Monica's Musings

Uncle

2012-02-01T10:12:00.004-05:00

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

2012-01-31T09:26:00.012-05:00

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…

2011-08-08T14:04:00.006-04:00

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

2011-07-21T13:02:00.002-04:00

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

2011-07-20T20:30:00.003-04:00

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

2011-07-20T14:18:00.002-04:00

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.

Magical Me

2011-07-14T13:33:00.002-04:00

I’m an unabashed Harry Potter fan, have been for years.

When I picked up the first book, it was a simple curiosity. Back then, I was working as a journalist, sometimes pulling 13-hour days that began at 7 a.m. sharp, and supremely unhappy in my personal life. I had an ardent desire to escape from the daily grind, and a kid’s story about witches seemed to fit the bill.

To my delight, it did just that. From platform 9 ¾, I was whisked away to another place, far from my adult reality. There, amid witches, potions and staircases that moved, I found solace in this new, mystical world. It was not New York. It was not a never-ending reporting job that started before I could get a cup of coffee in me. It was not a relationship that was flimsy and unfulfilling, with unrequited emotions and frustrations. It was pure, escapist enchantment. It was magic and discovery. Most of all, it offered a delightful, youthful comfort to a weary young adult.

As I slipped into that world every night before bed, curled up in my sleeping loft with a book that was meant for a 10-year old, I felt the heaviness, the seriousness of my day fall away. The burdensome clothes of a young adult trying to make it in Manhattan were replaced by a witch’s wispy robes. I became lighter ensconced in my make believe world. I grew happier in the presence of magical mysteries. I was transformed into a kid without a care in the world.

It’s such purity, that feeling like you’re little again, where everything is fresh and full of magic. Kind of like when you’d spend a summer’s day flitting through the sprinkler in the backyard, the heat of the midday sun drying your bathing suit while you eat a popsicle and giggle with your sister. A single day spent like that, wrapped up in the sparkly happiness and lightness of childhood, that’s the kind of powerful memory that rejuvenates you. That’s what reading Harry Potter was like for me.

It’s been more than a decade since I cracked open The Sorcerer’s Stone. That first book, the one that served as sort of teddy bear or security blanket, has since been thrown away. By mistake of course, and not by me. In a flurry of cleaning and thinning of the bookshelf one day, my husband mistakenly disposed of it. I was crushed when I realized what had happened. That was the book that had allowed me to go to sleep with lightness in my heart instead of angst. But I realized that sometimes those are the books we should let go of—the ones that are so saturated with memories. Sometimes those are precisely the books that are meant to leave us after they’ve done their duty, as that first Harry Potter book had.

After all, I’m not in the same place that I was in the late ‘90s, professionally or personally. That’s not to say there isn’t a need for Harry Potter anymore, or that I’ve somehow outgrown him. Quite the contrary. When you’re trying to become a published author yourself, there’s a certain amount of angst and loneliness that can creep in from time to time, no matter how strong your Patronus charm. Turns out, I still need that delicious slice of escapism that J.K. Rowling can provide.

Which is why my husband, the one who disposed of the memory-laden first book, gave me the entire Harry Potter series. It was a new start of sorts. My reasons for falling into Hogwarts are different, you see, but that doesn’t make them any less important. And it’s something that my wizard husband, while never having read any of the books himself, somehow, quite magically, gets.

For OM the Bell Tolls

2011-06-29T10:42:00.003-04:00

For years, yoga simply wasn’t for me. Slow movements, holding poses, just breathing….for a girl who grew up playing softball and running, a class where you stretched slowly while inhaling and exhaling seemed weird to me. And boring.

However, as an undergrad at OSU, I found I needed another couple credits to fulfill my Tuesday/Thursday class schedule. And yoga was the only thing offered that fit the bill. Half of the class was made up of women looking to get fit, or, like me, realize their two-day-a-week course load dream. The other half was made up of football players. For anyone not familiar with Big Ten football, they grow those guys pretty big out in Ohio.

Thus the scene played out: For an hour, a bunch of petite women and an equal number of muscle-bound men would stretch and OM and eventually fall asleep next to each other for the final savasana. It must have been a thing to see, so many giants snoring away surrounded by a field of lithe ladies. By the middle of the quarter, yoga class had become nothing more than glorified naptime. I stopped going shortly thereafter, figuring I could sleep in and have my own savasana in my bed.

After I moved to New York for graduate school and somehow, some way, managed to scrape together a couple nickels to join a gym, my friend and I went to a yoga class. I hadn’t been since college when I slept beside giants, but it was a new gym membership and I was game to try anything.

Fifteen minutes into my first class, I attempted to contort my legs and arms—as malleable as tent poles—into what my body, given the unidentifiable cracks and shooting pains, deemed impossible positions. Then there was the shoulder stand, which everyone did by effortlessly elevating their legs above their heads and lifting their light-as-air torsos to stand on their shoulders.

After several attempts to heave the lower half of my body up, up good god go UP, after I’d painstakingly propped my butt and torso higher than I ever thought possible, after I’d exhaled a Christ-on-a-crutch-why-in-the-world-would-anyone-do-this? breath, my shirt slid down, exposing my stomach...My floppy-skinned, toneless, pasty stomach—a stomach that bore an eerie resemblance to my cat’s after she’d been neutered. Horrified, my entire body flopped unceremoniously to the mat as the instructor, a leotarded woman with a taut face and a long, tightly braided rope of dark hair running down the middle of her back like some serene kumbaya anchor said (most pointedly in the direction of my yoga mat), “If this position is not available to anyone, please feel free to enjoy child’s pose.”

Suffice it to say, I spent the rest of the class in child’s pose, as the remainder of the positions were unavailable to me. That was my last class for years. I didn’t care. I was a runner, after all. I’d been a runner since the sixth grade. I’ve completed two New York marathons, run I don’t know how many half marathons and gone on countless long runs that make a half marathon feel like a warm up. What the hell did I need yoga for? Answer: I didn’t.

That is, until I got older and my hamstrings staged a revolt on my body. Those grumpy, muscled generals enlisted my knees in the fight along with my beleaguered IT bands. Right around the time when I was seriously outnumbered in the fight, I went to a Bikram yoga class. It was insanely difficult—on par with a long run. It was an ugly, brutal, break-you-down-to-your-core kind of class, not like those pristine yoga classes where hair is rarely mussed and sweat never breaks out. A Bikram yoga class is akin to war, at least that’s how I looked at it at first. I kept going back—for the sweat and the stretch, but mostly for the muscular challenge of it all.

Then I broke through and found the serene, mind-calming rationale for going. The cobweb-clearing, spirit-affirming underpinning of the whole practice. The emotional and spiritual aspects, combined with the physical difficulty, was the exact balance that I needed in my yoga. That’s right my yoga. I no longer sleep through or give up on or outright mock yoga, because I’ve found a technique that works for me. And anything that makes me feel like I’ve run 15 or 16 miles without the pain and injury associated with actually logging those miles, well, it’s worth sticking with.

Turns out, not only is yoga for me, I actually need it.

Cook to Heal What Ails Ya

2011-06-28T11:51:00.011-04:00

Once upon a time I worked at Saveur, a glossy food magazine. This was, ahem, many years ago. I was still at New York University, getting my master’s in journalism and Saveur was my first internship. I loved food, cooking and magazines, so it felt like I’d found the perfect place to begin my journalism career.

Saveur’s offices were located downtown in SoHo, far from the maddening, midtown crunch where most every other magazine was located. The offices were airy and filled with sunlight—not to mention much prettier than the ones at The Daily News and The New York Post where my friends had secured internships. I was in heaven, but also, I was lost. And young.

This was my first taste of a real job in the big city. The office might have been perched on the edge of SoHo, but things were still very much corporate. First, there was work attire: For anyone else in the publishing world, Saveur’s dress code was pretty laid back, but it was still more put together than I’d been in any of my years during college and graduate school. So, every morning I struggled with what to wear. Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less what I looked like. All I cared about was words and writing. My only goal was to get clips.

That internship turned into a full-time job and my thrill at being staffed at Saveur lasted for only a short time. My insatiable thirst to write was driving me forward, but instead of watching the clips pile higher, I was thrown into the mundane office tasks that accompanied the mechanics of magazine production. My stay there wasn’t long. The panic I felt at having my budding journalism career die on the publishing vine propelled me out of that airy magazine office and down to South Jersey, of all places, where I worked at a teeny tiny community newspaper. There, in an ugly office (but, it should be noted, not the ugliest—for that was my next newspaper job back in New York), I reported and wrote my fingers off every week, covering every aspect of small-town life: education, politics, government and even the goings-on at the local water authority. It was the perfect boot camp for me, and, just as I’d hoped, the clips piled up.

No one I worked with at Saveur would ever remember the young woman who filed slides and answered phones for a handful of months. And it’s not just because I was Monica Rivituso back then; it was that I gave them little reason to remember me. I was too rarin’ to go and felt my current circumstances were doing nothing but holding me back. Like I said, I was young.

It’s a shame, because what I didn’t realize then was that I was surrounded by foodie luminaries, including Christopher Hirsheimer, who went on to Canal House fame, or Colman Andrews, a veritable food world giant in every regard. The presence of the people I was with was completely lost on the quiet mouse who dutifully answered reader mail, organized back issues, then abruptly, and, let’s face it, unprofessionally quit. My embarrassment at how I left Saveur has always stuck with me, so much so that when I went to a Canal House dinner at Williams-Sonoma with a friend, I couldn’t introduce myself to Ms. Hirsheimer or congratulate her on her books. Utterly pathetic.

Happily, I’ve since matured. And in retrospect, while I didn’t handle my stint or departure from Saveur as well as I’d have liked, I am glad I worked at a tiny newspaper in South Jersey, at a scrappy community newspaper in New York, and at SmartMoney.com, back when it was a new website and staffed with talent from top to bottom (that’s no slam on its current iteration—although, come to think of it, they just wiped out the entire archive, erasing the site’s golden era, so, forget it: The slam remains).

Today I’m doing an entirely different kind of writing—not journalism and not editing Wall Street folks, as I did for several years after I left journalism. Also, I cook. A lot. More than I ever have. Last Friday was a banner day: I made chocolate bark with sea salt...

pizza dough...

pesto...

a ginger/red pepper simple syrup...

and, finally, spicy pickles.

The pickle recipe, which yielded some of the most scrumptious little Kirby gems you’ve ever tasted, was from Canal House’s cookbook series (Volume No. 1). Not only am I going to make them again for a family gathering this weekend, I’m considering it a karmic way of making amends with Saveur.

Ko’s Koup

2011-02-17T09:40:00.016-05:00

Do you see the date?

It’s 2011 and my human hasn’t posted a blog in…well, more months than I’m capable of counting. It’s high time I took matters into my own paws: I hereby rename this cricket-quiet nook of the blogosphere Kona’s Korner!

I know what you’re thinking: I don’t have opposable thumbs; I’m only a pup; I can’t spell. All true. And yet, none of this matters, for I have stories that must be heard. Tales that must be shared. Oooooo...TOY!

But I digress. I’ll save my thoughts about the unfairness of prohibiting me and my four-legged friends from patronizing New York establishments for another post.

Today, I want to talk about snow.

I love snow.

So do my humans.

They recently went to a mountainous place where the snow was so deep they had to attach big popsicle sticks to their boots to slide around. While they were there, I got to stay with my Aunt Ermenia--one of my favorite humans. I'd trade all my toys to spend more time with her--she's like a puppy in human form! I think I might just log onto Petspedia to book my humans on another vacation.

But first…a nap.

I Heart DR

2010-09-16T09:22:00.003-04:00

It’s September and we’re back in the swing of things over here—the sand has been shaken from my favorite carry-all, while the pup has resumed lounging upon the cushiest spot in the apartment.

In other words, a most successful transition from summer into September, which is beyond compare in New York. But wait! What’s this I’ve come home to? A new and improved DuaneReade on 57th and 3rd? And another at Union Square? What, pray tell, is going on here?

By now, many of you are probably familiar with (read: sick of) my urban drugstore lament. So to say I was skeptical of DuaneReade’s snazzier stores that promised better lighting and larger footprints would be an understatement. Of the decade.

I decided to investigate these retail goings-on. You know, really get to the bottom of what could only be another disappointment to my drugstore dreams. The writing and editing, as you can see, was really flowing that day.

And this is what I found: drugstore nirvana. I kid you not. There’s not even a whisper of sarcasm to those words. As I skipped through the wide, inviting aisles of the splashy, new Union Square DR, past the expanded offerings of beverages, candies and toiletries (that weren’t locked up!), I came to the food section. Yes, you read that correctly, a food section. And I’m not talking about a tiny shelf that leans to one side and holds a meager sampling of stale, generic-brand pretzels.

I’m talking gourmet.

There were four shelves of Eli’s bread. A refrigeration section that was stocked with, among other delectables, Fage Greek yogurt, four flavors of Siggi’s Icelandic-style yogurt, Ronnybrook milk and cage-free vegetarian-fed eggs. I did a twirl by the freezer cases to discover Cacadian Farms organic vegetables—peas, broccoli, corn and winter squash. I broke out in a full Snoopy dance down other aisles containing Harney & Sons tea, R.W. Knudsen pure juices, 10 different kinds of Sarabeth’s preserves, and Peanut Butter & Co. peanut butter. DuaneReade had transformed itself into a one-stop shop for delicious treats!

All it took was a summer. The summer of 2010 will go down in the history books as the season where the most reviled and entrenched chain store in this city’s landscape became one of the most welcome addition in decades. Take that D’Agostino!

Dog Days of Summer

2010-08-19T09:29:00.009-04:00

It's that time of year when everyone is wringing out the last drops of summer.

For many, these days signal back-to-school, which means leaving whatever philanthropy they've been doing, or perhaps part-time job. Maybe summer sports are coming to a close. Regardless of the sunny pursuits these last few months, it's no doubt time to try on those new fall clothes.

For me, this time of year means firing up the grill as many times as possible and making the most out of moments like these:

Here's hoping your final summer moments are just as special as the first ones were.

The Kiss Off

2010-07-09T08:15:00.005-04:00

This is the thing about being from Cleveland: We’re fanatically loyal.

If you happen to move away, you carry your hometown with you everywhere. You shoulder your sports teams’ tragedies and triumphs (no matter how fleeting, how many decades play out in between any modest victory). You develop clever retorts to snickers, and yes, slurs, about where you come from. But no matter what is said, no matter if it’s someone from Jersey mocking where you grew up, you defend Cleveland to the ground. We’re a freakishly devoted tribe that way.

And, yes, we live and die by our sports teams. We suffer the slings and arrows. Perhaps you’ve heard, we endure a curse.

So when LeBron James serves as ring master to his own three-ring ego circus, complete with an hour-long, journalistically questionable, fawn-fest on ESPN to tell the world “The Decision” he’s made to bolt to Miami, it hurts. It hurts bad. It wasn’t so much a decision as it was The Kiss Off to Cavs fans everywhere. And that pain wasn’t just felt in northeast Ohio: We’re in New York and Chicago too—hell, we’re even in Miami. We’re not James’s fans—we’re Cavs fans. We are Clevelanders.

This morning is a rough one. Like so many others, I’m hurt and angry. I feel betrayed. I’m supremely sad for Cleveland, for our revitalization that people have been working so hard on for so long and especially for the Cavs, who have been knocking at the door, so close to having it opened for them. It’s devastating to think of the time the Cavs are going to need in order to recover and rebuild. There were loads of unfortunate decisions made by the team brass that helped put the Cavs in this spot—lackluster acquisitions, kowtowing to a child king when guidance from a seasoned veteran was what was needed. Right now, all we can do is shake our heads in disbelief that this is happening to another one of our teams. Again.

But what really stings today, what really makes the heart ache is the utter disregard for a loyal fanbase, for a city that embraced a player so completely. LeBron’s Mickey Mouse marketing firm stomped on hearts to repackage and sell himself to a bigger, flashier city. If leaving was The Decision, have some dignity about it. Do it with minimum fanfare, with a tip of the hat to the fans and the city who have loved you for so long. Show some respect, and, above all, demonstrate how appreciative of you are to have played for Cleveland fans, to have represented us.

LeBron did none of this. His comments to the moon-eyed ESPN talking heads centered around what he’d given Cavs fans, how he’d shown them something they’d never seen. His words were more than hurtful, they illustrated with screaming clarity a lack of humility and a dearth of grace. Every truly great king knows that you have to be benevolent to your subjects. Instead, LeBron orchestrated an event lacking any semblance of class or regard. And that is unforgiveable. That, simply put, is Art Modellian.

LeBron’s show last night was a giant EF YOU to all us loyal fans. Perhaps this isn’t surprising. He’s from Akron, after all.

He’s not really one of us.

A Room With a View

2010-06-16T10:04:00.006-04:00

When you live in Manhattan, you put up with a lot: congestion, noise, a city that is unrelenting in every way. But when it comes to real estate, you’ll put up with anything.

The building where I used to live had an elevator that was small. Smaller than your usual small elevator. So small that I had to have my brand new couch sawed in half in order to stuff it into said elevator.

My apartment wasn’t much bigger than that elevator, mind you. It was a studio and, as far as studios go here, on the cozy side—real estate parlance for “uncomfortably small.” No matter, it was mine. I didn’t care that I had to climb up to my bed, or that my refrigerator was so small you had to bend down to open it. Or that I had to pay two broker's fees for 250 feet of personal space.

And this is why.

This view.

This building.

This roommate.

For a slice of sky like this, you’ll do most anything.

Including cut furniture in half.

Make It Right Already

2010-06-15T12:34:00.005-04:00

BP’s spectacular futzuppery throughout every moment of the Gulf crisis had become the stuff of legend. Horrible, cataclysmic, environmental legend. The degree of criminal ineptitude, the callous disregard for entire ecosystems and human life, as well as the failed handling of every aspect of BP’s “response” is hard to quantify. Much like the amount of oil spewing from the underwater oil geyser that the company unearthed.

There are 5,000 barrels of oil gushing per day—no wait, make that 10,000. I mean 12,000. That’s wrong, it’s more like 15,000. Hang on, multiply the first number by 2. No, I mean, 6. Make that 12. To be precise, the daily amount of oil furiously pushing up from the Gulf seabed is in the neighborhood of HolyChristAlmightyThisIsn’tReallyHappening. Give or take a few thousand barrels.

We’re in week eight of the worst environmental disaster in US history. BP’s response? It has thrown golf balls at the oil. It’s tossed garbage at it. It’s circled ships around the general vicinity of the underwater oil volcano—not in any manner that’s made a lick of difference in stopping the mad, underwater crude flow, mind you—but, hey, those ships are out there. It started a blog that's all about how they're going to "Make It Right." It told the public that it wasn’t a big spill, that there wasn’t a plume of any sort and that, at the end of the day, that oily vomiting gash in the ocean’s floor wouldn’t affect much of anything. The ocean, you see, is a very big place.

In recent days, we’ve learned about BP’s cutting of corners, the neglected safety measures and the permitted lapses that could very well have prevented this “nightmare” drill site from becoming the environmental nightmare that it is today.

But this horrific disaster is but an aberration, according to the oil patch fat cats who descended upon Washington D.C today to point fingers at BP and tsk tsk their way out of having their operations watched or regulated. Safeguards are in place, they told a Congressional panel. The need only be followed and that unfortunate bit of business that befell BP’s oil rig would be avoided, they assured.

Thing is, those so-called safeguards that the industry puts in place on paper are identical. One Congressman read each company’s plan prior to today’s hearing and noticed that they even use the same wording. Why? Because they’re all outsourced: The paper safeguards are scribbled down by some paper-pushing firm who Xeroxes the “safety plan” and mails them en masse to oil companies, which in turn put those “plans” to use. As paperweights. Or doorstops, I’m not sure which. From what I’ve read, they probably aren’t even good for such pedestrian tasks.

One thing is certain, those plans aren’t much use in preventing the kind of widespread devastation that we’re seeing down in the Gulf. Sadly, we have proof of that.

For this post’s kicker, I defer to Aziz Ansari’s recent performance.

A Good Walk Spoiled

2010-06-10T09:28:00.003-04:00

It’s that time of year again, the season where it’s reaffirmed that I’m the worst golfer on the eastern seaboard. How bad, you ask? Let’s go to the tape.

Notice the purposeful approach, the patient, quiet swing and the utter grace exhibited. It’s not like this video happened to capture some rare “Oh my God you’re not going to believe this” occurrence on the course. This kind of stuff happens on every hole I play, no matter where I play. Mini golf included.

Soon I shall begin taking lessons—again. I will vigilantly practice some more. And after a few months of hacking around, chewing up each fairway with a five iron or a hybrid—or a five iron hybrid, if such a thing exists—a video will be shot of me playing only slightly better than what you’ve just witnessed.

In retrospect, I think maybe Mark Twain was right.

LeHeartbreak

2010-05-14T06:28:00.003-04:00

Can't even muster up the words for a serviceable post mortem this morning.

I'm that depressed.

The Seventh Stage

2010-05-12T07:43:00.006-04:00

So, it really happened. I see it for what it is now: a team that went out and came up short. It happens, even to the Cavs, a team that I still cheer for and will continue to cheer for.

Sometimes you gotta make lemonade out of situations in life. You gotta put lipstick on a pig. Dress up a corpse. Wait, I don’t think that last one fits. Anyway, point being, you just have to accept things as they are and look toward the future with hope and gratitude.

And so, I will be ready for Thursday’s game in Boston. I’m certain the Cavs are going to digest Tuesday’s devastating loss, regroup and then Bring It tomorrow. At least, that’s what I hope.

As for LeBron, yeah, I still hope he stays in Cleveland. I hope he’s not lured away by a bigger-city team that shall remain nameless. But all I can do is hope and accept what is.

The seventh stage of grief is…well, it just is.

Go Cavs.

The Sixth Stage

2010-05-12T07:43:00.005-04:00

I’m so depressed.

The sixth stage of grief is the hardest.

The Fifth Stage

2010-05-12T07:41:00.003-04:00

Fucking hell.

Are you kidding me, LeBron? Are you flippin’ kidding me? With your piss-poor performance, your lackadaisical lumbering up and down the court, your ineffectual bullshit in and outside the paint? Are you fucking kidding me?!

And you, Mo, what the fuck?! What are you even doing out there? Shaq scores more points than you! Christ, my three-and-a-half year old niece could score more! My dog could! You bring the ball down the court just fine, but then you get close to the basket and come down with a case of “Oh-my-flippin’-lord-what-the-fuck-do-I-do-now?-Just-get-rid-of-it!-Just-get-rid-of-it!” and throw the ball away like it’s diseased. You’re not playing a game of hot potato, Mo. Set up a play. At the very least, pass the ball to someone else who can make the shot.

Oh wait, there’s no one to pass to! That’s right, because no one can make the shots!

As for you, Coach Brown, you have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! What did you say to the team at half time? Did you read nursery rhymes? Make everyone some warm milk to drink? Because you inspired a bunch of alleged professional basketball players to head out to the court and sleepwalk their way through the second half. Bang up job, Mike.

You know what, LeBron? Just leave. Don’t even show up in Boston. We all know you’re outta here—that’s exactly how you play. You want to come to New York, you traitorous ego-saurus? Fine. Leave all the comforts of home. Leave your hometown. Leave a city who loves you. But remember, the Knicks suck and they will still suck when you come. At some point, the big city lights will stop dazzling you and you’ll be saddled with the albatross that is the Knicks. Still sucking.

A pox on you all!

The fifth stage of grief is the hardest.

The Fourth Stage

2010-05-12T07:26:00.002-04:00

Jesus, it’s because I didn’t wash the jerseys.

The Cavs lost because I didn’t wash the jerseys. Oh my God. I said I was going to wash them and then I didn’t, and husband and I sat there wearing those jerseys, with loss and defeat just clinging to those polyester fibers, ruining any chance the Cavs had. I caused this. Oh my God, I feel horrible.

Christ, I also didn’t eat a powerbar last night, like I did during Friday’s legendary game. I tried to recreate everything…oh my God, I also didn’t keep the kitchen light on the entire game. Dear God. I can’t believe I did this.

The fourth stage of grief is the hardest.

The Third Stage

2010-05-12T07:20:00.000-04:00

Oh, God, why couldn’t this have happened to me? Why couldn’t I have shouldered a career loss instead of the Cavs?

I’m a writer, for crying out loud—loss is my currency! I’m a veritable professional at rejection, wayward dreams and crushed hopes! I could have handled the career setback and then the Cavs could’ve gone on to win and then we’d be going to Boston and we’d win that one and it would be so happy, so joyous.

Why couldn’t it have been me?

The third stage of grief is the hardest.

The Second Stage

2010-05-12T07:15:00.002-04:00

Last night’s loss couldn’t have happened! There’s no way LeBron mailed it in before setting foot on the floor. There’s no way the Cavs put up zero defense and a pitiful offense. There’s just no way. No way did this happen. Look at the Cavs’ regular season record! We have the league MVP on our team, for Pete's sake!

Ok, I just checked the sports section of The Times, which reported that the Celtics beat the Cavs. Roundly. But, I mean, c’mon, that’s The Times—a total rag of a paper. Can’t trust anything that the Gray Lady says. Really.

Well, looks like The Plain Dealer is reporting the same thing. It’s impossible. No way did the Cavs douse the hopes and dreams of every Clevelander like a bunch of inept boy scouts who threw water on the cozy campfire of victory. No way did I just use that metaphor. This can’t be happening.

The second stage of grief is the hardest.

The First Stage

2010-05-12T07:04:00.002-04:00

I don’t know what to say this morning, the darkest of dark mornings, except that I’m in shock, wrapped up in a thick cocoon of disbelief.

That didn’t really happen last night, did it? The Cavs didn’t get spanked in spectacular fashion on their home court last night—did they? LeBron didn’t check out moments after tipoff, did he? Mo Williams didn’t miss shot after shot, right?

Tell me LeBron didn’t just play his last game as a Cavalier, giving a performance that was painfully...cavalier.

The first step of grief is the hardest.

We Are All Witnesses

2010-05-11T08:06:00.007-04:00

I don’t know if I should even be writing about this—we’re in a precarious situation here and who knows what’s going to tilt the scales one way or another. Wearing the jersey? Husband wearing the jersey? Pup donning his team wear? What will allow LeBron & Co. to win tonight? Because, obviously, what two adults and a puppy wear in New York City is going to control the outcome of tonight’s game against Rondo—I mean, the Celtics.

If this seems odd to you, a bit insane, then you’re not from Cleveland. You didn’t grow up with the constant hanging-in-the-balance feeling that whatever you ate or wore, whoever you talked to and when you talked to them, would have some bearing on whether your professional sports team won or lost. There have been games where I wouldn’t answer the phone for fear that it would be someone from home, thereby jinxing a win. This, of course, became an issue at times when I was sure not talking to anyone from Cleveland would secure a win and my mom (in Cleveland) was certain that she needed to touch base with me and my sister in order for our team to win. It all gets very complicated, you see.

Which is why I’m dithering about this morning (game time is at 8 p.m., no time to waste), pacing to and fro, wondering what we should be wearing (and when—you don’t always start the game with the jersey on…sometimes you need something to turn to if things go badly) and what we should be eating.

There’s also the tricky matter of trying to recreate an entire mood from a previous win. Take, for example, Friday’s game: utter Cavs perfection, right? Well, husband wasn’t home for the first half of the game. So does that mean I need to banish him from the apartment for the first half to ensure the Cavs win? I can’t do that to my husband, who knew full well that the “for better or for worse” portion of our vows included being saddled with Cleveland sports teams. On the other hand, he’s a Mets fan, so maybe he’d understand…

I even considered including in this post a picture of us all decked out in our team gear during last year’s playoffs. Of course, you know how that turned out (the series, not our outfits), so including such a picture today of all days would be tantamount to…you know what? I can’t even finish that sentence, because if I did, maybe that horrible thing would come true and I would have ruined everything for tonight's game!

Maybe I need to buy new shirts. I mean, the Cavs can’t possibly be expected to win with us wearing team jerseys purchased last year—the year they lost! Those things are expensive though, so that can’t be the answer. I think a good washing and drying will have to do. Along with some sort of spiritual cleansing involving incense and chanting. Possibly candles.

I’m going to post this so I can go watch Major League. Yeah, I know the movie is about an entirely different sport. Doesn’t matter—I’m trying everything today.

The Worry Monster

2010-04-07T08:40:00.003-04:00

I’ve noticed that I tend to focus—some might say obsess—over things when the writing is clunking along like a car missing a wheel. But I don’t sweat feverishly over the words, the turns of phrase, the story arc. No. I panic about the pooch.

For those who haven’t met the pup, he’s the happiest little thing on four paws: tongue always a wag, ready for cozies at a moment’s notice. He is the personification of joy and love.

So when he doesn’t eat with his usual pup verve (and, ok, I’m in the thick of a tricky edit), I grow a tad worried. Nothing major, mind you. I just wonder if everything’s ok with his gastrointestinal business. That’s all.

Really.

Cool-as-cucumber husband will entertain my cursory concern for a day or so with an “Oh,” and “Uh huh,” unwilling to feed the beast that is my worry monster. But the worry monster demands to be fed. Another day passes and I’m still blathering on about how the pup isn’t running to his dish. Another day, another serving of my worry monologue. It will continue like this for days.

Of course, I eventually come to my senses and realize that it’s the dish! So I try out a new dish. Four different new dishes. No, it’s not the dish. I’m being ridiculous. It’s the food! I buy a new bag of food. So foolish, because clearly the pup wants a little moisture on his dry kibbles! So I start sprinkling water over top his food, setting it down with a magnificent TaDa!

Pup just looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

Which, of course, I haven’t, because I know he’s not interested in his food because I haven’t done an enticing enough dance for him before meal time. I haven’t sang to him his Chompy Chomp song in just the right key to whet his appetite. It’s all wrong!

After 10 days of this, husband calmly suggests that perhaps the pup just eats a little less now that he’s exiting the puppy phase of development.

No, it’s the song and dance routine that’s all wrong. That and the moisture content. I start leaving the dish a little damp—not too damp, mind you, just a little damp—in hopes that this will tip the balance of the million variables that determine whether or not Precious Pup eats.

Husband suggests that I talk to my sister-in-law. She’s the family Dog Whisperer, so whatever she was going to tell me would crack this mystery for sure. Sister-in-law/Dog Whisperer suggests that maybe it’s the time of day that I was sprinkling water on the food that was all wrong. No wait, it’s the outfit I was wearing at the time of said sprinkling. Scratch that. It’s more likely that the moon was in the third house and when that astrological phenomenon takes place, dogs just don’t eat.

I think that last one was sarcasm.

Naturally, my next step is to take the pup to the vet. Surely she will feed my worry monster! The vet looks at me, gives the pup a full and thorough examination, then says he’s fine. She even weighs him—he’s exactly where he was two months ago. The vet takes his temp; it’s A-OK. Then she says that the pup is perfectly healthy and is probably only eating a bit less because he’s exiting the puppy phase of development.

And then I realize it. It cannot be more clear: Husband and the vet are in cahoots.

Not to mention I still have a load of editing to do.

Stop Ahead

2010-03-26T11:37:00.003-04:00

Maybe you missed it, but among the day’s pressing news stories—Greece’s continued, sloppy skid into financial turmoil, the latest sordid and inept goings on with New York Governor David A. Patterson, and The Orange’s surprising and utterly depressing collapse—there was this nugget, courtesy of the New York Post: Michael Lohan is vying for a reality show.

It’s good. Better than good, really. Borders on brilliant. Here’s the high concept pitch: Cram Jon Gosselin’s ex-girlfriends into an RV and send them careening across the US.

Seriously, I’m not making this up.

As a nation, we love us a good road trip. From Road Rules to Amazing Race, networks have struck gold time and again with people traveling. And not just the networks, film studios love them with equal verve. The early 1980s gave us Cannonball Run—a madcap romp starring Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuise, Farrah Fawcett, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. and Terry Bradshaw, among others. Then there was Cannonball Run Two. Followed by Cannonball Run Three. Which was, if memory serves, the launching pad for the much-acclaimed Smokey and the Bandit franchise.

The point is that we’ve been there. We’ve done that. So, please, please television people, do not give this cross-country catfight a moment’s consideration. Our television psyche couldn’t handle it. Isn’t it bad enough that Kate Gosselin is on Dancing With the Stars? (Again, who is watching that show?) If nothing else, don’t disturb the traffic on Route 66—or, Route 50, if they really want to do the true coast-to-coast thing. I’m guessing after about 100 miles, it really won’t matter what highway they’re on.

Road rage will take on a whole new meaning.

Sleep Shopping

2010-03-24T08:21:00.008-04:00

Would you believe it if I told you that I fell asleep Sleeping Beauty-style on February 15^th and awoke this morning to the realization that I’d slumbered for six weeks straight?

I know, neither would I.

And yet, I’m going with that as my excuse for not blogging. Really, it’s as good as any.

Seems in my slumber I bought a bed for the pup.

Your thoughts....

Too big?

Birdie Lovin'

2010-02-14T14:35:00.012-05:00

I've been doing a lot of editing of late, which is to say I’m spending an inordinate amount of time staring out my window. Specifically, this one.

What I’ve noticed is that the ledge on the building next door is a pick-up spot of sorts for pigeons. Manhattan’s native bird favors this particular lip of brick when they feel like cruising for a date. It’s quite sweet to watch, really.

They gather.

Talk their pigeon talk.

Even share a smooch.

Mon dieu!

Scratch that. Turns out I live next door to a birdie red light district. Maybe it's the day, the amore in the air. Either that or this ledge is the feathered equivalent of Times Square circa 1987.

A Winterless Wonderland

2010-02-09T13:17:00.001-05:00

My boots are out. The puppy’s winter wear is at the ready. And I’ve stocked up on the essentials (cheese and chocolate). The family is ready for Winter Storm Watch 2010!

Of course, I was ready last weekend too. Could hardly contain my excitement, in fact. And for what? A flurry that didn’t even rival a mild case of dandruff. The depth of last weekend’s disappointment simply cannot be described.

Which is why I’m trying to temper my expectations for tomorrow’s snowfall. However, hailing from the snow belt of Cleveland—which does snow with the best of them—this is difficult. When I was growing up and the forecast was for snow, you can bet you were getting snow. And it would take a gargantuan amount of snow to close school—it needed to be measured in feet. A foot of snow wasn’t going to cut it. Most times, two feet wouldn’t either. The governor of Ohio actually had to call my school district’s superintendent once to get him to close school one particularly horrible winter. That’s how accustomed we were to huge amounts of snow.

I miss those winters. Of course, snowy weather is always more fun when you’re a kid and don’t have to go to work. I get that. But it does little to diminish my intense disappointment in Manhattan winters. More than a decade and a half of lousy snowfall here (save a few glorious snowstorms here and there) has me positively nostalgic for blizzard conditions.

I’m trying to stay positive as I arrange my mittens and haul out my snow pants. And the glove warmers I’ve been holding all day like a rabbit’s foot? They’re for good luck.

Veggie Love

2010-01-26T06:48:00.002-05:00

I started a love affair with kale yesterday. You think I’m speaking hyperbolically, but I’m not. I love kale's green leafy fabulousness with everything that I am.

I haven’t always had this love. Actually, I’ve avoided kale for years now. I’ve gone out of my way to be sure I never put it in my shopping basket. My refrigerator crisper has remained steadfastly—and, on certain days, quite proudly—a kale-free zone.

No longer.

And this is why: Kale ROCKS.

I’m not even going to go into the nutritional aspect: It’s green, it’s leafy, you get the picture. I love kale on taste alone, which means only one thing: Our love was meant to be.

How, you ask, did I make the journey from shunner of kale to ardent paramour? After a bunch of the stuff made its way into my shopping basket this weekend (unbeknownst to yours truly), I decided to make a little lunch with it yesterday. After consulting with Queen Kale (my sister) as to the ins and outs of this leafy wonder, I improvised a little dish that was so good I had to share (read: proselytize). Below, the recipe.

Oh, first, I should mention that I added some homemade roasted tomatoes that I happened to have in the fridge to my kale wonder dish, so I’ve included that recipe as well. Roasted tomatoes are a cinch to make and they’re great to have around so you can add them to all kinds of savory dishes (or put on a piece of crusty bread…or plop atop a wedge of parmesan). Without further ado, the steps to kale nirvana:

What you need:
1 bunch kale
1 large shallot
1 clove garlic
About 1 cup chicken stock (I used Pacific Natural Foods organic low sodium—delish)
Roasted tomatoes—8 halves or so (see recipe below)
Olive oil
Salt
Pepper

What you do:
Take one bunch of washed, trimmed kale and chop it into thin strips. In a large sauté pan, sauté one large diced shallot and smashed garlic clove (which you remove at the end) in olive oil (add salt and pepper) for just a couple minutes. Then, put the big frizzy mass of kale into the pan, drizzle the chicken broth over top, add some more salt for good measure and then cover.

I checked my kale after about 7 minutes or so, gave it a stir and taste (adding more salt, natch) and it was fantastic. To make it even better, chop the roasted tomatoes and add them. Cover to warm through, check seasoning and enjoy! Another terrific finisher would be a squeeze of lemon or a liberal dusting of parmesan.

Ok, for the roasted tomatoes:

What you need:
Plum tomatoes—the ones that have no taste—any number (I typically make a big cookie sheet of these things, so figure on 10-15 tomatoes.
Dried oregano
Olive oil
Salt
Pepper

What you do:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a large baking sheet with either a silpat mat or tinfoil. Cut plum tomatoes in half lengthwise and take out all the seeds (leaving the center membrane). Because I hate stems, or even the semblance of them (it’s completely weird, I know), I also remove that tippy top dimple where the stem used to be attached. Do not by any means feel like you should follow this step that borders on the insane.

Next, put all the tomato halves cut-side up on the baking sheet. Liberally drizzle olive oil all over—and I mean liberally. What will come out of the oven will be a rich, tomato-y olive oil that you can flavor countless things with (barley, pasta, veggies, fish, meat…a wedge of parmesan—do you see a theme here?), so don’t be chintzy with your drizzle. Sprinkle salt, pepper and dried oregano over top. Pop the whole sheet into the oven for about an hour. Every oven is different, so check your tomato babies a couple times, turning the baking sheet if necessary. Also, you might find that they need more than an hour or perhaps less. When they start to turn a little brown around the edges, that’s typically when I take them out. Let cool on sheet, then store (along with all remaining olive oil—don’t let that stuff go to waste!) in a plastic container in the fridge.

I’m well aware that I’m hardly the first person to try kale, much less have an inkling of what to do with it. So why an entire post about it? What can I say…I’m giddy with happiness over my new veggie steady.

Survivors Ready?

2010-01-25T11:11:00.004-05:00

There’s something about wind and rain that makes Manhattan feel like an episode of Survivor. When Mother Nature feels peevish, it’s everyone for themself on this island.

Take today. The skies are a dreary gray. Actually, they’re a similar shade as that gray Crayola you never used, the one that always stayed super sharp (unlike Midnight Blue or Carnation Pink, which were quickly worn dull). The rain thrashes you from every side, thanks to the quickly shifting gale-force winds, rendering umbrellas completely useless. Everyone is poorly equipped to handle the elements. And everyone is grumpy. Like impacted-molar grumpy.

So, my challenge today was to get to a morning appointment without looking like I swam there. It wasn’t easy. With no warning whatsoever, my umbrella flipped up—not once, but twice—into a triple-back aerial flip. It was frightening move of spindly metal and cheap black nylon that nearly stabbed a passerby in the process. Actually, two passersby.

I arrived at my destination only modestly wet, not a hint of Tammy Faye Baker eye and my umbrella, amazingly enough, still working. Immunity was within reach!

Of course, there was the walk home, which was even more trying. At this point, the rain was pelting the ground in fat, powerful drops and the wind had escalated to Wizard of Oz strength. I was outside for less than two minutes when my umbrella decided it was really a tulip and damnit if it wouldn’t be recognized as such. I heard something about “Flower Power” and then the entire thing flipped heavenward and I was left trying to stay dry holding a giant dripping black tulip above me. That lasted a block until I shoved my umbrella-cum-nylon flower in the garbage can and decided to make a run for the nearest DuaneReade, which was two blocks away. That crazed woman you saw running down Second Avenue? It was me.

You know how in movies the rain comes down in uniform sheets and you think smugly to yourself, “Oh, that looks so fake. Rain doesn’t come down in sheets like that. If I were making a movie I would at least wait for a rainy day to get an authentic shot.” Well, I’m here to report that yes, rain in fact does pour down in sheets. Massive, sopping wet sheets.

I made it into the DuaneReade, picked up another umbrella, saying a silent prayer that this one too didn’t think it was a flower, paid for it and headed back into the contest before anyone else won. How I wanted to secure some shelter! Maybe some giant palm leaves, or bamboo. God, what I wouldn’t do for some flint and the ability to make fire! There was a perfect nook—with an overhang!—near this antique shop. Christ, would this challenge never end?

Eventually, I did make it home. To my warm apartment. That has a roof. And a stocked refrigerator. But let me tell you, it was close.

Fortunately, I’m not the least bit dramatic.

It’s Get Hit By a Bike Messenger Week

2010-01-22T11:27:00.002-05:00

Ok, not really. GHBABMW doesn’t take place until late spring, but I’m thinking the calendar might have changed or something (is 2010 a leap year?) because this week I’ve seen too many near-misses with renegade messengers.

Ten years ago I participated in Get Hit By a Bike Messenger Week. Unwillingly, of course. It was a warm spring night—a Thursday, if memory serves—and I had just left a couple of friends to walk home to my teeny tiny studio apartment. There was a fun little company get together after work and then a few of us went this gourmet French fry place in Chelsea to eat an obscene amount of fries. It was warm evening and almost the weekend—it was just one of those moments where you simply love living here.

I stopped at the corner of 23rd and Sixth Avenue, waited for the light to change, paused until I saw the little white illuminated walker flash on the crosswalk indicator, and then stepped off the curb to cross Sixth Avenue and continue east on my way home. I took two steps before BAM! I was plowed over by a bike messenger barreling south on Sixth Avenue. (For those of you who don’t live in New York, Sixth Ave is a one-way avenue that runs, you guessed it, north.) Actually, “plowed over” isn’t exactly right, because the impact of the bike threw me up into the air like a pale, skinny rag doll and smack down into the middle of 23rd Street.

Now, you’d think that anyone who had a) been riding his bike the wrong way down a one-way street, and b) continued through the intersection without slowing up even though he didn’t have the right of way, and c) oh yeah, ran somebody down, would be a little apologetic. A tiny bit remorseful. But this was a New York Bike Messenger and not only wasn’t he going to help me up, he was going to yell at me while I was splayed on the pavement. Because, that’s just what they do.

But this bike messenger didn’t realize the self-righteous wrath, the screaming fury of denouncement, the polysyllabic bitchiness that a pale, skinny rag doll girl can muster up. Even when she’s lying in the middle of 23rd Street. Suffice it to say, Bike Messenger’s demeanor quickly turned. He helped me up, apologized profusely and handed me his business card “in case I needed anything.”

So, the moral of the story is, always look both ways when crossing the street. Lest you too become an unwilling participant in Get Hit By a Bike Messenger Week.

Good Reads

2010-01-20T09:10:00.006-05:00

Forget Must See TV. I’ve got a handful of Must Read Books for you:

This is Where I Leave You
by Jonathan Tropper
This is nothing short of a brilliant romp and terrific read. The setting: Judd Foxman’s family comes home to sit shiva for their father…who was an atheist. Foxman, who just lost his wife (to his boss) and his job, is plunged into a sea of familial dysfunction. It’s darkly hilarious and poignant, by turns. You will not be disappointed.

Too Big to Fail: The Inside Story of How Wall Street Fought to Save the Financial System—and Themselves
by Andrew Ross Sorkin
Ok, I’m not even half-way through this book and I’m already recommending it to everyone who will listen. Seriously—I’ve told my dog about it. The title spells out the subject matter: i.e. what happened when the financial world started circling the drain two years ago. But what the title doesn’t tell you is that this is a meticulously reported, brilliantly narrated, behind-the-scenes look at what was really going on. It reads like fantastically crafted suspense fiction…only it’s a true story. I cannot recommend it enough.

The Lake of Dead Languages: A Novel
by Carol Goodman
This is one of those books that after you’ve put it down you can’t wait to pick it back up; it envelops you in a mood and leaves you craving another page, another chapter. The writing is positively lyrical—sparse, yet powerful. If you could read film noir, it would be this book. A perfect winter read.

Finally, I have a couple good friends you have written two terrific books. I know I’ve told some of you about them, but for those of you who I haven’t, here they are:

Inside Rupert’s Brain
by Paul La Monica
This is a spectacularly told analysis of Rupert Murdoch—what drives him and how he’s built his media company into a veritable global powerhouse. It’s particularly relevant, given how Murdoch’s kingdom is growing and the role of media in society is ever-changing. La Monica is a veteran reporter who's seen it and analyzed it all. Here, he's at the top of his game—hands down, there is no one better to tell the story of Murdoch.

The Wall Street Journal Financial Guidebook for New Parents
by Stacey L. Bradford
This is absolutely a must read if you have kids, are thinking of having kids or know anyone who has kids. Why? Because there’s precious little good information out there on the financial challenges that new parents face. Bradford, a veteran personal finance reporter and expert, tackles every topic of childrearing from a financial standpoint. Even better, she does it in an engaging, conversational manner that is her trademark style. This is a terrific book that’s sharply reported and wonderfully written.

So, my Q to everyone is, do you have a Must Read Book? If so, do tell!

Nincompoops R Us

2010-01-13T10:41:00.005-05:00

Can NBC do anything right? Answer: No.

I should just end this post right there, because the story is so obvious, so in-your-face that, frankly, to devote more ink to it would be a shame. And yet I’m going to anyway.

For those of you who haven’t chronicled every excruciating moment of NBC inching its way closer to the crapper (or, watched as much TV as me), a recap: NBC promised The Tonight Show to Conan, a show that Jay had. NBC gave said show to Conan, bumped Jay to some odd variety show in the ghost land of a time slot that is 10 p.m., then, as ratings in every category cratered (more on that in a minute), it decided to give Jay his old 11:35 time slot back, moving Conan’s show, The Tonight Show, to 12:35, or tomorrow.

The Jay/Conan/NBC ClusterFutz is but a snapshot of the Futzupery that is corporate decision making at the Peacock Network. This is the station that’s home to Law & Order SVU, a beyond-tired franchise, Mercy, a show you’ve never seen, and Heroes, which, inexplicably, is still on the air. Good ratings, in other words, are not this network's specialty.

Indeed, the only good decision NBC ever made was keeping 30 Rock, one of the best half-hour shows on TV today, in my opinion. I will also say that I’m a fan of Parks & Recreation, The Office and Chuck. Although my world wouldn’t be rocked if I didn’t see any of them again. 30 Rock is another story, mind you.

But let’s not forget that NBC is also the network that aired Lipstick Jungle and The Philanthropist. With regards to the latter, I remain a big fan of James Purefoy, who seduced audiences everywhere with his portrayal of Mark Antony in HBO’s Rome—a brilliant series that lived far too short a life (fodder for another posting). However, the supporting cast in the show was offered no real scripted meat to sink their teeth into. And here I speak of the criminal underutilizing of Michael K. Williams—yes, Omar from The Wire. How do you not give him a big, fat vehicle in which to shine? This is Omar, people. Omar!

But I digress.

Now, let’s look at the highlights of a competing network. Hmmmm…..who should we examine? How about Fox? I want to be clear here: I’m limiting my comments to its entertainment programming—not its “news” offerings…we’ll leave it at that. So, here’s Fox’s marquee lineup: Glee, House, Fringe, The Simpsons, Family Guy, as well as American Idol and 24. The last two I’m not devoted to (but the rest of the country is) and my interest in Family Guy peaked several years ago (although my unabashed love of Stewie lives on). Still, this is a lineup. Sure, there are more than a few clunkers in Fox’s portfolio. Why, for example, Gordon Ramsey has been given multiple television vehicles remains, as ever, a mystery—as does the continuing allure of Cops and America’s Most Wanted. Some things were just meant to never be understood.

If you ask me, Conan should jump ship to Fox. After all, he can’t be in any worse company than NBC. (Again, I'm just talking about entertainment programming here…In the interest of offending no one, I'll refrain from commenting on other Fox offerings. For now, anyway.)

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

2010-01-12T12:19:00.001-05:00

There are some nights—ok, many nights—that I go to sleep earlier than my six-year-old nephew. I can’t help it: If I don’t get a solid eight hours’ worth of rest, I’m a terror the next day. Think Cruella de Vill meets Medusa—with hair just as frightening.

My toddler-esque bedtime is an endless source of amusement to friends and family. Dinner reservations for 9? Forget it. A midnight movie? Not a chance. Dancing until 4 a.m.? Please.

The way I see it, my sleeping pendulum has swung in the other direction. All throughout high school, college and grad school I was a serious night owl. I didn’t even like going to bed. All those late nights have finally caught up to me. Now my bedtime rivals an octogenarian. Actually, scratch that. My grandma goes to bed later than me too.

Tonight we’re going out to dinner with some great friends. At 6 p.m. No one who lives in Manhattan eats dinner before 8 p.m. Why are we? Because the mister and I go to bed so early. God bless them, our friends continue to remain friends with us despite our early turn-in time.

I’ve been thinking a lot about sleep, as it’s come up in a few articles recently. The Times ran a story about how more younger people are taking advantage of early bird special dinner times. I read this and immediately thought, “Yes! I knew others would follow my lead!” Alas, these folks weren’t elbowing the blue hairs out of the way for a table because it worked better with early bedtimes; they were being thrifty and getting a deal on a meal in these tough economic times. Sigh. In something else I read, Arianna Huffington challenged all women to get more sleep in 2010. Seems American women are among the most sleep-deprived in the world. Well, American women except for me.

So, I've decided that my resolution for this year is to stay up a little later, be a little more social during non-daylight hours. My big goal: 9:30 p.m. (baby steps and all).

Letting Go of Mistress Christmas

2010-01-11T08:49:00.003-05:00

There’s something infinitely sad about taking down the Christmas decorations. It’s the ultimate admission that the holiday fun is over. There are no more twinkly lights. No more festive table arrangements made of evergreens and candles. No more stockings hung by the chimney with care—or, in the case of our apartment, the breakfast bar. Putting away the Christmas decorations means you have to face January. And February. Without nary an ornament or swag of holly.

This year, I served as Mistress Christmas for my family. We stopped exchanging gifts years ago and now only buy for the kids and dogs (yes, we treat our dogs as children). The thinking is that, for us adults, focusing on being together is more meaningful than opening up presents. Well, togetherness requires a leader, a Julie McCoy, if you will, to usher the family (sometimes begrudgingly) through one activity and gourmet meal into the next. My sister came up with the Mistress Christmas concept, the person who would serve as the invisible hand, the director of holiday cheer for the days we spent together.

It was my turn this most recent holiday to assume the awesome responsibility that is Mistress Christmas. I planned meals, wrote shopping lists and decided on a slate of activities for each day. I sent out formal invitations detailing the long weekend’s worth of fun. I made homemade chocolate truffles (a holiday ritual). Shortly thereafter, I realized that Mistress Christmas needed a trusted assistant—there was so much to do! So my husband was recruited as Mister Christmas. We purchased games for “game night,” designed and procured team t-shirts for a family football game (Whos vs. Elves) and made a home movie showcasing the year’s most memorable moments of all of us. Having taken lead on all things holiday, I was determined to make this The Best Year Ever.

And then Mistress Christmas got sick. Right along with Mister Christmas.

We managed to drive to Cleveland, with throats that felt like we swallowed glass, fevers that could melt butter and coughs that telegraphed our illness to anyone within a 400-yard radius. One visit to the Urgent Care center in town, two bottles of Nyquil, a package of Advil Cold & Sinus and too many tissues to count later, Christmas took on a distinctly different feel than I had imagined. There was no football game, with two of its starters sitting on the bench. And game night devolved into a coughing/snot fest that, frankly, no one wanted to be party to. Mistress and Mister Christmas felt oddly MIA from the entire holiday extravaganza they had so painstakingly planned.

But there are some things that even Mistress Christmas cannot control, and that’s just a reality I have to accept. I have two years before I am again given the honor of assuming the most prestigious of holiday titles. And let me tell you, 2011 is going to be The Best Year Ever.

For now, I must take down the tree. You know, before it spontaneously combusts.

The Second Coming

2010-01-08T09:07:00.002-05:00

Have you heard? At the end of the month Apple is going to announce a space-age, handheld device. Scratch that, it’s actually a GPS-enabled helmet that lets you fly wherever Steve Jobs wants you to fly. No, wait—it’s really a tablet. A revolutionary, game changer of a tablet computer that will be able to surf the Internet, make phone calls, drive the car, wash the dishes and open mail. Wirelessly. While levitating.

‘Tis the season for unbridled excitement, courtesy of the Cult of Apple. The faithful masses of Steve Jobs’s revolutionary company are notorious for whipping themselves into a frenzy before each and every announcement that Apple makes. Well every announcement except for ones where the CEO mysteriously leaves the company for a vague medical reason that turns out to be for an organ transplant. Those just don't rank.

For Apple acolytes, the company is akin to a religion. These are folks who will sleep in a line outside for days before Macworld so they can secure a spot to view the latest and greatest product reveal. Their devotion is easy to poke fun of—indeed, in my previous life as a financial reporter, I often did—but at the end of the day, all the snarky comments and bad metaphors about Appleheads can’t erase the fact that the company delivers what people want.

Which is why the latest announcement has rumor message boards crackling and legitimate media outlets drooling with excitement. Apple has a storied, not to mention highly successful, past of rewriting consumer technology rules. There was the Mac, iTunes, the iPhone—not to mention many of its software products, which designers routinely herald as best-of-breed. But there is one thing that Apple’s portfolio lacks: a category killer that seamlessly meshes together every wireless technology whim from the Internet to television to email to e-books.

Indeed, every company would kill to have such a product. Some have come close to knitting together a few of the disparate pieces: Game consoles, for example, have tapped into digital downloads quite nicely, although the infrastructure pipelines for such activities are arguably ill-equipped for the demands of high-definition. But no company has effectively pulled off a wireless mash up to satiate consumers’ myriad needs. For Apple to do this would be a major coup.

Of course, there’s the physical consumer interface of such a dream product, and then there’s the background infrastructure bits. How would it all work? Who would the partners be? Can Apple engender enough excitement with a mere product launch to get technology partners to line up like little obedient ducks? That, presumably, is the reason for Apple’s curtain raising at the end of the month and an actual shipment date several months later.

As the date approaches for Steve Jobs to stroll out on stage in his trademark black turtleneck and jeans (how is it that this guy doesn’t own another outfit, btw?), the pent-up excitement and blind proclamations of Apple’s genius will likely grow louder. It’s understandable. I mean, who wouldn’t want a game-changer? As the country picks itself up from the recessionary bootstraps, what better jolt of confidence than an American company leading the innovation charge? And an innovation that could lead to an uptick in consumer spending, which accounts for the lion share of GDP? What's better than that? If the landscape is going to be redrawn, you can bet that Apple will be playing a part. On this front, you have to applaud Apple’s ingenuity. It’s not Dell, a bland manufacturer of boxes, devoid of any innovation. Apple actually shifts how people around the world utilize technology. If it indeed happens again, it could produce a lovely daisy chain of beneficiaries.

All that said, it’s worth tempering all the budding optimism surrounding the coming announcement with a smidgen of perspective. Don’t forget that Apple is also the company that produced the Newton handheld and the Cube. Not exactly what you'd call category killers.

End of an Era

2010-01-07T11:04:00.002-05:00

Tavern on the Green, the Central Park mainstay who seduced so many with its tacky, gilded décor, has closed its doors for good. You’ve no doubt read the stories detailing the restaurant’s license dispute with the city or the auction that’s now being readied to sell the contents of the fabled spot. If you’ve lived here long enough, everyone’s got their own Tavern story.

Mine involves holiday parties—years of them in fact. Back in the day when I worked at SmartMoney.com, which was co-owned by Hearst and Dow Jones, we got to attend Hearst’s annual holiday party, held at Tavern on the Green.

Being there always felt like spending an evening at an eccentric great aunt’s house that was overly decorated with chandeliers, sconces and lots of mauve. Everywhere you looked there was something gilded or some sort of stained glass. Tavern was like a grand lady who wore too much garish makeup to compensate for her looks that had faded with age. Still, you had a soft spot in your heart for her.

And that’s why, looking back now, dipping into Tavern’s kaleidoscope of holiday cheer was a kitschy treat. We never arrived on time because, as daily reporters, we always had deadlines to meet, a million things to do before our day was done, so some of the buffets were fairly picked over by the time we walked in. But there was always another table brimming with different treats, another chafing dish being replenished, another food station to explore. There were ice sculptures surrounded by shrimp and crab legs, dessert tables longer than most city apartments were wide and uniformed servers rushing to and fro. In retrospect, that such a fete was held at Tavern on the Green, where all things over-the-top seemed to live, was perfect. It made for the quintessential holiday indulgence.

Today, many are mourning the restaurant’s passing, but not me. I think it’s great that someone is going to breathe new life into a location that, while possessing an odd charm, had grown stale over the years. It is, in other words, time to make some new memories.

Grazie!

2009-12-31T17:30:00.004-05:00

Hope everyone had a terrific holiday season and is excited to ring in the New Year!

I just wanted to thank you all for signing up as a follower of this blog and for reading it--I'm still amazed that there are others besides my husband who do, so many thanks indeed. It means more than you know. My quest to become a published author continues apace. To that end, my New Year's resolution is more frequent blog posts. There. I've stated it publicly.

I have every confidence this commitment will go better than my resolutions in previous years to: learn Italian, exercise every day, read every issue of The New Yorker cover to cover, re-learn Spanish, run a half marathon every month, eat less chocolate and perfect every recipe in The Professional Pastry Chef. Especially that "eat less chocolate" one...I don't know what I was thinking when I avowed that bit of insanity.

As Seen on TV

2009-12-13T08:54:00.022-05:00

The Comas doggies have a Secret Santa. And an ironic one at that.

Yesterday in the mail we received two Snuggies for Dogs. Yes, the blanket coat with sleeves has been such a runaway hit that pooches of every size clamored that one be made especially for them. Readers of this space are familiar with my position on all things Snuggie, so needless to say this Snuggerific present positively tickled me.

What I perhaps love most about the Snuggie for Dogs is the marketing. It’s nothing short of brilliant.

First, right there on the front of the box, the copywriting addresses dogs, noting in big bubble print that the Snuggie “keeps you warm and your paws free!” Finally a company selling things made in China is addressing its canine audience in a straightforward fashion. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve strolled the aisles of my neighborhood pet store with our pups only to walk out with them grumbling about how nothing caught their eye. Why? Because no one took them seriously enough as consumers to market directly to them. The Snuggie for Dogs silences that complaint once and for all.

Second, The Snuggie for Dogs addresses that age-old issue of dogs not being able to have their paws free to engage in everyday doggie activities. You know, like backgammon.

Or channel surfing.

After reading all about the advertised promises on the box, our pup couldn’t wait to try his Snuggie on. The adjustable hook & loop Velcro tabs in the back indeed provided the perfect fit, just as the box said.

Now, our pup’s paws are free to put his own shoes on.

Surf the Internet.

Read the newspaper.

Practice his short game.

Make eggs.

Our puppy’s life has been made all the more full by his new blanket coat with sleeves! Snuggie sender, reveal yourself!

Morning Call

2009-12-11T09:02:00.001-05:00

We interrupt this regularly scheduled blog post for some important breaking news: Retailers' profit margins for the holiday shopping season are now seen as coming in better than expected. This comes as a surprise to many on the Street who were expecting all peddlers of plastics and playthings to limp through December like a three-legged My Pretty Pony. But this morning's Littlest Pet Shop Indicator changed all that.

The closely watched Littlest Pet Shop Indicator has served as a barometer for consumers' shopping habits since....well, since this morning. But that's not the point, the point is that the LPS Indicator started flashing green at about 7 a.m., effectively changing the tenor of trading overseas.

Indeed, the LPS Indicator is confirming that retailers are keeping inventories lean--so lean in fact that the remaining stock on their shelves is selling at premium prices. With nearly two weeks left before Christmas, that means that what toys are left and available for purchase are getting pricier by the day.

One woman in New York City told this reporter that she wanted to purchase the Littlest Pet Shop Tail Waggin Fitness Club Playset for her niece. This item, which normally sells in the $30-$40 range, cannot be found on store shelves anywhere--brick and mortar or virtual. Sure, there's the Daycare Playset available for purchase, but it's blue and her niece doesn't like blue. Not only that, but the Daycare Playset only has one level. What fun is that? One level to "walk" your littlest pet shop pets around? C'mon, Hasbro, that's not fun. Two levels is fun! Two levels of glorious molded two-tone pink plastic--nothing's more fun that that! But get this, everyone is sold out of the Waggin Fitness Club. Wait, Amazon.com beckons, come here, look...I'll sell you the Waggin Fitness Club for $80. Eighty freekin' dollars?! The New York City woman cannot believe it. Buy within the next 10 minutes and guarantee delivery by Dec. 24, Amazon coos. The New York City woman refuses, positively refuses to pay double for this toy. Forget it! There are only two left. Your niece loves pink, Amazon helpfully reminds. Do you really want to show up without a gift? On Christmas? For your three-year-old princess niece? UNPRINTABLE WORD UNPRINTABLE WORD UNPRINTABLE WORD!!!!!

Sorry, this reporter got caught up in her man-on-the-street interview.

The LPS Indicator is heralded as a better predictor of consumer behavior than the Lipstick Indicator, the Underwear Index or even the Hemline Length Indicator, and Wall Street is abuzz with the LPS's latest reading. Jim Cramer screamed about it. Maria Bartiromo stated the obvious about it. And a nameless, unidentifiable Bloomberg reporter interviewed three experts about the LPS, its history and ramifications...effectively draining any interest viewers had in said Indicator.

With only one-half hour before the market's open, expect retailers to trade higher and this season to be the one that gives "pay to play" new meaning.

Flooding the Zone

2009-12-09T09:31:00.002-05:00

I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume you’ve heard about Tiger Woods's recent troubles. It’s like sitting in front of a bag of chips or a package of Oreos—you can’t just read one story about this ongoing wreck. There’s the New York Post’s splashy coverage, complete with trademark headline puns. There’s the gossipy screeches of TMZ. And there’s the various and sundry online links and analyses that are sprouting up like so many lost balls at Bethpage Black (sorry, couldn’t resist).

But what I find so funny is that much like Tiger’s drives (last lame analogy, I promise), this story has such loft, such carrying power, that even legitimate news outlets can’t ignore it any longer. And they’re all starting to cover it in their own fashion, which is to say, lamely.

The Wall Street Journal chimed in today with the expected corporate survey: which of Tiger’s endorsements have dropped him (none), which are withholding their televised ads (all) and which are retooling their Tigerific products. And here we get to the hard news hook: Gatorade, the Journal reports, is discontinuing its Tiger Focus sports drink. As if this should be a surprise. Gatorade Tiger Focus? You mean it's still around? Were we honestly to believe that Gatorade happened upon that magical ratio of high fructose corn syrup and water that actually improved concentration? I’m not sure which of Gatorade’s marketing assumptions were more off the mark: Presuming that consumers would buy its “Focus” drink, or its weird commercial cartoon campaign designed to appeal to toddlers, a demographic known for, if nothing else, its insatiable quest for improved concentration.

Time, with its own take on Tigergate, offered up a column comparing “attention controllers” like Tiger and “attention seekers” like the couple that crashed the President’s state dinner. It was wordy. It was analytical. It was a snore fest.

Finally, The New York Times, churned out a below-the-fold story today that captured the culture of the moment so perfectly, so succinctly, so….predictably. Its take? Today’s adulterer’s text message is the Digital Lipstick On The Collar. Get it? You know how actual lipstick on a collar was a sure sign of philandering? Well, see, the text message is digital and can leave a mark just like old fashioned lipstick! Leave it to the Times to declare a trend years after the fact. Bravo Gray Lady. Bravo.

Reality Bites

2009-12-02T09:56:00.004-05:00

This is what our reality show-addled society has spawned: a Congressional hearing devoted to a couple of no-name celebrity wannabes who crashed the President’s party.

It was bound to come to this. Reality programming stopped passing the drool test a long time ago. Survivor, Top Chef, old seasons of Project Runway—they’re all good stuff, great stuff, in fact. But production of such shows with premise—and in the case of Top & Project, talent—fell by the wayside in favor of Brett Michael’s misogynistic skank fest and Sharon Osborne’s trashy televised “tutelage,” not to mention the incessant documentation of freakish fertility stories—predictably followed by a family’s sloppy unraveling.

Reality programming not only resuscitated Flavor Flav’s “career,” it also upchucked a series of shows that successively circled the drain with greater intensity, which, in turn, lowered our national IQ by another 20 points. With reality TV, we got to watch wife swapping, bachelors date, bachelorettes date and nannies discipline unruly children. We were given a voyeur’s view into celebrity “rehab,” hoarders’ messy homes and struggles with weight loss. P. Diddy made a band. Then he made another band. Those were so good, he made two more bands. And now, he’s making his band. I know, it’s totally novel. Completely new. Never been done. Thank you reality TV.

And, lest we forget, there’s the glimmering franchise that is The Housewives. Orange County, Atlanta, New York and even Jersey served up their embarrassing members of the so-called upper class. The shows were such hits that Washington D.C. is going to showcase its own attention-seeking housewife horrors.

Which brings me back to the House hearing slated for tomorrow that will really take a tough look at these reality-TV party crashers. If our elected officials are worth their salt even a bit, they’ll decide that trashy reality television is a threat to our national security—or, at the very least, our national taste—and ban it altogether.

I doubt it, though. If reality TV has taught us anything, it’s that it begets more reality TV. So don’t be surprised if you see House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Rep. John Boehner on their own show soon. Diddy, after all, needs a new band.

May the Force Be With You

2009-11-30T13:08:00.015-05:00

What exactly does it take to make a Millennium Falcon cake? It being the thought foremost in everyone’s mind, I thought I'd share.

It takes two boxes of chocolate cake mix, a vat of homemade chocolate buttercream and a good amount of vanilla frosting. I'm talking an alarming amount of vanilla frosting—like eight tubs of it. For those of you counting calories at home….oh, never mind. This post isn’t for you.

My sister and I undertook the making of this fantastical cake for my nephew’s birthday. It took hours to create over the span of two days. We whipped up a decadent buttercream frosting for the center, baked off a chocolate cake the size of a hula hoop and tinted a fraction of our otherworldly quantity of vanilla frosting three different colors: metal gray, blue and black.

We cut and shaped our enormous cake into what we figured looked like an approximate shape of the Millennium Falcon, applied a crumb layer of frosting and allowed it to chill. We were so proud of ourselves and downright giddy with anticipation at what my nephew would think. Oh, the glee he’d exude when we revealed the cake!

Unable to wait another moment, we let him take a peek at the cake before we’d done any of the frosting details. My sister pulled the cake out of the fridge. We looked proudly at our cake in-process. We smiled smugly at each other, flashing looks that said, “We should have done the whole flippin’ Rebel Alliance fleet. We are THAT GOOD!”

My nephew gazed upon our frosted cake monstrosity and asked with, fittingly, child-like innocence: “Is it…a dinosaur?”

Undeterred, we forged ahead with our elaborate piped frosting plan—white for all that ubiquitous detail work commonly found on the outside of space ships, metal gray for yet more detail, black for…wait for it…even more detail. And there was some thick blue piping on the back for the smokin’ Hyper Drive. Or is it the Warp Drive? I always confuse the faux technical terms from StarTrek and Star Wars.

Anyway, we thought that all our fancy frosting would surely transform our unidentifiable slab of cake into the Millennium Falcon. After practicing our space-age designs...

...we piped all the details on the cake.

And then we piped some more.

For hours we piped. Literally. Yes, there is such a thing as “piper’s cramp." Inexplicably, some frosting was lost in the process.

What we ended up with was a close facsimile of the Millennium Falcon—or at least as close as we were ever going to get after having consumed a sickening amount of frosting.

The best part? My nephew not only recognized it, he actually liked it. He’s gracious to his elders like that.

It is, after all, the Jedi way.

Come Fly With Me

2009-11-23T12:43:00.011-05:00

The perpetual dumpiness of La Guardia Airport is, as ever, an embarrassment to every New Yorker.

The first impression of our city—our vibrant, exciting and modern urban oasis—is an airport that smacks of a flea-bitten motel in a backwater town. It's the kind of place where it's not at all uncommon to come across a dirty wastebasket in the middle of the concourse that’s collecting dripping water from the stained drop ceiling above. Being at La Guardia is like being in someone’s horribly cramped, unfinished, dirty basement, complete with ghoulish fluorescent lighting, stale pastries and iffy plumbing. You never know when a gate agent will be issuing a warning to everyone in the security checkpoint snarl that none of the bathrooms in the concourse is working. Seriously. Only at La Guardia do these types of things happen.

This armpit of the airport world makes travel such an aggravating chore that you can’t wait to get out of town. Not only that, but as soon as you’re on the airplane (delayed for an interminable amount of time on the tarmac, of course), you begin plotting how in the future, for all of your travel, you can avoid the perpetual horror that is La Guardia. Suddenly, driving eight hours to Cleveland seems completely reasonable. Fourteen to Chicago? Not a bad idea. Biking to California? Ideal.

Meanwhile, Chicago’s O’Hare Airport flaunts its air travel fabulousness. Not only does it showcase wide open concourses with soaring ceilings, superb signage and soothing lighting the likes of which are usually reserved for comfy living rooms, but everything is decorated this time of year with miles of evergreen garlands interwoven with royal red velvet ribbon. It’s a veritable celebration of travel.

Those fortunate enough to be arriving to or departing from this most delightful of hubs float through the yawning concourses upon little clouds of fairy dust. Travelers joyfully choose appetizing meals and snacks from a bountiful array of stores. They select reading materials from cozy bookstores and quaint newspaper shops. Perhaps they do a spot of shopping in any number of the luxury stores dotting the concourse. Elves frolick from gate to gate, helping travelers with their baggage. Little woodland animals scurry around cleaning every inch of the airport, whistling while they work in true Disney fashion. Gum drops in every flavor gently float down from the ceiling into travelers' waiting mouths. Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. There's no cantaloupe-flavored gum drop.

It doesn't take long before you start pondering how all of your trips could be rerouted through O’Hare. Maybe stop over on your way from New York to Sonoma. If flying from Des Moines to Los Angeles, backtracking hundreds of miles to enjoy the treats of O’Hare seems perfectly reasonable. It is the happiest of all air travel places.

Alas, La Guardia remains a roller coaster of discontent; it crams travelers into a tight space, pulls them laboriously up a hill of discomfort, and then plunges them headlong into a black hole of frustration. Maybe it’s fitting. La Guardia is, after all, located on the site of a former amusement park. Figures.

Get Your Glee On

2009-11-18T01:24:00.002-05:00

If you haven’t seen Glee, the quirkiest TV show with the biggest heart, you’re missing out on the finest hour of comedy on television today. Bar none.

Take a simple premise—an earnest teacher trying to save a high school glee club—mix in an outstanding cast with an eclectic group of crazy-talented kids, multiple story lines of unrequited love, power struggles of every ilk, a terrific soundtrack and a generous helping of smart, laugh-out-loud humor, and that, my friends, is Glee.

Why does the show sing (pun intended) on every level? Because it’s based in Ohio, the place where all good things come from? (Ok, save football and baseball teams.) No, it’s because of brilliant writing.

The stories are crafted with soul and humor, which is a true rarity in this age of reality-show idiocy (see Jon & Kate Plus Eight, Wife Swap, Rock of Love Bus, et al). It’s a novel idea: Forego the mail-it-in ease of reality programming and make a show that actually pulls on the heartstrings and tickles the funny bone with tight writing and compelling storytelling. I know, it’s a crazy concept.

Watch Glee once and you can’t help but get drawn into its campy wittiness, its schmaltzy fabulousness, its utter brilliance. Why? Because we all went to high school and the pathos of those stories is universal. Maybe you were the jock, the cheerleader, the handicapped kid, the mean girl, the drama club queen, the brainiac, the moody artist or the homecoming king. Maybe you wanted to be popular, not be pressured by your popularity, or were envious of someone else’s popularity. Whatever your story was, you’re a part of Glee.

If you’re like me, you were weaned on The Breakfast Club and all other adolescent cinematic therapy of its time, courtesy of John Hughes. We related his movies, gobbling them up with an insatiable appetite. If we made a meal of Hughes’s films—and we did—Glee is the surprisingly fun dessert that we’re better equipped to enjoy because we’ve shed our teenage angst (well, most of it, anyway) and grown up. Now, we can look back at our high school years and empathize with, laugh at and even get choked up about those situations that at the time were writ so large. And that really gets to the heart of it: When it comes to drama and comedy—and that catch-in-your throat place where they meet—there’s no setting richer in story fodder than high school.

So tonight, do yourself a favor and watch Glee. It’s a toe tapper. A finger snapper. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry…it’s better than Cats.

A Phlegm-Free Zone

2009-11-17T08:42:00.002-05:00

While riding the bus home the other night, I read a sign that is stuck prominently where everyone can see it:

Please
No Littering
No Smoking
No Spitting
No Radio Playing

No spitting? That’s right. Bus spitting is apparently such a problem that it requires special mention on MTA signage. Granted, it’s not the scourge of public transportation that littering and smoking are, but it’s a bigger issue than radio playing.

Hey, MTA: The 1970s called. They want their sign back.

What He Said

2009-11-17T07:24:00.004-05:00

So, I was all set to write something on all the variations of the Snuggie. You know, those ridonkulous blanket-cum-robes that, despite their lunatic premise have sprouted up in a rainbow of garish colors for people and pets alike. Yes, pets.

Many talented writers have opined on this most important cultural phenomenon, not the least of which is Joe Posnanski, who, in my opinion, has written the definitive Snuggie treatise. Surely, I thought, there was something else I could add. In my intense research of the Snuggie, I came across this video. It's not new, but like the classics, it's worth revisiting. I think I'll just leave it with that.

Thanks, but No Thanks

2009-11-13T07:30:00.013-05:00

‘Tis the season for hostess gifts—those small, tasteful tokens of appreciation presented to whomever is throwing that holiday celebration/obligatory family gathering you attend. What follows is a collection of some of the more...er, noteworthy.

For that hostess who has everything, there’s the wicker football cookie bowl, courtesy of Neiman Marcus, where all things practical are procured.

For some short-lived enjoyment of your host’s initials, there’s monogrammed soap.

If you want to give a gift that allows your hostess to cut and spear her food with one utensil (and who doesn't?), there’s the knork, which, incidentally, is one of Redbook Magazine’s recommended hostess gifts of the season (kno, I’m knot kidding).

There’s the horrifying and disturbingly functional gift.

As well as the inexplicable.

After all, nothing says “Thank you for having me to dinner” like large pleated bunting.

You Say Bombe, I Say Bomb

2009-11-12T10:19:00.004-05:00

The fiercest and most unruly of forces descended upon Chicago this week. It was a battle unlike any other, perhaps one of the scariest clashes ever recorded in the Windy City. Simply put, a community was threatened, a social order was wrecked, and milk was spilled.

Literally.

That’s right, students at a middle school engaged in…wait for it…a food fight. Fortunately, administrators were quick to quell the rampant flinging of lunches. They did what any overwhelmed and under-weaponed domestic unit would do in dealing with an aggressor so intense and wily. They called in the police—yes, the Chicago police—to quell the uprising and have the eighth-grade perpetrators arrested and hauled off to jail.

What about detention, you ask? Please, that’s too tame a punishment for such a heinous and serious crime. We’re talking about the throwing of grilled cheese…the flicking of mashed potatoes with a spork! People, we have the community to think about here! What, pray tell, would happen if these hooligans—nay, these cafeteria terrorists—took their fight to the streets? Think!

All I can say is thanks to the just and prudent “no-tolerance” policies of the Perspectives Charter Middle School, citizens of Chicago will never be faced with such a horror.

For the Discerning Doggie

2009-11-11T17:46:00.002-05:00

Hooray! The holiday retail season is saved!

Boilerplate Redux

2009-11-04T15:03:00.003-05:00

Perhaps you’ve wondered what Carly Fiorina has been doing since Hewlett-Packard’s board of directors sent her packing with a lavish paycheck before she did further damage to the legendary company.

Turns out she found a home in politics. She was an advisor to Sen. John McCain during his presidential race. She made the rounds on political talk shows. And today, she announced that she’ll be making a run for Sen. Barbara Boxer’s seat.

Having listened to Fiorina while at the helm of HP and on the campaign trail, I think I have a good handle on her positions and what she hopes to accomplish in public office.

To wit: She would build bridges so people could come together to find a middle ground where they could then forge a compromise—a compromise based on best-in-class practices. She would create synergies, build partnerships and knit together a fragmented electorate. She would find a place for everyone at the table. She would listen to every voice. She would cut the fat, oil the gears on the machine, sweep away the cobwebs. Most importantly, she’ll problem solve and come up with innovative solutions.

Or, as she put it in today’s Orange County Register: “Throughout my career I’ve brought people together, and I’ve solved problems. And that is what is needed in our government today. People who are willing to set aside ego and partisanship and instead work to develop solutions to our problems.”

Somewhere, Sen. Boxer is smiling.

Pupkin

2009-10-31T07:53:00.004-04:00

What? He wanted to wear this.

An Apple a Day

2009-10-30T08:34:00.007-04:00

Behold the bounty!

My friend and I headed upstate yesterday with a tank full of gas and a dream—a dream of picking bushels of our own fruit at someone else’s farm.

It started out an idyllic morning, walking around with our baskets, marveling at the autumn scenery, picking apple after juicy apple.

But then we entered a dark, shadowy part of the orchard. The trees in this ominous-looking corner of the farm did not want to relinquish their precious fruit. At first I thought I was imagining things. There would be a shimmy or a shake of branches that would leave a red apple just out of reach. No matter, I thought, I’ll just pick a different one. There was another shimmy. Another shake.

And then it happened: A tree threw an apple right at my head. The tree next to it, equally as peeved, did the same. Before we knew it, we were in the throws of a full-on apple tree assault. Apples were flying everywhere. We ducked and weaved, dodging the fruity fastballs coming our way, and, in seeking shelter from the onslaught, we came across a tin foot...attached to a tin leg…

Oh, wait. That’s The Wizard of Oz.

Never mind.

Sugar Rush

2009-10-29T07:28:00.011-04:00

Halloween, God bless it, is the only time of the year that manages to conceal the fact that I have a sugar tooth the size of a football stadium.

No one at the drugstore looks at me askance because I’m buying bag after enormous bag of candy. Kit Kats, Snickers, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Tootsie Pops…the list goes on and on. It’s all, you see, for the children.

There is, however, one type of candy that I cannot abide and that is never foisted upon trick or treaters at our door: candy corn. These one-note triangular concoctions of gag-inducing sweetness are an affront to the entire candy aisle. Remember getting candy corn in your bag at Halloween? Few disappointments were ever greater. And if you traded candy at the end of the night, how many times did you try to unload your sorry bag o’ corn on someone? Answer: each and every time.

Judging from the foot traffic we had in our building last year, I’ve got about two king-sized bags of candy per kid. That’s a good ratio, I think. Gotta make sure I have enough for myself.

I mean, the children. Enough for the children.

Burn Notice

2009-10-28T06:52:00.005-04:00

The other day I wrote about harvesting a garden. Part of that agricultural wonder was a massive amount of hot peppers. Like more peppers than any family—or neighborhood—could possibly consume.

This, predictably, led to me making lots of hot pepper dishes. To the point of pain. Now, I’m not sure what classification of hot peppers these little darlings were, but after a full 48 hours of burning skin I can only assume they were of the Holy-Christ-These-Are-Hot genus.

Here's the story: last week, we had a friend over for dinner. I started out with homemade salsa (wicked hot), which was followed by seared scallops and roasted shrimp (insane hot) with a roasted potato/corn relish (Hades hot). Not the most balanced of menus, I’ll admit. Separately, everything would have been great—taken together, however, it proved a capsaicin calamity for my fingertips.

I went to bed with my hands ablaze and quickly found myself unable to sleep because of the pain. I’m guessing I was the only person in Manhattan at 1 a.m. pouring half-and-half over my hands. I did this twice more in hopes that it would magically erase what felt like volcanic eruptions emanating from my epidermis (alliteration, how I love thee!).

I awoke the next morning to flashes of phantom pain. Undeterred, I went to the gym, and after a vigorous 8-mile run (read: kinda-respectable 2-mile jog), I hit the steam room. This apparently aggravated whatever dormant capsaicin remained because not only did my hands instantly flare up again, they then proceeded to scream—literally, scream—at me for the remainder of the day. And this is what they screamed:

“Hey, Top Chef, try wearing gloves next time you chop habaneros!”

Kitchen Cravings

2009-10-27T09:22:00.002-04:00

I tend to punctuate trying or joyous times in my life with food.

After graduate school, when I wasn’t pounding the pavement for a job I was baking bread. My passion for bread baking nearly derailed my budding journalism career. On one particularly depressing Valentine’s Day more than a decade ago, I took a truffle-making class and have since parlayed that therapeutic three hours into a happy holiday tradition. And every promotion or professional accolade that I’ve been fortunate enough to receive has been celebrated by me whipping something up in the kitchen.

Now that I’m freelancing at home and inching toward becoming a published author with what can only be described as hold-your-breath hope, my schedule and professional commitments have changed. Translation: I can cook pretty much whenever I want.

Case in point: Yesterday I made lentils and spaghetti sauce…because it was Monday. Today I’m going to make a flourless chocolate cake…because it’s raining. You see, I don’t need a milestone or annoying event to coax me into the kitchen these days. In fact, I might make a spice cake right now.

Why? It’s 9:30.

I See London, I See France

2009-10-22T07:46:00.004-04:00

We’re awash in clutter. Not on the sidewalks. Not in our parks. I’m talking about up in the sky.

Maybe you’ve noticed the countless new buildings dotting our fair island: soaring monuments of glass and steel with windows like so much cellophane allowing everyone to see everything.

I don’t care so much about the exhibitionists who are taking full advantage of such transparency; it’s the view of everyone’s stuff I have a problem with. The piles of unsightly bric-a-brac, the thousands of unmade beds, the mountains of clothing strewn every which way—it’s all there for us to see. Passersby of these modern obelisks, these fanciest of fancy new buildings are subjected to a front-row viewing of everyone’s clutter. These multimillion-dollar apartments are more akin to flop houses or unkempt college dorms than they are to high-end living. It is, simply put, an ocular assault of epic proportions.

Windows are much coveted here, and with good reason. After all, living atop one another in such close quarters means that a view outside—even if it’s just a tiny sliver of sky—is all we got. Back in the day, when downtown tenements thrived, people hung everything outside: laundry, food, more laundry. Ropes crisscrossed the streets in order to hang whatever could be hung out the window. We’ve essentially come full circle.

Didn’t developers or planning boards consider for even the briefest of moments what these buildings would look like from the sidewalk? Did no one ponder what all those see-through buildings would behold?

Apparently not, because now we’re stuck with an unsightly panty parade up above.

Farmer Mon

2009-10-21T07:23:00.005-04:00

I found myself digging for potatoes in Central Park last week. Let’s just say that ended poorly. Seems the Central Park Conservancy doesn’t encourage that kind of thing. On Monday, I walked behind a pig while he rooted for truffles near the trees at Centre Street. The Court Clerks weren’t amused. And today I picked what I thought were edible flowers along the East River bike path—an altogether inadvisable endeavor.

I can’t help myself. I might live in one of the most urban spots on the planet, but there’s farm in my blood. Maybe you have some too. If you find yourself fondling produce at the Union Square greenmarket on Saturdays, or plotting an escape from your concrete confines to an orchard three hours outside the city to pick your own, you’re probably harboring a farm gene or two.

Fortunately, I was able to get my farm on last month when I visited family in Cleveland. My grandmother’s garden was ready for the final harvest. I picked two giant baskets of tomatoes, upwards of 100 hot peppers, a massive bunch of parsley and one zucchini. A giant zucchini. A zucchini so impressive in its enormity it put all other zucchinis that had come before it to shame.

It was five pounds and bigger than my head. Bigger than my forearm. Heck, it was as big as the puppy.

It took days to eat. There was grilled zucchini, zucchini fries, zucchini sauté. By Day 4 of cooking nothing but zucchini for my husband, my quest to consume every last bit of this most massive of vegetables assumed a Dr. Suessian quality to it. Will you eat it off the grill? I will not eat it off the grill. I will not eat it off the sill. I do not like zucchini roast, zucchini toast and most of all, zucchini poached!

Suffice it to say we eventually (some might say “unwillingly”) ate the entire zucchini. Which is good, because I hear it was a bumper crop year for squash.

Farewell, Gourmet

2009-10-07T11:59:00.005-04:00

Foodies everywhere felt a disturbance in the force this week. Yes, I speak of the surprise shuttering of Gourmet, the magazine that chronicled all things culinary for nearly seven decades. Upon hearing that Condé Nast had pulled the plug in the most unceremonious of ways, I did the only thing a self-respecting foodie could do: I made myself a chocolate-hazelnut torte and promptly consumed half. What can I say? I was mourning.

Gourmet’s many obits have discussed the reasons for the publisher’s move—declining ad rates, slumping circulation, the changing landscape of luxury lifestyle mags and, of course, the trying economy. There are myriad reasons, but the end of the day you just can’t get around the fact that from a return-on-investment perspective, you get a lot more bang for your buck online. And that leaves me with mixed emotions—kind of like when I’m faced with the choice between a flourless chocolate cake and a chocolate pot de crème.

Don’t get me wrong, as someone who worked in online journalism for years, I fully appreciate the immediate nature and community feel of electronic media. But I’m also old school. I got into journalism, many years ago because I loved writing and reading. Newspapers, yes, but especially magazines. There’s something about the feel of them—the pleasure that you get from leafing through a new magazine can be positively transformative. Much like when you unwrap a Baci chocolate.

So Gourmet is gone now and it’s a loss. A loss as sad as a gummy meringue, as a burnt cookie, as a dry, overdone steak.

You’ll notice I left out deflated soufflé—no one, after all, likes over-the-top food analogies.

Another One For the X-Files

2009-10-04T11:08:00.002-04:00

It's October. If anyone is even reading this blog anymore, my apologies for the radio silence. There is only one explanation and I must be honest and own up to the lack of words on my end: I was abducted by aliens.

All I can say is that I'm happy to be back from the tight confines of the spaceship that hoovered me up from midtown more than a month ago. No more meals of green algae and moon rocks. No more reruns of Three's Company. And no more square dancing. Man, do those aliens love their square dancing.

And polkas.

Foodies of the World Unite!

2009-08-30T11:36:00.003-04:00

I’m an unabashed foodie, something I’ve yet to delve into at length on this blog—probably because I wanted to appear well-rounded, interested in other subjects. And I am. To a point.

But once talk turns to truffle-making technique, salt (with which I have an intense and ongoing love affair) or olive oil, all bets are off. I become a singularly focused conversational missile, only able to talk about all things culinary. Tuna steak preparation, that new restaurant downtown, my latest green market find—I can offer a more learned opinion on any of these topics than I can about health care reform, which I realize is nothing to be proud of.

I started thinking about the power of cooking and great food last night after dinner—two of our dear friends cooked an amazing, thoughtful meal and brought it to our home. (Everyone should have friends like these.) Food, like sports or even politics, has the ability to stir up passions within people. It offers connection and comfort, and sometimes, near-death experiences.

Take salmon. Back in the mid ‘90s, I lived in an Oompah Loompah-sized studio apartment that had a cramped galley kitchen outfitted with appliances made by, I think, PlaySkool. In this fraction of a kitchen I attempted to make a fabulous-looking salmon recipe, which involved successful broiling, glazing and proper ventilation—all of which I failed. Miserably. Fast forward 10 years to my folk’s backyard grill in Cleveland where I tried to grill an entire side of salmon. Never mind that I’d never grilled before (living in Manhattan might afford you a lot of things, but access to a barbecue isn’t one of them). I slathered it with more oil than the Exxon Valdez spilled (my first mistake), put it on a blazing hot grill (my second mistake) and then left it there for much, much too long. Like 45 minutes long. That was my third and final mistake before the neighbors called the village fire department because they thought my parents’ house was ablaze. It wasn’t, but I still haven’t been allowed near the grill.

Ok, so maybe cooking salmon isn’t exactly my strong suit, but the point is that cooking can bring happiness, tether people to one another and even mend fences.

That is, provided a team of burly firemen doesn't intervene first.

Anything You Can Do...

2009-08-26T05:44:00.001-04:00

The other day I opened up the latest issue of Martha Stewart magazine to find a calendar listing everything I won’t be doing in the month of September. It’s uncanny.

Take, for example, Sept. 8, a day I won’t be picking hot peppers or stringing them to dry. On Sept. 13, I won’t be taking a horseback ride (don’t even know how). Nor will I be picking apples or making applesauce. And I won’t be taking fall sweaters, coats and boots out of storage (I keep everything smushed in one closet). Not only that, but on Sept. 21, I won’t be scrubbing porch floors, ceilings and walls (don't have a porch to scrub). I also won’t be sowing greens in cold frames. I don’t even know what that means. Finally, on Sept. 26 I won’t be touching up indoor paint while the humidity is low and the windows can be opened.

See what I mean? It’s like Martha is a mind reader or something. I won’t be inspecting deer fencing, harvesting potatoes or adding the last of the tomato plants to the compost pile. All I can say is I’m awed by her insight into my life.

Hang on—this isn’t a calendar chronicling everything I won’t be doing. It’s Martha's 30-day organized list of domestic insanity: a.k.a. what she'll be doing.

Naturally.

This Month in World News

2009-08-25T05:47:00.005-04:00

In case you’ve been away in August and missed the biggest news stories of the month, I’ve encapsulated them below.

– Peru and Bolivia moved to the brink of international crisis, with both countries crying foul, accusing the other of committing unthinkable theft and reaping economic devastation. A trade agreement gone awry? A serious diplomatic breach? No. The subject was bigger than Peru’s never-ending reshuffle of its presidential cabinet, more alarming than the uptick of coca shrub cultivation in Bolivia. I speak, of course, of the Miss Universe pageant costumes. Seems those of Peru and Bolivia looked alike. This horrifying development stoked the ire of both the Peruvian Congress and Bolivian diplomats, prompted a protest in front of the Peruvian embassy in Washington D.C. and caused the Bolivian government to run commercials defending its ownership of said costume. There was talk of going to The Hague for resolution. Seriously. In the end, it was Donald Trump, he of all things classy and diplomatic, who settled the dispute: Miss Venezuela was crowned the winner.

– In order to curry votes, German candidate Vera Lengsfeld took a page from the playbook of Italian Prime Minister/Top European Horndog Silvio Berlusconi. Lengsfeld erected humongous signs of herself in a low-cut number next to German Chancellor Angela Merkel, who, in her photograph, donned an even more risque and revealing top. The billboard's tagline: "We have more to offer."

– Every now and again there's a story so dramatic, so heart wrenching, so utterly crucial to the global community's welfare that it captivates the masses. Yes, I speak of Paula Abdul's departure from American Idol. For those who thought Ms. Abdul's relevance faded in the 80s after she danced her way through a video with a cartoon dog and Arsenio Hall, you couldn't have been more mistaken. For the past however many years she's happily gurgled her encouraging platitudes to hopeful stars, offered up countless excuses for odd behavior (including that well-worn chestnut "The manicurist did it!") and...well, I'm having trouble thinking of a third thing. Although a third accomplishment remains elusive for Ms. Abdul, obviously she was worth more than her $5 million-a-year contract. It’s a loss we’ll be mourning for years to come.

– Finally, in news that’s bigger than the ongoing slugfest over revamping US healthcare or Iran’s continued march toward developing nuclear weapons, Tyra Banks announced that she’s going to reveal her real, weave-free hair on the Sept. 8 broadcast of her eponymously titled talkshow.

I'll end the roundup here, because news doesn't get bigger than Tyra's hair.

Lessons Learned

2009-08-24T10:17:00.000-04:00

I've been fortunate this summer to visit several different beaches (all in the name of good reportage, of course), and I've learned there are certain immutable truths when it comes to that hallowed place where sand and water meet.

1. Kids are impervious to extreme temperature and the amount of sand stuck to them. In the course of a month, I've witnessed intrepid toddlers wade into the icy waters at the Cape to frolic unflinchingly while adults looked on from the beach, teeth a chatter. And I've seen kids at Long Beach, sand stuck to every inch of them, eat snacks from a sandy towel in a manner that can only be described as anteater-esque.

2. Potato chips taste better at the beach. There's a direct correlation between one's proximity to salt water and the number of Ruffles consumed. No sense in fighting it--you might as well try to defy gravity. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

3. I am the only person slathering on Coppertone SPF 60 for Babies like it's my job. While everyone else is getting Bain de Soleil beautiful, I'm acquiring the ghostly pallor of Casper. I am officially the only person on the East Coast who's actively getting paler by going to the beach. This is not an exaggeration--Guinness has phoned me. Ditto for Weekly World News.

Sheer Madness

2009-08-12T06:14:00.000-04:00

It’s T-minus 5 until the season premiere of Mad Men, which, I can safely say without a hint of hyperbole, is one of the best shows on television on any planet, in any galaxy.

Like any good Maddict, in preparation for the Big Event, I’ve made a computerized Mad Men character of myself, courtesy of MadMenYourself.com. I’ve submitted pics to an open casting call for a walk-on part in an upcoming episode (fingers crossed!). I’ve picked out an appropriate 60s-era style outfit for Sunday’s televised extravaganza. And I plan to watch the marathon of last season’s episodes so that I’m fully prepared for every plot twist and boozy innuendo that may arise on Sunday.

I know. This isn’t normal behavior for someone older than 13. DuranDuran might evoke such insanity in a seventh grader, but Don Draper prompting such lunacy from a…well, someone considerably older?

Here’s the thing though: I’m not alone. There are Maddicts everywhere—thousands, nay, millions of us. It truly is a mad, mad world.

The News from Long Beach

2009-08-11T12:24:00.000-04:00

It’s a steamy 86 degrees here at Long Beach, a place where all the women are tan, all the men are buff and all the children are excellent surfers.

The beach is pure peace in the early morning. True, everything has a certain calm to it at 5:45 a.m., but when you’re standing with your toes in the sand and can look for miles and see nothing except for beach, surf and sky, you feel like you’re smack in the middle of serenity. And that’s a nice place to start your day.

Today, the baby stroller brigade power-walked up the boardwalk in its usual purposeful way. Everyone knows to stay clear of the swarm of spandex-clad women pushing their most precious cargo and squeezing their hind quarters. Once, in August of 1989, someone didn’t heed the call, “Comin’ Through!” He walked with a limp for a month.

Tanning begins early here. It’s a sport for some, a job for others. The locals have a range of sun-kissed skin tones—cocoa, caramel, bronze—all of which are well-developed. You can tell who lives here year round by their degree of tan, and who is riding over a bridge into town with their SPF 60 that’s the consistency of glue. The locals abide the tourists, but that’s about it.

Parking in Long Beach isn't so much a chore as a crusade. Spots near the sand are hard to come by and expertly managed by local residents. Some move motorcycles from their garages to hold a space on the street if their car is being used. Others jump to move their car from their designated space to an open spot if company is dropping by. It's part Survivor, part Seinfeld.

Tonight is the annual Sun Dance, a time when everyone in town holds hands on the beach and bows three times: Once for the sand and sea, twice for the invention of surf boards and thrice for those squat, aluminum beach chairs that fold up to the width of a pancake. So, if you’re around this evening, by all means head to the beach for the festivities. And if you’re coming from that craggy rock to the west, one recommendation: Get a spray tan first.

My regards to Garrison Keillor.

Water from the Rock

2009-08-11T11:20:00.000-04:00

The other day, water started gushing from the sidewalk in several spots near my apartment—kind of like an urban geyser. Since Manhattan is not Saratoga Springs, I thought something was probably amiss. Not that passersby cared—they merely walked around the Second Avenue sidewalk spring system. Some jumped over it.

Then the water began pushing through the sidewalk with greater force. Shortly thereafter, five fire trucks and one fire chief SUV screamed to the scene, transforming Second and 55th into the set of Rescue Me. Firemen strode to and fro around the spring system and eventually began circling in the street in front of it. A frenzy of activity commenced, including chopping pavement, pounding a big metal rod into the street and threading a fire hose into the underground labyrinth of aging pipes and infrastructure upon which everything on this island is built. Then the red ConEd truck arrived: the ultimate harbinger of utility doom.

By this point, the Second Avenue Springs had attracted quite the crowd of onlookers. Word quickly spread that the water sprouting forth from the sidewalk was said to have curative powers. Others said that it was the fountain of youth that the Manhattoes (the Native Americans who reportedly sold Manhattan for a couple of MetroCards and a street pretzel) used to bathe in. Soon throngs were rushing to the Springs with empty water bottles, filling them up by the dozens. Finally, folks said, there was a cure for deep vein thrombosis/joint pain/sinus headaches/acne/stress/hair loss/the common cold!

The businesses near the Springs wasted no time: The antiques dealer hurriedly hauled out 20 carpets to display in front of his store; the gelato place started handing out free samples of gelato; the Chinese food place rolled out a dim sum cart. A kid selling “I Drank From the Second Avenue Springs” t-shirts angled for room next to a bearded preacher who cautioned against turning away from the Lord to the Springs. Then a fight broke out between two deli owners over who actually owned the Springs. Donald Trump declared that he intended to purchase the air rights over the gushing water, which brought community activists to the Springs to protest any and all development around this natural wonder.

Suddenly, the water stopped gushing. The Springs just went dry. The firemen high fived each other, another job done—and just in the nick of time because there was a sinkhole on East 38th Street to tend to. The crowd, having got word of the magical earth crater that had revealed itself to Murray Hill, headed south.

It was, in other words, just another Tuesday.

Easy Rider

2009-08-06T13:17:00.000-04:00

As I write this I'm in a car, cruising along 495, a banged-up bit of pavement that will bring me (traffic willing) to Long Beach. I'm in the passenger seat, typing, surfing the Internet and doing it all without wires. The words, they just cannot be held back!

That I'm utilizing such technological wizardry is the real wonder here, considering that up until a couple of years ago I still had a VCR, a walkman (yes, with cassette tapes), a TV the size of a Kia and home phone with an actual cord. When I first moved to New York back in '94, I lived too close to the Empire State Building and my cordless phone picked up the top-40 station whenever I used it. Conversations had their own built-in background music. I talked with friends and family to Counting Crows, argued with my landlord to Ace of Base and called for pizza to Sheryl Crow. Two weeks after I moved into that apartment I couldn't take it and gave up on wireless telephony entirely. For more than a decade.

Then I married an early adopter--a term for tech-savvy folks who gobble up the latest and greatest technological whiz-bangs like M&Ms. Shortly thereafter, I had all manner of iPods, televisions and wireless gadgets everywhere: phones, computers stereo systems, books. If Captain James T. Kirk were to walk out of my kitchen, touch his communicator and request to be beamed somewhere, I wouldn't even bat an eye, because when you live on the Starship Enterprise, see, these things happen.

There is one thing that all this technology can't do: prevent car sickness...gotta post this thing before I ralph.

A Modern Day David v. Goliath

2009-07-08T12:15:00.000-04:00

I love a good underdog story. Being from Cleveland and forced to suffer through season after season of sports heartbreaks, you pretty much have to be. (A moment of silence, if you will, for the Cavs.)

But this isn’t about Cleveland sports (Shaq? Really?) or their tough seasons (the Indians: currently the second worst team in baseball). No, this about corporate underdogs. And by that, I mean Microsoft.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking: Microsoft is the Antitrust Godzilla, the Bully Bundler, the Strongarmer of Operating Systems. Maybe that was true—a decade ago. The PC game has changed, as everyone knows. Everything is knitted to the Internet, which is why Google is the new bully, the new Big Brother. Literally. Microsoft isn’t scanning your email for keywords to see what ads it can display. Google is. Microsoft isn’t taking pictures of the front of your house and your neighbor’s house. Google is. And guess what Google is also doing now: Developing an operating system to bundle with its Internet browser.

Google’s tentacles are getting longer and stronger, something to consider today when everything about everyone is online. It’s only a matter of time before Google becomes Jabba the Hut of all that is tech. Bottom line: Steve Ballmer is going to have to find something else to rally the troops. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4860483760049380308

Hang on—I just realized that I use Google blogger...and they’ll pay me to show ads. Ok, nevermind what I said earlier. Google on, people. Google on.

Ratatouille

2009-07-06T08:22:00.000-04:00

There are some upsides to New York’s rainy season. Everything has been washed clean. It’s not too hot yet. The park is as verdant as you’ve ever seen it. The sunlight has that summer sparkle to it. It is, simply put, urban perfection.

This idyllic time of year always takes me back to 2003 when I was working as a financial journalist. The tradeoff to the long hours was the office’s proximity to the park, which meant evening runs. I remember I’d just wrapped up a very long day—Steve Jobs had burped or something and Wall Street was all a twitter with what that meant for Apple’s valuation—and all I wanted to do was lace up my sneakers and hit the park.

I ran up to the reservoir, breathing in the fresh air. I ran around the reservoir, fully appreciating the leafy canopy. I headed back south along the main drive and at the top of one of the hills, it was there in that amber evening light, with a soft little breeze, that the peace of it all hit me—it was one of those moments where I thought, Yes. This is why I live here. This is why I pay an ungodly amount of money for 250 square feet of personal space. This feeling right now. Right here.

And then I saw it. A big, fat rat on the other side of the street. It was so big and so fat it looked fake. It was grotesque in its size. I picked up my pace to get past him as quickly as possible. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the rat start running. Right for me. The frackin’ thing was galloping like a Belmont racehorse toward my legs. I ran faster, pumping my arms, convinced I that I could outrun him. The rat altered his trajectory and galloped faster and faster still. I looked to the left at the rat locomotive coming at me and then straight ahead, running faster and faster. Look left. Omigod, omigod, omigod. Look right. With each terrifying peek to the left I took, I realized the rat was gaining on me. The next look left confirmed what I feared most, it was gunning for me.

When the rat tank was about a foot away I started yelling. Kind of a low yell at first, still in denial that this was actually happening, that built into a shrill crescendo of pure panic. Then what I thought couldn’t be happening, wouldn’t ever happen, did: The rat smacked right into my legs, his bulbous ratty body and long, thick tail tangling up with my Sauconys. I screamed. I screamed louder. I screamed so loudly that the speedster bicyclists, who normally only slow down if they hit a child or animal, actually stopped to take in the horrific rat/screaming-girl wonder that was taking place before them. Then they laughed and rode away.

So much for urban perfection.

Wee Me

2009-06-25T04:57:00.000-04:00

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that I’m revising my manuscript. That’s a lie. I’m actually weewaring.

Perhaps you’re not familiar with the online phenomenon that is Weewar. It is, as the name suggests, a war fought on the wee-est of scales: a computer screen. It’s a grand, turn-based battle game with wee armies made up of wee tanks, troopers, heavy artillery, hovercrafts, destroyers and battleships—it’s all wee! For procrastinators such as myself (English major/editor/writer), this is, simply put, the purest cut of time-suckage crack.

In fact, I’m engaged in a weewar battle as I write this. As I type, my hovercrafts are delivering a wee whomping to johnmd20’s feeble forces. (Ok, they’re not. But you don’t know that. For all you know, I’m Patton when it comes to wee strategy.)

Yes, there are folks out there who are researching cures for diseases, working hard to keep our financial system afloat and cleaning up environmental disasters. I’m blogging and weewaring. I mean, I might as well be a New York state Senator.

When asked about weewar, I typically pause (thoughtfully, of course) and then liken it to chess, proffering that it presents all the strategic challenges of this timeless and most intellectual of pursuits. By the end of my description, you’d think playing weewar was akin to debating the nuances of Plato’s cave. That’s how much lipstick I put on this pig. To explain why I’m playing a computer game. Like it’s my job.

Yes, I’ve wrapped myself in such a thick armor of denial that even a heavy tank couldn’t bring me down. You see the problem, right? The need to own up to my actions fully and completely. The duty to take responsibility for my weewaring. I’m doing it, after all, so who else can I blame?

My husband.

Now, I make it a point not to drag family or friends into this blog, because, really, they didn’t sign up for that. But I cannot in good conscience discuss my ceaseless, near-problematic weewaring without laying blame squarely where it belongs: not on me.

For those of you who haven’t been enlisted to weewar by this most ardent wee recruiter to whom I’m married, you soon will be. My advice: join before a draft is instituted. There is an upside: I now get a great break on tuition and can buy yellow cheese by the 10-pound brick at the Ft. Hamilton military commissary in Brooklyn.

Be strong. Be weewar strong.

Life Under the Big Top

2009-06-24T09:51:00.001-04:00

Not sure if you’ve been paying attention to the veritable three-ring circus that is the New York state Senate, but, really, you’d be hard-pressed to find a higher-quality production of Theater of the Absurd in the tri-state area.

So far, Democrats have locked out Republicans from the Senate chamber, both sides have fought to bang the big “official” gavel, and each has held separate legislative sessions (in separate corners of said chamber), passing entirely different bills.

And that was just Tuesday.

It all started earlier this month when an entitled billionaire felt his voice wasn’t being duly considered by the Democratic Party, whose campaign coffers he’d lined. He is a billionaire, after all—and billionaires have rights. So he did what any fat-cat contributor would do: orchestrated a power shift involving one Democratic state Senator who’s accused of assaulting a woman, and another who’s been fined for failing to disclose campaign contributions and whose nonprofit is being investigated for allegedly misappropriating funds. Our billionaire Iago (whose political action committee is currently being investigated) pinned his ambitions on these two upstanding elected officials in hopes that nudging them to the other side of the aisle would give Republicans a slight voting advantage. Maybe this party would listen to his money. I mean, him. Listen to him.

The ensuing allegiance mash-up in early June led to Democrats locking Republicans out of the chamber, one of the flip-flopping Senators dramatically producing a skeleton key, everyone threatening litigation and, predictably, the appearance of a clown (sent to the Capitol by The New York Post).

Granted, such loony-toon antics aren’t new to Albany, which ranks as one of the most ineffective state seats in the US. This is, after all, the body that hasn’t managed to pass a budget on time since the late 1700s. But even by the ant-belly lows routinely reached by the New York state legislature, the current state of events looks pretty bad.

So, this is where we are, New Yorkers. Bills that ultimately will determine such weighty matters as same-sex marriage and the control of New York City schools are effectively back burnered. And while a billionaire-cum-politico is enjoying his Happy Days, we the people keep waiting for Senators to behave like Senators.

Samuel Beckett would be proud.

My World and Welcome to It

2009-06-15T14:15:00.000-04:00

I'm not the only person trying to get a book published.

I know. I too was floored when I found this out. There are upwards of 50,000 of us. Turns out I'm not the only one who's stepped off the corporate treadmill to pursue a writing career. (Full disclosure: my last gig was at Citigroup, so the treadmill wasn't actually moving. Or plugged in to the wall.) There are like 290 million of us trying to break into the market. Or is that the population of the US? Whatever. Point is, it's a really big frackin' number and the odds are precisely a googleplex to one that I'll be published. This is what happens when you attend writers' conferences. Where's a can of vanilla frosting when you need it?

I much prefer living in delusion in my living room where I write. There, I'm a smashing success. My book's been published, the characters are adored (so real!), the writing is applauded (so witty!), the concept is lauded (so original!). Oprah can't get enough of me. She delights in the story I tell about why I decided to write my bestseller. When I appear on her show, she revels in the details I share about a sequel. Then she unsheathes her sword, taps me on both shoulders and knights me. Dame Monica Comas, Writer of All That is Smart, Funny and Commercially Viable. The title's a little clunky, yeah, but it's Oprah, so really, I'm not about to quibble. All of this unfolds like a fairy tale on daytime television, where all things wonderful happen like Judge Judy, Judge Alex, Judge Hatchett, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Karen, Judge Mathis, Judge Jeanine Pirro, Judge David Young and Judge Penny. Ok, nevermind. Point being, Oprah loves me.

Some might say this pitch conference I recently went to was timely given that I've come perilously close to slipping into a full-on Walter Mittyesque coma. They'd be right.

Cleanliness is Not Next to Me

2009-06-15T14:03:00.000-04:00

I'm coming off of a four-day stretch of daily showers. This is, I realize, not exactly something any adult should be sharing. With anyone. And I made a promise to myself that I would never, ever write about such matters on, of all things, a blog. But this isn't about my personal hygiene achievements, remarkable as they are, it's about writing.

Leaving a full-time job for a more flexible stay-at-home schedule of freelancing in order to finish a book can affect your daily routine. Work clothes, for example, are optional. Heels: optional. And the longer you keep this alternative-work schedule, showers too become optional.

It's a slippery slope though. Soon enough, you're lounging around in a tank and a pair of well-worn pants that have a goodly amount of elastic (or, at least they used to). You start to forego the daily showers, perhaps the combing of hair. If you have a dog, maybe you throw on a pair of cargo pants when you take him out for a walk then change back into your comfy pants to write. This gradually starts to typify a good writing day. The words are flowing, the pages are piling up, everything is clicking. But you've already started cruising down on this unkempt highway, so where do you go when you have a bad writing day?

Remember that movie Death Becomes Her? Goldie Hawn's character experiences a bit of a personal setback. At one point she reels around--hair a horror, resplendent in a pajama top/sweat pant ensemble--and uses two fingers to scoop out vanilla frosting from a can and mash the blob into her mouth. This is a close approximation of what it's like to have a bad writing day.

I'm currently working on revisions of said book. I used to be a financial journalist, and despite the risk of having the SEC charge me with passing along insider information, I put forth this next tidbit (do with it what you will): In February 2007, affiliates of The Blackstone Group acquired Crunch Holding Corp., parent company of Pinnacle Foods Group Inc. Pinnacle Foods makes...wait for it... all 22 varieties of Duncan Hines frosting.

Celebrity, Thy Name is Spencer

2009-06-09T11:32:00.000-04:00

It’s happened again. I’ve been sucked in to what can only be described as the lowest-common denominator of television programming. I speak not of Rock of Love, Brett Michaels's hopeless ‘ho fest, that wades unrepentantly into the shallowest, most degrading end of the XX gene pool. Nor am I talking about Wipeout, where hapless contestants trip over, smash into and fall off of all manner of padded obstacles (a step up from last year when contestants had to contort their bodies to match cutouts in a wall speeding toward them or else have the wall smack them into a pool of water). No, I’m referring to I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here.

The show offers a veritable cornucopia of moments to critique, so it’s difficult to know where to start, but the title is a good place. The name of the show presupposes that cast members are card-carrying members of the celebrity set. Janice Dickenson, Spencer Pratt, Torrie Wilson (I know, I had no idea who she was either). Enough said.

It’s hard to say what’s more horrifying about the show: Janice Dickenson’s rubber-faced contortions when she’s in the mad throws of a cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs fit (which occurs with the regularity of the sun rising and setting), or Spencer Pratt’s proclamations of possessing a level of fame unachieved by Anyone. Anywhere. Ever. I’m going to go with the latter.

Before losing all semblance of judgment and tuning into I’m a Celebrity, I’d seen this California hobbit on the covers of gossip mags. So right there, you see, I knew he was a celebrity. Just like Jon and Kate, the Octomom and Dina Lohan. And like many celebrities, he has a sidekick: his wife Heidi, who, in one episode, picks at Spencer’s hair like a chimp grooming her young. She’s the whiney Robin to his delusional Batman, the brassy-blonde Starsky to his hairy Hutch, the…you get the picture. In one dramatic episode, Spencer proclaims to the camera as he’s being driven away in a white SUV that he doesn’t volunteer (the celebrities are allegedly “playing” for charities), he gets paid. In other words, just like a celebrity. Of course, the next episode showed Spencer and Heidi begging to be allowed back on the show. What a twist! These celebrities, you never know what they’re going to do.

So, Spencer is the most famous person in the world. This much is irrefutable. Sorry Mother Teresa, Shakespeare, Oprah. You guys should be so lucky as to realize the greatness, the fame, the pinnacle of societal contribution that Spencer Pratt has. Then you too could eat bugs, deliver verbal bitch-slaps and make a mockery of the human race once a week on television.

Toiletries Unite!

2009-06-08T09:35:00.000-04:00

I consider myself to be a connoisseur of drugstores. Some girls know fashion or decor. I know toiletries. I can spend an hour in a drug store in contemplative bliss, reviewing all the products that can make my skin dewier, legs softer and teeth whiter. It's my own cocoon of personal-improvement. All I have to do is reach for a product on the shelf, place it in my plastic shopping basket and I'm that much closer to being more moisturized, less stinky, better makeuped.

Of course, living in New York, I'm cursed with the drugstore wasteland that is DuaneReade. It's one of those crappy institutions that's part of the unwritten tradeoff for living here. You want to order sushi at 3 a.m.? Fine. But you have to get your toiletries at DuaneReade. Want a certain type of cream--maybe a nice aloe-cucumber blend? Too damn bad. You'd take whatever Russian Cold-War era selection DuaneReade offers.

At some point some years back, competitor chains--CVS and Walgreens--caught wind of the dearth of Manhattan toiletry competition and they moved in with their well-lit, amply stocked stores. They offered choice--even food. It was cause for celebration. Since then, I've been known to disappear into the welcoming aisles of these stores for an alarming amount of time, emerging with all manner of candies, lotions and makeup.

So you can understand my horror when I popped by a relatively new Walgreens on the Upper East Side last weekend, eager to get my drugstore on, and found the toiletries locked up. That's right, under guard. Lock and key. Surely this must be a joke, I thought as I strolled through the aisles in disbelief. All varieties of Degree deodorant and Head & Shoulders shampoo were jailed behind thick lucite doors, secured with brass locks. Ditto for the EPT pregnancy tests, the Children's Motrin and its kiddie medicinal neighbors. I walked by entire stretches of toiletry shelves that were secured like they were part of a precious art exhibit or something. It was unreal. It couldn't get any worse in drugstoreland. It was then that I saw it: the imprisoned Extra bubblegum.

Now, this particular Walgreens is across the street from a swanky new building, the Lucidia, where condo prices are said to start at $2 million. (I say "said to start at $2 million" because this is one of those exclusive residential fortresses that doesn't advertise prices.) I'm sure you see the screaming societal message here. Upper East Siders are so cash-strapped and hygienically challenged that they've taken to stuffing their Louis Vuitton carryalls with whatever their manicured hands can grab. It's sad, really. These are tortured people, to be sure. But has anyone considered the plight of the Upper East Side toiletries that are, at this very moment, being held against their will? Was it because of their demands for a free press? Democratic elections? I can't be sure. But I do know this: We cannot lock up the brands of antiperspirants and shampoos that we don't agree with. We must free these poor plastic containers of personal-improvement product from their captivity! Join me in this most important of campaigns. This oppressive Upper East Side Walgreens regime must be toppled!

Ham for the Holidays

2009-06-01T12:42:00.000-04:00

I don't know if it's because I was an English major (we are, after all, a people beset by overthinking, inaction and a dearth of business sense) but I've held an eclectic array of jobs as an adult.

Most college students use their summers to strengthen their resumes by doing internships, perhaps some meaningful volunteering. I worked at a Jersey shore ice cream parlor scooping ice cream. Many college grads have jobs lined up before graduation. The year after I graduated, I waitressed at restaurants in three different states, taught English as a second language (for two months...for free) and took a pottery class (which my parents paid for). Then, like any good English major, I went to graduate school.

But the position that I think defined this ratty patchwork quilt of part-time jobs was my stint at Honey Baked Ham. For the uninitiated, there's a chain of stores in the Midwest dedicated to the peddling of pig. It's quite the brisk business during the holidays. So it's little wonder that my predisposition for challenging part-time employment drew me to the wood-paneled, oddly cavernous shop. Here I would fulfill my ham-hawking destiny.

Now, the holiday business being what it was, customers knew to call ahead and order their hams. Thus, part of the job entailed manning the Ham Hotline. We followed an elaborate script to carefully match customers' dinner needs with appropriate ham sizes. It went something like this:

1) Ask customers how many servings they need.
2) Look at Ham chart.
3) Tell customer ham size.

Then--this was the key part of the entire exchange--we were to give the callers a letter. "A" for a small ham. "B" for a medium-sized ham. And "C"...you get the picture. It was at this point in the conversation that much confusion ensued. Customers would question why they weren't required to give their name. Didn't they have to give their name? How would they be sure they'd get a ham if they didn't give their name? Could they give their credit card number to secure a ham? Customers' fear of not having a more formal contract in place guaranteeing their right to ham produced no shortage of angst. We assured them they didn't need to provide a name, or anything else. And here was the beauty of why: People got to come in and personally select the exact ham of their dreams.

Which brings me to the second part of the job: working the Ham Counter. I never understood why the store was so bizarrely large. It was about the size of a small roller rink, yet there were only a couple displays of mustard in the entire place. The rest of the store, covered in this rust-colored carpeting that concealed all manner of spills, was empty. After the first day of ham pickups, I understood why, as frenzied throngs descended upon the store, filling it up entirely, anxious to select their hams.

If you were working the counter, you had to haul out hams from the refrigerator cases behind said counter and "show" them. Like some pork pageant. Say a "B" ham customer came in. You'd pick out a ham from the case, set it on the counter, carefully unwrap the heavy gold foil and show the ham. You'd look at the ham with pride, as if to say, I wish I could have this ham...or, yes, this is a good ham. If the customer didn't like that particular ham--say it had too much fat, or was too small--you'd rewrap the ham with a smile, put it back in the refrigerator and retrieve another to show. You'd repeat your same fawning over the next ham. Customers could ask to see as many hams as they wanted. There was no limit. No matter how much ham juice dripped on you, no matter how much of that hard, honey-baked coating stuck to your shirt, no matter how many times you cut your cold fingers on that industrial foil, you kept showing hams. You'd get customers who would ask to see 10, 12, sometimes 14 hams before they settled on one.

For 12 hours at a time I would do this on the days I worked the counter. I didn't even eat meat. I didn't care, though. I realized I had reached the pinnacle of my part-time employment career: I was the Vanna White of ham.

Sign of the Times

2009-05-24T18:02:00.000-04:00

While driving down a highway, you've no doubt seen those Adopt-a-Highway signs. It's not the program I take issue with. Adopt-a-Highway, which operates in some form or another in all 50 states, according to the New York State DOT website, is an admirable endeavor: a public/private partnership that aims to make our roadways cleaner. That's good stuff. Great stuff, in fact. It's the signs I have a problem with.

I ran by one such sign today on the East Side Highway. A big, rusty blue sign announcing that Gabelli had adopted the next mile of road. A gold star for Gabelli for sending someone out there to pick up trash four times a year. Does that merit a sign? No. The sign is just another unsightly bit of pollution that should be disposed of. Why is such signage necessary anyway? I understand that the various departments of transportation across the country want to entice businesses and civic groups to participate in these programs. But really. Does Gabelli, which has like a gazillion dollars under management, really need a huge sign to acknowledge its civic charity? Does the Hospital for Specialty Surgery? Does Trump? (Ok, dumb question.)

Why do we as a society need more pointless signs? As it is, we're crowded by them from every side. As if that weren't bad enough, sports franchises and landmark venues trip over themselves to sell off their naming rights to the highest bidder--or just to any two-bit bidder (hello Citi Field)--creating yet more excuses for signs.

The larger issue, in the case of Adopt-a-Highway, is that we're a society that needs acknowledgement to an obscene degree. Why can't we just show up somewhere and pick up trash on our own volition? Why does it have to be acknowledged with a big garish sign? Surely we can do better as a people, no?

And that includes myself, of course. Not only did I run by the sign today, I ran past all the trash that carpeted the grass alongside the road (bang up job, Gabelli). Then I came home and took the mightiest of all mighty steps: I blogged about it. Nice.

Fortunately, not everyone is like me. Because when I had turned around and passed the sign again, what did I see but a woman in her 50s or 60s, walking with her lumbering bulldog and slowly picking up trash along the side of the road with her bare hands. Like she was tidying her own backyard or something. That's the beauty of New York, really: Every now and again you see someone treating a public space so respectfully you'd think it was their own. And, of course, the point is that space was hers--and mine. Although I just ran on by.

Amazingly enough, she didn't need a sign applauding her efforts. She just did it.

All Hail the Boob Tube

2009-05-13T12:17:00.000-04:00

If you’re like me, you’re eagerly anticipating the return of Mad Men, one of the best shows on t.v. What is going to happen to Don and Betty? Will he return home? Will she crumble like a dry cookie again and return to her housecoat-wearing, a.m. wine-drinking, chain smoking ways? Will Salvatore ever emerge from the closet? Will Joan find happiness? What will happen with Peggy? With Peggy and Pete? So many questions, so many cocktails—and it’s not even 9 a.m.

And then there’s that bit of Miami spy fabulousness that is Burn Notice. Michael! Fiona! Their friend with the enormous chin! I can’t wait for their return….christ, I watch too much t.v.

Not Exactly Grrrrrrrrrrreat!

2009-05-12T12:33:00.000-04:00

I’m learning how to golf. I’ve been learning how to golf now for 20 years. Ok, two. But it seems like 20. Here’s the insane part of it all: I actually like it. Why is that insane? Here’s a typical outing for me at the range:

1) Remove pitching wedge from bag.
2) Tee up ball.
3) Realize I’ve forgotten glove, so go back to rummage around in golf bag to find it….oooo, gum!
4) Eat piece of gum.
5) Find glove, put on, set up over tee again.
6) Get nervous.
7) Step away from tee, adjust velcro on glove a la Mike Hargrove.
8) Chew gum furiously.
9) Decide need another piece, retrieve said piece from bag.
10) While working massive gum wad in mouth, approach tee again.
11) Stand over ball trying to remember how I’m supposed to move—arms first, or hips?
12) Wonder to self why am at range, feeling very self conscious around all the men who are swinging with grace and perfection.
13) oh god oh god oh god oh god (thinking to self).
14) Take what I’m sure isn’t anything that would be considered a golf swing.
15) Miss ball entirely.
16) Remind myself it’s ok, because I get three strikes before I’m out.
17) Repeat steps 6-14.
18) Strike two.
19) frakfrakfrakfrakfrakfrakfrakfrakfrakfrakfrakfrak.
20) Man next to me looks in my direction and I realize my string of profanities wasn’t an internal monologue.
21) Chew another piece of gum. Like it’s my job.
22) Repeat steps 6-14.
23) Strike three.
24) Make like I meant to do that.
25) Gaze knowingly out at the range, the place where none of my balls have traveled to.
26) Walk with purpose to golf bag and retrieve 5-iron. Because, clearly, it’s the club.

Urban Dog Etiquette

2009-05-12T12:25:00.000-04:00

If you don’t have a dog and you don’t live in New York, you might not be aware of urban dog etiquette. But there is such a thing. And all owners would do well to adhere to it. A few tenets of said etiquette follow:

First, don’t let your dogs go sniffing around other dogs’ behinds when they’re in the midst of serious business. And by that, I mean pooping. You just can’t throw another pooch off his game like that. Think about it: How would you feel if someone barged into the bathroom at the crucial point in your morning sitdown? Started sniffing and nosing around your bum? It could throw off your whole day. If you have an older dog and that happens, forget about it—he needs to start the entire poopy process all over again. In fact, he might not be able to muster up that poopy feeling anymore, which means he’s going to be impacted all day long. Have a heart, owners, keep your dog away from another dog’s butt when he’s in mid-poopy. For everyone’s sake.

Second, and this one is for the male dog owners out there who are blatantly using their dogs as pickup devices, do not follow a woman walking her dog and try to make small talk with her when she’s clearly not interested. Just don’t do it. Among other things, it’s creepy. And when she’s made it clear to you that she doesn’t want anything to do with you, don’t pepper her with questions about which dog runs she takes her dog or what routes she normally walks her dog. Does someone really need to tell you that this is double creepy? Yes, Midtown East Golden Lab owner, I’m talking to you.

Third, don’t let your dog get near another dog and start sniffing before you declare with a smile, “Sometimes he bites.” Thanks. You know what? Slap. Sometimes I hit.

Is This Thing On?

2009-05-12T12:03:00.000-04:00

I know, another blog...exactly what the world needs. I was told by a prescient man years ago--years, mind you--to start blogging. Today, I'm finally getting around to it. What can I say? An early adopter I'm not.

Anyhoo, thought I’d use this inaugural posting to discuss, what else, but the Utter Awesomeness That Is LeBron James And The Cleveland Cavaliers. For those of you otherwise engaged in watching Dancing with the Stars last night (and really, why?), you missed King James leading the Cavs to a victorious sweep of the Atlanta Hawks. Granted, the game would never be described as their best. Not by a long shot. There were bouts of outright sloppy offense, but the Cavs kept digging in and fighting and that’s what made the game great. It’s a good metaphor for Cleveland, come to think of it...economic times being what they are and all.

Speaking of Cleveland, I’m running a half marathon there next weekend (not the full, mind you, the half). I should have run more/worked out more/stretched more/eaten fewer chocolate chips in preparation for the Big Run. However, as the days have slipped by and the race date has neared, I’ve come to fully embrace the theory that resting as much before the big race is the best approach. I’m on week three of rest.

My sister, on the other hand, is running regularly, mapping out the miles she’s racking up on her GPS-enabled super computer. Basically, preparing for the race like any sane runner should. (Note: There is really no such thing as a “sane runner”—just ask any runner.)

I don’t know why I’m so blasé about the race. Actually, I’m not blasé about the race, just the prep. I’m really excited for the actual race: It’s going to be a good time, it’s a great course (my sister and I ran it last year in the pouring rain and it was still frackin awesome) and it’s in our hometown. She comes in from Chicago, I come in from New York, we pack about eight day’s worth of carbo-loading into a 24-hour period and then we go out for a 13.1-mile jog. Afterwards, we get massages. In other words, it's a perfect couple of days. So why haven’t I prepared more? Maybe because after running two marathons and countless long runs in preparation for said marathons, the half marathon (which is shorter than many of the long runs you do before a marathon) feels more manageable. More fun. Less serious and stressful than the full. And that’s what the half is: fun. Then again, that’s coming from a runner, so consider the source.