A(nother) Train Story, or - A Tale About Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome Incurred on Today's Trip via NJ Transit

Today I spent much of the day thinking about The Lost Year.  

Or more specifically:

What on this green Earth could have possibly possessed me to commute FOUR HOURS every single day for almost a year on a completely horrendous train line filled with the most obnoxious specimens of human nature ever to breathe air?

Some highlights to incite pity from the masses:

9:05 a.m. - Board train.

9:10 a.m. - A bevy of six guffawing senior citizens sit behind me and proceed to screech and scream their way to Newark.  Apparently, their already-poor hearing must subsequently result in my hearing loss.  

10:25 a.m. - I transfer trains in Newark and stand in the vestibule between cars.  

10:27 a.m. - I am joined by a middle-aged tattooed couple that clearly had a bit too much experience with brain-altering substances in their youth.  (And probably in the present day.)  Hence their heavily delayed speech patterns.  They slur their way to Secaucus, peppering every other sentence with a drawn out "Maaaannnn," and then gallop off into a drug-addled sunrise.

10:57 a.m. - The conductor makes the following announcement:  "If you are traveling with small children, the elderly, or the intoxicated, please take them by the hand and watch the gap between the train and the platform."  Laughter ensues.  I'm grateful for this man's early morning train humor.  

  

11:00 a.m. - Arrive at New York Penn.  Walk 30 blocks.

12:00 p.m. - Interview (aka point of trip)

12:30 p.m. - Meet old coworkers for lunch.

1:30 p.m. - Subway back to Penn Station.  Wait for train.  Wait.  Wait.

2:07 p.m. - Board train.

2:30 p.m. -  Arrive in Newark.  Wait for train.  Wait.  Wait.  Read.  Read.  Wait.  Board train.  Wait.  Wait.

3:06 p.m. - Train leaves.

3:25 p.m. - I determine that the "woman" sitting across from me is almost assuredly a man in drag.

3:35 p.m. - I'm 98% percent sure that one of the many screaming children on the train experiences some gastrointestinal distress, the result of which wafts throughout the train car for innumerable minutes.

3:37 p.m. - Finish book.  Bored.  Jittery.  Anxious.  Bored.

3:45 p.m. - Mother:  Kids, quiet down or they're going to kick us off.

Kid:  How can they kick us off?  The window isn't even open!

...

Mother:  Honey, we don't need to see your underwear.

Kid:  But what's so wrong with it?  

3:48 p.m. - Conductor announces that we are being held at a stop signal.  We wait.  Again.

4:30 p.m. - Finally arrive home, twenty five minutes late.

Just another day in commuting hell.  

A Major (Nerdy) Accomplishment

I have kept a list of every book I have ever read.  

(Well, since 1996.)

I'm not really sure where I got the idea, but I'm so glad I did.  It makes book suggestions much easier, and also prevents me from accidentally reading the same things over and over again (although in middle school I apparently enjoyed doing this, and chose to read certain books, like the 1,024-page mammoth Gone with the Wind, over and over again every few months).  

So, the big success of the day was typing the aforementioned list into Excel (which was unbelievably time consuming and obnoxious and led to muttered profanities while battling the automatic formatting that Excel feels the need to impose on my spreadsheeting but it's finally done).

And now, with the wondrous aid of spreadsheet technology, I can assert that over the past 12 years I have read 375 books and well over 89,000 pages.  

A particular thank you to high school AP English and my RU English major for really upping my page count to an obscene level.

Weekend Tidbits

1.

I can't get enough of these beautiful sunsets lately.  

(This was actually taken on Wednesday, 9/28 when it was still feeling cool and fally and not humid and rainy and gross, but whatever.)

2.

Whenever I eat a "real" lunch (as in, not oatmeal or yogurt or little mini snacking exploits that take place throughout the day) I never feel like eating a "real" dinner.  Who knows why.  I have come to accept my culinary oddities.  

Yesterday I had a (HUGE) turkey sub in the spirit of RU tailgating and was subsequently turned off by the thought of any kind of traditional dinner food, which actually really ticked me off because J and I were planning on going out to dinner but I was disgusted by the prospect of consuming pasta or salad or pizza or anything containing sodium.

The solution?

Gloriously fluffy pancakes and a bananapearstrawberry fruit salad.  

Here you see my breakfast-for-dinner sitting happily (and yet disgustingly) among the hot dogs and fries that J and my parents chose to consume.

PS. The beer was NOT mine.  I only tolerate beer when already tipsy.  And certainly not with pancakes.  SOME people (ahem, Papa and J) thought it would be funny to pile Yuenglings in front of my pancake plate to make me look even more disturbed than is already evident.  

3.

RUTGERS!  You did it!  You finally won a game!  You didn't even let the other team score!  Good job!

We will overlook the fact that the team you beat was Morgan State (which I have never in my life heard of, and had to look up just now in order to determine that it is located in Baltimore City, MD).  We will also ignore the fact that this renowned Baltimore City institution apparently finds the "Golden Bears" to be an intimidating and powerful mascot.  

Sarcasm aside, I am grateful for this 38-0 domination.  If the Scarlet Knights didn't win yesterday, I really don't know what I would have done.  Especially against a team that I have never heard of.  Especially against a team where I've never heard of half of their scheduled opponents.  

Teel, good job of putting your precious being in harms way for a few moments to get us a first down.  See?  You survived.  Running is a-okay.  Try it again sometime.  

Brooks, way to come out of the woodworks and score 3 touchdowns.  That's what I like to see.

Britt and Davis, I don't know what you did, but you better not do it again.  Get back in the freaking game!

Jabu Lovelace, I'm really sorry you broke your leg.  I hope you feel better soon!

Paul-Etienne, I really like your name too.  You and Jabu.  And you're a wily little thing.  Quick on those lanky limbs of yours.  I'm glad they actually let you pass the ball, unlike poor Jabu.  And don't worry about that interception - bad luck, happens to everyone (Teel of all people can attest to that).  Practice makes perfect!

I knew that last post title sounded ridiculously familiar

If you haven't read Billy Collins, you should

The neighbors dog will not stop barking...

...and for some reason the little bugger sounds like a rooster

See, I'm Way Ahead of the Trends!

Apparently Starbuck's newly introduced hot oatmeal is their most successful food product launch to date.

Imagine the success if they added chocolate chips!

Restoring My Faith in Short Stories

I was really in need of some good writing in the effort to erase the traumatic memories of the whole The Sharper Your Knife, The Less You Cry fiasco.  

Thank you Like You'd Understand Anyway by Jim Shepard for purging my mind and renewing my confidence in authors and publishing houses.

This is one of those books that I've picked up I can't even count how many times at the library and bookstore, always intrigued by the title and cover.  (Isn't it pretty?  Props to the design people).  I finally brought it home.

Then I realized it was a collection of short stories and almost threw it across the room.

I am NOT a fan of the short story.  Mavis Gallant, Jhumpa Lahiri, endless anthologies in high school and college.  Kind of boring.  Maybe I just haven't been reading the right things.  

Whatever the case, I feel the author ends up trying desperately to force a point in a very limited number of pages.  Or the story is just completely pointless.

Hooray Mr. Shepard!

I'll admit, I didn't always grasp the "point" of these stories.  Hell, there very well might not have been a point to begin with.  It didn't really matter.

This book was like channel surfing through random snippets of people's lives from all corners of place and time.  With radically different settings, each story zooms in on an individual somewhere in history and gives the reader a snapshot of their experience.  

My favorites were "Pleasure Boating in Lituya Bay" and "Eros 7."  

And "Courtesy for Beginners."  

And " The First South Central Australian Expedition."    

OK so I liked a lot of them.

The final story in the collection, "Sans Farine" kind of freaked me out a bit because it was all about an executioner during the French Revolution.  A bit graphic and gory with all those rolling heads.  But even that was so well-written that it was bearable. 

Shepard has such a poetic focus on word choice and rhythm, and its really a pleasure to read.  And the man clearly puts a LOT of research into his stories, which run the gamut in historical and technical details.

Mr. Shepard, thank you for showing me the light!

A Profanity Inducing Slideshow

I just saw this article on the NY Mag Web site and my jaw is STILL hanging open.  

190 Bowery in NYC is a six-story, 72-room, 35,000 square foot single family home.  

That's right.  THREE PEOPLE LIVE HERE.  

Photographer Jay Maisel bought this abandoned Germania Bank 42 years ago for $102,000.  It is now estimated to be worth between $35 and $70 million.

Make sure you take a look at the slideshow.

Wow.

Disturbing News O' The Day

Apparently the loonies at PETA have made a plea to Ben & Jerry's to "give cows and their babies a break" by switching to breast milk in their ice cream products.

Seriously?

I have to say that I love B&J's response:  "We applaud PETA's novel approach to bringing attention to an issue, but we believe a mother's milk is best used for her child."

KB does DC with SG, and - A Train Story

Much to J's dismay, until this past weekend I had spent virtually zero time in our nation's capital.  

For J, this was just one more indication of the fact that I did not begin interacting with human civilization on Planet Earth until I was beamed into the Brett Hall dormitory at Rutgers University in August 2003.  (Other examples of my supposed alien status include never having watched "The Cosby Show," seen "Titanic" or vacationed in Disney World).

So, I was very excited about finally getting a chance to quiet the boy down and say that I had osmosed the American history floating in the DC air.  And mainly, to visit my good friend SG who has been reigning in DC since graduation high school.  

Now I can safely say that DC has been added to my (very short) list of Places Acceptable to Live at Some Point in The Future Once I Obtain Gainful Employment and Some Semblance of an Income.  

I was smitten with how low and clean and open and new DC is.  Compared to NYC that town is like a freaking scrubbed down hospital.  I could practically lick the sidewalks and only catch a very minor disease (as opposed to a fatal one, a la NYC).  Truly though.  When we walked into a very buzzing Rocket Bar filled with pool tables and shuffleboard, I could literally smell bleach.  

Funny, because as I raved about the cleanliness and mellowness of the city, SG rolled her eyes and said that's exactly what she was sick of - after 5 years in DC she's sick of the shiny veneer - bring on the grit and grime and creepster frenzy that is NYC!

So thank you again to SG for opening my eyes to the delights of DC, obscene quantities of Havarti cheese, and addictively soft American Apparel t-shirts.  

And now, A Train Story 

As some of you may know, I have a bit of a history with trains.  After commuting to NYC for a year via train from central NJ (i.e. TWO HOURS EACH WAY) I have become a bit of a train Nazi.  Or perhaps a train prisoner.  Whichever it is, I become even more hyper-observant than normal when zooming along at high speeds enclosed in narrow spaces with hundreds of other weirdos.  

On Friday afternoon I boarded the Northeast Regional Amtrak train in Metropark.  

The first thing that came to mind?  

Boy, do I miss the Acela.  

My only other pseudo-visit to DC was for a two-day work conference last November.  I got to see a whole slew of sights, like Union Station, the highway, and the hotel.  

However, work DID pick up the $376 tab for the Acela and let me tell you, it was transportation heaven.  At this point please keep in mind that I was in the midst of 4-hour-a-day train HELL on the Satan of all trains, NJ Transit.  The Acela, with its ample leg rooms and cushiony seats was like freaking paradise.  Best of all, my colleague and I found ourselves in the Quiet Car, probably the best invention in the history of public transportation.

So I was already missing the glories of the Quiet Car from the moment I stepped on the train.

Next obstacle:  Find available seat with relatively normal looking individual who will not make me want to rip out pages of my library book and give myself fatal papercuts

Now, I have extraordinary experience in this realm.  I'm a virtual train expert.  I am a seat-selection maven.  And I am ashamed to say that, on Friday, September 19th, I failed.

Basically, I overshot.  I rejected so many potential seatmates that I finally reached the end of the car, and because I was stupid enough to bring a duffel bag without a critical invention called wheels, my arm was about to pop out of its socket and I couldn't bear to go on.  I saw a harmless looking old man and chose him.

Idiot!  Idiot!

My old man smells like he hasn't been acquainted with a toothbrush in about three months.  

He keeps listing to the right and keeps popping my personal space bubble with his little old elbow.

I'm crossing my fingers that he gets off at the next stop and leaves me alone with non-morning-breath air.  

The girl behind me has a cell phone that chirps the first few bars of a Beach Boys song every two minutes, and it's immediately stuck in my head.  

At this point I'm having a funny little mental conversation with myself, because when I stood on the platform waiting for the train to arrive, I almost MISSED it.  I almost MISSED the train.  OK, not the train itself, but the sense of going somewhere, the anticipation.  

And now I'm chastising myself wondering what the hell I could have possibly been thinking, because clearly every train on earth is filled with complete nutjobs and limited ventilation.

The old man leaves and returns with a yogurt.  Strawberry.  

I eat yogurt everyday.  I love it.  It's delicious.  But in all honesty, it smells gross.  Especially when you are not the one eating it. 

Now he smells like yogurt morning breath.

The old man is surprisingly into his cell phone.  To be honest I'm impressed with his technological savvy.  

Until I realize that he has the key tone volume on, so that as he scrolls through his contact list, types a number, or browses his calls it BEEPS AND BEEPS AND BEEPS.  

LOUDLY.

Soon my old man breaks out one of those mini DVD players and a little remote control.  The title comes up on the screen and I realize he is watching the unrated version of "Talladega Nights."  I am simultaneously peeved and fascinated by this old dude.

Fortunately, he gets off in Delaware.  

I breathe a sigh of relief. 

I thank my lucky stars when a clean-cut younger businessman replaces my old man.  He is potentially gay, and quietly reading his magazine and shuffling through some work papers.

Then he answers a phone call.

He speaks.

As God as my witness, I have never smelled such horrible, traumatizing, make-you-want-to-bury-your-head-in-the-sand-like-an-ostrich-and-never-emerge breath.  

His breath makes the old man smell like the petals of a rare and beautiful flower.  The old man was the sweetest smelling object my nostrils have ever had the privilege to sniff.

This is not an exaggeration.  

For the next hour or so I literally plastered my face against the window in an attempt to avoid the trade winds of his breath.  

This was not normal bad breath.  This was knock your socks off, sear your nostril hairs, make-you-want-stick-mothballs-up-your-nose-because-even-that-scent-is-more-desirable breath.  

Does no one practice personal hygiene outside of the Tristate area?

I was in physical pain (probably from attempting to hold my breath at unhealthy periods of time).  

I sent SOS text messages to SG and J.  

I considered the fact that after this I may never be able to smell again.  

I almost whimpered in fear every time he exhaled.  

At one point I took out my container of Tic Tacs and I swear that I was thisclose to offering him one.  Seriously.  I almost did it.

When we finally reached DC I waited for Stinky Man to leave, and then stumbled down the aisle and out into the station gasping for air.  Never has the stench of train exhaust smelled so sweet.  

I remember why I hate the train.

The End.

Page 87

"What's this thing about putting people to use?  What's that all about?  What happened to just loving being around someone?  

- Like You'd Understand Anyway, Jim Shepard

This is the kind of email that sends a shiver of fear down my spine

Because I know I am lacking that critical personality trait called "self-control" 

When it comes down to it, how can you not be in love with this coat?

Currently Making Sweet (Mental) Love

To American Apparel for designing the softest most glorious t-shirts ever before created on this earth.

Since I am always ten billion years behind the times I have not actually owned any American Apparel. Up until now. Thank you to the evil and powerful influence of my shopping buddy SG in DC this past weekend.

She also made me try on more big honkin' diamond rings.

It was glorious.

Guest Blog from J & G - or, Inside the Minds of 2 Male Whackos

Here is a "guest blog" from J and his attached-at-the-hip-man-lover best friend, G.  

Please keep in mind that this "submission" was sent to me at 4:18 a.m. this morning, after J&G finally returned home from a day long odyssey otherwise known as the last game at Yankee stadium.

J & G's Guest Blog

G wrote the original summary, J's additions are in italics

EDITORS NOTE:  This story was recounted for posterity at 4am after being out of the house since 11:30 AM, and one of the writers did not pee for 13 hours, which he is damn proud of, so please forgive the rambling nonsensical quality to this story, plus the main character in the story was a total mess, so it doesn't lend itself to flowery prose, it lends itself to nonsensical ramblings with no punctuation, so really this was a smart literary decision on our part that we spent a lot of time fine tuning

We are on a train from NYC back to NJ after a 13 hour day & we're lucky enough to get seats with extra leg-room (the 4-seaters).  

G are you drunk??  Were you sneaking $9.50 bud lights at the game when it took you an hour to go get a pretzel?? (which was soggy and cold, i found this to be suspicious, i guess i was right, you were pounding beers at the counter...only 2 beers for every transaction so i guess you had to get on line a few times) those seats DO NOT have extra leg room!!! (these are the two seaters that face each other on the new double decker trains, if one person sits on each side you can't sit directly across from each other if you are a reasonable sized human being because your legs will be forced to mate with those across from you)...did this stop the drunkard from sitting next to us?? NO IT DID NOT, and if he had been nice enough to be sheepish about it maybe i could've dealt with it, but no he had to act like a shmuck and gleefully plop down with his alcohol breath and shady duffel bag...DUDE WTF ARE YOU DOING IN GYM CLOTHES, WITH A DUFFEL BAG, ON A SUNDAY NIGHT DRUNK AS A SKUNK...WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?? ok back to G... 

Minutes before we leave, a disheveled 20 something carrying around a piece of luggage asks to sit with us.  I agreed because I could smell the liquor coming out of his pores & because he looked unhinged.  I had no patience left for the criminally insane after 12 hours sitting in front of 10 angry, drunk buffoons.  J & I both pretend to sleep in order to avoid any awkward pleasantries with the drunkard.  He forces us to make small talk, which included, "I DON'T CARE WHAT ANYONE SAYS...JERSEY IS THE BEST" When we ignored him and pretended to fall asleep he made a phone call.  

The call started with him screaming "DUDE I KNOW YOU'RE OUT OF CONTROL, I WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU WERE OKAY."  I naturally assumed he called a drinking buddy that he had seen earlier tonight.  The conversation took a very bizarre turn when the drunkard screamed, "I KNOW I WISH I COULD'VE STAYED TOO.  I MEAN, I WOULD'VE SLEPT ON THE EDGE OF THE...ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE COUCH; I DUN CARE.  LISTEN DUDE, I MEAN..WAIT WHAT? I'M GONNA JUMP OFF THE TRAIN (I assume the person jokingly invited him to come back).  BECAUSE I MET YOU I'M GONNA BE TWICE AS LONELY.  I MEAN I WAS READY TO GO HOME ANYWAY, I WAS PREPARED BUT NOW THAT I'VE MET YOU IT'S 100X HARDER." 

(G neglects to mention that this guy kept using the name killa, for us, and for the lucky broad on the other end of the phone, if anybody is a "killa" it's him, i never made eye contact with this axe murderer because i didn't want him to remember my face...G also forgot that after this guy told us how much he loves jersey and he's from there and blah blah blah after we told him what town we were from (which i IMMEDIATELY regreted, and instantly started considering other north jersey suburbs i could quickly relocate to now that my place of residence was compromised) he drops a dirty jerz reference to this chick which was obviously derogatory, but then the guy remembers that we are from jersey so he says to her after a long awkward pause (when he's obviously saying it for our benefit) "oh but i do love jersey, don't get me wrong"...he's quite clearly one of those losers that lives in jersey but wishes he could be from new york

I heard a girl's voice on the other end, so it seems he just met some girl.  He's decided to profess his undying love by shouting incoherent non-sense on a train in front of a few hundred strangers.   This continued for a few more minutes.  He then shouted, "NO I MEAN, YOU WERE TOTALLY RIGHT FOR MOVIN ME AWAY WHEN MY HAND GO TOO CLOSE...WHEN I ALMOST ACCIDENTALLY TOUCHED YOUR ...(trails off to wisely avoid yelling the V word in public, good job buddy)..THREE TIMES, YEAH I MEAN ITS GOOD YOU MOVED ME AWAY 'CAUSE I DONT CARE I'D STAY ON THE COUCH".  After going back to how lonely he would be now that he's met her he said "I MEAN I COULD JUST HAVE GONE HOME AND WHATEVER WATCHED A TV PROGRAM OR SOMETHIN, OR SMOKED  OR SOMETHIN.  HEY?! DO YOU SMOKE ANYTHING? WHAT?!?! YOU'VE NEVER SMOKED POT IN YOUR LIFE?! OMG I MEAN I WON'T SMOKE WITH YOU (specifically he said "if i smoked with you, you would just start thinking real hard about what i am thinking and it wouldn't be any good"),BUT I'LL LEAVE YOU SOME AND YOU CAN SMOKE ON YOUR OWN.  OH? YOU DON'T (he actually said "oh you're a dancer?...oh you have asthma?" (i think this girl was just frantically throwing out as many excuses as she could to avoid indulging in the wacky weed, honey this is the point in the conversation where you need to cut your losses and hang up the phone)...NAH THAT'S COOL I MEAN IT'S SOMETHING I LOVE BUT I'LL JUST QUIT I DON'T EVEN CARE.  I'LL QUIT IF IT'S NOT YOUR ...NOT YOUR THING I'LL QUIT." (this was the ultimate backpedal, he was fleeing the scene of the crime so fast it was amazing, he went from being a connoseiur to being able to quit at any moment!)

Now the drunkard starts making plans for next weekend, "I MEAN I'M COMING BACK.  YOU'VE PUT US IN AN AWKWARD POSITION BECAUSE WE'RE JUST GONNA GO CRAZY FOR EACH OTHER NEXT TIME..I'M COMING UP NEXT WEEKEND BUT THAT'S TOO LONG! IT'S TOO LONG!! WE'RE GOING TO GO CRAZY FOR EACH OTHER NOW BUT THAT'S COOL!! 

(G forgot the best part of the conversation, which i will never, ever, ever forgive him for...i think from hearing this guy's end of the conversation that she was suggesting phone sex...he said something along the lines of "no, no, no i can't right now, i'm in a crowded train car....no,no,no i can't i won't be home for hours...no,no,no i can't i have to watch my bag" (which was probably filled with bricks of illegal substances) so i really think she was suggesting phone sex and fortunately for us he showed restraint and good judgment for the first time since he got on the train...i wish that this train ride had been videotaped, it wouldn't even need editing, it would be a perfect public service announcement about what not to do, this shit would scare kids straight in an instant, CHILDREN DON'T BE THIS GUY, STAY IN SCHOOL, DON'T DO DRUGS, DON'T DRINK TO EXCESS) 

LISTEN I MEAN...NO! I GOT THESE TWO GUYS HERE WHO I MADE, WELL I ASKED OR IMPOSED SO I COULD SIT DOWN, AND THEY'RE FALLING ASLEEP BECAUSE THEY WERE AT  A BIG GAME!  NO I HAVE MY BAG...I'LL BE HOME IN AN HOUR OR TWO AND I'LL CALL YOU BACK THEN I SWEAR! I SWEAR!!!"  He hung up, moved when a seat opened up and gave me a pound because my team (who he couldn't name or recognize) had won.

i would like to thank that wacko for making my train ride home at 1:30 in the morning extremely unbearable and extremely bearable all at once, it was a beautiful mess...and with that i am going to bed, goodnight

I cannot fathom what publisher thought that this book was worth publishing - or, Additional Proof That I Should Write a Book

Perhaps that sounded a bit harsh.  

The concept of The Sharper Your Knife, The Less You Cry, by Kathleen Flinn is a cool one - a woman feeling stifled by corporate America is fired from her job and decides to pursue her dream as a student at Le Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris.  

Fine.  Woman pursues dreams.  Love it.  Very Eat, Pray, Love.  Elizabeth Gilbert is even quoted on the cover of the book praising the author for pursuing her dreams.

Imagine my dismay when, on a 3 hour train ride back from DC, I realized that this book was horrid.  Really just not good.  Poorly written.  Poorly organized.  Just really unreadable.  And a shame because I really love food books.  I love to read about cooking because I love to eat and it makes me hungry.  It's a shame because the concept had such potential.  And then it was butchered (cooking pun intended).  

I made it to page 94 because I was bored.  I was also hoping it would get better.  It did not.  It was equally bad on page 5 and 94 and I finally gave up and tried to subtly read over the shoulder of my seat neighbor, who was happily typing away on her laptop.

Here's why you should bypass this book:

1.  The book summary touts a woman leaving a thankless job to pursue a lifelong dream.  However, in the author's note Flinn mentions that "I waited to tell Le Cordon Bleu about this book until I had written and sold the manuscript.  As a journalist, I wanted to be treated like an other student so that I could tell an objective story."  She kept a journal of 600 pages and interviewed numerous students and alumni.  So basically, Flinn was a journalist and figured cooking school would be good material for a book.  This just really turned me off.  At least be up front about it and acknowledge that "my cooking dream" is really code for "my book dream."

2.  The writing is elementary.  Forced descriptions and metaphors all over the place.  

3.  It's poorly organized.  It's short and jumpy and passages really don't flow at all.  I couldn't follow it.  To be honest I don't understand why the chapters are broken up the way they are - I don't know why there are chapters at all.  Basically, it just seems like an excuse to put a recipe at the end of each one.  

4.  Amidst the cooking discussion, the reader is also blessed enough to hear about Flinn's love life.  I'm sorry, I'm happy that she found true love.  I am.  But if I were her I would probably make it a priority in life to keep these cornball moments to myself, not publish them for public consumption.  These passages are just straight out of a bad romance novel.  

A few terrifying examples:

• "...as we got to know each other, something always lingered below the surface.  One night ears later, in my London flat, we began to kiss.  For the first time, neither of us was in a relationship.  After a moment, I pulled away and, from out of nowhere, I heard myself say:  'If you stay ... it will be forever."  
• "After dinner the first night, we strolled along the Piazza del Duomo, gently lit by a hazy moon.  He asked softly, 'Are you OK with forever now?'  With a kiss in the middle of the shadowy piazza, we crossed the thin line between platonic and passionate.  It took three years to get to that kiss."
• " 'Good morning, sexy,' he says groggily, tugged from sleep.  'Good evening, handsome.'  I try to make my voice light.  Across the Seine, I see the Eiffel Tower explode with strobes..."
• "By 9:00 p.m., he's wide awake, so we bundle up and go out with a vague plan to find somewhere to kiss in the cold, clear night air along the Seine..."

VOMIT

I'm evil.  I know.  I don't care.  

This book is proof of one of a few things:

• I should be publishing a book at any moment, since apparently ANYONE can write a book nowadays.  Keep your eyes peeled!
• I should be an editor, and as such would do my best to prevent such literary terrors from hitting shelves.  (Honestly, this book could have been saved - it could have been rewritten into success - I could be that savior!)
• I should just continue to write snarky book reviews since I am clearly narcissistic enough to think people care about my literary opinions.

Those are 94 pages I won't get back.  I hope that I can protect others from the same sad fate.  

Farewell to Yankee Stadium

I am not a huge fan of baseball.  Americas pastime, blah blah blah.  To be completely honest, I think it's pretty boring.  I've been sucked in slightly over the past seasons against my will, only because I cannot complete with the Yankee crazies that surround me.  I'm outnumbered.  Papa, Mama, bf, sister's bf.  I have no choice but to surrender.

That said, despite my meager fandom, watching the pre-game ceremony on TV tonight even I was feeling influenced by the historical impact of closing the stadium.  

And really, I was getting kind of angered.  Then I became incensed.  Watching the footage of great plays and great players, switching from fuzzy black and white to color, makes you realize just how long this stadium has been around.  All the great players that have gone before.  The influence of the sport.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH OUR SOCIETY!?  

Why can't we appreciate history!?  

Why do we need everything to be new new new?  

Newer does not always equal better.  

The sports gods should've saved their money, given a raise to the "CRACKKAAAA JACKSSSS" concession dude and called it a day.

RealAge.com, or Yet One More Example of Everyone Thinking I am in High School

The other day I took the Real Age test, and it turns out I am 15.7.  

Of course I am.  Not only am I a decade younger in physical appearance, but it is now confirmed that the age of my body/health is also at a high school level.  

So, once you take the test they (the computational computer gods) tell you what factors played a major role in making you older or younger than you really are.  My summary went something like this:  good job avoiding second hand smoke and doing cardio activity, bad job not knowing your cholesterol levels and not having a dog.  

Yes, that's right, apparently one of the few negative factors that RealAge.com felt the need to point out was that I do not have a dog, and that is apparently going to cause wrinkles and arthritis and general premature old age.

Here is their suggestion:

Bring home a furry friend!  Get a dog if possible.  

Here's why:  For many people, having a dog reduces stress.  It also increases your physical activity because they need daily walks and playtime.

OK.  Physical activity.  True.  

Friendly furry friend.  True. 

Reduces stress?  I'm going to have to go with NO.  

Anything that would require walking multiple times a day, with disregard for hurricanes, blizzards, or anytime before 8 a.m.  = stress

Anything that barks and drools and slobbers and sheds and destroys an otherwise lovely home = stress

Anything that scampers on four legs and takes up an inordinate amount of room = stress

Anything that is an animal, but people feel the need to treat like a human being = stress

My heart has chilled to its normal animal-hating state.  Hooray!

Day O' Fun

Today Mama and I took a trip to Pier Village in Long Branch, NJ, a new mini-town of cute apartments, shops and lots of tasty restaurants right on the beach.  It was an unbelievably perfect fall day - just warm enough in the sun, but cool and breezy and just right.  

The view from our table at Avenue

Looking towards Pier Village

Mama's tasty TBLT (turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato)

My steak sandwich and AMAZING fries

Pier Village

In other news:

• I fell in love with about 65% of the inventory of a store in Pier Village called The Bee - a upscale boutique with gorgeous designer clothes and an unfortunate teeny bopper-esque logo.  Mama had to practically drag me out of the store clutching hangers of a French Connection blouse, black wool cape, and skirt, a Vince sweater, and pretty much every Tibi item within reach.
• I reconfirmed that whatever my future career might hold, it must hold appropriate funds and occasions to wear aforementioned designer goods.
• I tried on an $87,000 diamond ring in Red Bank.
• I was peeved to find that neither Pier Village nor Red Bank seem to offer much in the way of ice cream parlors, leading to far too many hours of onion breath and intense sweet cravings.

Cutest Child Ever - or, Tick Tock Tick Tock

from The Selby

It's been too long

Since I have shared an intimate moment with Jcrew.com 

I am trying so hard to be good and not shop until I am gainfully employed (I also realized this summer that I really do have an obscene amount of clothing...)

It's not going too well...

This coat just looks so cozy and classy and old-fashioned.  

Mourning the Loss of Summer

Well, not really.  

I am actually BEYOND excited about this glorious fall weather.  I'm over the heat and humidity.  I spent the entire weekend hiding on my family room couch from the 85 degree disgustingness.

The only thing I'm actually mourning is the loss of summer fruit.  What am I going to eat now that my daily staples are going out of season!?  Juicy Jersey peaches?  Blueberries?  Strawberries?  

Every morning for the past bunch of months I have a bowl of vanilla yogurt with fresh blueberries and strawberries and some Quaker Oats (notice a theme?) sprinkled on top.

It is heavenly.  

Oh, and that is a lemon almond tea cake that Mama made in a baking frenzy the other day - they are also DELICIOUS and definitely going on the baked goods rotation.

Nie Nie

I've been following this story over the past couple of weeks, about a blogger who was in a horrible plane crash with her husband and is now undergoing treatment for extensive burns.  

The blogging community has really joined together in an amazing way to donate to a treatment fund, which you can access via the link to the right.

I'm praying that everything goes well for them and they have the speediest recovery possible.  

Location: County Library

Ring ring ring

Ten-year old girl answers cell phone.

Hello?

...

Daaaad.  

...

I'm very busy right now.  

...

I'm in the library with my tutor.  I'm focused.

...

Damn the influence of J and Scarlet

For making me verbally swoon over these puppy pictures.  

I want my cold cold heart back!

The One Food I Never Tire Of - or - An Ode to Oatmeal

As a self-professed food snob, whose thoughts are always dominated by what I have recently eaten and what I will be eating next, some may describe me as a bit... difficult... when it comes to dining.  

My RU housemates may perhaps remember a time when I scowled at the prospect of a group outing to "that trucker place," Fuddruckers.  (Turns out, not so much a trucker place - and a pretty good burger... still haven't lived that down.)

So, I'm high maintenance when it comes to food.  I have cravings with a vengeance that rival women so pregnant and hormonally out-of-whack  that they look like they'll burst at the seams at any moment.   I continually change my mind.  One moment I want a tuna melt and the next a towering mound of chocolate chip cookies.  

However, there is one food that, for whatever reason, always manages to satiate me.  

Oatmeal.

Kind of odd.  Kind of random.  Kind of the standard favorite of a teething toddler or old person without any dentures.  But whatever.  It's so delicious!  And so good for you!

It has to be straight-up Old Fashioned Quaker Oats.  The instant stuff is nasty and mealy and would turn anyone off to the glories of oatmeal.  

Add desired amount of dark brown sugar.

Add a dash of milk (to add a cool and creamy goodness).

And, for the past year, I have created heaven in a bowl by adding just a sprinkling of chocolate chips, which melt into those oats and create the healthiest version of an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie that you have ever devoured.  

(Also delicious with fresh blueberries, strawberries, and walnuts.  Or in its naked brown sugar purity.)

I have this simple masterpiece at least once a day, usually for breakfast, but sometimes for lunch, midnight snack, or all of the above.

I highly recommend it.

This is going to be a lame post

Because, to be honest, I'm not feeling very creatively inspired at the moment.

I know this is shocking because I always have some snarky, self-absorbed commentary to add to the online world.  Alas.

As I type this I would also like to mention that J is evil for providing one-line commentary via Gchat as he watches last night's DVRed episode of "Mad Men," which I am clearly not up to date on.  Saying things like "Betty Draper is on the warpath!!!" is only going to send my warped mind into a frenzy trying to figure out why Betty is on said warpath.  And unfortunately, since I am at least 8 episodes behind and at this point will probably just have to wait for Season 2 to come out on DVD, my mental anguish is slated to extend over many many months.

Today I saw "The Women" with Mama and Jenny.  It was an entertaining movie, though I was glad that tickets were free (thank you American Eagle for providing free movie passes every time you try on a pair of jeans!).  

It was all good (relatively speaking for a lighthearted chick flick) until the  final scene - a birth scene, of course (I have developed a bit of a pregnancy/birthing fear/obsession) - which involved a crazed Debra Messing screaming like an amazon banshee woman while Meg Ryan makes a date with her estranged husband via Blackberry and Jada Pinkett Smith throws herself against a wall in an attempt to shield her eyes from the scarring vision of Debra in the stirrups.  I don't blame you Jada.  

I will say though, that it was very interesting when I finally realized (when the credits were rolling at the end) that there was not a single man in the entire movie.  As in absolutely zero male actors - no back of the head on the street, no voice over the phone, no photos on a desk, nada.  

It also brought up some interesting questions in terms of how to realistically deal with a cheating spouse.  The movie brings up two trains of though:  Should you accept the fact that one person in every relationship will betray the other, whether in a big way or "a million little ways" (thank you Annette Bening), and stick it out?  Or is a betrayal like that enough to sacrifice years and years of love?

Update

1.

The gladiator bugs are now inundating the inside of the house.

2.

Today I managed to make every single meal breakfast.

3.

HGTV is finally airing an episode of "House Hunters" that I haven't seen!

(Note:  I am slightly majorly addicted to HGTV - aka Home and Garden TV - aka a channel watched predominantly by old people and decorating-obsessed middle-aged ladies.  I believe this fixation originated during my 10-day home imprisonment while recuperating from a tonsillectomy back in March, in which activities were limited to slurping children's liquid Tylenol and watching pretty much every episode of "House Hunters" ever created.)

4.

All this time I have been operating under the delusion that "Mad Men" is on HBO, and therefore not available in my HBO-less household.  In fact it is on AMC, and therefore very much airing on my TV.  

Weekend Tidbits

1.  

I finally finished Season 1 of "Mad Men."  SO.  GOOD.  

Don Draper, I would very much like you to copywrite something for me.  Or on me.  Whatever.  That slicked back hair.  That commanding voice.  The overwhelming number of white oxford shirts you stow in your desk drawer.  The way you stand up to that sniveling weaselly moon-faced Pete Campbell, who I would like to personally slap silly.  

(Warning:  if for some reason you are way behind the TV-times and just catching up on Season 1 now, I am about to give away an important part of the last episode)

PEGGY.  HOW IN THE WORLD DID YOU NOT REALIZE THAT YOU WERE PREGNANT!?  

How is it possible for you to get hugely fat over the months, then one day suddenly "not feel well," go to the hospital with stomach pains, and only then have the Doc say "You do know that you're expecting right?"  And then, oh wait, you are going to have the baby RIGHT NOW.  How do you not know you are nine months pregnant, and about to birth?  And with Pete Campbell's demon spawn!  

2.

Where the freak is fall?  This weather is absolutely horrid and the humidity is squeezing my head in a vice-like grip.  Again.  I feel clammily disgusting and I'm sitting directly in front of an air conditioning vent.  I cannot help but pity my poor sister, who is currently wrinkling in her teeny tiny Rutgers dorm room like a steamed vegetable. 

3.  

In case anyone was chomping at the bit, you will be happy to know that I did FINALLY finish The Savage Detectives on Friday afternoon.  I did fail in meeting my original goal, and instead finished reading while contemplating that abomination of an RU football game.  

Now happily finished with my neverending saga (which really was a very interesting book), I spent a long time wandering the library in search of new and exciting reads (one of my 2008 goals is to try and curb my book-purchasing addiction and take advantage of those titles purchased by my tax dollars - I am doing particularly well with this goal now that I am unemployed).  

Anyway, I'm on to The Year of Living Biblically:  One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible by A.J. Jacobs.  

This is one of the books I've been trying to track down at the library for almost a year, but which is always checked out, and which I am too lazy to reserve.  It's made me chuckle out loud quite a number of times so far, most recently during Jacobs' discussion of the challenges of avoiding any contact with women during times of impurity - aka, he can't come in contact with a woman who is menstruating.  Suffice it to say his wife is not pleased.  Particularly since he is also following the rule of not sitting anywhere an "impure" woman has sat.  During this time, his wife (wisely) makes sure to sit in every chair of the house so that he is left squatting on his two-year old son's six-inch high bench.  That is one tolerant wife.

4.  

Our windows are being inundated with strange medieval bugs that look like they're wearing armor.

Page 498

"Problems.  Life is full of problems, although life was wonderful in Barcelona in those days, and problems were called surprises."

- The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolaño

I am strangely attracted to these shoes

Courtesy of NY mag

Another example of why everyone should pipe down about "Dirty Jersey"

Evening hot-air balloon sighting

One of our little white-tailed friends, who, might I add, not only posed 

for this picture, but actually walked towards me so I could get a better shot 

(no, not with a gun, though I would have enjoyed that)

Some of her friends and familia chilling in the shade

(again, not at all scared of the human on the deck)

44-12, or "The Only Thing Worthwhile About This Night Was Getting to Drown My Sorrows in Cinnamon Oreo Ice Cream"

Dear Scarlet Knights,

Tonight could have been grand.  

There was a delightful autumnal breeze blowing through the stadium.  The fans were waving their white towels enthusiastically for the ESPN cameras.  Rut was nowhere to be seen, and for the first time in ages I could lean back against the bench without the fear that Rut's massive hairy flip-flopped claws would be caressing my ear.  

Last week was a bummer, but this week, we're gonna get 'em!  We've got this in the bag!  Look at UNC.  Look at those wimpy powder blue and white uniforms.  What kind of colors are those for a FOOTBALL TEAM?  Look at all this red.  Look at our white towels.  Listen to our chants.  You can't touch this.

But, oh wait.

UNC DID touch this.  And not only touch this, UNC intercepted and touchdowned and mutilated this.

Teel, did you not hear Rut's pearls of wisdom last week?  Did you not hear his ear-splitting shouts to STOP THROWING MEATBALLS?  Maybe you did hear him.  Maybe you misunderstood and thought that we wanted you to throw to the OTHER team.  That is incorrect.  We would like you to throw to OUR players.  Let's keep that in mind for next time.

Underwood, I like you.  You're a good little player.  You are also easy on the eyes.  You can catch the ball.  I like that.  Keep it up.  Do it more often.  Catch it, and then run.  Run fast.  You gave us a bit of a fright in the beginning of the game when one of those nasty powder blue puffballs took you down and you stayed there.  For quite some time.   I'm glad you got up and seem to be ok.  Get a good night's sleep tonight.

Britt, I like you too.  You also like to catch and run.  You too are quite delish.

Robinson, I'm sorry, but I miss Ray Rice.

Jabu Lovelace, I have always liked you based solely on your name.  How can you not like someone with a name like that?  You seem to have spunk.  You're a wily little quarterback.  I think they should let you throw the ball every once in a while.  I'm over Teel.

Te, I'm feeling better about you.  Last week you made me nervous.  Some of those attempts were slightly terrifying.  Better this week.  If only the rest of the team gave you more chances to actually put the ball through the goal posts.

Everyone else, or, to make it simpler, let's just go with "everyone" - let's start LOOKING at our quarterback when he's about to throw the ball.  #3, whoever you are, you should NOT be making googly eyes at a UNC player when Teel is attempting to throw you a pass.  Look at the BALL.  

This also goes for when the OTHER team's quarterback is about to throw the ball.  Block the bejeezus out of those powder blue pansies but also watch the ball so that maybe, just maybe, YOU can catch it.  That is called an interception.  That is something that UNC did FOUR times tonight.  We did it zero times.  Take note for next time.

So, please Scarlet Knights, let's get it together for next week.  J has already spiraled into a weekend-long depression.  Save me from angry emotional ice cream eating.  Please.  Let's start winning.

Sincerely,

K

NOTE:  The views expressed in this post are solely those of an angry amateur football fan.  J is probably working himself into a tizzy as he reads the oversimplified inaccuracies of this post.  Sorry, but I'm peeved and I have a blog and the rest of the Internet must now suffer.

Page 435

"I told him that I thought I was going crazy, that I kept having the same symptoms.  I talked for a long time.  His response surprised me (it was the last time he surprised me).  He said that if I was going crazy then he would go crazy too, that he didn't mind going crazy with me."

- The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolaño

The book that wouldn't end

So, this week's goal is to finally finish reading Roberto Bolaño's monster book, The Savage Detectives, which has been following me from pool to nightstand to J's house for months and months.  

Don't get me wrong, it's a really good book - it has a unique, complex narrative structure and interesting story line.  But sometimes, no matter how good the book, it simply refuses to end.  

Anyway, since I vowed to J that I will finish this blasted book by the next RU game (Thursday, 8 p.m.) I will be needing book suggestions.  Just wondering if anyone has read anything good lately!

Sidenote:  I am still completely flabbergasted and outraged that the original Spanish version, Los detectives salvajes, is impossible to find.  How can a book that the NY Times, Amazon, and everyone else in the country drooled over as one of the best of the year be MIA in its original language?

One of the only dogs in the world that I (inexplicably) like

We've already discussed my cold-hearted distaste for most of the slobbering, hairy mongrels that people feel the need to keep as pets.  The one doggie that has managed to melt my heart, much to my chagrin, is J's pit bull, Scarlet.

Please keep in mind that last year when J first informed me that his family was adopting a pit bull I was... not fond of the idea. 

(Translation:  I threw a mental tantrum and informed J that I would not be visiting his house ever again in this lifetime if there was a killer pit bull roaming about.)

And now, as a result of unknown forces beyond my control, I have developed a strange fondness for the aforementioned murderer, whose behavioral issues involve less exposed fangs, and more excessive licking of any and all exposed flesh and standing on furniture (and sometimes people) billy goat style.

A Day at the Beach

Hello Belmar!  Along with the general Jersey bashing that goes on so often around the country, and worse, in our own state, there tends to be major Jersey shore negativity.  I'm sorry, I know it's not the Caribbean, and you have to pay to get on the beach and there are often annoying people and seaweed and chilly water that there is no way in hell that you'll ever see your feet through, but all that aside, I love the Jersey shore.  

And, even better - going down the shore post-Labor Day on a Monday afternoon when the majority of individuals, those who are gainly employed and not undergoing a quarterlife crisis, are not present.

The hurricane bonanza of late is clearly taking its toll on our beaches - there were some terrifying waves going on today.  I really couldn't believe how many people were swimming showing a complete disregard for the sacredness of human life today.

Seagulls, I hate you.  You are horribly annoying.  You are hideous and dirty and often are missing a critical body part known as the neck.  Don't you know how rude it is to circle around innocent sunbathers the minute they break out their subs and potato chips?

(Note - J hates seagulls more than I do.  Way more.  They seem to be the bane of his existence.  The reaction to the seagulls actually rivals his road rage - which, by the way, is worse than mine.  There were many times today that he elicited stares and raised eyebrows  as a result of his barking noises and lunging maneuvers at our ugly feathered friends).

(PS - I realized when I uploaded this picture to my computer that the girl in the background is in a very awkward cat pose-esque position.  Oops.  She was really very cute.  I liked her big sun hat.  And white sweatpants. )

This is the obscenely adorable group of children that I stalked observed all day.  Because I'm a freak and apparently need every particle of my twisted brain to be active at all times, I peoplewatch.  An abnormal amount.  To a degree that disturbs friends and family.  Basically, everywhere I go I (subconsciously, I swear) pick out someone or a group of people and watch them.  Intently.  I become fascinated.  The word "obsessed" might be applicable in this scenario.  I'm observant.  That's all.  Please don't judge me.

But they really were so freaking cute.  They were really into making sand angels, and had sand at least an inch thick covering their entire bodies.  They were running around and playing and rolling in the sand like their lives depended on it.  And the funniest thing was that every single person who walked by them said something along the lines of "Oh my gosh you are so sandy!"  And there you have, in a nutshell, the difference between children and adults.  

This middle aged heifer was quite the character (I know, I'm an insensitive evil wench).  It just so happens that the only sneaky picture I succeeded in taking was of her sitting down, from the back, so you really can't get a good sense of her.  It's probably better that way.  It protects her identity.  

Anyway, she showed up around 3 p.m. and plopped her stuff down right in the midst of four other groups of people.  Let's remember that there are a bunch of people on the beach, but relatively speaking, its empty.  It's a Monday afternoon in September.  There is a TON of empty space.  But of course, she violates basic beach etiquette Rule #1 - Give everyone a little breathing room and sit as far away as possible from other human beings.

So she is already on my bad side by sitting WAY too close to me when there is oodles of room a mere twenty feet away.  She starts talking to herself.  She struggles to put her umbrella in the sand, and when she finally succeeds, it takes about five minutes for it to blow away and almost decapitate another woman lying nearby.  Then, because she is of a hefty breed, it takes her hours to get up from her chair.  It takes so long that the other woman - the one who has just barely managed to retain her head - has time to grab the umbrella, wait a few minutes for slowpoke to come retrieve it, and then finally give up and return the umbrella herself.   At this point, another older woman who has been observing the Hefty Slowpoke the entire time, comes over and sets up the umbrella for her.  

Then, the best part...

After the umbrella incident has passed, Hefty Slowpoke breaks out a KITE.  Like, a child's plastic kite with weird smiling hearts.  For the rest of the afternoon, she carries the kite around with her as she crawls on the sand poking at jellyfish and putters around her chair.  

Good times.

And finally, this is what happens to me after a day at the beach.  I don't know how, I don't know why, but I end up looking like I was the one making sand angels.  Even though all I did all day was lay on a towel and read a book, I end up instantaneously covered head to toe in sand.  

I love you beach!

This is being written under the influence of antihistamines and alcohol

I know better.  You'd think I would have learned by now.  You saw the results of what happen when I come to J's house, to the weird bug-filled lands of North Jersey suburbia.  

But no.  I was foolish.  

We went for a nice 4 p.m. stroll and everything was fine.  Then I had to go and taunt fate by going on ANOTHER walk.  A 7 p.m. walk.  An "all the bugs in the entire county are hovering in wait for foolish masochistic flesh to meander by" walk.  

The result:  Two bites.  Big nasty welts.  One near each cheek.  And I don't mean my face.

Do you know what that means?  I got eaten by two little bastard bugs - THROUGH MY PANTS.  

And not only through my pants - through my undergarments!  

That is just creepy.  Creepy and gross and disturbing.  How can a tiny harmless little bugger penetrate two layers of clothing?

But this time I came prepared.  I packed my Cortaid.  And of course I have Benadryl stashed away in my handy dandy traveling medicine arsenal (aka my purse).

That said, I am currently lathered in hydrocortisone and doped up on Benadryl.  I also had a delicious glass of Asti.

I should be asleep in about an hour.

Goodnight.

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

One of the things that I abhor most in life is eating something that I do not enjoy.  For someone who takes her food as seriously as I do, why waste the calories on something that doesn't make me swoon with delight?  If I don't like something, I don't eat it.  

Over the past few days, nothing I've eaten has satisfied me.  Nothing.  And I hate that.  I hate it because I love food and I want every little morsel that crosses my lips to send me into a food-induced haze of happiness.  

(Yes, it's weird.  I have a creepily intimate relationship with my food.  Leave me be.  I'm sure you have some idiosyncrasies of your own.)

I may just be in a foodie funk.  It may be period-related - for whatever reason, I think "that time of the month" affects my eating habits.  Maybe its the disgustingly hot weather.  Whatever it is, it needs to end.  I want to feel at peace with my meals again.

Example (plus many a digression):

Yesterday Mama and I went to Short Hills mall - my very favoritest NJ mall (and I consider myself a mall connoisseur).  Despite the fact that I can't afford to shop in approximately 80% of the stores there, it is beautiful and clean and filled with good-looking, wealthy eye candy (call me shallow, I don't even care - when you peoplewatch as much as I do, you want something nice to look at).  

Anyway, one of the main attractions of a trip to Short Hills is not only their absolutely huge and marvelous J.Crew, but also a delicious restaurant called Papa Razzi.  Honestly, I could be content with only their perfectly crunchy breadsticks, rosemary focaccia, and an iced tea, but they might not be too pleased if we ate their complimentary carbs without ordering a meal.  So I ordered the grilled shrimp with sauteed spinach appetizer.  I've had it before and it's delicious.  

A few bites in, and it tasted overwhelmingly salty.  So did the breadsticks.  I didn't even finish my focaccia!  Something was clearly awry.

On the way home we stopped at a little ice cream parlor in Chatham.  I took forever to make up my mind (surprise surprise), tasted at least three different kinds, and then foolishly ordered two scoops of flavors which I had NOT tasted.  FOOL.  I don't know what I was thinking.  Pistachio?  Disgusting.  Swiss Chocolate Fudge.  Horrid.  I took one bite and let it melt into a massive pool in its sad little cup that just about spilleth over onto Mama's leather seats on the way home.  

(Disclaimer:  The quality of the ice cream itself was truly not great, disregarding my out-of-whack tastebuds.  I have been spoiled by years of Polar Cub and Thomas Sweet, and the glorious ice cream experiences I've had there have transformed me into a major ice cream snob)

Conclusion:  I'm not really in the mood to eat anything, and THAT signifies a major problem.  For the sake of all that is good, let's hope that I'm back to my hungry, craving self as soon as humanly possible.

Bloomingdales, why must you taunt me so?

Fall 2008 catalog

Welcome to Guyland, a Nation of Peter Pans

A friend Ben, this great guy who was once my housemate, sent me this really interesting Newsweek article about the overwhelming trend of young men delaying acceptance of traditional roles in favor of prolonging a testosterone-filled guyfest of singledom for as long as possible.

The article details how the "new normal" for 20-something guys involves a desperate quest to fend off adult life and the commitments of settling down.  Marriage and responsibility, now seen as a substantial loss, are rejected in favor of partying, womanizing, and boy-bonding.   

Why is it that males are so desperately trying to hold on to their adolescence?  As the article suggests, does it all come down to our generation's sense of entitlement?  Have guys been so groomed to want it all that they panic at the thought of settling down, making choices and sticking to them?  

All I can say is best of luck to the ladies...

A few highlights:

• "... the traditional markers of manhood—leaving home, getting an education, finding a partner, starting work and becoming a father—have moved downfield as the passage from adolescence to adulthood has evolved from 'a transitional moment to a whole new stage of life.' In 1960, almost 70 percent of men had reached these milestones by the age of 30. Today, less than a third of males that age can say the same." 
• "Since 1971, annual salaries for males 25 to 34 with full-time jobs have plummeted almost 20 percent, according to the Center for Labor Market Studies at Northeastern University. At the same time, women have crashed just about all the old male haunts, and are showing some signs of outpacing their husbands and boyfriends as breadwinners and heads of family, at least in urban centers. Last year, researchers at Queens College in New York determined that women between 21 and 30 in at least five major cities, including Dallas, Chicago and New York, have not only made up the wage gap since 1970—they now earn upwards of 15 percent more than their male counterparts."
  
• "...saddled with an average of $20,000 in student debt and reared with a sense of entitlement that stops them from taking any old job, the percentage of 26-year-olds living with their parents has nearly doubled since 1970, from 11 to 20 percent..."
  
• "According to a study released last month by the Parents Television Council, prime-time broadcast audiences are three times more likely to hear about people having sex with pets, corpses or two other people simultaneously than they are to see a blissed-out married couple between the sheets."
  
• "College guys believe that 80 percent of their friends are getting laid each weekend, says Kimmel, whose survey of 13,000 kids, mostly 18 to 22 years old, puts the actual figure at closer to 10 percent."
• "A raft of recent studies suggest that married men are happier, more sexually satisfied and less likely to end up in the emergency room than their unmarried counterparts. They also earn more, are promoted ahead of their single counterparts and are more likely to own a home."