the referee. Thank God for small favors, all the hoo-ha ended a couple days before my latest sojourn.

Blue Eyes parentals live in Martha's Vineyard and we went to chill for a long weekend. Sally has a tough life, huh? I could write a treatise on how gorgeous the place is, how relaxing, and how I could seriously see myself living there (this is based on two summer jaunts and no winter reference points), but I'm still tired from a late Monday night specifically, and generally I've been boring myself to death. So here's the dreaded listicle:

1. I missed the Obamas by two days. Not 10 days, as I originally thought, TWO DAYS. I'm pissed. Not like I would've hung out with or even seen them, but call me nutty, I had fantasies of sitting next to them at The Black Dog and shooting the shit over chilaquiles and coffee. I would've offered to babysit the kids. I would've offered to walk the dog. Blergh.

2. Let me tell you about the size of the plane I took from Boston. Normally Sally's a pretty fearless chick - but when I spotted that 7-seater I literally gasped and held my hand to my heart.

3. At Logan during the stop-over, Blue Eyes got some Dunkin Donuts coffee. Some dude passed him in the hall and asked, apropos of where the kiosk was located, "Where's the Dunkies?" Lolz.

4. Apparently, we had 4 of Good Will Hunting's posse sitting behind us on the plane.

5. The ocean was clear as hell and I swam and swam until my little arms hurt. We saw seals about 30 feet from the shoreline, popping their heads up and checking out the beach. I got a little pink :(

6. We went early bird and hit the Grace Church lobster roll fiesta at 4:15 and there was *still* a line. Mmmm. Lobster rolls.

7. There are labradors everywhere on the island. Puppies too. I was in heaven.

8. We saw Richard Russo give a reading and a Q&A on Friday night. Fun, and stimulating!

9. There's a certain comfort-level I have with the people of MV: the ex-hippy, James Taylor-listening Uber Liberals. They remind me of an old neighbor who lived down the alley from our house when I was growing up.

10. Thanks to Blue Eyes' eagle eye, I now have the most awesome Vineyard/Obama souvenir t-shirt. You are all jealous of me.

11. I went kayaking around the lagoon which was fun, but a little stinky where we launched. The proprietor was a real character, and had a Frenchie named Betty who looks just like my dog-niece Maggie.

12. We looked at a venue for the wedding, which turned out to be not so thrilling, but cheap as fuck. Ugh. So now back to New Orleans or New York. We have to get on that soon. Anyone want to donate money to our cause? Because...

13. Then we went out to dinner at a place overlooking Menemsha harbor. Food was great and the view was stunning. *sigh*

14. Sunday came and neither of us wanted to leave. Saw Larry David in the airport. He's tall and walks like he has back problems. I was pretty meh about the sighting. Stanley Tucci would've been a lot more interesting to me.

So would have the Obamas.

The Vacation Bubble

2009-08-03T14:12:00.004-04:00

I just got back from a week vacation. After having spent a couple years in a row traveling, I felt that this year it was about time to do something truly vacationey, something involving minimal logistics (no flights), minimal activity, and lots of eating. Going "down the shore" suited my needs to a tee, and turned out to be more enjoyable than even my unnaturally high expectations had warranted.

We chose Ocean City, NJ because it's home. As Philadelphians, it's the shore point where my family went growing up. There's really nothing special or necessarily distinguishing about O.C. versus the other shore towns (except the fact that it's dry), and quite frankly we might have the same or better time in another resort like Sea Isle or Stone Harbor. But we chose Ocean City as much for the nostalgia factor as the comfort of knowing the place as intimately as our home town.

Of course, you always forget that your own nostalgia doesn't necessarily translate to others. My fever to eat Kohl's soft serve every night of the week was quelled upon the first lick of the stuff - it's not real ice cream, after all. And the magical boardwalk of my rose-tinted perspective came into sharp focus through the eyes of my fiance: it's kind of a dump. Still, after a good 15 years away from the place, its mysteries continue to delight me.

We walked the boards, played mini-golf, ate ice cream at least 5 times, slept in, got water ice on the beach, jumped the waves, walked along the shoreline, went for seafood, drove into Atlantic City, ate the Lobster Trifecta at Angelo's, sat on the porch, napped, read books and crappy magazines. On Tuesday I did a lot of staring. I allowed myself time to spend looking at the ocean, or watching babies busily transporting buckets of sand and salt water back and forth. I think it's important that everyone take the time to completely zone out, even if they look like they're an in-patient at a rest home while they're doing it.

There's something incredibly restorative about the beach. I can relax there like I can relax nowhere else. Maybe it's the metronomic lull of the waves washing ashore. Maybe it's the sea air. Maybe it's the fact that all I'm doing for 12 hours a day is sitting on my ass in the sun or under an umbrella, reading, walking along the shore, or jumping up and down in the waves. All I know is when the week is over, I feel as if all the fragmented parts of myself have been magically fused back together.

Above all, I managed to stay within the confines of the vacation bubble. Not once did I think about anything other than the here-and-now. No thinking about work drama, no thinking about wedding plans, no thinking about all the things that need attending to. It was just me and the sea. Same for Blue Eyes, whose priorities one day entailed nothing further than dinner and a round of mini golf.

I need to do this more often. I need to teach myself to live in the vacation bubble even when I'm not on vacation. Next stop, Martha's Vineyard!

All Around New York

2009-07-08T14:11:00.003-04:00

As we lumber through workaday life, sometimes we can't help but settle into a immutable pattern. For five consecutive days, we follow essentially the same routine as the day before: rise, commute, work, commute, a little dinner, a little TV, sleep. In fact, the French have a patented phrase en argot for this : "Metro, Boulot, Dodo," but I digress. Even in a city as grand and exciting as New York, it's easy to get stuck on the treadmill of trudgery. That said, living in New York, when you do manage to get down off the merry-go-round of monotony (I like alliterations - sue me), one often thinks "What the hell have I been doing with my life? I should be doing more of [insert fun activity here]!"

That's exactly how I reacted to the events that I've attended over this past week. Whether you're a resident or here on vacation, I suggest you...

1. See a show - that's what NY is good at. In the past two weeks I've seen 'God of Carnage' on Broadway and 'Twelfth Night' at Shakespeare in the Park. The former cost a pile of clams, the second was free (less the cost of standing around in the rain for two hours waiting on line). Both were fantastic productions that left me dazzled and in a mood to skip around like an 11 year-old.

2. Go to a museum. In case you've been living under a rock, there are an assload of museums in the city. There are ones you know (MoMA) and ones you probably have never heard of (The Rubin). There are little ones (Neue Museum) and big ones (The Met). There are ones dedicated to the city (The Museum of the City of New York) and ones dedicated to, well, a 15th century monastery in the middle of France. That's the one we went to, a.k.a. The Cloisters. Like most New York museums, they request a "donation" to gain entry, but you can pay whatever and everyone still wins (you're supporting the arts, after all). Take the A train up to 190 and walk straight through the park until you see the big chateau straight ahead. And because John D. Rockefeller was such a forward thinker city planning-wise, visitors to Fort Tryon park can enjoy pristine, unadulterated views of the Hudson and Palisades without being exposed to typical Jerseyness like smoke stacks and interstate offramps. I'll let the cute redhead docent Katherine tell you about the Cloisters; all I'll say about it is that it's worth the trip.

3. Go to a park. And I don't mean just Central Park (although I love that park -- LOVE IT). The city is filled with awesome parks. In fact, parks are one area in which the city knocks it out of the park (okay, that was lame). Walk along the Hudson on the Hudson River Park, stretching from waaaaay up Riverside down to the Financial District. Or kick it in a landlocked neighborhood park like Tompkins Square, where you can be entertained by Bongheads to the left or a dog run to the right. My new park of choice is The High Line, which just opened at the start of June. Here's the history in a nutshell: an elevated train used to run above Tenth Avenue years ago, which would bring meat to the meat packing district. It was abandoned after interstate trucking basically usurped the usage of train transportation for perishables, leaving an unused train track with mucho overgrowth on the far west side of Manhattan. In the 80's people got the idea to turn it into a park. Giuliani was a dick and said no like 100 times. Then Bloomie said yeah, why not, sounds cool. Edward Norton came to fundraisers looking cute and speaking on behalf of Friends of the Highline, and thus many rich people were happy to hand over some cash to the non-profit to make them a nice park. It's an amazing study in parkitechture -- it's a functional space, while retaining the look and feel of the abandoned rail line. And, you can sit in a space like a giant movie theater at 17th Street and watch cars go up Tenth Avenue. Also, there are a couple secret wooden chaise lounges with train wheels on them that roll against parts of the railway. All aboard!

4. Eat. I'm going to rue revealing this secret down the road a piece, but here it is: the Shake Shack at 77th & Columbus rarely has a wait at 6:00 p.m. Even for tables. Then walk a couple blocks to the south and stuff a Magnolia cupcake down your gullet. Chase with an Alka Seltzer martini.

5. Go dancing. Right now is the thick of Midsummer Madness at the bandshell behind Lincoln Center. For $15 you can take a dance lesson and then stay on to listen and/or dance to live swing, jazz and latin bands. Or you can just freeload in the surrounding area of the park and do all the stuff you can do on the dance floor. But there you'll miss the old guy in uniform (that he must've worn in the Crimean Wars) Lindy hopping with a chippy about a half-century his junior, or the middle aged ballroom dance couple tangoing in sequins, or any number of women swallowed into the vortex of their partner's repeated spinning. Leaving out the thumping and the body slamming and general hysteria associated with my dreadful dancing skills, there is something to be said for dancing cheek-to-cheek to Kermit Ruffins & the Barbecue Swingers, outside, under the stars, the moon casting a soft glow on the dance floor, Blue Eyes in my arms.

6. Run into somebody famous. Okay, I'm not sure if Pinch Sulzberger would be considered famous to anybody but New Yorkers, but it was a good, solid sighting. After Shake Shack I had wandered over to Dovetail to check out the seasonal menu, and when I got close I realized the scion of the New York Times publishing dynasty was sitting on the stoop waiting for his dinner companion. As I perused the menu, he stated that he loved the restaurant. I concurred, to which he responded "Well, then I will no longer preach to the converted." Because I suck (e.g. am kind of shy), I missed a great opportunity to pimp out Blue Eyes as the food critic to replace Bruni. Meh. What are you going to do?

New York is such an amazing city. It's also expensive as fuck, but if you look hard enough you can find fun, relatively inexpensive (or even free!) ways to amuse yourself. You can start by subscribing to all the hip e-newsletters, like GothamList or Manhattan User's Guide, or going right to the source (Bloomie!) by checking out NYC & Co. (it's not just for tourists),
just to name a few.

Of course, the best intentions ("We have to do one fun thing after work each month"), which I voiced to Blue Eyes last night will probably work out as hit-or-miss over the next 12 months, but I'm going to work like hell to hold up my end of the bargain.

I Can't Believe it's July.

2009-07-01T16:38:00.003-04:00

This is a mixed bag of crap because I do not have an attention span today.

Do you know what freaks me out? The fucking coffee maker at work. Apparently, this Flavia machine is sweeping the nation. Whatever happened to a pot of coffee sitting on a warmer all day, slowly emulsifying into an non-potable goo? This 'machine' has a screen that runs advertisements of itself while you're brewing your chocamochalatte or whatever the hell button you inadvertently pushed. It also makes "tea". You know what else makes tea? Hot water. So what the hell do we need this thing to make tea for us for? All I know is on the off occasion when I do stoop to using the machine, it explodes the packet of junk they're reporting contains "coffee" with such violence that I've taken to removing myself to another room while it's working, like a nurse in an X-ray room. Psychotic.

Anyway, it's July already, can you believe it? What are you doing for the long weekend? I am not planning much, honey. It might be looking a little like the Wizard of Oz up in the neighborhood this weekend because apparently a bunch of midgets (er - little people) will be hanging in the BK this Independence Day holiday.

Like art? Try this site. It's kind of funny and noirish. And racy, if hardware can be considered racy.

You know what's good? 'Twelfth Night' at the Delacorte (a.k.a. Shakespeare in the Park). Blue Eyes and I survived torrential rain to secure a spot on the stand-by line, and I have to admit it was TOTALLY worth it. The actors were great, the direction was spotless, the set pristine. I wanted to skip through the park and click my heels when we were leaving the production. So if you like to stand on line for long stretches of time, I suggest skipping Statue of Liberty's crown this weekend and try to get tix to the Bard. Culture yourself a little, for godsake.

Ciao xoxo

The Human GPS System

2009-06-23T16:33:00.005-04:00

I’ve never believed in fate. It’s implausible to me that God has a plan for each of us and as such, we are destined to go through life as automatons of His will. Where’s the fun in that? If you were God, wouldn’t it be more interesting (and certainly funnier) if you just plopped down a bunch of souls on the Earth, wound them up and watched them go? No, predestination never made sense to me; I’m more a student of chaos theory.

That said, I am disinclined to believe that our lives are just a cosmic mistake and that we’re destined for nothing greater than food for worms. My personal philosophy centers around speculation that we’re all inter-related at a microcosmic level. Quantum physics. Perhaps String Theory. I’m not quite sure how it works or the extent to which we can quantify it, but just like big-D “Destiny” doesn’t make sense to me, neither does ignoring the prospect that, at a molecular or subatomic level, there’s got to be some kind of something going on.

Call it what you will (my aunt likes to refer to it as Abundance): if you pay attention to the signs there’s evidence of its existence. Having a bad day? Spend the morning with a crabby countenance and watch how things will continue to snowball downhill until your head hits the pillow that night. Conversely, perform one small act of kindness and watch good come back to you tenfold. Because the ebb and flow of abundance is imperceptible, it’s often hard to remember it exists in the first place. Most of the time it’s as inaudible as the flight of a bumblebee, but sometimes it’s as loud as Bourbon Street on Mardi Gras Tuesday.

The latter, I will call Gut. Or Guidance. In a nutshell, it’s when Abundance tells you what to do.

People don’t listen to their gut enough in this society. I surely didn’t. I’m a math person, practical, an INTJ. I can always reason my way through a decision. Sometimes, though, too much reason can fuck you. It certainly did to me when I moved back to New York in 2004. In my frenzy to land a job as quickly as possible, I ignored my Dangerometer. I should have known before I even showed up for the interview that accepting a position working for Piranhahead would be a recipe for disaster. What about my boss’ brusque and suspicious demeanor – which I sensed during a telephone interview 3,000 miles across the country – made me think that working for her would be a trip to Disney World? I should have shelved the rationalization and gone with my Gut, the same Gut that was pleading with me not to take that job.

People won’t listen to their Gut, but they’ll follow the commands of a disembodied British person telling them how to drive to the nearest Olive Garden. I recently read an article in which a doctor imagines a world where humans have their own GPS system. “‘Take the job in New York.’ ‘Get the biopsy.’” Like, if we could magically turn on an internal Garmin we would know how best to live our lives. For me, the question is not whether we have a GPS; it’s whether or not we choose to listen to it.

In the latest issue of InStyle, Michelle Pfeiffer makes a seemingly off-the-cuff comment about her lack of direction. “I finally learned how to use the GPS in my car, and it changed my life. It took me so long because I have trust issues. I just didn’t trust that it wouldn’t get me lost. But I realized that nothing could get me more lost than me.” She’s speaking literally, of course, but I interpret her confession metaphorically: she’s finally learned to listen to her internal GPS.

I finally learned to listen to my internal GPS in late October 2007.

Some of my more tenured readers may remember that for about two years Gawker had a feature they called Blogorrhea, where they would link to posts from New York-based blogs. They featured my blog about a dozen times, and each time netted me a stable of steady readers. I also got a lot of free stuff: a bottle of wine, tickets to a musical, a shitload of Aveda product. I also got an email from the man who would later become my fiancé.

It was succinct, yet provocative. He had read my blog for a while and wanted to meet me in the flesh. Everything he related about himself was infallibly above board: his name, where he lived, where he worked. Whether or not I wanted to meet him in the flesh was entirely up to me. After ruling out that the writer could be a crazy sick lunatic commencing a career in serial killing, I gave it three seconds of thought before saying out loud to nobody: “Oh, who the fuck is this?”

And then a funny thing happened: my internal GPS turned itself up to 10 on the volume dial and screamed at me “DO NOT DELETE THAT EMAIL.” It was almost as if someone else was in the room with me – a life coach, Big Yellow Hair or my mom or someone – shaking me and yelling at me to just “PUT THE EMAIL ASIDE FOR NOW AND JUST THINK ABOUT GOING OUT WITH HIM, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY. YOU CANNOT CONTINUE TO BELLYACHE ABOUT NOT MEETING QUALITY MEN IN NEW YORK AND THEN JUST DISMISS THIS GUY OUT OF HAND. HE COULD BE THE ONE, FOR CHRISSAKES!” Of course, I really didn’t believe he was the one, but the possibility was there, the very remote possibility.

It was my Human GPS that’s what made me proverbially sleep on it for a day and then reply to the email that yes, I would love to meet a reader for drinks. Really, what did I have to lose? An hour and a half of my life? That’s not so bad. After all, the dude would pay for drinks. Well, now that I’m sitting here typing with a very pretty engagement ring in the shape of a daisy adorning my ring finger, you can guess what transpired on that first date. The details stay with me, but I will say that when I was walking back to the subway that night I caught my reflection smiling back at me as I passed by a store window. And I never smile after a first date.

After reading those two disparate articles mentioning GPS systems I was reminded of that October day I spent sitting on the big chair considering replying to the nice man’s email with a “thanks but no thanks,” but instead getting stopped by a voice or a force bigger than myself. If I hadn’t pulled my head out of my ass and obeyed Abundance, I’d probably still be spending weekends alone doing whatever I did, which wasn’t very important, fun or particularly memorable.

Sometimes I think about what a near miss life can be, usually in the context of the latest catastrophe: the people who were home sick the day the Twin Towers came down, the lucky ones who missed their connecting flight from Brazil to Paris. These are the happy examples, the people who escaped disaster unscathed. Less painful but far more tragic is the missed opportunity. The thought of not having Blue Eyes in my life because of my own short-sightedness is absolutely heartbreaking to me. Of course, if things had transpired that way I probably wouldn’t be cognizant of the heartbreak, I’d just wonder from time to time: what if…

But I can’t get too hung up on these morbid thoughts. Thanks to my internal GPS, I said yes to the date in October 2007, and yes to the proposal in January 2009. Now all that’s left is the happily ever after.

Outwitted in the Fashion Department, Part Deux

2009-06-11T10:54:00.004-04:00

FUCK.

[Sorry mom.] But seriously, fuck. I *just* went to the eyeball doctor on Tuesday (because I had to get them to fill out a form that says I'm not a Magoo so I can just send in my DMV renewal instead of having to take half a vacation day to stand around that hellhole = totally worth it!) and got two pairs of new glasses. I walked in with the intention of only purchasing a backup of my night driving/movie watching prescription, but lo and behold the eyeglass store was having a 2 for 1 so I decided to get a set of prescription sunglasses as well. In a fit of spontaneity, I chose a round frame.

What did my beloved Pat Kiernan choose to focus on this a.m. for 'In the Papers'? The Styles section in the NYT, touting the hot new trend this year: round sunglass frames.

Two days from an impulse purchase to 1,200 word coverage in the New York Times. Two.

I guess I could jump up and down for joy and exclaim that I am on top of the fashion curve and PEOPLE follow ME, but I must plead ignorance, just as I did with the Wellingtons. *I* chose round because I was feeling lighthearted and saucy and they looked cute on me. Not because I'm tragically hip. And not because I wanted to look like Harry Potter or The English Patient or that I give two shits what Marc Jacobs or New York Magazine says is "hot" (God help me).

Call me conspiratorial, but the writer must've been the dude who tailed me all the way from Clark Street to Montague and into the store. The guy who watched me juggle about 13 sets of frames in my precarious grip and systematically reject all but two of them as he waited his turn in the very uncomfortable guest chair. He couldn't write about the wire-rimmed glasses-glasses I picked from the Dolce & Gabbana line, he had to write about the round glasses that weren't even proper sunglass frames that I picked from from a non-designer line indigenous to Pearle Vision Center.

Yesterday I was congratulating myself for branching out of my comfort zone; today, thanks to this article, I'm cursing all the Williamsburg hipsters and Upper East Side mavens who worship the Gods of Fashion and will be sporting similar specs as they strut around the Hamptons or the Lower East Side this summer. I hope their skinny jeans give them a yeast infection.

I mean, what happened to the shutter shades of 2008 so popular with Kanye and the Cash Fan guy? What, they haven't yet migrated into the pantheon of American Classics?

*sigh* At this point, my hands are tied. For the remainder of summer 2009 I'll have to suffice to sport my ur-hip (now ur-played out) round sunglasses until they make way for the trendy sunglass frames of summer 2010 and I can finally wear them in peace. Until then, I'll have to take succor in the thought that -- bucking any fashion trend -- both pairs of my reading glasses are Cat's Eye. One even has rhinestones on the edges, just like those of the ladies of Mad Men.

Because cute eyewear is how I roll, goddammit. Despite what the stupid Styles section says.

PS: The graphic of those glasses above is not representative of my pair. Mine are cuter and less pretentious. I'm not an Olsen twin, for godsakes.

Sally, NyQuil and the After School Special

2009-06-05T16:24:00.003-04:00

I don't know what is wrong with me this year but I've been sick like 200 times since November. No, I'm not licking the subway pole, I'm just catching every foul microbe in the atmosphere. It's alarming, because I'm not even on the subway that much (1 stop) and I'm still getting colds every other week. Now it's June so I can't even blame it on cold season. Anyway, I was OK for a while until last weekend, when Blue Eyes got a cold. I shouldn't have caught it because he was very intent on keeping his germs to himself, but I thought he was so cute all sniffly on the couch with a blanket and I couldn't help kissing on him all weekend even though I knew he was a danger zone. So I caught his cold.

But I didn't admit it, because like Monica Geller, I never admit I have a cold until I'm flat on my back with the chills. Instead I toughed it out at the Yankee game Tuesday night (the one where the Rangers pitcher kept beaning Teixeira and then Burnett clocked Cruz and a day later got suspended for it), and when I came home I downed two knockoff NyQuil liquigels.

Apparently I showered, dressed, and got myself to work the next day, but I have about 5% recall of any of it. What I do remember is my system being so depressed I could hardly keep my eyes open, even in a meeting with my boss and my boss' boss where they were asking me about response rates and shit. Even though I had downed 2 coffees at home, one medium + espresso shot at work, then had two coffee machine coffees (and this was all before 11:30 a.m.) I could not wake up. I was in such bad shape, it was probably good that I went to work because otherwise I probably would have ended up taking the eternal nap. Okay, probably not, but it felt like it was possible. At the very least, I was thisclose to reinacting Shirley Maclaine's overdose scene in 'The Apartment', complete with the slaps.

In fact, I could've used a slap. I should've asked my boss to slap me before I went into the Big Meeting. That would've been funny, especially since the walls are glass and everyone would've seen him slapping me. But it's not April Fool's.

My point is: if you feel like economizing with the no-frills NyQuil? I would stick to just the one pill to start. This is exactly why I don't like to take OTC medication. Gah!

The Gams of Summer

2009-05-28T13:25:00.003-04:00

I have a problem. It's called my legs. Specifically? They're pale. Not the pretty alabaster pale like Nicole Kidman's coloring, but the wan, anemic pale of someone locked away in prison for the past 12 years.

Are you familiar with the comic stylings of Jim Gaffigan? (Probably not). Do you watch 'My Boys' on TBS? Gaffigan's the big Scandinavian-looking guy who plays PJ's brother. My legs look like him. "He's so pale..."

Here's the issue: I'm going to a wedding this weekend and I want to wear a dress. Dress with no pantyhose because Sally DOES NOT DO PANTYHOSE. This wouldn't even be an issue except recently I happened to get a good look at myself in a full-length mirror and realized I have a farmer tan from New Orleans (yes, I vacationed there again - no judgment) yet my legs are so white they look like they've been wrapped in gauze. In short, I needed to find a solution to my diaphanous gams if I wanted to wear a dress to the wedding.

So I bought self-tanner.

No, my legs are not zebraed with orange streaks, no my hands do not resemble those of an Oompa-Loompa. Because while Sally is often ditzy, self-tanner has been on the market for years now and I'm not a fucking moron.

Here's the prob: although I'm on Day 5, my legs look like they're still on Day 1. Still, the tanner has tinted my legs ever so slightly enough to amplify the mess of bruises I have all over my shins from tripping over my suitcase on the jetway of the plane to New Orleans. Now I look like a palish victim of domestic abuse.

I didn't think it was possible, but this morning I realized my legs look worse than they did a week ago.

Stuck, I did what any reasonable adult would do in this situation: I bought a new dress for the wedding, one that reaches mid-calf. Covers the bruises, camouflages the color. So nobody at the wedding will be the wiser.

Except Blue Eyes, of course.

Curse of the New Manager

2009-05-13T15:48:00.000-04:00

After being unceremoniously laid off last November, I was out of work for about 3 months. Three months is bad enough – three months in the dead of winter is a recipe for suicide. Fortunately, there were three lights at the end of the tunnel in the form of (a) a gigantic, glinting engagement ring (January) a bartender-friend calls “the disco ball”, (b) moving in with Blue Eyes, and (c) starting a new job with the director-level title I’ve been campaigning for for years.

It’s gone quite well so far, except for a few snags, like learning a whole new industry, figuring out how to move an entire customer service and billing department over from an acquired company, and the personality quirks of my direct reports. To wit: in the course of the two months that I’ve been working here, the following incidents have transpired:

One took a week of vacation, then didn’t show up for the a couple days after – no phone, no email. When I asked her what was up, she said a “week” was 7 days. I informed her that a “week” was 5 business days.
Not a direct report, but this person – key in our department – quit in middle of meeting. Boss: “X, will you please go to this trade show in June?” X: “Oh, I’ll be long gone by then,” his exact words.
One junior-level person was openly insubordinate to my boss, the VP
Another, I have to discipline when I get back from vacation because of her fucking outfit today. She’s wearing harem pants with the sides open. Let that sink in a moment, kids. I’m not even going to make a joke here because there are so many, my head’s spinning.
And…I had to excuse one of our temps today because she was coughing like Typhoid Mary, yet refused to go home.

This is undoubtedly the weirdest place I’ve ever worked. I can’t wait to see what happens next.

The Blushing Bride to Be

2009-05-08T14:39:00.010-04:00

Okay, kids! Here's an update from Fianceville. Actually, I hesitate to blog about my fabulous life now that I’m engaged. Not that I have a problem blogging about wedding stuff per se, it’s just that don't want to turn into that girl. The bride. Bridezilla. Bridey. Fuck Bridey, is usually how I react when realizing the subject of a much loved personal blog has wandered into smug married territory. Call me The Anti-Bride.

Rule #1: to all the single ladies, ears up: don’t ever bother getting jealous or rueful of your single status because planning a wedding is a pain in the balls. It's not that it's particularly hard; it’s just that there's so much to consider.

How many people? Who’s A-list? Who’s expendable? Then you start feeling all bad about the expendables. Like, these people are expendable and they don't even know it. Soon, you're acting like a CIA agent who has to kill one of her coworkers. They're just pawns. PAWNS IN THE GAME!
Where are you having it? Local or home of the bride? Home of the groom? Destination wedding? Elopement? Zeppelin?
What will the ceremony be like? Religious or not? A friend ordained on the internet? Elvis impersonator? Marty Markowitz? (actually, Marty, if you're reading this, we'd love you to officiate)

And then there’s the reception…

Are you having a traditional reception following a wedding ceremony? Something small followed by a bigger bash? Cookies on a plate in the church basement? Passing around a 40 of Old English then going to the tracks to shoot some stray dogs? (this is actually a thing -- story to follow in a subsequent blog)
What are you going to eat? Are you okay with a buffet, or do you prefer seated? You can be cheap and do passed hors d'oeuvres, but you might incite a riot if you don’t tell people ahead of time. Catered by In-n-Out (that's actually a thing too, read it in one of my bridey magazines)
Do you use a space and get the reception catered? Have it at a restaurant? If you do it in a restaurant it can get pricey. If you go somewhere that's not a wedding factory and get it catered, the price doesn't stop with the food. There are tables, chairs and linens to think about. Who's setting up and breaking down? How are the flowers getting there? Are you having an open bar, cash bar or are you bringing in your own liquor? How will the liquor get there? IS THERE ENOUGH LIQUOR? GAH!@%&$^@#@!

And all these elements are interconnected: you really can't decide where to do it without knowing who’s coming, but you can’t know who’s coming until you’ve figured out how many people you can have without breaking the bank…etc. etc.

Aren't they supposed to take girls aside in junior high school and let them in on exactly what's involved? Because I must've missed that day. When, after about two weeks of very casual discussion with Blue Eyes I started to get a sense of all the moving parts, it was a total and unpleasant surprise. Honestly, I'm not a bridey person to begin with. The Cinderella fantasy with little birds and mice making my dress and planning down to every last detail is so not my style. Not that I don't care; I’ve always had an idea in my head how I might want it to look, but that idea is more kegger-in-the-park-with-barbeque than Princess Diana’s wedding. Basically, I just want to be able to show up in a pretty dress and get my eat and drink on.

That said, now that I am familiar with all the hellish little details we have to work out between now and next spring, all the little wedding factories I used to scoff at are now looking really good. Here are a few that have sparked my interest of late:

The Grand Prospect Hall

A NY1 advertising regular, I swear I’m going to this Brooklyn event space and begging for a tour from the (Armenian?) husband and wife proprietors just so I can see them put their arms up in a sweeping motion when they show me the main room. “We make your dreams come true!” How about my dream of becoming wildly rich overnight? Can you make that dream come true?

Astoria World Manor

Sapphire Room, anyone? Even though my fiancé is of Italian extraction, even he’s not Italian enough for this place. At the very least, my hair would have to be bigger to qualify. I only wish they had kept the façade like they did in the 60’s. And made it a drive-thru.

Snuffy's Pantagis

Any place called Snuffy’s sounds classy in my book. According to cousin Kristy J, their specialty is the flaming Baked Alaska, which apparently is the piece de resistance of any reception. People actually book their receptions because of it. But it’s strange - they wheel it out, then you never see it again. It’s like ice cream in flames is the floor show but no one ever gets a piece of the dessert. Intriguing…

Terrace on the Park

What a better way of spending the most important day of your life than in a weirdly-designed high rise overlooking the rotting chrome in Flushing Meadows Park left over from the World’s Fair in 1965? The only thing better is if we could get buzzed by commercial aircraft flying overhead. Oh wait – it’s right next to LaGuardia. Done and done!

And then again, even if we run away to New Orleans, there’s always this place.

PS: Sally is taking any and all wedding advice! Please leave a message for her in the comments section.

Over the Shoulder...

2009-05-01T19:41:00.002-04:00

I realize the serious dearth of posts is annoying the few readers I have left. Well, happy May! I present my readers with a new blog post. It’s regarding a subject near and dear to both my male and female audience. Ladies and gentlemen...Bras!
----------------------------------

Tuesday night I bought some new bras. At Victoria’s Secret, no less. Now, normally I wouldn’t be caught dead in that store. My general opinion of the Pepto-Bismol-colored boutique is that it caters to the slutty of taste but large of pocketbook. It was fun for about 15 minutes in 1990 when I bought a sexy cami for a college date that never materialized (okay, maybe I have more negative associations with VS than just their styles and prices), but once I entered into my 30s, I quickly relegated it to amateur league.

Unfortunately, the one thing that Victoria’s Secret does extremely well is bras. They may be pricey, you may have to put up with life-size cutouts of the uber-overbranded Heidi Klum at every turn, but when it comes to the basic bra, Victoria’s Secret can’t be beat. Those bitches got some serious engineering in ‘em.

So I have these two bras; we’ll call them “I Love This Bra!” and “Fuck You, Brastraps!” ILTB is on its last legs, and every time I wear FYB for more than a half hour I want to throw it into the East River. Just go get some new brawls, Sally (you say, in a faux southern accent). Ah, but it’s not that simple, kids, for unless you are a lady yourself, you do not know the ninth circle of hell that is bra shopping.

At this moment, all the men out there reading this are like “Whaaaaa? I thought you ladies love trying on bras! I bet you go to lingerie stores to try on stuff for the fun of it all the time. In fact, we are sure you are naked and having pillow fights in the dressing room!” Well, we might make like the experience is sexy and enjoyable, especially when the guys are the ones laying down the Visa card. But hear this: when girls talk about bra shopping, we’re not talking about picking up some matching La Perla lingerie that looks like flower petals to take on vacation, nor are we talking about slumming it at Fredericks of Hollywood to turn on our boyfriends for their birthday. When we ladies talk about bra shopping, we’re talking about locating and purchasing one of the two basic constructs of female clothing: the workaday bra, or the Jockey shorts of female undergarments.

The problem with bra shopping is that there are too many variables. There is the chest size: 32 thru whatever. You think you’re a 36 for your whole life and then one day you realize all those croque monsieurs at lunch have led you down the garden path to a 38. There is the cup size: A through E, sometimes bigger. Depending on the manufacturer or time of the month you might vacillate between two sizes. Then there is the type of cup: full, demi, padded. Straps: no straps, big straps, racerback. Cut: low cut, regular cut, straightjacket. Don’t even get into the lace/no lace quotient. That’s just aesthetics.

The second problem is that there are too many makes and models. All I knew when I walked into Victoria’s is that I wanted a bra just like I Love This Bra! because it fit well, didn’t make me look like Anita Bryant, and the straps didn’t slide down every 15 seconds. Of course, like your favorite lipstick shade, they no longer make it. So, I grab the first person I see with measuring tape draped around her neck. I tell her I need the closest to X model there is, in size Y, cup Z. She brings it to me. It doesn’t fit. I’m standing in the dressing room, my wrap dress hanging off my midriff, the overly snug satiny bra choking off any blood flow to my chest area. I now foresee the next three weeks of my free time being consumed by the fruitless hunt for the perfect brassiere: just what I did not want to have happen.

Fuck, I’m going to have to go to Macy’s. If there is a fate worse than bra shopping, it’s bra shopping during a Macy’s sale. Then cost enters into the equation, muddying the entire experience and stealing your focus from the ball. You’re into the whole “Well, this bra doesn’t fit, but I can get four for $8.00!” and next thing you know you have 26 bras that you hate filling every bit of empty space in your dresser, and you’re too proud to throw them away.

Original salesgirl must have caught sight of my desperate countenance because next thing I know three other measuring tape-clad chippies come marching into my stall with about 100 different models. “This one’s the Biofit!” “Biofit,” sighs my original salesgirl, as if it were the George Clooney of bra styles. I take a look before trying it on. It has padding. We’re not talking about padding like it’s a little help for the A cup, we’re talking pushup padding for the already nature-enhanced D cup. This is another problem with bras, they’re designed counterinutitively. The bigger you are, the more they pad the bra, exactly what a big-breasted woman does not need. It’s kind of like clothes designed for larger size women – why do designers always use the most obnoxious patterns and sprinkle sparkly shit all over the place, when all BBWs want is clothes that look nice? I hand the Biofit back to the salesperson.

“Here’s the Ipex,” another dictates, shoving it practically into my cleavage. That one sounds too much like a species of wild mountain goat, so I throw it aside. A salesgirl with a pixie haircut, seemingly still in high school hands me something my grandmother would’ve worn – the stuff of legends – a bra with enough fabric to swaddle an 18-month-old baby. For the record I’m a 38C. Not big, not small. Yet, these ladies might as well be handing me Madonna’s cone bra from the Vogue tour. I shoot pixie my best smoldering look and three dematerialize faster than my 401K.

While they’re out of my personal space, just for kicks I put on the granny bra. Not only does the rear closure take up the better part of my back, the hooks are like they were pried off a chain link fence. And the cup? Now, my breasts are sizeable, but they were positively swimming in this model. A few shoves here and there and I work out that I could get at least two breasts in either cup. I start laughing at the visual when the head saleslady, who uncannily resembles a pre-surgical Star Jones, barrels in.

She has one – yes, just one – bra in her hand and in her lilting Caribbean accent she demands me to take off the granny bra and bend over. “You drop them into the bra,” she explains. Like a B52 bomber, I finish the thought. I lean over, plop them in, she fastens me up. I stand erect and get a load of my secured self in the mirror. Gigi! While you were standing on the brink...

I take one in dark chocolate and one in nude.

The third problem is the fucking price. As I get dressed a steal a look at the price: $45.00. Forty-five dollars is a pair of shoes. It's practically half a dress – a nice one – at Bloomingdales. It's dinner at Frankie’s, with booze! I shuffle over to the cash register, hanging my head at the prospect of having to pay a C-note on two stupid bras that I’m just going to have to replace in a year anyway. Is there no justice?

There is. They were on sale.

Usually, I end my stories with a moral, but there is no moral, there is just the bra and the bra shopping. And even after a sale and perfect fit, I still would rather be waterboarded than have to do this again anytime soon.

What Can It Mean?

2009-04-03T13:13:00.002-04:00

I had that recurring dream again where I'm babysitting the Obama girls.

It's the same thing every time: I'm watching the girls at the White House. Michelle comes home from some event (Barack's never there) and asks how they were. I reply "Well, Malia was fine, but Sasha was a pain in the ass."

I don't know why I keep having this dream or what sets it off. I've had it at least three times since Barack's been elected, which averages out to once a month.

All I know is, if one day out of nowhere I get a call from Michelle asking me to watch the girls for a few hours, I will not be surprised.

Long Time No Post

2009-03-13T15:09:00.003-04:00

So wow, it’s been a while. And it’s not like I haven’t had a lot to post about, it’s just that – well, things have changed, people. For the better. Much better than earlier this winter when I was Sweatpants Girl, at one with my big orange chair 24/7, on the computer furiously searching for jobs, collecting unemployment and feeling generally depressed and feeling very much the loser. In fact, I was seriously envisioning that within a month or two I would morph into a Kensington housewife (Kensington Philly, not London – BIG difference), rolling around the neighborhood in a housecoat and slippers, sporting a greasy ponytail, roots in dire need of a dye job, watching insipid talk shows and drinking Miller Hi-Lifes for breakfast.

Then, just when I was at my worst, I got proposed to. Within weeks I moved the fuck out of the UES and left my horrible bathroom in the dust for the greener pastures of Brooklyn. And now, just this Monday I started a new job. So instead of Kensington Housewife, you have That Girl, running around the financial district with a big, shiny engagement ring on her finger, clad in her sexy yet professional black wrap dress, roots dyed, taking meetings instead of watching TV and drinking coffee and eating croissants for breakfast, which she shares with her sweetie before going to work. Life’s funny that way.

But it took a little while to get here, even between the proposing and the moving and the job-getting. I’ve been not working for a while, which leaves plenty of time to contemplate things and here’s one thing that I’ve learned in the past couple weeks: everybody loves a love story. Long story short, I had to break my lease to move to Brooklyn. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, since I’m a good tenant and my apartment was in a desirable location. But the economy being what it is, the managing agents are a little less lax on the lease breakage than they have been in the past. So I called up my contact and told her my whole sob story: I have no job, no money and I want to move in with my now fiancé, since he just proposed. Now, both she and I expected the manager to play hard ball and be all New York(1) about things. He did not. He let me go with impunity, as if I were a first time offender being released on early parole. Okay, good. Hurdle #1 complete.

Next, I had to move. Like any other mammal with opposable thumbs and a pulse, I hate moving. I wanted to get things done as quickly and inexpensively as possible, so I foraged for boxes (2) and scored all but one from the apartment down the street. Then I called up what appeared to be the most inexpensive, no-frills moving company I could find with a relatively reliable reputation. I have no qualms about pitching COLLEGE EDUCATED MOVERS in this here blog, because they were fantastic. Quick & dirty, didn’t break my fragile things (including my beloved cookie jar, Cookie Time), fun, smart, and let me ride in their truck. Even getting started a little later than I wanted, I was in and 20% unpacked within 2 hours. Hurdle #2 complete.

Then, I had to remove a sofa that should never have fit in my apartment to begin with (previous movers shoved it through a window), so I called my super and asked if he knew anyone with a chainsaw (!) and this is what happened: he said he’d take care of the sofa. For free. And then he wished me good luck with the wedding. Hurdle #3: complete.

Honestly, just when you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that life in New York is too irrationally hard to sustain, too expensive and too anonymous, just when you’ve inured yourself to the constant beatings and abuse, someone comes along and restores your faith in humanity. Sometimes I don’t know how to react to those nice people: when my ex-super offered to chain saw my sofa and get it out of my apartment for no cost, I just about burst into tears with gratitude.

So now I’m in Brooklyn, wading through boxes and getting myself organized in between remembering what it is to go to work every day and be a grown up. Getting myself on a schedule, learning a new job, sticking to a budget, negotiating the finer points of sharing a living space with someone – these are all challenges. Good challenges, but challenges nonetheless, particularly when one has spent the better part of their adulthood living alone and only reporting to herself. But I’ll tell you something – it’s all made worth it when I’m sitting on the sofa reading and hear the happy zip of Blue Eyes’ key in the door.

(1) Anything normal or easy everywhere else automatically gets a 150%+ annoyance tax when done within the limits of New York City

(2) Ed note: Fresh Direct boxes – all three sizes – are fucking AWESOME to use for packing. They’re great for breakables and books.

19 Cranberry Street, Brooklyn!*

2009-02-25T19:37:00.005-05:00

Well, ring-a-ding-ding: this here's post #350. What better round number than to inform my loyal readers that I am evacuating my dingy Manhattan digs for greener pastures - namely my fiance's apartment in Brooklyn Heights! Yes, yes, I am leaving my horrible bathroom high and dry for the next customer and relocating to the BKLYN, to a bathroom marginally larger than this one, but hey, what can you do.

Two major occurrences happened at the same time to move me forward on this crazy spaceship I call my life: (1) I got engaged (!), and (2) due to unfortunate not-working situation, I finally ran out of money to pay my rent. So Brooklyn, here I come.

Truly, I'm going to be much happier there. It's quieter, I like the people better, particularly the person who did the proposin'. I always joked that his place was my summer home, and now I get to live in it full stop. It's kind of like that line in 'Prelude to a Kiss' (and I'm paraphrasing): "From time to time, I stopped home to see if my view of the air shaft had improved, but mostly I found myself at Rita's, until one day all my clothes had permanently found their way to her place."

So, yay! Except I hate moving. Except that that part's almost over and now I just get to reap the rewards of connubial bliss.

*That's not my new address - it's the address (real) of the house in 'Moonstruck' (real), and just down the street from me. See? It all circles back to movies with me.

Separated at Birth?

2009-02-03T12:48:00.001-05:00

Just sayin'.

No Substitutions.

2009-01-27T16:14:00.002-05:00

I like to cook. I grew up at the apron strings of my grandmother and mother, both of whom are very talented in the kitchen. Maybe my grandmom was more a baker than a chef, and maybe she wasn't the most imaginative when it came to Sunday night dinners, but both she and my mom instilled in me the basics, or the commandments of cooking -- the most important of which is to follow the recipe.

In my personal life I tend to live by the credo that you have to first learn the rules in order to break them. Thus, for about as long as I have been unsupervised in la salle de cuisine, I have rarely followed a recipe to a T. I use them more as a guideline. Sometimes it works: in the case of my lemon/broccoli pasta, by adding the grated, fresh lemon zest directly to the vegetable, I was able to substitute the boring butter sauce with an alfredo and avoid curdling. In turn, the lemon woke up the flavor of the broccoli to delightful effect.

On the other hand, sometimes it doesn't work. Case in point, when I decided to surprise Blue Eyes one night with a New Orleans-inspired dinner. That night, like Tom Hanks' chant in 'A League of Their Own' ("There's no crying in baseball,") I learned the hard lesson: there is no roast beef in muffalettas.

Now, in my defense, any New Orleanian or Neworleansophile knows as well as they know their times tables what comprises a muffaletta. They also know that although there is variation on the theme, it mostly focuses on the composition of the olive salad or the bread, but not the meats. NEVER the meats. I didn't know that because I never got around to having one when I first visited in December. What little I did know about a muffaletta made it sound like the Louisianan version of a hoagie, and sometimes hoagies have roast beef. You see where I'm going with this.

I soon found out how wrong I was. Blue Eyes bit into my homemade delight and immediately furrowed his brow, sensing something nefarious going on between the slices of bread. He asked what I had chosen to populate the sandwich and I rattled off the usual suspects of Italian meats and cheeses, then added that I had thrown in a little roast beef to round things out. "Oh," he replied, oozing disappointment.

I had gotten it wrong. Dead wrong. I blamed my ignorance of the food and me trying to fuse together two disparate recipes, one of which was attributed to Bobby Flay. Blue Eyes, for his part, patiently finished the sandwich and sung its praises to the extent to which he could, while ultimately questioning its viability as a true muffaletta.

Cut to two weeks ago when we happened to catch an episode of Bobby Flay's 'Throw Down'. For those of you unfamiliar, Bobby Flay has a show on Food Network in which he challenges various chefs around the country at a shot of outwitting them on their signature creations. Falafel? Fine. Fish tacos? Doesn't matter. Bobby thinks he can do it better. 9 times out of 10 he loses, yet week after week he continues prancing around the US trying to outdo everybody, which says as much for his doggedness as his delusion. On a chilly January night, Blue Eyes and I got our just desserts when we tuned into Throw Down to see the challenge city was New Orleans. The food? Muffalettas.

After my own debacle with the sandwich I was hoping against hope that Flay would inject a healthy hunk of red meat into the dish. I wanted him to stuff an eye roast of beef -- no, prime fucking rib -- in that bad boy, but unfortunately, the only thing he played with was the olive salad. Pussy. It seemed as if even Bobby Flay knows the cardinal rule of muffalettas.

Well, what can I say. The sandwich's integrity may have been compromised, but it was damn good regardless. So maybe the lesson is that straying from a recipe may not always improve it. Or maybe it improves it so much that a new name is required. Like muffasub. Or hoagieletta. Or maybe I should just follow directions.

How to Get an Inferiority Complex in 5 Easy Steps

2009-01-21T14:19:00.002-05:00

1. Go home for the weekend.

2. Go out to dinner. Listen politely as mom casually mentions - in the context of nothing - that Sanjay Gupta (recently shortlisted for Surgeon General within the Obama administration) is "your age, you know."

3. Have a glass of wine while watching 'Iron Man'. Sit in stony silence as mom offhandedly, and out of nowhere, does the math on Michelle Obama's age relative to yours during the climax of the movie. "She just turned 45? She's only 7 years older than you. Huh."

4. Cook up a breakfast of eggs and Taylor pork roll while watching 'Meet the Press' (in this case, I asked for it). Shoot mom an icy glare when she recalls me talking about Big Tall Dave my first weekend home freshman year. "You girls, you didn't take him seriously and now look where he is. You could've married him."

5. Go back to New York and wonder what the fuck I've been doing with my life.

News from the Unemployed

2009-01-17T15:47:00.003-05:00

Hi everybody.

Finally some stirring from here in cyberspace. I know it's been a long time, and I apologize. Faithful reader Gwin wonders what the news is on the job front. Thanks for asking, Gwin, and here you are:

I fucking hate winter. Now multiply my hatred of winter * being out of work and I'm about ready to take a gun to my head. For reals. However, there has been some movement with the interview process, so let's everyone cross your fingers for me, if for no other reason that I need to be among the three-dimensional people once again.

On the book front, I'm halfway done. Now everybody, if you've never commented before, please take the time to do so now and tell me in every way possible (feel free to use expletives) to get off my fat, unemployed ass and finish the rest of it. It's like I'm staring down the finish line of the Tour de France and decide to stop for a cup of coffee. Stunade.

That's all for now. Look for more posts this week. I swear.

At What Price Hypothermia?

2009-01-16T16:04:00.003-05:00

To remove the air conditioning units, or not to remove: that is the question. At least, that's the question on deck for many New Yorkers this wintry weekend.

One would think this is an easy fix: if you're cold, take the damn air conditioners out of the window. Lo, the issue is not as simple as just that. Apartment dwellers in the big city -- or at least this big city -- often play games regulating the surplus of steam heat that hits the pipes when the Fahrenheit hits 50 degrees. A mitigating factor in maintaining a delicate balancing act between Bangladesh and Ice Station Zebra often rests on keeping a couple windows open a crack. At what point the draft from in and around your a/c unit becomes the difference between a comfortable temperature and freezing one's nuts off often doesn't get tested until the temperature drops to the extreme at which it did yesterday.

I myself have been home enough and cold enough sitting on my big red chair or shivering between the three blankets on my bed that I would have caved and ripped the mothers out by now (especially since I have Buddy in town to do the heavy lifting). Yet, I'm going home to Pennsylvania tonight where will spend the remainder of the weekend running up my mom's oil bill. By the time I get back to New York the temp will probably be back in the 30s, so the a/c stays in for the time being.

But I can't help but to reflect to 30 minutes ago when I woke up from my nap with blue lips and frozen drool. Was it worth it to shiver beneath a stack of crocheted throws so that I didn't have to house a dirty unit in my small bedroom? Is it worth it that a cool breeze wafts through the living room, keeping my brother's vodka cran ice cold -- without ice? Is it strange that the hallway just outside my door is noticeably warmer and thus now in my sleep consideration set if it gets too nippy in here?

I just don't know. All I can say is, I'm glad I wasn't one of the poor bastards wading around in the Hudson yesterday. I fucking hate winter.

Your Guide to Lerner & Loewe Musicals

2008-12-03T16:26:00.012-05:00

First time going to a musical? Thinking of writing a musical? Behind Rogers & Hammerstein, back in the day Lerner & Loewe were the other big musical partnership. Not familiar with their work? Just follow this handy blueprint.

	Example
Element	My Fair Lady	Gigi
Underage ingénue in desperate need of a makeover	Eliza Doolittle	Gigi
Crotchety bastard/love interest with superiority complex	Henry Higgins	Gaston Lachaille
Crotchety bastard relation to underage ingénue	Speech teacher	Family friend
Story gently glosses over possible legal issues with said relationship	Indentured servitude	Pedophilia
Champion/co-pimp	Col. Pickering	Mmes. Alvarez (Gigi’s grandmother & great aunt)
Sideline jackass	Freddy Eynsford-Hill, penniless dolt with a title, hopelessly in love with Eliza	Middle aged carouser Uncle Honoré, as played by Maurice Chevalier, Nazi sympathizer and national joke
Intrusive parental unit*	Mrs. Higgins, Henry’s no-nonsense mother	Alfred P. Doolittle, Eliza’s father, chimney sweep and professional drunk
Story set in motion	Henry bets he can change Eliza	Gaston is bored with being a bon vivant in general, and society women specifically
Transformation In Reality	Flower girl (ho) to lady	Bohemian child to courtesan (ho)
Song deeming ingénue’s progress remedial	Most of the first act	I Don’t Understand the Parisians
Ingénue catch phrase	“Aaaaawww!”	“Oh Grand-maman, why not?”
Big cheat	Lead actor talking the song	Lead actor talking the song
Aha! Moment	The Rain in Spain	The Night They Invented Champagne
Beta test	Ascot horse race	Girls Gone Wild: Deauville
Alpha test	Embassy ball	Maxim’s
You Can’t Go Home Again	Covent Garden	Latin Quarter
Crotchety bastard gets pissed at his charge	She’s thinking of shacking up with Freddy E-H	She won’t go back to wearing her little Scotch dress (see pedophilia above)
Antagonist marches around town with righteous indignation	Soho, London	1er Arrondissement, Paris
Antagonist realizes he’s in love with protagonist	Hyde Park	Fountain near Concorde
Happily Ever After?	Eliza moves in with Henry, fetches slippers and port, faint possibility of sex due to Higgins/Pickering homoerotic undertones	Gigi marries Gaston, probably gets cheated on, dies of syphillis

*I know I have two things listed for My Fair Lady under parental units. I would go back and change it, but I've fought with the table HTML for about 1 1/2 hours already and I'm exhausted. So I'm donating one of Eliza's parent's to Gigi, especially since Gigi appears to have none (less a self-absorbed opera-singing mother who locks herself in her room for the entirety of the play).

Out with the Old...

2008-11-14T14:58:00.003-05:00

Here are a list of things to put in the dumpster in front of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue on the morning of January 19th.

1. No Child Left Behind Act

2. Cat box

3. Department of Homeland Security

4. Stale Chinese takeout left in the fridge

5. Iraq War

6. Old cans of paint left in the basement

7. Patriot Act

8. Back issues of Ranger Rick magazine

9. Partial Birth Abortion Act

10. Secure Fence Act, a.k.a. Hey You Mexicans Get Off My Lawn Act

11. Ice cube trays

Thing to restore from Clinton administration, currently hidden in a box in the corner of the attic: various civil liberties

For the record, the only legislation you signed worth a good goddamn is the National Do Not Call Registry and the Child Protection Act. Fuckwit.

The Big Bird Hat

2008-11-10T14:31:00.007-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about Obama of late, specifically about the extraordinary amount of self-possession the man must have to not only survive a presidential campaign, but flourish. And that's when the candidate runs under the most favorable of circumstances. It must be doubly hard when the proverbial deck is stacked against you. People are ruthless during campaigns; not only the Karl Roves of the world, but the little people who snicker and say terrible things about you out of party loyalty, ignorance or blatant pettiness.

Self-possession is one of the more elusive facets of personality in that it's easy to feign, but not so easy to achieve. However people slight you, whether to your face or behind your back, the cumulative effect of getting torn down can take its toll. To keep one's eyes on the prize -- to soldier on toward the ultimate goal with confidence and conviction, without disintegrating into a million pieces or assuming the pettiness of one's rival -- that my friends takes a true leader.

Obama's strength of character during his run for #44 reminds me about an anecdote from my own life.

Winter 1977. I'm headed off to school, bundled up in my snow gear, except for a hat. I open up the drawer where mom keeps all the winter accessories and spot the knitted Big Bird hat that my two-year-old brother wears, the hat I have coveted since my mom unwrapped it on Christmas Day. I decide to wear it to school (though a toddler, my brother's freakishly large head is roughly the same circumference as mine, so the hat just about fits).

My mom comes into the room to see me off for school and spots the hat. "You're wearing Buddy’s cap?" I nodded. "It's a baby's hat, you know." I shrug. Fearing that my classmates might ridicule my sartorial choice, my mom broaches the subject as gently as possible. "Sally, don't you think that maybe the other children in your classroom may not like the hat?"

According to the lore, I looked up at her and said without emotion, "I really don't care what they think," then kissed my mom goodbye and headed off to second grade.

I walked to school, and my path took me by my grandmother's house the same time every morning. She would often make a point to peek out the window as I passed by. This wintry morning, she was shocked to see me marching off to school with my baby brother's hat on, Big Bird's beak bopping up and down with every step. She immediately called my mom. "Isn’t Sally afraid the children will make fun of her at school?" My mother restated my response, and my grandmother shook her head, perplexed.

Later that afternoon I returned from school. I stood in the shed methodically disrobing all my winter gear while my mom hovered in the kitchen, worrying over a cup of tea. "How did it go today?" Fine, I told her (never giving a second thought to the hat) then went up to my room to do homework.

31 years later and I do not, nor have I ever recalled anyone harassing me that day at school. My classmates and teacher may have thought it was unusual that I chose to wear a baby hat to school, but ostensibly the conviction with which I carried myself into the classroom that morning was so strong that no one dared make fun of me.

And so a week after the election, as I look back on the remarkable campaign and wonder at the man, I resolve that Obama's grace under pressure is fueled by the same kind of self-possession that guided me that February day so many years ago.

Perhaps I shall knit him a Big Bird hat of his own...

Image not the actual hat, but just as obnoxious. I was a weird kid, what can I say?

Obama's First Press Conference

2008-11-07T15:09:00.003-05:00

Watching Obama on CNN live right now; I feel as if I'm getting a little preview of what he's going to be like as President.

He's knowledgeable, funny, charming. Totally at ease with the Press. Touched a bit on foreign policy and the economic situation, without making it sound like he's going to fix everything day one. Managed to sound gracious when talking about Bush (no easy feat). Joked about the dog, and mentioned that Michelle's already scouting out the kids' schools.

In short, I felt like WE FINALLY HAVE A GROWNUP IN THE WHITE HOUSE.

I love him. I love him love him love him love him. Barack Obama is the shiny Christmas gift we get after enduring 8 years of coal and poo in our stockings.

Kleenex, Please

2008-11-05T13:31:00.002-05:00

OK I have to stop with the looking at the news and flipping through the pictures and seeing everybody crying because it's making me well up again and I already spent 11:00 to 1:00 am this morning crying so happy for Obama I'm sitting in my office looking like a retard dabbing my eyes every 5 minutes I'm just so proud of America right now and don't even get me started on the black thing because to me it's an Obama-best man for the job thing but then I remember about the black thing and I get all teary again because that makes me even prouder for America Then I surf some of the international papers and they're all happy too including Segolene Royal who looks like she just won a new washer-dryer on the Price Is Right and I'm happy all over again because the rest of the world can rest easy that the U.S. isn't filled with a bunch of dumb-fucks Oh Christ now Oprah's having a special show and maybe I'll go up to the gym and watch it but that's not a good idea because I'll well up again and wiping the tears will screw up my pace and I'll fly off the treadmill like an ass So I'll just sit in my office with the door closed crying into the last Kleenex in the box and trying not to be conspicuous about it.

Headlines from Round the World

2008-11-05T10:33:00.004-05:00

Heh.

Europe isn't the only part of the world wanting to forget the Bush years. (click to enlarge)

Oui, on peut! Oui, on l'a fait!

Look...

2008-11-04T14:05:00.003-05:00

I know this is a repeat, but I must repost. It's for good luck, like every time I go to The Bar and order a Barack Me Like a Hurricane.

Please win. Please.

Joy Has Come to Mudville

2008-10-30T10:53:00.003-04:00

Yay Phillies! In a move very reminiscent of Tug McGraw, Brad Lidge threw a strike in the top of the 9th for the final out. Instead of jumping up off the mound, he dropped to his knees.

Yes, I cried a little bit. I was 10 the last time they won, and a very disappointed 23 when they lost to my then-boss' fave team, the Blue Jays. It's so exciting!

Okay, so I'm trolling the interwebs to get some Philly-based news, and one of the headlines on Philly.com reads: Man Robs Bank to Pay for Gear. Read the accompanying article. All I can say is, I'm not surprised.

PS: Cole Hamels is a total hottie.

Frim Fram Sauce

2008-10-28T16:55:00.004-04:00

I was in L.A. recently for a wedding. The trip was too short -- I didn't get a chance to see all my friends. What I did get a chance to do is eat my way through the greater metropolitan area.

1. Arrive Thursday afternoon: snack at In-N-Out.
2. Friday morning: breakfast at the good breakfast place in Pasadena (Mi Piace)
3. Friday afternoon: giant Ice-Blended at Coffee Bean
4. Sunday morning: breakfast at the *other* good breakfast place in Pasadena (Marston's)

But the highlight was Saturday afternoon: PURAN'S! Puran's is an organic restaurant in Los Feliz. I don't normally go seeking organic, but this place was literally around the corner from my old apartment and I would get their chicken caesar salad *at least* once a week. A mainstay, folks, and I miss it sorely.

The best part of any of their meals (and trust me, they're all unbelievable) is their tomato/olive oil/garlic concoction that they pair with the most amazing rosemary-infused bread. See attached picture. GODDAMN! I don't normally pig out on bread because it doesn't like me (read: I usually feel like I ate Play-Doh if I've had too much in one sitting), but in this case, the pleasure was worth the pain.

Ah Puran's, I miss you so. When are you opening an outpost in New York?

My Weekend

2008-10-27T13:31:00.008-04:00

Weekend started out with drinks with Goodtimes and Mrs. Goodtimes. We were originally going to go bowling, but I guess most of Manhattan had the same idea since we couldn't get a reservation -- not even at the low-rent Port Authority lanes. So off to the Half King, where we talked bullshit until 11:30, at which time both couples departed for their respective homes to go to bed because we're old like that.

Saturday morning I had hit the wall from a week of sleepless nights and stayed in bed far longer than I'm willing to admit. Felt good though, and so did the subsequent long walk I took in my Nike Boings (but goddamn, they're ugly).

Saturday night I went to a pumpkin carving contest. I came armed and dangerous with two knifes and a pattern (Sarah Palin!) but rookie mistake foiled my attempt to take grand prize (always have two copies of the pattern, so you can refer back), and my Sarah Palin in Profile ended up looking like a lopsided manic pumpkin face out of 'Saw XIII'.

I turned the $15 ripoff pumpkin over to its other side and tried to carve a frieze of the Brooklyn Bridge instead. The arches fell out of one of the bridge towers, and in a fit of frustration worthy of my father, I cut the two towers into squares, added a nose and a grimace, and ended up with robot face. The best part was the knife I stuck in the pumpkin's forehead (There's mine, front and center. I suck.)

Late Saturday I managed to stay awake long enough to watch Jon Hamm on SNL and the Phillies win their second game. Woo! Sexy! Woo!

Sunday, Blue Eyes made me a yummy breakfast. I drank too much coffee and had to pee all day, but that's par for the course on any weekend with me, frankly. We got sidetracked early afternoon by the Brooklyn Heights Dog Parade. Lots of funny and clever costumes. This is Max, Blue Eyes' neighbor. Argh, matey! Good dog.

Then we went to Tribeca. We went for a reason but I'm not telling why. Suffice to say at one point we ended up on a roof deck peering into an empty jacuzzi. I took a picture with my phone camera hoping to capture the sign, but couldn't. I'll break it down: in addition to "No Lifeguard", the management doesn't want anyone with open sores, gaping wounds, red and seeping eyeballs, jock itch, tetter, psorasis or any other ailments that a heaping dose of Blue Star Ointment purports to cure. They also don't want any peeing, defecating, vomiting or nose-blowing into the jacuzzi as well. Are people really such animals that those two signs are necessary?

Finally, we followed up a trip to the Brooklyn Trader Joe's with some beers and politics and the Giants game at The Bar. It was supposed to be One Beer, but by the time we stumbled out it was Many Beers. Ah well, nothing else was going on (other than I should've been home writing), and frankly, there's not much more in life better than Sunday afternoon beers + football + one's sweetie.

Just another lovely weekend.

WANT! MUPPETS!!!!! WAAAAANNTT!!!!!

2008-10-23T14:37:00.005-04:00

Desperately want this. I don't care that I will be 38 1/2 at Christmas. I want a goddamned Muppet! WHERE HAS THIS BEEN ALL MY LIFE??!?@?@@??@

[click either image to visit FAO Schwarz]

Here's my first attempt: Lounge Lizard Larry

Potpourri

2008-10-21T14:56:00.002-04:00

1. PHILLIES!

2. I had this awesome dream on Thursday night that Obama won the election. I was running around everywhere trying to find a New York Times but they were all sold out. I do remember that the lead headline took up half the space above the fold: Obama, first African-American president, blahbeddy blah blah. Like the entire story was the headline. I hope it's a portent of things to come.

3. I went to LA this weekend for a wedding. I missed it a lot. I liked the quiet of staying in Pasadena. Sometimes, kids, the New York thing gets Sally a little irritated and she needs to get out of Dodge. I got my fix of eats: In-N-Out, the good breakfast place in Pasadena, Coffee Bean, Puran's, Larchmont.

4. PHILLIES!

5. I have new eyeliner: Stila smudge pots. I have not mastered the application just yet, but thankfully I haven't made myself resemble Ellen with the raccoon makeup.

6. Big Yellow Hair sent me a sick and twisted pictorial featuring the men of 'Mad Men'. I love her.

7. I am eating See's candy lollies. They'll rip your caps off, but dammit, they're tasty pops.

That's all for now.

Danger on Wheels

2008-10-13T14:40:00.003-04:00

Walkabout is my exercise of choice; the pace isn’t too intense and the scenery makes the miles fly by. I could log three to four hours walking around the city and not even blink, whereas 10 minutes on a treadmill and I’m bored out of my skull. The other day I headed over to the West Side, starting at Chelsea Piers at 23rd Street along the water. I particularly love the prospect from this direction: the skyscrapers of the financial district looming larger and larger the closer I get to lower Manhattan. The only thing I don’t like about this particular path is sharing it with the weekend warriors on Rollerblades who whiz by in their spandex ensembles, all in control of their limbs and speed. I am jealous of how fast they’re able to fly along the West Side Highway and how tight their buns are thanks to the exercise. But there is a reason I choose to travel on solid ground, and that reason is a near-miss head trauma in Central Park circa 1994.

The first time I lived in New York, Rollerblades were at the height of their popularity. I had bought a cheap pair at closeout and after a few practice runs on the sidewalk decided to take them out for their maiden voyage in the park. Though I knew how to stop, I hadn’t yet figured out how to jam on the proverbial brakes. Not that I thought I would ever need to do so, since the paths in Central Park always seemed flat enough. In reality they’re deceptively hilly, particularly around the 72nd Street cross drive.

I rolled along the main loop without incident for most of the way, but right about the time I reached the Delacorte Theatre, I realized in horror that a significant drop awaited me and there was no way of avoiding it short of crawling down like a child. And so I rolled down the hill, gradually picking up a dangerous velocity as I headed directly toward a gaggle of tourists 100 feet ahead. Any ape can pull on a pair of Rollerblades and figure out how to propel oneself around; the challenge resides in being able to stop on a dime, a move I hadn’t quite mastered. Assessing my current situation, I winced at my imminent demise. I couldn’t veer to the right out of the way of the tourists; I’d run into the skaters rolling along adjacent to me. I couldn’t veer left; I’d launch myself off the sidewalk into the depths of the Ramble. My only recourse was to continue full steam ahead and hope that the unsuspecting park-goers got out of my way.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, cursing myself for not having worn a helmet. Bracing myself for impact, I bellowed “HEELLLLLLP!” in one last attempt to warn those in my line of fire that they were about to be plowed into like 10 pins in a bowling lane. But just like that, the red sea of tourists parted and I whooshed through the break in the crowd unscathed. Eventually I rolled to a halt, then – hyperventilating and practically in tears – clomped over to an open bench in front of the Sheep’s Meadow, removed the Rollerblades, tied their laces into a knot, threw them over my shoulder and walked home in my socks.

The skates haven’t seen the light of day since.

Your Life as a Drinking Game

2008-10-09T16:56:00.006-04:00

For the past couple debates I've been sitting on my couch obsessively refreshing the comments on Gawker and waiting for a candidate to say "maverick" (Red) or "middle class" (Blue). The Presidential (and Vice Presidential) debates as drinking game.

And so, John McCain said 'my friends' 200 billion times Tuesday night (well, only 19, but still). If I had a fifth of vodka in front of me I would've found myself stumbling over to NY Presbyterian to get my stomach pumped within a half hour.

The conceit of drinking games itself makes me laugh: every time someone uses a pet phrase or evidences a tic, gulp down whatever alcoholic beverage is closest. Dreaming up the games is a piece of cake when you've been exposed to someone/something over such a protracted period of time. Which brings me to my point: if it's this easy to invent drinking games for the presidential candidates, I can only imagine how easy it would be to invent one for me.

Anyone who has spent any significant time with Sally surely is aware of her redundancies. "Ostensibly" is a word I like to use a lot. Habits, I have plenty of them. Sally at work: every time I get up to drain another 8 oz. of the water cooler's contents into my mardi gras cup, drink! (by noon you'd be snockered). Walking down the street, any time I kiss at dogs, drink! (within 2 blocks you'd have a light buzz).

What are *your* habits and pet phrases? What could send someone to the emergency room if they made a drinking game of your life?

PS: Sally invites her friends to chime in with any other character flaws that would be apropos to the game.

The Bridezilla Theory

2008-10-08T16:28:00.000-04:00

I have a theory about Bridezillas, a theory that appears to be increasingly analogous to how one of the 2008 Presidential candidates has chosen to run his campaign.

According to Urban Dictionary, “Bridezillas are a new breed of soon-to-wed women who abuse the idea that weddings are their ‘day.’ They terrorize their bridal party and family members, make greedy demands and break all rules of etiquette to insure that they are the single most important person on the planet from the time they are engaged to the time they are married.”

My theory about Bridezillas is this: although these women obsess about the wedding, I would venture to guess that they have not devoted one ounce of consideration toward the success of the marriage. To the Bridezilla, the marriage is only a means to an end: the wedding. Anyone in his or her right mind knows the priority should be the other way around.

Eighteen months and two Presidential debates later, I think it’s safe to say the American public has a relatively clear picture of both candidates. One could objectively assert that the element that differentiates the two most is their respective political philosophy. I disagree. In my opinion, the factor that goes the furthest to distinguish the two candidates is not the politics of the Red vs. Blue, but the way in which each has comported himself during his campaign.

From a visceral (and metaphorical) point of view, when Obama talks about being President, I can tell he is focused on the marriage. McCain, on the other hand, strikes me as being focused solely on the wedding day. Like a bratty Bridezilla he stomps around town hall meetings and press junkets all but demanding that he be the one to get married first, that he’s been single longer, and thus should have first crack at a wedding. He has more experience, he argues, since he has been a bridesmaid many times over. Always the Bridezilla, never the bride.

At this moment in U.S. history, things are pretty dire from both a domestic and foreign policy standpoint, and they have the potential to get a lot worse. John McCain’s childish behavior on the election trail leads me to believe that if he were to be elected, within six months the marriage between McCain and America will have fallen apart.

Barack Obama, on the other hand, has made it very clear from the start that he's marrying for love, not the wedding. Should the American public vote Obama in, there’s the very real possibility that we all might live happily ever after.

La Toilette

2008-10-07T16:02:00.008-04:00

Four Seasons	My Bathroom
Remote-Controlled Bidet	Bidet = shower conveniently located mere inches away from the pot
Book-matched Chinese onyx tiling	Peeling, moldy tile
Lasers in the bathtub turn the water different colors	Peeing in the bathtub turns the water different colors
Thermostatically adjusted floors	This I actually have, thanks to steam pipe in corner
“Steam rain” shower with aromatherapy feature	Bath & shower at the same time feature, with any “aromatherapy” coming from choice of body wash
Sink made of crystal and lighted from within	Sink made of sink (with additional leaking enhancement)
Toto Washlet, a computer-designed “smart toilet,” which does everything on your behalf except wipe. It opens (and closes) automatically, it heats the cheeks (with sensors activated just before you sit) and, given the remote control, one need never utter — even think — a word that rhymes with “blush.”	Industrial Turbo-flush

Overheard at Houston Street Jamba

2008-09-26T15:38:00.004-04:00

Middle-aged dude with Swedish accent orders a Jamba. Cashier asks for his name, the guy says Sven.

Two minutes later, the Jambabarista finishes the drink "Yo, Seven? Strawberry whirl? Seven?"

The Wraith of First Avenue

2008-09-23T11:09:00.001-04:00

There is a strange woman who lives in my building. For the record, my building houses a number of strange denizens. Up on the 6th floor is a man I like to call “Lost Weekend,” since every time I see him in the lobby after work he’s toting a six-pack in place of a briefcase. This guy is not a social drinker; this guy is a hair’s breath away from panhandling on the Bowery. To wit: one night around 11:30 p.m. I heard him outside screaming at the adjacent co-op, “You are all idiots! Greedy idiots!” The doorman stood under his awning bemusedly watching my neighbor stumbling around on the sidewalk with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, shaking his fist at the capitalist pigs sleeping soundly across the street. His raving certainly had more entertainment value than a Leno monologue, so I took a seat at my window and watched for a few minutes before Lost Weekend’s buddies at the 19th precinct showed up and carted him away to the drunk tank, presumably his home away from home.

But back to the strange woman. From my mezzanine perch I see her at random hours of the day or week, always dressed elegantly shabby, a pashmina and a clutch carried under her left arm. Her gray-flecked hair reaches down to her back, never braided or styled in an updo. She is tall, and her posture regal. She crosses the street never at the light but in front of our building, waiting for traffic to pass before she glides to the other side. I don’t know where she goes or where she comes from. When I see her in the lobby, we always exchange polite hellos but never introductions. Only twenty-four apartments in the building and I don’t even know which unit she lives in.

Nor do I know what she does for a living. For some reason I suspect she works for the Martha Graham Company, but that’s largely attributable to her ballerina-like posture and the fact that I know the company’s offices are located right up the street. After all, working for a non-profit would explain why a fiftysomething woman couldn’t afford a new coat or a better place to live in the city than our Crapsford Arms. All I know is that for some reason this woman evokes my pity and I’m at a loss to explain why. Of course, it’s entirely conceivable that she’s a wildly happy person. Maybe she was one of those dancers who, after years hoofing it on Broadway, traded in her tap shoes for a desk job. Perhaps she had been an unsatisfied Midwestern housewife at some point in her life and one day found the courage to escape to the big city. Quite possibly, she is, at this point in her life, exactly where she always aspired to be. But then I remember that not once in the few months I’ve lived here I have seen her with anyone else – not a boyfriend, not even a friend – and that makes me sad for her all over again.

The strange woman makes me think about a passage from E.B. White’s slim volume Here is New York: “[New York] can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.” Willing to be lucky, the assumption being that each person fully determines his or her own success. Everyone comes to New York willing to be lucky, but simple odds dictate that not every person will get to grab ahold the brass ring. Like it or not, fate conspires randomly in favor of some and against others. Rona Jaffe’s depiction of the struggles of career girls of the early sixties is much closer to reality than Candace Bushnell could ever hope to get with her Manolo-clad heroines. It may be escapism to read about wealthy people living big in the big city, but it’s the people left dangling in the margins who truly fascinate me. What do you do in the autumn of your life when you finally realize that your dreams will never come to fruition? The sad, lonely existence that I’ve dreamt up for the strange, long-haired woman haunts me. Every time I see her, I can’t help but silently repeat a mantra: I don’t want to end up like her.

Bear Market? Try Polar Bear Market

2008-09-15T11:15:00.002-04:00

You know, many times when I'm out and about and I see something I can't afford -- say a pair of $700 Louboutins, or dinner at Per Se -- I think about the choices I've made in my life and come to the conclusion that if I had to do it over again, I would have gone into finance.

Then shitstorms like today happen and suddenly I'm fine with the choices I've made in my life.

A Few Words about Sarah Palin

2008-09-10T13:48:00.006-04:00

You know, people will believe any old shit you try to sell them. I've known this for a while, but this thought has been underscored of late by the population's blind adoration for John McCain's running mate Sarah Palin.

Normally I don't get too political on the blog because arguing about politics is as futile as arguing about religion or which combination of ingredients makes the best sandwich ever. But don't worry -- in actuality this post is not a rant about politics, it's a rant about how most Americans can't -and won't- think critically.

Rah rah rah. A woman on the GOP ticket. Oh, you're so progressive. Look, it's great and everything that she's up for VP and if she were a politician of any quality it might have made for a very interesting election. But from what I know about her -- and it's not much -- my initial impression is that she's Tracy Flick in a parka.

Who is this woman? Has she really made an impact on the betterment of her hometown or home state? It's great that small town Sarah worked her way up to Governor: I do admire her for that. But her policies and leadership qualities are seriously in question. Why does she want to drill for oil in Alaska? Hasn't it already been decided that moving away from non-renewable fuel sources is our best bet for the ecology as well as the economy? And what's this bullshit called Troopergate? Wielding one's power for personal reasons -- I love when that happens.

What's with her "experience" that makes her so more attractive than Obama? She deigns to posit that the years he put in as a community organizer in the South Side of Chicago is not up to 18 months of governing a bunch of Inuits on Ski-doos. Her state refers to the rest of America as "the lower 48" as if they are part of the U.S. in name only. And Alaskans like it that way. How the hell is she supposed to lead the country if she doesn't even understand us? Also she's only recently left the country to travel abroad. A 44 year-old woman who hasn't seen much of the world other than an iceberg? Not. Good. I know Palin looks good in a skirt, but her cutesy crap ain't going to cut it in a meeting with Sarkozy and Putin.

And what about being a hockey mom makes her automatically qualified for this job? It hasn't exactly made her qualified to run her own family, with her daughter in month five of a teen pregnancy (possibly the second one) and her son most likely enlisting in the army to head off a drug abuse problem. You know what that says to me about Palin's parenting skills? She has none. What's happening with her kids is what you get when you (a) have too many of them, and (b) are so busy pursuing your own agenda that they're basically neglected. Nice work.

Don't even get me started with the beauty pagent, the praying, the book-banning, the guns and the anti-abortion cockamamie bullshit. Bitch, please.

Why did John McCain choose her? Simply to be a ringer for the party. Worried that Barack was appealing to too many undecideds, McCain plucked plucky Palin simply to get the female vote. Initially, as a woman I was categorically offended at the obviousness of his intentions, and I figured the displaced Hillaryites would be as well, but it turns out they're all for her. For all intents and purposes, these women were on Hill's side and are now following Palin simply because they both have two X chromosomes. Well, shit. That's all it takes? Hire me!

I have one question for all you self-righteous neo-feminists who are happily riding Palin's bandwagon: Do you happen to remember who *else* people were happy to follow blindly? Let me give you a hint. His name starts with an A and ends in Holocaust. [ed: okay, maybe that last statement was a little much, but I need people to wake up here.]

Above and beyond all my previous reservations about Palin, what I want to know is what is her plan? Does she even have one? A plan, a coherent plan, for leading the country? Her words at the RNC were the vapid ramblings of an over-the-hill cheerleader attempting to extol her virtues as VP by appealing to her everywomanness. "I'm a mom, just like you!" Terrific. Now what the fuck are you going to do about health care?

America: Start asking questions. Try to look at both sides of the coin. Both the political machine and the media constantly force-feeds us, telling us what and how to think. Don't accept it. Think for yourselves, make your own decisions, arrive at your own opinions. Get off your cell phone, stop texting each other about minutae, turn off the TV, and open your eyes.

Rejected Obama Campaign Slogans

2008-08-26T15:28:00.004-04:00

1. Here are your choices: me, or four more years of some rich white guy with an IQ as low as his sperm count.

2. Dude, I went to Harvard. Come. On.

3. McCain: have you gotten a look at that wife of his?

4. A cameo on SNL doesn't automatically mean you're hip. That statement does not apply to me, however.

5. Obama: At least my op-ed didn't get rejected by the New York Times...

6. Change you can believe in ... and the cojones to pull it off.

7. Fuck Arizona, I grew up in Hawaii. How cool is that?

8. Vote for McCain and board the Straight Talk Express directly to hell.

9. McCain: I'll give you $50 to locate Indonesia on a map.

10. The Obama daughters in the White House -- it wouldn't be boring!

I'm Sally Tomato and I approve this message.

Like Diarrhea, Julia Allison Gets Everywhere

2008-08-14T14:36:00.002-04:00

I just got a survey from Wired Magazine and fucking JULIA ALLISON is on their list of possible celebrity covers for an issue in the future [ed: oh, I realize now that I've taken the survey that she was on the cover a month ago. Well, if they want to see why it sold through so poorly, they now have my answer.]

Anyway, here's the question:

Check any of these names if you definitely would NOT buy the next issue of Wired if they were on the cover. Check as many or as few as you like.

Bill Gates
Dara Torres
Julia Allison
Lance Armstrong
Richard Blakeley
Steve Jobs
Charlie Kaufman
John Hodgman
Bill Clinton
Michael Phelps

I mean WTF is that respondent list? And what's next, she's a NYT Crossword Puzzle clue?

Now Blakeley, he I'd pick for the cover any day.

Po-Boy Town

2008-07-25T11:29:00.005-04:00

Hello, kids! Sally here. You thought I'd go away for the entire summer? Nah, I can't do that to my loyal fan base (all 6 of you). Also I kind of miss the blogging! I am indeed writing a book -- just like I said I would -- and after three false starts, it's finally coming together (thank Christ).

Anyway, I thought I'd pop in and regale you with a quick recap of my trip to New Orleans. Yes, you read that correctly, Sally went back to New Orleans just about 6 months after her first trip, but this time it was with the boyfriend and another couple. THAT'S RIGHT -- SALLY HAS A BOYFRIEND (if you haven't figured that out from previous posts). There's a REALLY good story behind it too, but I'm not revealing it just yet. I'ma make y'all squirm wanting to know the dealio, because I'm cruel like that.

So New Orleans. Hot and sticky, like my balls. HEYO! But seriously. It was pretty gross down there, but only for two of the four days. The other two were hot and surprisingly dry. This is boring talking about the weather. Let's talk about Big Daddy Jack (or so read his hat) who Hen caught on camera stuffing his face with a beignet at Cafe Du Monde. Let's talk about lunch at Emeril's that first day (minus a sommelier-detective this time) where I had yet another meal that made me want to punch somebody, the food was so good.

Here are some of my personal highlights:

- Blue Eyes got a shave and a haircut at this barbershop in the Garden District. So old school, they don't allow ladies in the back room, which really screwed me up because I wanted to document the shave in pictures. My displeasure was quickly erased when they offered Blue Eyes a whiskey and me a beer.

- I ate a roast beef po-boy (Ignatius, Garden District) that just might have changed my life. I was expecting the beef to be sliced, and come with an au jus. Aw no, cher. It was pulled roast beef, and tasted like the good stuff that would stick to the bottom of the cast iron skillet when my grandmother would cook a pot roast for Sunday dinner. It was like biting into the proverbial Madeleine.

- Lunch at Cuvee the next day. Our waitress was a little left of center. A snippet of conversation:
- Where y'all staying?
- French Quarter.
- Ah, well be careful, my boyfriend got shot last week.
~food arrives~
- Well, enjoy your meal.

- Drinks at Lafitte's Blacksmith. Some middle aged dude sleeps at the table. His wife does not look amused.

- Pimm's Cups at Napoleon Bar. Unwittingly, we create a Pimm's Cup-swilling monster out of Hen, who orders one every place we eat or drink.

- Dixies and po-boys at Domilise's, again proving that the grubbier the joint, the better the food.

- Dinner at Jacques Imo's. Meet Jacques himself at the Maple Leaf Bar waiting for our tables. He loves us and sends over appetizers on the house. "What's better than crabs? CRABS AND BEER!"

- Drinks at Hotel Monteleone's Carousel Bar, where, because of the 'Tales of the Cocktail' convention, Belvedere sponsors the day. This means FREE DRINKS. Score!

Just thinking about the trip gets me a little misty. So I'm back now at work, with no vacation to look forward to. *sigh* Well, I gotta finish the book anyway. It can't always be wall to wall fun, but you can try like hell.

Enjoy the rest of your summers!

Leave of Absence

2008-06-16T14:38:00.005-04:00

Okay kids. Guess what? I'm taking a leave of absence from the blog for a while.

I gots to get off my dead ass and write an actual book - something that will result in ca$h instead of comments. Blogging is just another form of procrastinating when it comes to my very non-disciplined writing habits, so I'm taking it out of the mix until I'm done a first draft.

Besides, you notice the conspicuous lack of posts lately, right? Let's face it - there are only so many times you can bitch about stroller moms in a 4-year period. Also, I am so unbelievably happy in my personal life at the moment I am having trouble being true to my normal, sarcastic voice. If I write any more posts I will greatly run the risk of my snark morphing into cotton candy and puppy dogs. I prefer to keep that to myself.

I might jump on and off posting from time to time but it's not going to be with any frequency throughout the summer. Sorry if I disappoint anyone, but c'mon - I hardly think my absence is going to leave a gaping hole in the blogosphere.

So tune in again in the fall. Hopefully I'll have something accomplished by then. And if I don't, you are all welcome to kick my cyber ass.

Weighing in on the Russert Thing

2008-06-16T14:17:00.003-04:00

Well, I'm just devastated.

Tim Russert was too young, too on his game, just too awesome (in the literal sense of the word) to be gone. When I heard the news my kneejerk reaction was to say out loud to nobody, "Now what are we going to do?"

Anything I have to offer about Tim Russert's affect on me is not saying anything new that anyone hasn't already said a million times between Friday afternoon and today: I loved MTP, looked forward to it every week, such a great mediator, I loved the way he took everyone to task, always uber-prepared, genuinely nice guy, mentor, everyone looked up to him, family man, an all around class act, etc. etc. I will add this one thing apropos of myself: thanks to him I went from politically pretty apathetic to actually giving a shit.

I'm still blubbering. Anyway, here's a post I did a couple months ago on Russert.

I will miss him on Meet the Press every Sunday. I will especially miss his little dimples.

The Tomato Diaries

I've Got 99 Problems, but Delta Skymiles Ain't One.

Everything's Sunny in Toronto

Top 10 Awesomest Things about Iowa City

Stay tuned.

Not for the Lactose Intolerant

Insane Clown Makeup

Bobby Flay Cannot Aspic a Horse.

Shit You Can Say to Babies While You're Skyping With Them

‘100 Questions’ About Why This Show Is Even On TV

Daily Intel Quiz!

On Changing One's Name

Sally, Sally, Married Gally + Bonus! Dogs as TSA Agents

A Listicle of 19 Things That Are Bothering Me, In No Particular Order

The Lila Show

Hey, *I* Know It’s Christmas.

And the Boobies.

APB

Circus Wedding

Say Yes to the Dress.

Ring a Ding Ding!

I Heart 'Mad Men'

CALLED IT.

Vacation, Vacation

The Vacation Bubble

All Around New York

I Can't Believe it's July.

The Human GPS System

Outwitted in the Fashion Department, Part Deux

Sally, NyQuil and the After School Special

The Gams of Summer

Curse of the New Manager

The Blushing Bride to Be

Over the Shoulder...

What Can It Mean?

Long Time No Post

19 Cranberry Street, Brooklyn!*

Separated at Birth?

No Substitutions.

How to Get an Inferiority Complex in 5 Easy Steps

News from the Unemployed

At What Price Hypothermia?

Your Guide to Lerner & Loewe Musicals

Out with the Old...

The Big Bird Hat

Obama's First Press Conference

Kleenex, Please

Headlines from Round the World

Look...

Joy Has Come to Mudville

Frim Fram Sauce

My Weekend

WANT! MUPPETS!!!!! WAAAAANNTT!!!!!

Potpourri

Danger on Wheels

Your Life as a Drinking Game

The Bridezilla Theory

La Toilette

Overheard at Houston Street Jamba

The Wraith of First Avenue

Bear Market? Try Polar Bear Market

A Few Words about Sarah Palin

Rejected Obama Campaign Slogans

Like Diarrhea, Julia Allison Gets Everywhere

Po-Boy Town

Leave of Absence

Weighing in on the Russert Thing

Hey, I Know It’s Christmas.