Infidelity and Beyond

There's nothing like the holiday season to bring out the best in relationships.

Tiger Woods made the front page of the NY Post for 20 consecutive days after the 'incident' outside his home caused a barrage of women to reveal their sext messages with the famed golfer. (Fact: This story received more front page coverage in the Post than the attacks of September 11th.)

Last month, ESPN exec Steve Phillips lost his job as a result of an affair with a 22 year-old psychopath who took it upon herself to reveal their "relationship" to his wife and the media.

Earlier this year, Eliot Spitzer was forced to resign as Governor thanks to his uncontrollable urge to have sex with hookers.

The moral of the story is, people cheat on their significant others, no matter how solid their relationship may appear. (I'm not even going to pretend to apologize for sounding like a cynical, jaded, Manhattanite.)

In the spirit of embracing infidelity (a concept I've been both guilty and victim of) I wanted to pass along my favorite songs to scream at the top of my lungs while I dance around in my underwear... (how's that for a mental image?)

Enjoy!

Classy Christmas Cocktails

If you've been following my blog at all, you know full-well that I'm a fan of the drink. With the exception of an occassional bottle of my favorite Argentinian Malbec, my purchases at the liquor store are most often a handle of vodka or a magnum of Yellowtail. The goal of course being: drink to get drunk and avoid spending $18 on a Red Bull Vodka at 230 5th.

However, for this post I've taken a few suggestions from friends and co-workers on their favorite holiday spirits that require one to sip, not chug. So in the spirit of the holidays, put away the funnel, raid your parents liquor supply (because who else would have Brandy on hand), and whip up any of the following for a delicious treat that's sure to warm your insides.


Tom & Jerry (thanks Sam!)
Ingredients
-12 eggs
-1 cup sugar
-pinch of ground cinnamon
-1 bottle brandy
-1 bottle dark rum
-milk
-nutmeg






Instructions (translated from Chef Speak to Stuff I understand)

- Separate the eggs. (This does not mean 6 and 6, but rather whites and yolks.)
- Beat the whites until they form a stiff froth. (That's what she said.)
- Add the sugar to the yolks and beat "until they are as thin as water," gradually adding 4 ounces brandy and a pinch of ground cinnamon.
- Fold the whites into the yolks. (FYI- "fold" is just a fancy way of saying mix.)

When ready to serve, give it another stir and then put 1 tablespoon of this batter in a small mug. Add 1 ounce brandy and 1 ounce Jamaican rum, stirring constantly to avoid curdling. (sounds gross, but the result is delicious). Fill to the top with hot milk and stir until you get foam. Sprinkle a little grated nutmeg on top.

Puerto Rican Egg Nog

*Under normal circumstances I think egg nog is a vile drink and should be placed in the same category/trash receptacle as fruit cake for "holiday foodstuffs that absolutely suck." However, this beverage was discreetly served to me in a coffee cup at work by my Puerto Rican friend in the mailroom. After one sip I knew I needed to pass along the recipe.*

Ingredients
-1 can coconut cream (Coco Lopez, etc.)
-2 cans condensed milk
-3 cans evaporated milk
-1 tsp vanilla extract
-cinnamon & nutmeg
- 1 liter of spiced rum (or 151 if you've got a family of lushes)

Start by pouring half of each of the ingredients in a blender. Sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg "too taste" (not too much, idiot.)

Blend thoroughly (on setting of your choice) - Pour contents into a big bowl.

Repeat above steps with remaining ingredients (blending and mixing well enough to ensure there are no chunks of coconut floating around... we wouldn't want your guests to hurl chunks before they even sampled your concoction.)

Pour into glasses of your choice and garnish with a piece of cinnamon (optional of course).


Brandy Alexander
Ingredients - Recipe below serves 10.
(or 5 people two drinks, 2 people five drinks...or yourself until you get sick.)

- 15 oz brandy
- 10 oz dark creme de cacao
- 10 oz french vanilla ice cream (really, really softened)
- 2.5 tsp grated nutmeg

In a shaker a quarter filled with ice cubes, combine the brandy, creme de cacao, and ice cream.

Shake vigorously. (Hence the softened ice cream... you'll break your arm if you try to use a shaker on ice cream straight out of the freezer).

Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with the nutmeg.

Last Minute $hopping Do's and Don'ts

With just two days left until Christmas morning, if you haven't finished (or started) your holiday shopping yet, well, quite honestly you're probably fucked. However, if you decide to brave the cold and battle the teeming masses of last minute morons like yourself, try to keep the following in mind:

DO: Make a list of exactly what you need and which stores you need it from. (It doesn't hurt to have a mapped out plan of attack to prevent you from wasting your oh-so-precious time.)

DO NOT: Wander aimlessly from store to store like a tourist in Times Square. Now is not the season for window shopping. I can assure you that doing this will increase your odds of getting punched in the face three fold.

DO: Have patience with old people and their walking devices. It probably took them a lot of effort to velcro their shoes, fasten their waterproof cap, and load their purse with caramel chews all in the name of finding the perfect gift for their grandkid. *Keep in mind that this will be you someday.*

DO NOT: Bring your toddler, stroller, car seat, playpen, and beanie baby collection shopping with you. *This will probably be you someday too, but thanks to my blog you will know better than to be that mom with the unruly offspring and the aisle-blocking paraphernalia. Hire a babysistter.*

DO: Buy greeting cards, CDs, and DVDs at Walmart. It's not like these items are a of any different quality than their counterparts at Hallmark or BestBuy.

DO NOT even think about ordering from the Fantasy Gifts section of the Neiman Marcus catalog. Does anyone really need a $25,000 Cupcake Car or a pair of Swarovski Crystal headphones?? I can hear just as well with my gummy's, thank you very much.

DO: Keep your audience in mind when gift giving. (Just because your sister is sexually active doesn't mean you should stuff her stocking with a box of Trojans for Christmas morning with the family.)

DO NOT: Spend more money than you can afford right now. Assuming that you can use your next paycheck to cover your ridiculous credit card bill is not smart in an economy where you might get laid off before your next paycheck.

DO: Cut pictures out of magazines of the items you ordered online but did not arrive on time. Put them in thoughtful greeting cards with a note explaining the delay.

DO NOT: Promise someone that "their gift is on the way" when you know full well you haven't purchased anything for them. That's a seriously dick move, Scrooge.

Cute Without the E

If you haven't already read my Dear Facebook post, I suggest that you do. If you have, consider this my post script.

I spent the better half of this morning defriending (a verb that I can only hope never makes it into any English language dictionary) people from my facebook account. While the process was more liberating than stressful, there were still plenty of factors I took into consideration before confirming that I was "sure I wanted to remove Jane Doe."

In case your New Years resolution is to trim some friend-fat, you might find the following guidelines useful. Here's how I arrived at my conclusion to cut 70+ people from my Facebook team.

YOU'VE BEEN REMOVED FROM MY FRIEND LIST IF...

1. you have no picture (and I can't figure out who you are without it). Or worse, your picture is of your pet or your child.

2. we weren't friends in high school, but fell victim to facebook's "suggestion" that we become electronically connected. (Sure we were both members of Key Club, but sadly, that's where our relationship ends.)

3. I only requested (or accepted) your friendship because I was hooking up with one of your friends. (Sorry, but I only saw your facebook page as an alternative stalking avenue.)

4. we met at a bar, you were overzealous with your Facebook for Blackberry application, and we haven't exchanged any communication since. (Not even a poke!)

5. you've recently changed your status to engaged (and I didn't even know you were in a relationship).

<-- you so obviously got a manicure in order to pose with, and post pictures of your ring. (tacky)

6. you change your status more often than I change my underwear. Moreover, you're gone if your status is:

a) a stupid inside joke that only 1 of your lame friends "like."
b) grammatically incorrect/misspelled.
c) annoying enough to make me want to take a hammer to my computer screen.

7. your name is not saved in my cell phone contacts or my g-chat buddy list.

8. your display name is either hyphenated after marriage or you've done the ridiculous first name-middle name bullshit so people can't find you. (You're not hiding from the FBI, people. If you're so concerned about your privacy, deactivate your account!)

Not So-Newsworthy

Well folks, it would appear that journalism has hit a new low thanks to the NY Post. (Shocking for such a reputable publication, I know.)


In case you hadn't heard, Elliot Spitzer's infamous prostitute is now a writer. Ms. Dupre will be sharing her thoughts in a weekly column titled "Ask Ashley" to give readers advice on sex, love, and relationships. She views this opportunity as a "second chance."


I am aware that I run the risk of sounding like a complete bitch when I say this, but I think she's about as qualified to be writing an advice column as I am to be performing root canals.

In an interview with Fox this morning, Ashley told Rosanna Scotto that she's actually "considering offers to pose nude in a magazine for money." (Way to grab the reigns of that 'second chance.') Her mother must have been beaming with pride in the audience.



Lastly, as a legit librarian, I'm quite fed up with people (especially this 24 year old call-girl turned columnist) who believe that fake glasses and an unbuttoned shirt earn you credibility as someone who is "smart and sexy." Sexy? Sure. Smart? Are you kidding me?


Perhaps I'd have more blog followers if I launched my career as a hooker and caused a philandering politician to resign.

Things I'll Never Learn

I've tried to stick to a firm "no blogging while intoxicated" policy, but after 6 solid hours of double vodka tonics at my firm's holiday party, I can't guarantee that I'm completely sobered up this morning. Either way, I thought now would be as good a time as any to regale you with a list of mistakes that I'm sure we'll all continue to make no matter how many times we "swear we'll never do that again."

Thursday happy hours are not the beginning of the weekend. It would be nice if it were, but it would also be nice if going out for "a drink" after work meant just that. Unfortunately, the combination of drink specials, men in suits, and great 80's music is a really hard thing to voluntarily walk away from. I guess I'm just fortunate to have mastered the art of keeping it together at the office the next day.

Shots are rarely necessary. Declining an offer to do hard drugs, no problem. Saying no to a free shot of Patron, impossible! And why? Because it's very likely that a level of intoxication has been achieved where logic and reasoning are out the window. And free? Yes please. I've probably already spent close to $100 on my own drinks, so why shouldn't I accept that free shot from Mr. Pink Tie? (which is how he'll end up being saved in my phone at the end of the evening.)

Wine is NOT a pregaming beverage: While this is true, it's irrelevant on Friday nights. One glass of wine to relax after work quickly turns into an entire bottle, and if I can't finish it before I have to leave my apt to meet my friends, I'll pour the remaining contents into a poland spring bottle for the train. I'm pretty sure that's how the French drink it.

Staying in is OK...especially if you're feeling under the weather. Well in my rule book that's simply not true. A quick power nap immediately followed by chugging a red bull and a hot shower and I'm like a new shiny penny ready to paint the town red. (Or so I've convinced myself.) No doubt I feel 142% worse the next day.

After Hours are Unnecessary: Bouncers won't start kicking you out of a bar until just after last call, which is 4am in the city. The ugly lights are on and the DJ has informed us that "Ya'll don't gotta go home but ya gotta get the hell up outta here." It's at this point that I in fact DO have to go home, however, I think to myself, "You're right Mr. DJ! I don't have to go home!!" After the party is the after party...

Late Night Feasting: Just because many restaurants/diners/pizza places are open 24 hours, doesn't mean they should be patronized. In my 25 years on this planet I've consumed more pizza than is appropriate or acceptable, mostly between the hours of midnight and 5am. On a similar note, I've actually had a pizza delivered to my doorman just to ensure that the cheesy goodness from Librettos was waiting for me when I stumbled home. I think it's fair to say that the morning after stomach pains rival menstrual cramps.

It's Sunday FunDAY not FunNight. Ha. No matter how many times I check my watch throughout the day, I'll continue to tell myself that I have time for another beer because, hell, it's not even 6pm yet! It's even worse when I've stayed in on a Saturday night to be well rested for said day of drinking. I cannot even express the regret I feel on Monday mornings. Maybe some day I'll learn that Sunday boozing has an entirely different set of rules than the rest of the weekend. Or maybe not.

Size (Apparently) Doesn't Matter

In case you were hoping this post would be about the irrelevancy of penis size during sex, it's not. (No matter how many rhyming euphemisms one creates, the fact remains that the motion of the ocean can rarely ever make up for an inadequate boat, sorry boys.)

I came across an article in the NY Post that really puts NYC apartment life in perspective (and simultaneously emphasizes the insanity of city dwellers.)

You can read the full-text here, but to save you the time, I've highlighted the most absurd things about this couple's choice in real estate (and added my own commentary).

"Zaarath and Christopher Prokop-- and their two cats-- live in the smallest apartment in the city, a 175-square-foot "microstudio" in Morningside Heights."

A microstudio? Is that even a real word?! Did they mean a microwave?? For fuck's sake, I've seen roomier fish tanks at restaurants. And I'm sure the two cats were a totally necessary addition to their jail-cell-like quarters. They do realize that Morningside Heights is just a fancy way of saying "just below Harlem," right?


"One of the kitchen cabinets is full of champagne because Zaarath's job allows them to order cases of it. A converted desk acts as a wine rack and minibar, helping to store the bottles that Christopher Prokop can buy at a discounted price because of his job as a distributor."

One of the kitchen cabinets AND the converted desk is full of booze because there's no possible way that two human beings would be able to tolerate each other in such confined quarters without being perpetually intoxicated. Hell, they even leave their clothes at various dry cleaners around the neighborhood to have more storage space for the alcohol. Seriously.

"It's like having a rent controlled apartment, we're going to own something in Manhattan in two years. How many people can say that?"

I'd rather own a refrigerator box in Chelsea... at least I'd be in a better neighborhood.

"I'm amazed we can fit two people and two cats in here, but it's harmonious at this point. I have friends who say they could never live with their husbands in a place this small. It's a good thing we like each other enough to live there."

Ah, the key words of course being "at this point." Let's check in with these love birds in 6 months. I'm sure at that point I'll be blogging about their follow up tale...."Tiny Apartment Drives Man to Eat Cats, Slay Wife."

The Not Reunion, Reunion

Even without having had the joy of attending the sanctioned social event known as the high school reunion, I'm certain we've all experienced an evening of similar torture. That evening, of course being Thanksgiving Eve.

All things considered, Thanksgiving Eve should be one of the best nights of the year. (Taking a backseat only to Christmas Eve and my birthday eve.) Copious amounts of food and quality time with family all wrapped up in a 4 day weekend gives me a cozier feeling than my leopard print Snuggie.

And then reality sets in. Everyone you knew in highschool has migrated back to your home town on this one night. Everyone. No matter how far they've gone away to college, or where their job has taken them, they will be occupying the booths and barstools at your local pubs.

I'd argue that as the "biggest bar night of the year," the night before Thanksgiving has become more overrated than New Years Eve and more stressful than a high school reunion.

Not that I don't LOVE to see the people I cut ties with after senior prom, because really, I do.... Even more so when I get to have the "what are you doing with your life" conversation 37 times in a row.

Thanks to someecards who has already sarcastically summed it up,

I can stop blogging and enjoy my early dismissal.

See ya at the bars, bitches.

Dear Facebook

In the style of the classic Dear Alcohol letter that once spread like wildfire through our college campuses, I decided to compose a similar correspondence to the one and only, Facebook. I can't imagine my prose will be any more entertaining than the many other commentaries and videos, but there are just some things I need to get off my chest.

Dear Facebook,

First and foremost, let me tell you that I am a long time fan of yours. As a junior in college since your inception, I have faithfully stood by your side through many modifications. Remember that time you opened your network to the whole world? Thanks for that. It’s been a real treat to get friend requests from my mom’s best friend and my 10 year old cousin who wonders why I look so "silly" in my pictures.

While you’ve always been there when I need a platform for stalking that new guy I met, determining how soon my ex started a new relationship, or if anyone I went to high school with amounted to something successful, of late, I am beginning to question your intentions. You claim that you want to help members “connect and share with the people in their lives” but I feel that your real purpose is to mold a generation of neurotic social networkers. Please see detailed grievances below:

Suggestions: Thanks, but no thanks. Why you would think that I would want to request a friendship with my ex-boyfriend's wife is beyond me. Just because we have 63 mutual friends does not mean we are destined for a Facebook reconciliation. Going forward it would be great if you could please mind your own business.

And yes, of my 452 friends I’m certain I haven’t spoken to 92% of them lately. That said, no, I would not like to send them a message or write on their wall. If it’s alright with you, I would like to continue our communication-free relationship based solely on secretly stalking each other’s pictures when something important changes in our profiles.

Applications: The ridiculousness of your applications has grown exponentially in recent months. Do you really think it’s necessary to encourage users to exchange gifts and drinks electronically? Is fighting a mafia war or planting a virtual garden an effective use of my time? Nope, didn’t think so.

We’re related? Really? Wow, the fact that I’ve known my sister for the past 25 years hadn't occurred to me! Cousins? I'm shocked- all this time I thought we had the same last name by pure coincidence and that they had been attending Christmas dinner as charity tax write-off for my parents.


Poking: I think it's safe to say the novelty has worn off. Admittedly, I was once guilty of abusing the poking feature, but it is 2009 and no longer an acceptable way to initiate conversation with a stranger or flirt with a fellow facebooker. That's what text messages are for.

Fan Pages: While I am a fan of many things in life, your fan pages are not one of them. Of course I like naps, who doesn't? Sure, I text when I’m in awkward situations. Do I really need to join a page to publicly declare my ‘fanaticism’ for these things?

Quizzes: Oh, Facebook, how you attempt to answer the real tough questions in life. Without your stimulating exams, I might not know what to name my boobs or which Sex and the City character I am. Thank you for your guidance.



While the corporate world sees you as a black hole of intellect and responsible time management, I have quite enjoyed our relationship. I hope that in the future you will think twice before adding features that will result in the deactivation of my account.

Thank you kindly for your attention to this matter.

PS- I’ll write again soon with suggestions for improvement.

Them Good Bars Go Bad

During an earlier attempt at blogging, I had hoped to write stories around the theme of change. In college I was one of those girls who had a poster proudly taped to her wall with the inscription, "If nothing ever changed there would be no butterflies."

This was my way of embracing the inevitable and pretending that I was happy about it. Well, let me tell you readers, I am not happy about the changes made to Moonshadow Tavern in the Commons of Ithaca, NY.


As a result of an unfortunate accident that closed off I80 for the better part of Sunday afternoon, I had plenty of time to think about the reasons Moonies used to be awesome, currently sucks, and should be restored to its former glory immediately if not sooner:



PAST: Moonies boasted the best Friday afternoon Happy Hour. There was no better way to get the weekend started than drinking your own pitcher (with a straw) and collecting a few tokens for the next time you were there and had no cash. Not to mention they provided free, albeit not gourmet, pizza and subs.


PRESENT: No one shows up at happy hour. There is no free pizza. 3-1 token specials are obsolete.


PAST: The booths and tables were so awesomely arranged that you knew exactly where you could find your group of friends when you walked in the door. Familiar faces could most notably be found in the window table up front, or the "VIP" table separating the front from the back - where ICers perched themselves atop the booth for a birds eye view of the entire bar.


PRESENT: Both seating arrangements have been removed, forcing one to awkwardly stand or walk all the way to the back dart board area in order to find a place to sit.

PAST: The TouchTunes jukebox had been so over-patronized by the same people that the top 10 requested songs were played ad nauseum with absolutely no complaints. It didn't matter if we heard Since You've Been Gone or Don't Stop Believin' 14 times in one night, we sang with the same enthusiasm each time.


PRESENT: TouchTunes has been replaced by a "dance floor" and a "DJ Booth" in the window. Good luck trying to hear Kelly Clarkson or Journey at 'Club Moonies.'


PAST: Dim lighting and the perfect amount of LaBattBlue Light was the stuff one-night-stands were made of.


PRESENT: The current light show is like a disco ball on crack... rather than create a chill atmosphere, it threatens to induce a seizure.


PAST: There was no need to advertise or market any of Moonshadows' specials. Affectionately referred to as Moonies, this bar sold itself.

PRESENT: The new ownership uses Facebook for promotions and bouncers and bartenders parade around in (and try to sell) clothing with the the following logos. Yuck.


There is much to be appreciated about dive bars which is why I'm convinced that these changes are to the detriment of the establishment. Then again, what do I know about "kids today?" At least I am comforted by the belief that I attended Ithaca in its prime.

Spectacular City- Vol.1

I've been accused of being quite the Negative Nancy about life in Manhattan. Don't be fooled loyal readers. In between my rants about subways and tourists I'm going to make a conscious effort to highlight the many, many reason NYC is abso-fucking-lutely awesome. Here's one:

Think you don't have time for anything in your day? Has multitasking taken it's toll on your life/planner? Well get this, if you lived in NY you could easily combine Thursday night happy hour with getting a mani/pedi. Think I'm joking? Check out Nail City on 3rd ave between 38th & 39th. They're open every night till 11pm and are located across the street from Wharf, giving you plenty of time to chug a beer while you wait for some late night pampering.

It's Friday (the 13th), it's payday, and I'm off to Ithaca.

Life's good.

Until next week...

Dear Liver...

Please don't give up on me this weekend.


Thanks to some amazing friends, I've made a game time decision to attend (for the third year in a row), the annual Cortaca festivities at Ithaca College (the second greatest city in NY State).


Prior to making these plans, I committed myself to a charity happy hour at McFadden's tonight. I am not sure what I'm supporting but I do know that there are half priced drinks. As such, I will be flooding you, dear liver, with excessive alcohol for 4 days straight, including back-to-back day drinking.


I do recognize that I am no longer a college student and that you are out of practice for such debauchery. All I ask is that you please not revolt at an inopportune time. While I may need to boot and rally, I beg that it be in the confines of my room at the Meadow Court Inn and not during halftime in the parking lot.


In return, I promise to hydrate when convenient, power nap between day and night festivities, and feed you nothing but Shortstop, Sammy's and DP Dough.


Thank you in advance for your consideration.

xoxo Me

PS- Anyone think Brooke Hundley will also be in attendance?

GO BOMBERS!

Parenting 102?

My mother finally figured out how to forward e-mails.

Her first piece of e-advice:

"Please don't do any of these things."

"Don't worry Mom, I hardly ever face plant and it would be impossible for me to pee on a cop without a penis."

A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Commute

Now that I'm within walking distance of work, I got to thinking about all the things I'm missing (or awesomely avoiding) by not taking the subway. I am a huge proponent of public transportation for many reasons: I care about the environment, I hate sitting in traffic, and being able to read, sleep, or write this blog while commuting is my idea of stellar time management.


However, as you've probably guessed from the title of this post (unless you're not so quick on the uptake), I am not writing to praise mass transit.

While the MTA, NJ Transit, and LIRR offer a cheap, efficient alternative to driving (or risking your life in a yellow cab), there have been days when I've strongly contemplated throwing myself (or someone else) on to the tracks for any of the following reasons:



1. The Leaner(s)
New Yorkers have never been lauded for their patience. They honk their horns two seconds before the light actually turns green, they barely apply breaks when turning corners, and the concept of "pedestrians having the right of way" is completely lost. This unwillingness to wait is no more apparent than when there are delays due to train traffic. (WTF is train traffic anyway? Was the conductor guilty of rubbernecking to see a jack-knifed tractor-trailer? Didn't think so.)

On a staggeringly crowded platform, along comes Mr. Important. He's carrying a Financial Times (because he didn't get the memo that Wall Street jobs just aren't impressive anymore) and an overpriced leather brief case (that's probably empty). This man believes that it's absolutely imperative for him to barrel through a crowd of people (who have already been standing there for at least 10 minutes) to lean over the platform edge to check if a train is coming.

I'd like to take this opportunity to remind him (and everyone else guilty of being a leaner) that glaring down the tunnel, staring at your watch, and exhaling audibly will NOT make the uptown 6 arrive any faster, so back off.

2. The assault on my senses
There's nothing more disappointing than running down the stairs two at a time and barely squeezing through the closing doors of a train only to get punched in the face by a wave of heat. Un-airconditioned cars are beyond miserable. There is no amount of anti-perspirant on the market that can prevent one from sweating through their shirt. (Sexy, I know.)


To make matters worse, it is almost inevitable that this steaming hot subway car will be occupied by a homeless person, several people with sub par hygiene, or that guy with an egg sandwich. It's times like this that breathing through your mouth actually makes the odor palpable and suppressing the urge to vomit seems near impossible. I've never been so thankful for the "fresh" air on the platform.


3. The Musically Challenged
Generation I-pod is likely to be hard of hearing by age 50. (This is a completely fabricated statistic, but I wouldn't be surprised if it were true... I'd even go so far as to say that a long term investment in MiracleEar would prove very lucrative). The volume at which people listen to their music is damaging to both their ear canals and my morning commute. I guess all I can do is be grateful that boomboxes are a fad of the past.


Additional not-so-soothing subway sounds include the percussionist who uses the seat in front of him as a snare drum and the baby who is bothered by god-knows-what but proceeds to wail at the top of their lungs anyway.




4. The Pole Dancer
While I appreciate the fact that no one wants to be the jackass who stumbles 4 feet forward when the train comes to a halt, anchoring yourself to the pole with an arm and a leg securely wrapped around it is unnecessary, annoying, and gross. One hand should be quite sufficient for keeping your balance.



5. The Escalators... ... are most likely down for repair. (Especially the one at 53rd and Lex which is probably the longest distance to ground level in all of NYC). Not that I mind a little physical activity, but breaking a sweat before my morning coffee is not the way I want to start my day. I also do not miss the individuals who can't seem to grasp the "walk left, stand right" pattern. Is it really that difficult to go with the flow?

The Costume Conundrum

WARNING: The post you are about to read in no way supports or promotes the institution of Halloween. If you're hoping for last-minute costume suggestions, or a positive take on the holiday, this is the wrong blog.

As soon as I flip my calendar to the month of October, I feel a premature anxiety regarding the 31st. At the risk of sounding like the Scrooge of Halloween, I hate just about everything about this holiday. Not knowing what to wear or where to go is stressful enough on a regular Saturday night. Add a holiday that requires advanced planning for an outfit and I'm just about ready to draw the blinds and curl into bed until November arrives.

Inevitably, I will go out.

I'll also very likely be too drunk to recall the majority of the evening so it won't make a damn bit of difference what slutty costume I've reluctantly decided to wear.

Even looking back on my childhood, Halloween was never one of the holidays that I looked forward to. More accurately, I dreaded it then just as much as I do today. (Perhaps I was a bit high-strung for a 7 year old, but still.)

I can vividly recall the stress I felt when my teacher announced that we could wear our costumes to school. Showing up to my classroom hoping that my costume was just as great as everyone elses may have been the first panic attack I've ever had. (Seriously, I cried so hard I couldn't catch my breath.) It's hard to determine which costumes were worse: the store bought angel wings/halo that 3 other girls would be wearing, or the home-made bunny that most kids probably wouldn't understand. The pictures that were taken haunt me to this day.

You're probably thing, jeez, what is wrong with this chick?! What kind of child doesn't like free candy from neighbors?? To that I answer, "don't even get me started on trick-or-treating. "

Does anyone else remember all those warnings about the crazy bastards who might give you poisoned candy?! How your parents implored you not to eat anything until you got home and they inspected your loot?? I was completely paranoid that the next KitKat I consumed could be my last....

As I grew up, not much changed. I donned myself in pretty princess outfits, a little red riding hood cape, a rather uncreative witch (if only for the wig), and the like. I coerced my little sister into trading me her snickers bars for my caramel chews from the old lady down the block. We perfected our own little barter system where candy was cash and I always got my way. (This of course changed when she learned how to stand up for herself, but that's a whole different story.)

Then, around the same age I discovered Santa wasn't real, I scoffed at the the costumes of my youth to join the "cool crowd" who did everything they could to define Halloween as a "night of mayhem." (ya know, the typcal ring and run stunt, shaving cream wars, and egging bypassing cars). All that was required for a costume was crazy face glitter, hot pink hair spray, and an outfit that you would discard at the end of the night while your mother picked egg shells out of your hair. Oh the memories.

Later in highschool, all throughout college, and to this very day, Halloween took on a whole new meaning. The pressure mounted year after year to find a costume that encompassed the perfect balance of cute (but not childish), sexy (but not trashy), funny (but not clown funny), and creative (but not confusing). Are you kidding me?!

AND, there was another whole set of criteria if you foolishly decided to dress in some sort of couple/group ensemble.... Will people get it? Will I look ridiculous if I'm by myself? Oy vey!

So I took it upon myself to browse the inventory in one of the many, many Ricky's that has popped up in NYC, only to find that every single female costume available (for no less than $50) is the exact same style just with different colors.

Is that Dorothy? Or Little Red? Or a Beer Maid?

Oh, right. It's all of the above.

Apparently all you really need for a successful costume is a tight corset, a short skirt, and some thigh highs.

Spoiler Alert: Next year I'll be creating a nun version of this get-up to be both hideously inappropriate and equally as awesome.

Happy Halloween!!

Racism, Prostitution, and Balloon Boy

TGIF loyal readers. I've got a terrible wine hangover and am miserable at work today, however, at the request of my sister I'm gonna go ahead and post some nonsense to (hopefully) entertain this afternoon.


While my blog is (and will continue to be) NY-centric, some crazy shit has happened elsewhere this week that deserves a bit of attention.


According to the Associated Press, there is a white man in New Orleans serving as Justice of the Peace who refuses to marry interracial couples. In the same breath he insists he is not racist. (Perhaps he should consult a dictionary for the definition of racism).

The following excerpts are truly classic:
"I'm not a racist. I just don't believe in mixing the races that way," Bardwell told the Associated Press on Thursday. "I have piles and piles of black friends. They come to my home, I marry them, they use my bathroom. I treat them just like everyone else."

WOW, he lets them use the bathroom?! If I were one of his "piles of black friends" I would politely decline his generous offer to use the bathroom, and instead urinate on his sofa. How's that for Southern Hospitality, Jim Crow?

He came to the conclusion that most of black society does not readily accept offspring of such relationships, and neither does white society. He is worried that the children would suffer.

While I disagree with every one of this idiot's opinions about interracial marriage, I do believe that more people should be concerned for the well being of children in today's world. There are certain individuals who should NOT be responsible for another human life...or a hamster, or a cell phone.

At the risk of beating a dead horse (which I think is a graphic and sad phrase), an incident like yesterday's balloon boy stunt should have never happened.

Who are Falcon's fucked up hippie parents anyway? Obviously, their first mistake was naming their kid Falcon. Are his siblings Eagle and Hawk? How stoned were they at the hospital? (Apologies in advance if anyone named Falcon stumbled upon my blog and is now offended.) Secondly, what on earth would possess this family to have an over sized Mylar balloon just chilling in their backyard. A grill? Sure. A balloon? Not so much. Where is child protective services when you need them?

When I get my law degree, I'm going to make damn sure that there is strict legislation banning media whores from pimping out their children for attention.

Speaking of whores, gotta give a shout out to Germany for their concern for the environment. Apparently, a brothel in Berlin is offering discounted rates for their 'green' customers.

One bordello, hoping to stave off falling demand in the economic crisis, has begun offering discounts to customers who pedal bicycles to the door. To qualify, customers must show the receptionist either a bicycle padlock key or proof they used public transit to get to the neighborhood. That knocks the price for 45 minutes in a room, for example, to euro65 from euro70.

I'd like to call the House of Desire and share my ideas for a marketing campaign:

Ride a bike to ride a broad.

Want love for your weener? Think greener.

Take the bus to screw a huss(y).

Want to nail some cheaper ass? Show us your bus pass!

Newsday Tuesday

Not only did I have actual work to do (making up for a 4 day weekend away from the office) but the Jets terrible MNF loss led to much more beer consumption than I had anticipated. As a result, this is going to be short and well, not necessarily sweet:

Personally, posted calorie counts in NYC fast food joints don't make an ounce of difference when I've decided I just need a Big Mac (disgusting, I know). Apparently, I'm not alone.



If only I had tried to attend Ithaca College now. I guess I'll have to settle for being among one of their wildly successful alums.


Whatever. ...and other such dismissive phrases that we overuse to the chagrin of our peers.

Additional Funny Stuff (that I was too lazy to look for yesterday):

Some admistrators want to essentially take the college experience out of college. I think I'd rather contract swine flu than take any of these precautions.

Um, yet another reason why stupid people should not have responsibilities in a bakery.

Newsday Tuesday

I think it's fair to say that Tuesdays are my most productive day of the week. Unless the Jets are playing MNF, I have no real reason to go out on Monday night. The fog from the weekend has lifted and I'm already looking forward to next weekend because hell, hump day is just 24 hours away.

In an effort to blog more consistently I'm going to start a weekly column called Newsday Tuesday*. I read the news anyway, but for the sake of my readers I'll be focusing on finding stories that range from ludicrous to phenomenal and anything I find noteworthy in between.

*Any less lame suggestions for a column title are much appreciated.

*Caveat: Columns will be suspended or delayed if my paying job gets in the way.

*Aside: If you're interested in real news, check out The Daily Beast instead of my blog. Edited by Tina Brown of The New Yorker, it's like CliffNotes for life. Never again will you be that clueless moron standing around the water cooler while other people are discussing an important political event or global crisis.

Today, courtesty of FoxNews, more evidence that NYers are ridiculously aggressive on the road (and are so jaded that they are unphased as bystanders of absurd happenings.)

David Letterman's infidelity and excessive office trysts make me wish I had done more to promote my blog. If only he had read my advice on who not to sleep with he might not be in such a pickle.

The addition of Mercury is one of the many reasons I will NOT be getting a SwineFlu shot this winter.


Lastly, October is not only Breast Cancer Awareness month, but it's also the height of apple picking season!

Surviving a hangover at the office

My dear little sister, a 2009 grad, has recently started her first big girl job. It should go without saying that I'm uber proud of her for managing to score a full-time position in this economic climate. Even more proud of her for turning to me to answer all the tough questions in life.

It's Monday morning and she's dragging ass. Monday mornings suck. Monday mornings suck infinitely more with a hangover. A hangover that, during football season, is almost inevitable.



Lucky for her, I've had quite a bit of experience masking my less than lucid existence.



I'm not even going to address the fact that we should all know better than to get completely hammered on a night before a day at the office. Once the bad decisions have been made all you can do is damage control.



Hopefully you took all the proper precautions before passing out for the night. (Tall glass of water, ibuprofen, and some carbs.) You should also set your alarm for the latest possible minute you can wake up and still be on time for work. This is not the day to try to wake up early to make lunch before you leave the house. The more sleep you get, the better off you'll be.

1. At the risk of stating the obvious, wake up and take a shower. I usually shower at night after the gym, except when I've gone out drinking. A nice hot shower helps wash away the stench of booze likely eminating from your pores.



2. On your way to work stop at a Dunkin Donuts. Get yourself a large coffee, a sausage egg and cheese (SEC), and a dozen doughnuts*



*No, I do not think that 12 sugary doughnuts will make your day any better, but if you bring them for your co-workers they will a) appreciate your genorisity and b) be on enough of a sugar high to pick up the slack for all the work you won't be doing.

3. Don't let on that you've engaged in debauchery. It's not like you'll get fired for being a bit fuzzy, but it's just better to create an image of responsibility. If your eyes are red, claim it's your allergies (even if you don't have any) If you're exhausted, confess that your allergy meds make you drowsy (even if you don't take any). You might even get a little sympathy for being such a trooper and not calling in sick.



4. Lay low. Depending on the nature of your job, spend today working on any brainless tasks you might have. Do not undertake a new complicated project because it's very likely that you'll fuck it up.



5. Treat yourself to comfort food for lunch. I'm convinced that pizza is a cure-all. Also delicious on days like this are cheeseburgers, waffle fries, and mac & cheese.

6. Go straight home after work, resist the urge to booze for MNF, throw on your favorite pajamas, and crawl directly in to bed. Tomorrow's another day.

Ugh, Part II

Gchat is down. This is no bueno. (Translation= not good.)

Normally I would not be quite so inconvenienced by this glitch, however on this particular day I only have one game of Facebook Scrabble in progress, I've completed the Sporcle quizzes, and I'm not at all busy with actual work. So I figured, why not blog about an additional "ugh" moment.

Whenever there is a problem with Google Mail (or Facebook), I am initially overwhelmed with fear: Is my activity being monitored at work? Am I violating the firm's "acceptable use policy"for the internet? Have they finally caught on to my excessive use of gmail and blocked the application (as they've long ago done to AIM?!) How on earth will I keep myself occupied at work if this is permanent???

Then there's relief: A text message from the roomie confirms that I am not the only individual impacted by Google's technical difficulties. Phew.

This sense of relief is short lived and quickly replaced by frustration. Why can't Google with all their infinite resources fix this problem faster?! Admittedly, I proceed to sit there like an idiot for the next half hour signing on and off in 30 second increments hoping my persistence will rectify the situation. It does not.

*On the topic of impatience, take a few minutes to watch Louis CK's perspective on why everything is amazing and nobody's happy.

Seriously, do it- it's not like you have gchat friends to talk to.

Things that make you go UGH.

In a world of increasingly electronic communication, our generation has adapted quickly to the constraints of 160 characters or less. We abbreviate anything and everything to be certain we convey meaning without having to send multiple texts.

I was recently scrolling through my sent messages and realized that I completely overuse the phrase "ugh." I'm sure I'm not alone, and call me lazy, but its versatility makes it one of those phrases that is almost always applicable. Its meaning is twofold and simple: disgust and frustration. I think it would loosely translate to, "This situation completely fucking sucks and there's nothing I can do about it."

In the past few weeks I have encountered several different people and scenarios that have evoked this "ugh" emotion, which can be so overwhelming that it's sometimes impossible to keep to myself. Allow me to share...

Ugh Moment # 1: The Commuting Couple

I spent part of my Labor Day weekend out in Long Beach, LI (not to be confused with Long Beach Island, NJ) requiring a short train ride on the LIRR from Penn Station. My disgust for commuting couples was heightened to an unhealthy level. Previously, I had only been slightly perturbed by the love birds on the Manhattan-bound V who seemed pained by the thought of having to take separate escalators after disembarking the train.

On this particular morning, however, (perhaps due in part to the fact that I was uncomfortably hot and my head was pounding from the previous nights debauchery ) I almost lost my cool with the couple in front of me.

It should be noted that I am not vehemently opposed to PDA's. In fact, I think hand-holding is a nice way to say, "hey, I'm a big fan of being with this person in public." What I do NOT agree with is the audible face-sucking that occurred on the LIRR that morning. The 5 foot nothing chick had her short little arms wrapped so securely around her boyfriend's neck that it was a wonder he could breathe. He couldn't utter a single sentence that didn't warrant a kiss on the nose, cheek, forehead or lips. It took all the self-control I had not to blurt out "RELAX, he's can't cheat on you on the train!" Instead I turned up my iPod, rolled my eyes, and exhaled a long, loud ugh.

Ugh Moment #2: Sunday Mornings

Sunday mornings have often been the cause for multiple ughs. Depending on how rowdy things got the night before, a burst of sunlight through the window coupled with a quick survey of an apartment in shambles is well deserving of an ugh.

Yes, it's almost noon and you still haven't moved from your slumber. Yes, you made horrible decisions last night (including all the gin you consumed before you went out). And yes, you will be violently thrust back into reality...with a debilitating hangover.

But wait, there's more! Let's say you decide to keep the weekend going with some Sunday Funday festivities. Perhaps a liquid brunch or some football specials? Great, so you throw on some big sunglasses and your cleanest looking scrubs and venture out into the day, only to be confronted by a world of people far more functional than you. You know exactly who I'm talking about: The mom with the the toddler in the stroller, the man who just went grocery shopping, the old lady walking her dog, or worse, the marathon runner at the height of their training. Maybe I'm just jealous that I'm not quite as physically fit, but while I'm stumbling to my all-you-can-drink meal, the last thing I need to see is someone covered in sweat reminding me of all the things I'm NOT doing with my Sunday morning. Ugh.

Ugh Moment #3: The Overstimulated Tourist

As a New Yorker I've learned to live with the inconveniences of foreign tourists. In fact, there have been times when these tourists serve as a reminder that I live in a city so great, people from all around the world venture here to see what all the fuss is about. There are even days when I'm in an abnormally positive mood and take it upon myself to offer assistance to the many wandering souls emerging from Grand Central with a look of complete confusion.

That said, there are also days when I have zero tolerance for anyone... especially tourists. I don't mean just any tourists, I'm talking about the incredibly rude and overstimulated ones. I'm sure you've seen them... They are the clueless family on the corner of 42nd and Lex, listening to their newly purchased iPods, carrying several Century 21 shopping bags, scrolling through their cell phones, fumbling with maps, slurping up their Jamba Juice, all as the light is changing for them to cross the street. All I'm really asking is that you kindly remove yourself from the walkway while you decide on your next destination so that I may do as the traffic signal is instructing me and WALK.

Additional UGH moments (that need no elaboration):

- The interminable line at Dunkin Donuts when you're already late for work and in dire need of caffeine.

- Looking through multiple dressers and closets and still having "nothing to wear."

- Being called into a surprise meeting with your boss, who uses these corporate catch phrases.

- People who don't hold the elevator door open when you're clearly rushing to catch it.

- Bars with cover charges.

- Checking this blog when there's no new post.

Parenting 101?

If there's one store I love more than most in this big city, it's The Container Store. For someone as Type-A as myself, the container store provides the locale for a therapeutic shopping spree. It is there that I find happiness in the form of plastic storage products in all shapes and sizes. I don't even bring my lunch to work, but have somehow convinced myself that I need a container in the shape of a slice of Wonderbread to keep my sandwiches fresh. I'm often tempted to buy a whole new fully loaded spice rack, despite the fact that I have a lazy susan chock-full of spices at home. And while I still haven't quite figured out the proper use for a mason jar, I own at least four- currently filled with extra buttons and loose change.

In addition to some of the ridiculous and unnecessary storage/shelving/organizing products they tempt consumers with, they also offer some incredibly functional items. For anyone who went away to college, you'll agree that plastic totes are the key to a smooth transition out of your parents house.* In addition, once you've moved in to your shared 8X8 dorm room, you can store miscellaneous items in these totes under your raised bed. Even as an adult with a "big girl apartment," I still find these containers an invaluable resource for creating space in the less than roomy living quarters of Manhattan.

*Warning: In case you've been in the working world too long, don't forget that we are currently at the peak of back-to-school season. It is now that you should avoid Target, WalMart, BB&B, and other such mad-houses, as they are teeming with eager-to-be-free college freshman frantically shopping for items to outfit their new digs.


Anyway, on my most recent visit to the Container Store I was shocked to see the following warning label on one such tote:

Please do not store your child in this container.

Really??

Perhaps the label would be more accurate if it read:

If this warning tells you something you didn't already know,

please use birth control.

Excuses, Excuses

I've been berated of late for my extreme slacking on the blog. I'd like to say I have a good excuse, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I've been far too involved with making questionable decisions to take the time out to entertain my loyal readers. I've also adhered to a strict "no blogging while intoxicated" policy, which severly limits the time I can spend writing.

The fact that I wanted to make up a lie for why I have not been blogging got me thinking about excuses in general. My friends can attest to the fact that I'm pretty awful when it comes to my cell phone communication skills (or lack thereof). As a Sprint customer, I've sworn that I "don't have service" at the exact moment I "missed" your call. For those of you who haven't figured it out yet, this is likely untrue as in reality I saw my caller ID and made the conscious decision not to pick up.*

*As an aside, please note that leaving a voicemail only telling me to "call you back" is not only unnecessary but relatively annoying.

I digress... The point here is the very nature of the excuses we use to justify our behavior.

I have consumed alcohol for at least 10 of the past 14 days.... and no, I'm not on vacation. In no way do I consider this a noteworthy feat, as I'm certain I have friends with significantly longer streaks. However, this binge kinda got me thinking about the reasons we think we deserve to get drunk.

Some of my favorites include:

Having a rough/great day: Whether you want to celebrate the good or drink to forget the bad, uncorking a bottle of wine after work is always justifiable. As a bonus, you'll be just drunk enough to almost tolerate Megan Hauserman or any other attention-whore with a reality show.

The weather sucks/the sun is shining: Nothing says BBQ like a beautiful sunny day. Dumping buckets of rain? Since there's really nothing productive you can do outside during a hurricane, spending the day playing movie drinking games is definitely the next best option.

Finding an apartment/signing a lease: Even if you haven't actually signed any paperwork, apartment hunting is stressful enough to warrant a few take-the-edge-off-cocktails.

Any live (or televised) sporting event: This is where the excuses get really excessive. No matter what season of the year, or day of the week, I'm certain you can find some athletic competition worth drinking for. Sunday/Monday football, a Tuesday night Knicks game, the interminable heartache associated with being a Mets fan, and even if you don't like tennis, watching a sweaty topless Andy Roddick during a rousing match at the US Open are all valid reasons to guzzle down a few Bud Light tall boys.

Buying a couch (or TV, or any other big ticket item): In my experience, one of the best ways to nip buyer's remorse in the bud and thwart the pangs of anxiety regarding your upcoming $2,000 credit card bill is with booze.

Birthdays: Just because your birthday only happens once a year doesn't mean you shouldn't celebrate other people's birthdays with the same enthusiasm. In fact, even if you don't have a close friend who's turning a year older, there's probably someone mildly famous worth raising a glass for. Anyone got plans for Columbus Day?

Holidays: This is a no-brainer. Even your parents are probably getting sloshed. The favorites of course being Thanksgiving Eve, St. Patty's Day, and New Years... The stretch, of course, being "holidays" like Veterans Day, Arbor Day, and Earth Day.

Random drink specials: Margarita Monday at Rodeo? Two-For Tuesday at Opal? Wine-Down Wednesday at Choice? Happy Hour Thursday.. anywhere! Isn't it funny how a cute rhyme or alliterative nickname for a night of the week suddenly makes you think you're not really doing anything wrong by getting drunk? I'm sure we've also used the following justifications: On a Wednesday- "I made it halfway through the week!"; On a Thursday: "It's okay if I'm hungover tomorrow, no one really expects me to function on summer Fridays!" On a Sunday: "Well it is an all-you-can-drink brunch!"

Celebrate we will...whatever the reason may be.

You Down with TWC?

Unfortunately.


One of the less obvious and more annoying things about moving is having to get your new digs wired for the 21st century. I've been cable-less for over a week now, and although I've consumed plenty of wine to pass the time, I'm definitely jonesing for a long night in front of the boob tube.

If you live in NYC or any of the surrounding boroughs, you're pretty much forced to endure TimeWarner as your cable/internet provider. Confusing bills, outages, price hikes, and horrific customer service are just a few of the many joys of a year long contract. However, the worst part about the relationship is its termination.


Like a jaded ex-lover, TimeWarner can't just let you walk away - at least not without a fight. The incessant phone calls, pleading, offering specials and empty promises of "this time it will be different." And after all is said and done, the final straw is their irate demand that you "return their stuff."*

*Had I not been informed that the penalty for keeping the equipment is a ridiculous charge of close to $300, I would have happily Carrie Underwood-ed the cable box, Office-Space style, similar to the way I've destroyed the personal items of many ex flames.

As one might suspect, they do not make the return process easy.

There are only three Time Warner centers in the greater NYC area. Fortunately one of them happens to be a ten minute walk from my apartment and is open until 8pm on Wednesdays. I convince myself that maybe this won't be so bad after all. I am wrong.

I arrive at the store on 23rd and Park at 6:45. I am greeted, or more accurately scowled at, by the nasty receptionist who asks me why I am there. It should be noted that I am carrying a huge cable box, a modem, and a remote. I am not there for a Big Mac.

The receptionist throws a slip of paper at me and tells me to take a seat to the right (where there are at least 35 other disgruntled TWC customers.) The paper I'm holding has the number 664 on it. They are now serving number 612.

I have officially found an establishment that is worse than the DMV. fml.

After squeezing myself into one of the last available seats between two decent looking guys, I begin waiting. I look down at the man's hands next to me, a move that I've done many times to check for a wedding ring before I begin shamelessly flirting, this time with a completely different objective. I contemplated stealing his ticket and offering him my phone number in exchange... until I looked down further...

This man was wearing Crocs.

I immediately abort flirting mission to furiously text my friends about the tool sitting next to me. I think the only thing less attractive than a man wearing Crocs is a man with a hairy back.

So I continue waiting....

48 minutes later I am called to the desk by a woman whose arms are quite possibly the size of both my thighs. She's too large and sloth-like to even reach over her desk to pick up the equipment. Her computer screen is strategically angled so I have no idea what she's typing into her magical Time Warner database of bullshit. A minute later my equipment was whisked away into a back room and I was being asked to sign some non-descript receipt documenting this transaction. This woman has not even asked for my name. WTF just happened?

I hesitate in signing the paper because I'm uncertain as to how I'm going to get my deposit back for all this stuff. Betty Big Arms informs me that "I'll be mailed a check," which would be awesome if they knew where to mail the check to! Every question I asked seemed to anger this woman further, when all I'm really asking is for her to do her fucking job. It's time like these that I wish people had a better understanding of what it means to be in a customer service position.

I left the Time Warner store in disbelief of how much they suck and went straight to the bar....Nothing a pitcher of margaritas couldn't fix.