Seems Like Old Times

Maybe it’s the rain today, but I’m feeling a little nostalgic.

I’m having dinner tonight with an old friend. Many, many years ago, we were writers and editors together at a couple weekly papers here in the city. Our office was one of the filthier ones in Manhattan—possibly the tri-state area. It was one of those buildings in the West 20s that city inspectors hadn’t visited in decades (possibly ever).

Upon walking onto our floor, you would have thought you’d stumbled into a squatters’ camp, but no, this was our place of business. The main newsroom was like something ripped from an episode of Hoarders. That’s how much crap was piled atop surfaces, tucked into grimy corners and shoved under tables. That's how abjectly filthy this place was. The pieces of “furniture” were castaways from some moving company that would unload rickety particle-board desks and mildewed chairs on the cheap (in exchange for ad space, natch). And the bathrooms….suffice it to say, Alcatraz had better facilities. I frequented the office restroom only once, on my first day of work. From then on out, my friend and I would go to the cleaner, better lighted and more secure restrooms in Penn Station. To put this into perspective, dear readers, this was the late ’90s.

Surprisingly enough, from within this dingy office space, amid such squalid, and it must be said, off-the-wall weird working conditions, my friend and I turned out some terrific journalism. And even with the puny pay, the nonstop hours, the annoyance and irritation that comes with any sort of journalism job early in a career, we had a blast. Not only that, but this gritty little shop we worked at attracted serious talent, the kind of talent that’s gone on to The New York Times, New York Magazine…hell, there’s even been an Oscar winner. And of course, yours truly, blogger extraordinaire, hopeful author and consumer of all things chocolate.

So, tonight, my friend and I will get together and reminisce a little, strategize about our next career moves and undoubtedly run down the list of eclectic folks we worked with back in the day and wonder what happened to them. But most of all, we’ll have appreciation for that dirty place where we met and slogged over words together—in some strange way, that crazy job helped propel us to where we are today, and where we’re headed tomorrow.

Somehow, that makes all those trips to Penn Station's restrooms worth it.

Uncle

Have you heard about this thing called Facebook?

(cue crickets chirping)

Sigh. I know. I’m the last one to cram my online butt onto this bandwagon—six years and 800 million users after the fact. I used to get emails with subjects of: “Really?” The message that followed: “How is it you’re not on Facebook?”

A friend once described the site’s allure as a great way to stay in touch without actually having to talk to anyone, which was probably the best selling point anyone could have offered me. Still, I fought it for years—years. I’d ignore emails to join, turning a deaf ear to the hue and cry about my shunning of this social networking revolution.

Maybe I fought it for so long because after working online for years I wanted to retreat a bit from the online realm. Alas, if you want to do anything anymore, like, oh, I don’t know, publish a book, that’s a veritable impossibility.

So today I signed up, slapped up a photo and then started looking around, seeing who was out there. And, this might be blasphemous, but can someone tell me what the big deal is? I expected to step into a buzzy online world that would make me think, Yes, this is why I signed up; why oh why did I wait so long?! Instead, the whole thing seems to be this compulsion to collect friends.

By that, I mean people’s walls aren’t plastered with much in the way of conversational exchanges as they are mechanical updates from Lord Facebook about accepting friend requests. Facebook, it turns out, is merely a collection site—is this that farming aspect of the site everyone talked about? The one where you had to sow and plant and then harvest until you had hundreds of friends?

Ugh, what have I become a begrudging participant in? What am I doing here at all? What….oh, God…I only have two friends. Christ! Two friends??? I’m officially the biggest social pariah on Facebook! Good God, this is worse than high school! C’mon, people, I stopped dressing monochromatically years ago!

Ok, I just checked—I have one more. That brings me up to three friends. Three whole friends. If I get the two people who read this blog to friend me, that’ll bring me up to five friends. Wait…the puppy can’t type, and I don’t think I can friend myself…can I?

I just refreshed my screen and now have four friends—and that’s without making the pup sign up for his own account. Of course, the day is young. I might very well get him an account before lunch.

Along with all of his toys.

Time, It Does Fly

For the three people who read this blog (yes, I'm counting the pup--anything to prop up the site's traffic), I thought I'd catch you up on what I've been up to lately. It's been several busy months...as you'll see.

We had a wee wizard in the house for Halloween.


Spent lots of quality time with the family.


Did a study of pies...


...an intense study of pies. Only to discover I suck at making pies.


Cobblers, however, I can do. I mean, who wants to eat flaky crusts anyway? Fascists, that's who.


Also, was forced to contend with a small Occupy movement on this chair.


So, yeah...that pretty much sums it up.

Needless to say, if you've reached the point in the final editing of your novel where you're staging photos of the dog's toys in a chair, it's pretty clear you've got a bestseller on your hands.

One Gal’s Garbage…

For the three people who read this blog, here’s something you might not know: I’m a super hero. This is not a joke. I’m known in certain well-recognized circles as Compost Girl.

Yes, I live in Manhattan. In an apartment. Without, it should be noted, a lick of outdoor space. Nonetheless, I compost my vegetable scraps. I’ve become that person. The canvas-bag-holding, organic-food-eating, green-product-using superfreak. I’m recycling junk mail, shredding store receipts and recycling those as well (natch). Those empty toilet-paper rolls? You know what I’m doing with those. And, most importantly, I’m saving the world, one bag of frozen vegetable scraps at a time.

The source of my superpower strength is the freezer. Throughout the week, I throw bruised bits of nectarines, limp leaves of lettuce, and rotten parts of onions (among other unusable vegetal remains) in a giant ziplock bag and shove it in the freezer. The bag is enormous. Really, it's like the size of a Kia. I don’t think they make a bag bigger:

Then, the compost phone rings—it’s actually an old rotary phone that the Eco Friends (cousins to the Super Heroes) deemed the only acceptable instrument of communication—and that’s when I know it’s time to haul the compost downtown. Actually, that’s a lie. I don’t have a compost phone; my signal to unload compost is when husband’s gripes about the lack of space in the freezer reverberate off the apartment walls. Loudly. Whatever. I like to think of it as my compost phone.

So, I squeeze into my compost leotard, which, it should be noted, has sparkles, tie on my long, red cape, and hop on the subway with my 30 pounds of frozen vegetable scraps in tow.

Do people stare at me in my awesome compost costume? Yes, but I think it’s because they are envious of my white, patent leather knee-high boots. Am I uncomfortable shifting my weight from one foot to another while my compost poundage slowly melts on my hip and condenses on the outside of my nylon greenmarket bag? A bit. But it’s a small price to pay for saving the world.

I alight from the subway, then run as quickly past what is possibly one of the most foul-smelling stretches of sidewalk in Manhattan (on the east side of Union Square Park) to the compost dump area. There…there is where my magic is on full display. I dump my frozen garbage into giant trash cans then stand back, cape a flutter in the wind, hands on hips, face turned toward the sun as I bask in the adoration of the masses who’ve flocked to thank me for giving back to Mother Earth.

That is, you know, until somebody elbows me out of the way. This is New York, after all.

Fall Into The Gap

I went to The Gap the other day in search of some summer bargains and found myself right in the middle of a retailing horror land.

I looked around bewildered, desperately trying to figure out what market this company was targeting. Teens? Tweens? People who will go to the store in late July searching for some bargain that they’ll wear a handful of times at most, then donate to Salvation Army because it’s impossible to justify the drawer space for those “boyfriend shorts” that are cut like a potato sack and, frankly, even less attractive than a potato sack? (Full Disclosure: I own said potato sack shorts—Salvation Army, you’ve been warned.)

Aside from the disappointing clothing selection, there was the unkempt look and feel of the stores, like I’d happened on some indoor yard sale. Most location are packed with so many racks of so many clothes that so many don’t want that the stores have an unpalatable flea market feel to them. There are others, like the one I went to on the east side of Manhattan, that have a certain, weird ’70s downstairs den feeling—the kind you don’t want to spend any time in whatsoever.

All of which is supremely disappointing, I’m guessing to Gap shareholders—of which I’m one. Gap stock, to put it in retail parlance, has a huge, ground-in stain…a seemingly unfixable tear…a split seat. Really, there isn’t a metaphor powerful enough to illustrate the fashion faux pas that is Gap stock.

I actually thought the investment was a good one at the time—the shares had been dressed down by Wall Street, and the clothing line was roundly rejected by those in the know. Simply put, I was banking on a turnaround. After all, Gap had done it before, ascending from its retail ashes into a khaki and denim phoenix that soared above all other retailers. It was the late ’90s and the company, left for dead in the retail sector’s sales bin, was resuscitated by the indomitable Mickey Drexler. The stock soared. Of course, Popsicle.com did too back then, but there were actual sales and earnings behind Gap’s heady ascension.

Thing is, there is no Mickey Drexler this time around. And before we lose all semblance of perspective, it’s worth noting that there was a time too when Mr. Drexler’s charms no longer worked on The Gap—its rapid expansion and increasingly lackluster workaday offerings eventually caught up with the company and it was time to go shopping for a new CEO.

Which brings me back to the sorry state of Gap affairs today. With sales lagging and the stock once again in the sales bin, the company fired its global design guy in May. Then, inexplicably, company executives threw all of the company’s oddly flowered and buttoned garments in one heaping pile and danced around it chanting in an attempt to exorcise some haberdashery devil. That last part I don’t get, and, for the record, was not disclosed on any SEC filings. But, you know, people talk.

For all the doom and gloom, however, there is one bright spot in Gap’s portfolio. One beacon of clothier light: Athleta. For those who aren’t familiar with this athletic line, Athleta is known for terrifically made clothing at—this is the best part—a fraction of the cost of some other trendy lines. It is the reasonable person’s lululemon. Does it have the cache? Not like lulu's. But every active woman I know not only swears by this line, they’re devoted to it.

Now, do I own anything from Athleta? No, and this is why: Until recently, it’s been a catalog-only line. That is, until they opened up a retail store in California last year—to huge acclaim. Next month, two more locations are opening: one on the west side of Manhattan and one on the east side. To which I can only applaud loudly, and then yell over my own applause: WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL STRETCHABLE FABRIC TOOK YOU SO LONG, GAP?

My disappointment at how Gap has handled its Athleta clothing line cannot be overstated. Why oh why didn’t they try something like a pop-up store somewhere to build excitement? Or maybe host a trunk show of sorts in an existing Gap location—something that could goose those limp same-store sales? Why didn’t you, company executives, take your noses out of your PowerPoints to see that what real people want you, amazingly enough, have? But I digress.

While The Gap has been late, and not in the fashionable sense, of harnessing the power of its Athleta line, at least it’s doing something proactive now. And it’s got lululemon in its sights—a smart move, I think. Lulu might be yoga wear for the trendy set who have loads of disposable income to spend on stretchy workout gear, but Athleta, with its more varied portfolio of active clothing, is for the woman who’s not only athletic, but who also understands the reality of things: She’s going to be working her tukus off in her fashionable gear, so it really isn’t necessary to spend $128 on cute pants that are mere sweat holders. The Athleta gal will spend a fraction of her fancy lulu counterpart, and have enough money left over to buy, oh, I don't know, Gap shares at a discount.

I'm still betting on a turnaround at The Gap. Athleta is a good first step, and I couldn't be more excited to go shop at the new stores next month. That said, there is still loads of crumpled, unfocused clothing lines in Gap's closet. Time for company executives to purge and donate what it can't sell. You know, like those boyfriend shorts.

Fine Dining Postscript

I've just returned from dinner out with my dear friend. And I've returned with what might be the best restaurant calling card ever:


Seeds!

Rosemary, thyme and basil! It's practically a Simon and Garfunkel song in my pocket!

Now, I know what you're thinking...it's not deodorant. Still, I'm happy to report that I'm not in the least disappointed.

Fine Dining

I used to eat deodorant.

Now, before you become completely alarmed and, yes, repulsed, let me say in my defense that it wasn’t last week that I was sitting down to a stick of Secret solid with a knife and fork. This was years ago—decades in fact.

It was the ’70s, and I was a young slip of a thing who played softball, climbed trees and, every now and again, licked my parents’ deodorant. Don’t ask me how or, better yet, why I started doing this. At some age kids are supposed to stop putting things in their mouths—I was apparently left unsupervised in the bathroom before this maturity set in.

To this day, I remember how that Arid Extra Dry tasted. I don’t know if they even make that brand anymore, but if they do, I’m sure the formula has changed so it’s lost its lemony metallic tang. It was the kid of tanginess that made your taste buds tingle and stand at attention. There was a ZING! that let you know you were doing something a little secret, a little forbidden.

Of course, now that I think back, it’s more than a little unsettling that the same glistening roller ball that I used to surreptitiously lick was the same one that was lavishly worked around my parents’ armpits to keep them smelling fresh. Sometimes, I swear, retrospective thinking does no good at all.

In the name of all that is private...God, and embarrassing, why am I telling you this?

Oh, I know why, because I’m going to dinner at a new restaurant tonight—one I’ve been wanting to try ever since it opened. It’s restaurant week here in New York, and that has me thinking about all the great meals I’ve eaten over the years. And, yes, for whatever reason, I’ve been thinking about my food appreciation and how it all developed.

Food has been such a big part of my life that my first journalism job a zillion years ago was at a foodie magazine. My first book focuses on food and meals cooked with family. My entire life is punctuated by food moments—what I’m cooking, what I’m going to cook, what I’m eating, what I’m going to the greenmarket for so then I can cook it and eat it.

A foodie’s life is one that’s always growing; you’re always learning, always creating, and always savoring the bites, morsels and tastes that are as unexpected as a cartwheel or as familiar as a cozy pair of slippers. Even, as in my case, if your appreciation started with some secret licks of deodorant. Sometimes, the most inauspicious beginnings are the ones that eventually lead us to the greatest fulfillment.

Unless, you know, I develop some rare brain tumor from all that deodorant aluminum I ingested. Then screw all that inauspicious beginnings crap.