Hello, this is Joanna, can I speak with the cutest little girl in the world?

It’s day 30 and I am all but tapped and so will again turn to the well of “little kids make writing easy” to complete my month of blog posts.

Everyone remember Miss D? In case there was any doubt she is still the most adorable person on the planet and I am still a complete sucker. And if you’re wondering how these two facts have combined in light of the upcoming holiday in honor of gluttony and shopping let me just say that the credit card companies have called my brother and asked him to please have as many children as possible. (Kurt: if you are working on this I do not want to know.)

Miss D is recently fascinated with talking on the phone much to the pleasure of her smitten aunt (aka me). A few weeks ago when she was playing sick at Grandma’s in between teaching my parents to sit, shake and beg she announced a need to call me (obviously aware that I have the power to cure colds from 3000 miles away) but when mom put her on the phone she was completely silent. Luckily I know how to fill a conversation lull (she is really going to wow the other kids at daycare with her knowledge of Beauty and the Geek (oh god how much do I hate everyone in the final 2 except for Nicole? A lot. Especially Jasmine. Also I think that being forced to watch 10 minutes of LARP-ing has perhaps turned me off geeks. The CW has a lot to answer for.)). But lately she has developed more of an appreciation for the art of conversation. The last two times we’ve talked she has started with yelling my name (note: she thinks my name is Joanna but I have it better than my mom who she insists on calling Grandma Horst (you know, the wife of Grandpa Horst)) and then answering every question I ask with “yeah!!!” until she bores of me and yells “BYE!” usually this is when I’m mid sentence (“What do you want for Christmas? “yeah!” “Did you tell your daddy to buy me a wii for Christmas?” “yeah!” “Have you given much thought to coming to live with me because I have LOTS of cookies at my house” “YEAH!!!!” “Wonderful, I’ve also been thinking a lot about the best way to track your progress on learning to make vodka gimlets because…” “BYE!!!”). I can only assume that she is mimicking how she hears adult phone conversations, clearly (and understandably) her opinion of most adults is pretty low. Next up? She’s spending some quality time with me at Christmas so she should be blogging in the new year.

Going for the much coveted "international guest poster" award

Hi, everyone. It's me, Mike. You know. Mike? Yeah, that's me.

I’m filling in for Brianna today*, who couldn't be bothered to live up to the rules of NaBloPoMo which require a person to post every day. Okay, so it doesn't say that person has to do the posting, but let's just infer that so that we can all mock Brianna for a while. Done? No? Okay, I'll wait.

Anyway, she offered me endless gratitude (or something) to pen a post for her today, and being the good friend that I am (see me abuse this privilege already?), I just couldn't help but be helpful.

And do you know why?

Because I'm Canadian.

It's a little known fact that Canadians are nice. I know, you didn't realise that, did you? Sure, we use extraneous vowels and generally avoid the letter "zed" because we're still a constitutional monarchy and we have this latent fear that if we stray from either of those habits, the Queen will come over and hit us with one of her hats, but deep down, we're loveable. It's an even lesser-known fact that Brianna has a cosmic destiny with Canadians. She seems to run into them everywhere. I, personally, believe that somewhere deep in her soul, she's in some way Canadian (don't listen to her when she tells you that's "German", not "Canadian").

So, for the sake of a post, and our international friendship, I present to you the Top 10 reasons Why Brianna Wishes She Was Canadian.

10. Lots and lots of snow.

9. Lots and lots of reasons to drink hot toddies in front of a fire because it's so damn cold outside.

8. Sweaters. [Perhaps this isn't coming from her, exactly, but trust me on this one.]

7. We're exceptionally friendly up here.

6. Cool accents.

5. Her singsongy voice would fit in nicely north of the 49th parallel, and not just in that one corner of California.

4. Finally that whole exchange rate problem has been solved.

3. Blue Rodeo.

2. She secretly wishes she could use more French words in casual conversation.

1. Endless opportunities to wear toques in an array of fashionable colours and styles.

And, for the sake of completeness, the Top 10 Reasons Why She's Probably Glad She Isn't.

10. Celine Dion. [We're sorry. We didn't know it would get so out of hand.]

9. Can't use the whole "international allure" angle on Canadian boys.

8. Low, low wages for smart computer-nerdy people.

7. Horrible, horrible "Mexican" food.

6. Hockey dominates the television on any given night.

5. Still cold even in the summertime.

4. Seriously, what's with all the hockey?

3. Doesn't want to be blamed for all those "nor easters" that hit the eastern seaboard.

2. What do you mean the booze has a 19% surtax on it?!

1. Now that she's of legal drinking age, she'd risk picking up guys who aren't even 21 yet, though still legal in the bars.

So there you have it, folks. Two lists, two countries, 30 days of NaBloPoMo. And if I may say so, I think she's done admirably through the month -- meme-less, lets-review-NaBloPoMo-so-far-less, and highly entertaining. She did, however, resort to joining Facebook, a decision she may regret if she doesn't get to blog about it a few more times.

*Hey, this is Brianna -- I'm a big follower of the rules so I'll actually be posting my own thing later today but it will suck much much much more than this post.

City Songs

On Sunday Peter of PeterDeWolf.com made the huge mistake of leaving a comment on my blog indicating that he loves theme based mix tapes (ok, fine, cds. FINE, playlists but I won't pretend to like that magic-less nomenclature.). Seeing an opportunity for free music AND the chance to disappointingly write about music for the second time in one month I jumped on him with the request for some theme based music trading. And (likely mistake number 2) he agreed. Fool! Barely 24 hours later I had the following collection of songs with cities in their title delivered to my inbox

Bobcaygeon -- The Tragically Hip
Newcastle Jam -- Crowded House
Kreuzburg -- Bloc Party
Atlantic City -- Bruce Springsteen
Rio -- Daran Duran
New York's Not My Home -- Jim Croce
Jackson -- Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash
Luckenbach, Texas -- Waylon Jennings
L.A. Woman -- The Doors
New Orleans Is Sinking -- The Tragically Hip

You'll immediately notice that Peter totally cheats.

My first issue was with the song called Bobcagen but while at first I thought this was some Canadian word likely having to do with maple syrup processing or beavers it turns out to be the name of a town (though notable a town that even the (presumably Canadian) guy on the intro has never heard of) and since I come from a place that insists on calling itself a city despite having only 4000 human inhabitants I’m apt to let a lot of things slide. It helps that of the 5 new songs on the list this was by far my favorite.

The second cheater issue is that Peter includes 2 songs by the same band. This was not an explicit rule for the creation of this mix but I was fairly certain the all reasonable people knew that mixes have a MIX of artists. Peter tried to defend his behavior using the following pathetic excuse, “But it’s The Tragically Hip!” Which is Canadian for “but it’s AC/DC” which is Australian for “My country only has one famous band” (cue half of Canada calling me names -- save it folks, I am actually a huge fan of your country's contributions to auditory stimulation and I'm not even mad about the Celine Dion thing.).

There are 4 songs on this list that are songs that I forgot that I loved which means that I spent most of my listening time rewinding (fine, clicking the little back arrow) and thinking "Oh my god I DO want to move to Luchenbach and raise some fine youngin's and then maybe dress up like a bird of paradise and take a side trip to the Rio Grand and dance on a keg in some bar to make my husband jealous!"

Of the remaining 6 remaining tunes I already knew and sort of liked "Atlantic City" (though it's no "Thunder Road") and I'm sure I had heard "L.A. Women" at some point in the past and generally found it too much like the kind of song the fake stoner in the WASP-y frat loved. I was surprised to like Kreuzburg and I can tolerate Newcastle Jam and New Orleans Is Sinking. I know that come some dreary day in February when the subway smells particularly bad and the streets feel particularly harsh I will be very glad to have New York Is Not My Home to commiserate with.

Peter tells me that NaBloPoMo posts are supposed to suck. Thank God. One more day.

Moustache Ride

The New York City Movember Gala was last night and me and my comrades (aka coworkers) made a good show of it. There were pastel leaisure suits, there were over priced drinks, there were Playboy Bunnies (sadly no Girls Next Door), there were boys in cowboy hats (one of whom was in The Villiage People), there may have been some booty shaking.

We garnered 3 Mo superlative nominations.

Best Team Mo










Lame-Mo











And... Yes, the rumors are true-- yours truly was one of 3 finalists for Miss Movember. It is also true that some other chick won just because she was hotter than me. This being essentially a beauty contest I suppose I can't claim I was robbed but given how much more awesome my outfit was than hers I'd like to at least claim to have had my crown borrowed without permission.


















Prostate cancer has never been so much fun -- or gotten me in so much trouble.

The Mean Streets of Florida

Thanks to my job and JetBlue I spent Monday in central Florida and while I enjoyed the 84 degrees and this Italian meal from a cute little place called Olive Garden (where they give you unlimited bread sticks! have you heard of this?) the majority of my time in Florida was devoted to desperately digging through the bottom of my laptop bag in search of change. You know what they have a lot of in Florida? Oranges? Oldersters? Mickey Mice? Sure, I suppose, but it is a little known fact that 64.7% of the Florida population is made up of tollbooths. This is the main reason why there was so much voter confusion back in 2000 – tollbooths are notoriously bad at using punch cards.

In my short visit I estimate that I donated roughly $700,000,000.82 to the Florida tollbooth association and quarter appreciation society (on the Florida quarter? A tollbooth with Mickey Mouse ears). While I’m sure that if I lived in Florida and had to get a second job at the local Orange Julius in order to afford the cost of tolls I’d likely be pretty pissed off but for my one day visit my main complaint had less to do with money and more with annoyance.

The tolls on a Florida highway are not for any uniform amount – this means that as you sit at tollbooth #37 praying that your aim is good enough to toss $.62 into the maw of the FL Transportation authority and you peer down the road and spy tollbooth #38 about 700 feet ahead of you there will be no way of knowing exactly how much money you’ll be asked for next. I assume that this random toll system was adopted to offset the monotony of living in a climate that hands you 80 degrees day after day all year long and while I appreciate a surprise even more than your average senior citizen I worry that the system could lead to confusion, car accidents and me defacing a tollbooth with lipstick and spit and the leftovers of a 12 ounce can of Diet Pepsi (which I totally would not dream about doing even once officer.).

As fun as the surprise price tag is the absolute best feature of the Florida toll system is the “exact change” rule that is enforced at roughly 40% of tollbooths. The first time I came across one of these machines changeless I panicked. Afraid that my picture would be snapped and Hertz Rent a Car would hunt me down and throw me into some Florida prison where inmates are forced to accurately toss dirty coins into metal baskets or go without their nightly mai tai I dared not driving through without paying. My first instinct was to get a dollar bill out of my wallet, smile pretty and stare at the basket hoping for some sort of bill accepter contraption. By the time I realized that there was no such input device (and that tollbooths are impervious to the “but I’m cute, please forgive me!” smile) there was a huge SUV pulling up behind me which caused further panic in the form of dropping the dollar bill out the window. I immediately opened my door and started to exit the vehicle before remembering that Florida is technically the south the person behind me was probably armed and FOR SURE wanted to kill me – I left the dollar on the highway and slowly got back in the car. Of course I still had no change and I could see Bubba in the rearview looking for a clear shot. While my travel companion (aka He who Never has ANY Change) dug around in the muck at the bottom of my bag (would that you could pay your tolls in ATM receipts and bobby pins) I twisted around to grab my jacket from the back seat and fish desperately through the pockets while wistfully dreaming of the huge can of change that lives next to my front door back in the heaven of New York City where I’m never expected to drive and everyone takes credit cards. I was eventually able to scrape together the $.50 getting off the freeway fee and for the remainder of my stay in the penis of the USA took to keeping a dollar in coins on the dash at all times.

In California there are no such thing as toll roads (And the streets are paved in gold. And everyone has their own personal ray of sunshine that follows them around. And the cows can talk) so my experience with tollbooths didn’t begin until I attended college in western New York – the land of the NY Thruway. The Thruway may place ridiculous expectations on drivers like “speed limit: 55” and “30 miles for only $75!” but at least they don’t force people to stop every 5 miles to pay a toll. You’re handed a card when you get on the road in Schenectady and you pay one toll when you exit the road for an evening of debauchery in Oneida. This allows traffic to keep moving rather than shuttling cars through a tollbooth once ever 17 feet. Can someone tell Florida to get with the program?

Template*

Grand statement. Flippant comment that negates grand statement. Mock serious comment that negates flippant comment. Grand statement.

Obvious fact. Huge leap of faith. Coy rewording of grand statement.

Devil’s advocacy. Brief exploration of implications of devil’s advocacy. Contemptuous dismissal of those who dare to go against grand statement. Fools. Reference to Beverly Hills 90210 that proves grand statement.

Self deprecation. Just kidding, I’m awesome. Look how quirky I am! Swear word. (edgy!) You wish you were me. And if you want to be more like me might I suggest grand statement?

Witty banter (astute but still funny parenthetical comment). Song lyric by band you’ve never heard of that vaguely references grand statement but which I am mostly including as a pathetic attempt to seem hip. Wry contradiction of grand statement.

Declaration of success.

*the first person to actually use this as a template for a blog post gets either a picture of my knee cap OR free promotional quote in support of the blog your your choice – your choice!!!

Slurping My Way Through Chinatown

I love a good theme. Mix tapes containing only songs with cities as their title. Costume parties where everyone has to dress as their favorite rock star. I’m always in. And today? A Chinatown soup dumpling crawl. This afternoon of theme based gluttony was sponsored by a coworker who, earlier this year (during a time of much warmer weather), also brought me the Chinatown pan fried dumpling crawl. He is fast becoming my favorite person.

For those of you not living in an area with a thriving Chinese community might I recommend moving? Because seriously you people are missing out. Soup dumplings are a dollop of meat filling (usually pork) floating in a sea of rich broth encased inside of a thick dumpling wrapper. They are amazing. During our romp around Chinatown there was much talk (between the slurping and moaning in pleasure) about just how they get the broth tucked away in the belly of the dumpling (a more ethnic and perhaps higher brow version of the “how do they get the crème in the twinkie?” debate) and the most likely answer seemed to involve a cube of frozen broth instead of a stock filled syringe but Wikipedia claims that both hypothesizes wrong. Apparently the broth is the result of a meat gelatin alone which when heated melts into a satisfying greasy sauce -- this might not sound appetizing but does explain the richness (and also exactly why the broth drippings were so quick to congeal on my plate). I promise that if you eat a soup dumpling you will not find that last sentence anything other than delicious.

The first stop on the soup dumpling crawl was the overflow location for New York’s most famous soup dumpling-ary Joe’s Shanghai, Joe’s Ginger at 25 Pell. We were brought 2 orders of traditional pork soup dumplings and one order of a pork and crab combo both of which were lovely though there were some incidences of perhaps less than well done pork.

Our next stop at Goodies at 1 East Broadway offered the most impressive showing for soup dumpling variety and we took full advantage ordering FIVE types of dumplings. Sadly when the bamboo baskets arrived at the table all of the dumplings had such a uniform look that we were unable to distinguish the three delight from the seafood until the broth hit our tongues. No matter since all were also uniformly scrumptious. Goodies also brought us a bowl full of fortune cookies at the end of our second stop on the dumpling-fest via which I received this notification.

By 2pm Shanghai café at 100 Mott was so packed that we elected to take our dumplings on the road. And so the crawl ended with the 9 of us munching on pork and pork and crab dumplings in Columbus Park. The broth in the Shanghai dumplings was by far the most flavorful and gently sucking it from our its doughy pocket while sitting under a clear November sky was a wonderful way to end a long American weekend that honors gluttony.

I love turkey and mashed potatoes and most of all stuffing but this year I am thankful to reside in the land of exotic edible delights. God bless New York City.

You Call It Trash I Call It a Free Blog Post

A few months ago Kajal’s husband bought her the ultimate “you want it but you won’t buy it for yourself” gift – a subscription to US Weekly. This is the most selfless thing any man has ever done. Sadly, I do not have a guilt-free trashy magazine coming to my house once a week so I usually have to rely on the internet for my celebrate gossip – but not today. As I was running errands and trying desperately to think of something interesting to write on these pages for today’s requisite babble it hit me – the blog is the only excuse I need to buy a copy of US Weekly. Because of this little dalliance I can claim that I did not buy the magazine because I am a pathetic shallow media obsessed part of the problem but instead because US Weekly is research for my very serious writing career.

And so without further ado I present….

Awesome things I learned from the December 3^rd 2007 issue of US Weekly

1. Will Smith has apparently crossed over to Scientology. I cannot come up with a reason why anyone would convert to Scientology no matter how badly they may want to sleep with Tom Cruise. In this day and age becoming a Scientologist is like converting to crazy -- basically Will is all “I always thought sanity was the way to really make it in Hollywood but after talking with Tom I’ve realized that loony is highly under rated. Also my refrigerator houses magical butter that when smeared on my forehead allows me to see into the future!”
2. According to “Stars – They’re Just Like Us” celebrities also have to reapply lipgloss. And here I thought stars had some sort of auto reglossing machinery installed in their lips to save them from the shame of the reapply.
3. Page 36 has an awesome piece on celebrity mom’s dressing trashy -- US weekly pulled a bunch of tots off of the streets in NYC to ask them “Would you be mortified to see your mom in one of these get ups?” The replies were pretty uniform -- “They look gross, I’d make them wear a lot more clothes” – Hannah, 5. I feel like to be fair the magazine should have clarified that in this scenario the mother of each child would be a smoking MILF.
4. On page 42, “The Record” reports, “Boy George was charged with falsely imprisoning a male escort in London on November 13^th. He is due in court on November 22nd” I kind of need more information here -- Is Boy George a cop? Does he just have a fake jail in his house? And if so is it really called “falsely imprisoning” if you lock someone up unwillingly in your home? Isn’t that called kidnapping? Also – is hiring a male escort not illegal in London? Shouldn’t Boy George also be charged with some sort of prostitution related offense?
5. The people at PETA are obligated to support Pam Anderson because she is the only vegan in Hollywood (well I guess except for Moby but he doesn’t have huge tits) which I cannot imagine sits well with them. “US Weekly is on the phone and they want us to comment on Pam and Rick Solomon’s marriage I’m going to need a super sized order of tofurkey to get through this.”
6. Britney Spears has an uncle known as “Wild Willy” who “lives in his car [and] once lived in a treehouse.” Nice try Willy but the "Black Sheep" title is hard won in the Spears family.
   

Sake Infused Three Ways

A couple of weeks ago I hosted my monthly wine club, the theme was sake (aka rice wine – work with me, we’ve been doing this for 2 years and we’re slowly running out of themes). The white girls of wine club didn’t take too well to the asian brew so there were liters of leftovers all of which landed in my refrigerator. Desperate for a way to avoid wasting the sake (waste is evil, especially when there are alcohol starved teenagers all over America) I went in search of a creative way to use the half full bottles and stumbled upon the idea of infused sake. I made cranberry and kiwi liquors a few years ago as Christmas gifts and the process is very similar though infusing sake takes only a few days whereas liquors often require a month long under taking.

Last Sunday I wondered the aisles of my local Trade Fair looking for inspiration and came back with some dried ancho chiles, a pomegranate, some limes, a knob of ginger and some dried pineapple slices. After chopping up the makings of this slightly esoteric mise en place I stuffed the bottles with the following combos and let them stew for 4 days (most recipes recommend a 3-7 day refrigerated brewing time).

Pomegranate and Cinnamon infused Fukunishiki Junmai Sake

This concoction was in honor of my friend Kelly who every Christmas blesses me with a bottle of amazing pomegranate liquor. I thought I might be able to create a similar (though more alcoholic) version to gift her with (once she’s done incubating the little one). I added the cinnamon as a nod to fall thinking that the combination could make a wonderful holiday aperitif.

½ liter of sake

The seeds of one large pomegranate

3 cinnamon sticks

Nose: clean sake smell with a slight cinnamon background

Color: Clear, the pomegranate and cinnamon haven’t transferred any color to the sake.

Flavor: Mild cinnamon, can’t taste pomegranate at all. The cinnamon flavor is pleasant mostly because most cinnamon flavored things in the US are reminiscent of red hots not true cinnamon (or at least true cassia).

Sadly I have to pronounce this attempt a bit of a failure. The sake overwhelmed the cinnamon and the cinnamon overwhelmed the pomegranate and I was left wishing for flavor that never made it to my tongue. If you want a pomegranate and cinnamon drink you’re better off with some pom juice and a shot of cinnamon syrup mixed with your vodka – or, if you’re lucky a dram of Kelly’s Pomegranate Liquor.

Lime and Ginger infused Shirakawago Sake

I am a long time lover of all things citrus. My favorite drinks are vodka gimlets and margaritas so the idea of a lime flavored sake was immediately intriguing. I thought that adding a bit of ginger would produce a light layered beverage that would go well with thai food.

½ liter sake

The zest of 3 limes

3 inches of ginger sliced in ¼ inch discs

Color: Slightly green and reminiscent of key lime juice, the liquid is milky because I used an unfilter sake.

Nose: heavily lime-y, can’t detect the ginger

Flavor: Wow! Like drinking a really good vodka gimlet with a sweet wheaty flavor

This version is a success even if I am sad that I can’t taste the ginger. Ginger is such a strong flavor in its own right I’m shocked that it gets so beaten down by the lime and I wonder if grating it would have been more powerful than slicing. I’d like to try mixing just ginger with sake to see if the flavor is just being masked by the lime. Ginger or not I finished two servings while writing this post (that should explain any typos you find).

Pineapple and Ancho Chile infused Pearl Junmai Ginjo Nigori Genshu Sake

(what a mouthful)

½ liter of sake

¼ cup dried ancho chiles, cut into 1/4 inch strips

½ cup dried pineapple chopped into bite sized pieces

Color: The infusion that picked up the most color it’s dark and ruddy like a good sangria

Nose: Chile smell dominates

Flavor: Amazingly good -- Flavor starts out very sweet with a nice hot background, the after taste is much hotter

I’m not sure why we don't see more chile based liquors and infusions given how obsessed our society is with heat. Inspired by my love for fruity salsas and the whole idea of sweet with heat I added pineapple to the mix – I went with dried at the last minute thinking it might produce a more intense flavor and I’m glad I did – I suspect fresh pineapple would have been lost among the heavy chile taste. This is by far the infusion that I was most excited about and even though I find the lime more drinkable it’s this concoction that I’ll be forcing on guests for the rest of the week.

Personal Style

Even though I’m super famous now I still value the needs of my fans so this one is for Lisa.

I am not surprised that Lisa would want to know about my personal style since a recent date commented on my sharp dressedness on national television. As an extra bonus I’ve tried to illustrate my personal style using the H&M Dressing room feature when possible but sometimes my style needs go beyond H&M.

7 Thoughts about my personal Style

I wear a lot of red which I think looks good on me. I think I look bad in purple mostly because my mom once said that purple is not my color and I have internalized this (but seriously look at that girl over there – totally ug.). As I write this I am on the train to Long Island to have Thanksgiving with Amy’s family who have thankfully adopted me (they feel obligated because I cooked Amy food when she had cancer – I plan on living off that good deed for YEARS) and I just put my purple vitamin water bottle up to my face to illustrate “see? I look uglier every time I put this by my face.” She thinks I’m crazy. I also think I look bad in celery green. I generally don’t like pastels.

Secretly I want to be punk rock. I once had a therapist tell me that I had a lot of walls up and even though I knew I was supposed to be sad about this I thought “oh awesome -- that is TOTALLY punk rock!” And so deep in my closet you will find a small collection of clothing that would be totally appropriate should I ever spontaneously develop musical talent or land myself a rock star boyfriend. This collection includes one pinstripes t-shirt dress that can be worn over a slip that I dyed blood red, the lace of the slip peeks out from the bottom of the dress all sexy like. That rock star boyfriend better hurry up and get here. Unfortunately H&M does not really offer any punk rock clothing for my model to wear, despite the fact that Amy is currently wearing a sweater from there which she claims is punk rock strictly because it has stripes – I’m claiming the outfit on the left is punk rock strictly because the tights are plaid. Both Amy and I are equally uncool.

I hate getting my hair cut because it involves paying ridiculous sums of money (usually upwards of $40) to sit in a chair and make chit chat with some lady I don’t know. Said lady also seems to expect me to have an idea of how I want my hair cut which I do not (“ummm can you just cut it?”). Thus my personal style is dictated by hair styles that only need to be cut twice a year (aka long, no bangs). I can get away with this mostly because my hair is curly-ish and blond-ish both of which I like to believe hide split ends. I am constantly involved in a battle with my curls. If they would just behave I would wear my hair curly everyday but most days instead of bouncy even curls I get some sort of half curly half straight all ugly combo pack and I have to bail out and straighten the whole mess. I am seriously tempted to buy a straightening iron but I can’t decide if I should be buying an expensive one or could get away with the target version. This is what I'd look like with short hair if I wear running around in just my underdutchies.

I have an affinity for shirts with witty statements – this is because I am a computer nerd and computer nerds like to pretend that such things make them look hot. In reality such things only serve as a red flag for noncomputer nerds, the rest of you should consider witty tshirts a public service. (Aside: last night I met the boys who sell this shirt which is creative but problematic since I suspect that the number of people who both get the joke and find it funny is very small – also despite what the boys may think there is no way this shirt will get any girls to sleep with them -- especially if they got the joke). H&M does not offer any witty tshirts in their virtual dressing room because they do not cater to nerds. ThinkGeek.com does not offer a virtual dressing room because nerds like to pretend that they don’t care how they look in their tshirts.

Punk rock aspirations aside The truth is that I dress very preppy. This is obviously at least partially due to my obsession with the JCrew online sale but also likely a result of my junior high obsession with being republican. (the hormones wore off, I’ve reformed). This means that I own a fair number of cable knit sweaters (I’m wearing one right now!) and a respectable number of button down collared shirts (despite the fact that they often result in the dreaded “boobie gap”). The model is wearing heels which is a lie, I try very hard to avoid wearing heels because I can’t walk as fast as I like in them and also because I am a huge wimp when it comes to my ankles.

Amy doesn’t think I have a style – it’s funny because as we all know recently someone commented on national tv that I dress really well. The model on the left is Amy – as you can see she also has no style. She also thinks this outfits is very punk rock.

I don’t know how to put on make-up so I just choose not to wear anything other than blush and mascara and lipstick. When I type that out it seems like a lot of make up but the point is that I do not wear foundation or powder. It’s possible that I *should* be wearing more make up but I fear that if I start down the make-up route I could get too used to it and then be one of those girls who felt like she couldn’t leave the house with out make up on and then I’d annoy myself and also have to get up earlier. I can’t imagine being prettier would be worth it.

Fall Cooking

Writers block and the demands of the holidays have set in and I think we know what that means – it’s time for a “What I ate last night” post! (With a bonus “What I bribed my developers with” post!).

Inspired by the butternut squash and rabbit pasta dish I had at Henry’s End last week and by the lamb sausage and slowly wilting head of kale that the CSA delivered to me I put together the following very fall appropriate dinner.

Pasta with Sweet Potatoes, Sausage and Kale

1 medium sweet potato peeled and cut into ¾ inch dice

½ of a large onion, diced

3 cloves of garlic, diced

1 bunch of kale

1 tsp fresh rosemary

2 sausages cut into slices or crumbled

½ cup chicken or vegetable stock

Canola oil

Salt, pepper

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Place diced sweet potato in a baking dish and toss with 1 tablespoon oil and salt and pepper. Cook sweet potato for 15 minutes stirring once at the 7ish minute mark. In the mean time sauté onion and garlic in skillet (I, of course, used my beloved cast iron) when translucent add sausage (if you’re using precooked sausage hold off on adding it until the kale is done). Now is also a good time to start your pasta water. When the sausage has browned add the kale and the stock and cover for 5 minutes. When kale has wilted (you may need more than the five minutes, if it’s not tender let it stew for a bit longer) add the cooked sweet potatoes and pasta. Voila!

Last night I was only semi impressed with this dish but somehow between 9pm and this afternoon’s lunch the pasta transformed itself into a sort of ambrosia. I am now officially dubbing the arranged marriage between mild sausage and the rosemary a success. The pair obviously spent the night commingling in the marriage bed of pasta and veggies and love is in the air (and now in my tummy).

As a “Thanks for doing your job and making me look good doing my job” treat I stole the recipe for Fresh Cranberry Oatmeal Cookies from Rachel at Coconut & Lime. I substituted regular vanilla for the vanilla paste and was happy with the flavor – I also used regular chocolate chips because (obviously) nowhere in NYC sells mini chips. The cookies were amazing -- sweet and tart all at once -- and will hopefully result in developers being good to me for at least another 2 weeks.

For those of you who look at the cookie recipe and think, “I will not use parchment paper because it is precious now that buying it requires a special trip to the cake supply store on 22nd which appears to be the only place in all of NYC selling this elusive product and which is at least a 20 minute subway ride form anywhere I ever go now that my office is located in Siberia and which closes at 5pm because apparently only stay at home moms bake things” I warn you – the cranberries pop as they cook and produce a sticky substance that is officially known as “fucking cranberry goo” and which will pretty much never come off of your cookie sheets.

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Third Party Resources

There are a lot of great fall recipes that use the produce of the season. All you have to do is look online! Nowhere else in the world will you be able to find tips on how to win at blackjack and cookie recipes alongside an oil change checklist!

Coming This January: Eggnog Thighs

Normally my relationship with coffee is purely social and/or directly related to a desire to avoid the managing of projects. I have even been known to claim to be immune to the caffeine lure that others speak of. But every November my heart, my brain, my tongue, my being craves some coffee -- and not just any coffee. I live very close to an adorable indie coffee shop and the only thing my office neighborhood, DUMBO, has more of than commercial shoots is indie coffee shops. All of these establishments have terrific affordably priced coffee beverages. And yet… the caffeinated beverage that calls my name is the Starbucks eggnog latte. I am so ashamed. I find myself sitting at my desk or walking down the street or lying in bed obsessively thinking about the warm frothy eggnog latte (EL) that seems to be beaconing from the nearest Starbucks. It is very difficult for me to write this post because the EL cravings are only getting worse with every word I type. It is very possible that I will have to pause mid sentence to go on a latte run. I suspect Starbucks puts actual rum in the lattes. Or LSD (mmmm LSD. Mmmm elephants.). That would explain a lot.

Allow me to go on a tangent here in an effort to stave off my EL jones. Here's a conundrum: The last two times I’ve been in Starbucks the person in front of me has ordered a no foam latte. WTF? Clearly this is a sign of the apocalypse on par with the scourge of ice milk. Foam is what separates us from the heathens who drink plain old coffee with milk. Foam is what we pay $4+ for (well, that and sugar syrup flavored to remind us of booze).

But back to the (now banned from my life) evil eggnog lattes (EEL).

In preparation for this post I did the scariest thing EVER. I looked up the calorie content of a tall SKIM eggnog latte on the Starbucks web site. The faint of heart may wish to stop reading right here because OF COURSE the news is not good because good news has never ever come from looking up food calorie counts. Keep in mind that I order the smallest size (12 oz) with SKIM milk. Keep in mind that 12oz of Skim milk has 135 calories.

350 calories!

You know what probably has less calories than that? Actual eggnog made with real eggs. You know what definitely has even fewer calories than that? 3 shots of rum.

How I Spent My 15 Minutes

On Friday I received a curious email from the founders of CrazyBlindDate.com. Apparently they had been tricked into going on the Fox morning show and after reading my blog entry about their service wanted nothing more than to drag me down with them. I was totally in. The deal was this – go on a Crazy Blind Date with some random dude and let Fox film it and then show up on Monday’s episode of The Morning Show with Mike and Juliet for an interview. They did not specifically ask me to make a fool out of myself but I’m pretty sure it was implied (never let it be said that I don't deliver on my commitments). Remember long long ago (last week) when I bemoaned just how awful I am at dating? Well everyone knows that if you think you’re not very good at something a sure fire way to overcome your insecurities is to do that activity on national television.

In order to be cleared for TV I had to submit to a very upbeat phone screen with one of the producers of Fox’s Morning Show with Mike and Juliet. During the phone screen that producer worked very hard to get me to agree that my ultimate goal for my crazy bind date was L-O-V-E and most certainly not “I needed something to blog about.” Luckily I’m an atheist and therefore have no moral scruples so I had no problem telling the roughly 500 white lies required to get on national TV. (“random blind dates are a sure fire path to love!” “Oh yeah, my house is totally clean already.” “Of course I know how to do my own make up!”). Despite my flagrant disregard for the truth after the phone screen I felt certain that Fox was running a background check on my voting record and would be banning me from the show. I can only assume that at 5:30pm on Friday the network was desperate enough for a single girl that they were willing to overlook my love for organic vegetables, evolution and the gays.

So I thought everything was set – I meet at the date site early to do an interview and then they film the date and then I get drunk and wonder what the fuck I was thinking. Then, latish on Friday night the producer calls to ask if they can do some pre show filming at my house – as a red blooded television worshiping American I had no choice but to say yes. So I spent all of Saturday morning obsessively cleaning least my family see the show and determine that the main reason why I’m not married is that my entire house is covered in chinchilla dust. (They’d be wrong, the boys love the dust, they think it’s mysterious and sexy).

The crew arrived at 3pm and filmed roughly 15 hours of me poking at my computer and putting on my earrings (strangely they filmed only a few minutes of “Brianna walking” footage but obviously decided to put ALL of it on the show – I walk good.). The camera and PA for the show were both hot. I wondered if there was some easy way to hit on both of them while being filmed on a date with another dude. Since as usual I failed at the flirting I can only hope that they read this and are totally into sharing a girlfriend (I have two hands boys!).

I used to think that if I were to go on reality TV I would be able to resist falling into a one dimensional stereotype but now I know that I was wrong. Put in front of cameras I become the perky sweet girl immediately (like Bridget from The Girls Next Door but with better taste in men and more clothing). Given a few weeks living in a mansion I’d kill off about 40% of the viewing audience with my saccharine sweetness. The hair and make up people did everything possible to help me fit this reality TV archetype with super straight hair and a ton of make-up I pull off boring pretty quite well. If only I had some huge fake boobs perhaps I could jump start a career as a C list celebrity.

As you can see from the date footage I looked adorable. Also I was hilariously witty. Also it’s shocking to believe that I am single. I have been contacted by no less than 780 scientists interested in studying this phenomenon (most studies seem centered around exploring the phenomenon in the nude). Bret was cute too. He was notably much cuter than the picture he used on CrazyBlindDate which I saw the next day -- because I am a huge huge huge lover of the geeks I thought, “oh he’s way hotter than that picture, I kind of wish he looked like that, that guy looks like a totally dork!” I said as much on the show – I also said the following on my official Crazy Blind Date feedback form, “Brett was great but I usually only date guys who know at least one programming language.”

Despite the fact that holding a conversation with some guy you just met while three people hover over you with cameras and mics and notepads is virtually impossible I think we both managed to avoid looking like schmoes. While the date did have some awkward moments the clip that Fox uses to make us look like dorks (frankly I’m surprised they didn’t edit some cricket chirping into the soundtrack) was likely the result of both of us trying very hard to think of TV friendly things to talk about on a “date.” At one point we got onto the topic of my job and I had to continue speaking over the “Brianna do not get your ass fired” alarms going off in my head. Sadly the Mike and Juliet site only shows the first half of our segment but that might be for the best since all I remember of the interview portion is offering to make out on the show. But the interview does reveal that Brett and I extended our 20 minute agreed upon date for a few hours when he asked to tag along with me to the Roller Derby (where the girls were hot enough to almost turn me into a dyke). This allowed us to actually talk to each other like normal people rather than “The Perky Girl” and “The Responsible Gentleman” – it turned out I had more in common with Brett than I thought, he likes cooking and eating and travel and technology – again the robots do me right. There’s a reason why I love computers so much. While on our post-date date Brett and I also came up with the most awesome idea for Monday – A little faked proposal action, thankfully for the Crazy Blind Date dude our idea was all talk and no commitment (clearly we’re not ready for marriage).

So yet again Crazy Blind Date is awesome – everyone reading this should break up with the significant others just to go out on random dates. The only snafu of the evening was that the car that Fox sent to take me to the date was ridiculously expensive and I had to pay for it. At first I blamed Fox for being cheap “no new taxes” bastards but in retrospect I now just think that the cabbie scammed me since the same limo service drove me to Fox and to work today and didn’t charge me either time. Luckily the drinks were comped… though not by Fox – the bar manager paid for them.

The live TV experience this morning was surreal. I arrived make up free and with my frizzy hair in a ponytail (as Amy observed I’m not the kind of person to clean before the maid arrives) and was sent straight to hair and make-up (“Get thee to the chair before your hideousness ruins television for all!”). The hair lady took one look at me and reached for the straightening iron – curly hair is for communists. While being straightened the beauticians inquired about my day job and upon hearing the words “Software Project Manager” launched immediately into a chorus of “why is my computer so slow.” I threw out some “reboot” and “disk defragmenter” recommendations to appease them least they choose to send me onto the show with a beehive and orange lipstick (though that might have been awesome). From there on everything moved at lightening speed; the producers quizzed me and seemed convinced that I would not clam up or bare any body parts that could get Fox sued (tempting, believe me), Bret tried to get me to take some sort of crazy herbal supplement for nerves, the CrazyBlindDate dude seemed completely freak out (though he also resisted the herbal supplement), and then we were standing at the edge of the stage trying not to giggle as they showed our dating footage.

When I got to work and hour later I had to resist the impulse to wash my face figuring that without some serious cleanser I wasn’t going to be able to even break through the make-up top soil. There was a mixed office reaction to my new heavily made up look – half shock (“oh my god you’re a girl!”) and half awe (“you should hire a make-up and hair crew every morning”) – obviously this is disturbing since a) I think I looked like a freak and b) there is no way in hell I’m going to spend this much time, energy and money on my looks on any sort of regular basis. This also presumes that I have the skills to make myself up but instead choose sleep over beauty every morning. The truth is that laziness is the least of my problems. Predate (when I had to do my own make-up) I had a moment of panic when I called two friends (neither of which responded – thanks for nothing Amy and Gillian) in a panic when I remembered 30 minutes before the camera crew arrived that I have no idea how to put on eye shadow or tie a scarf. I mean I can swipe on some Burt’s Bees lip tint and run a brush through the mop but other than that I’m as inept as an accountant on a stripper pole (no offense to all the sexy accountants out there).

So... to quote Fox’s obsessed producers, “WAS IT A LOVE MATCH? HMMMM? HMMM? WAS IT?!?” I don’t know. The whole experience was so much more like being in a play than like being on a date that it’s hard to tell where reality TV Brianna stops and reality life Brianna begins. So – I would certainly go out with Bret without any cameras around to find out if we’re real life compatible – and if we are I intend to get Fox to pay for our wedding. Bret, I know you subscribed to my blog, say hi to the folks in the comments and give me a call.

Even if there isn’t a date #2 (though one could argue that hanging out on tv this morning was technically a date #2) I feel I spent my 15 minutes wisely – I looked cute, I didn't try to convert people to some crazy cult and I kept my underwear on which is much more than most real celebrities seem capable of.

Update: Date footage from YouTube where they let you fast forward straight to the hot Brianna action (Thanks Adam!). I'm going to try to pull the full segment complete with interview from my tivo tonight... wish me luck.

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Third Party Resources

Looking through all the New York singles to find love is not nearly as easy as it looks. After looking through all the dating sites and going on dozens of blind dates, hopefully you can find at least one person like you.

Things That Will Probably Be on Fox TV Tomorrow

1. 75 Simpsons reruns (that Disco Stu is so dreamy)
   
2. At least one news story about an everyday household item that is going to kill you (probably that grenade you keep in back of the closet)
   
3. 4.5 hours of "court" TV ("she done stole my man and my cubic zirconia anklet!")
   
4. Me making a fool of myself on "The Morning Show with Mike and Juliet" (oh fuck.)
   

You should probably stay home sick.

Welcome to Facebook

I finally joined Facebook. I had refused to join an additional social networking site mostly out of fear that it will provide yet another path for my high school peers to hunt me down and pretend that even though we hardly ever spoke while actually in high school we are now BFFs. Luckily there appears to be only 5 members of my high school class on Facebook as opposed to MySpace which is crawling with those people. Perhaps this is the main reason people migrate to new social networking sites – to avoid the people they don’t really like on the old social networking sites.

Besides the dearth of former BUHSers the best thing about Facebook is that it is yet another place where I can get my ass kicked in Scrabble Scrabbulous. Now that this blog is super famous this is the only thing keeping my ego in check.

I registered on Monday (mostly because I saw blog hits coming from Facebook and because I am a slave to my stats I obviously had to investigate). It took roughly 5 hours for all of my (notably younger) cousins to track me down and tag me as their friend – I took this as a sign that I am not yet an embarrassment to the younger generation. Don’t worry kids, I’m sure I’ll do something fuddy-duddy very soon. Sadly you’ll still have to pretend you like me because otherwise your parents will ground you.

I know that Facebook is cutting edge because as I type this MS Word recognizes the word MySpace but still thinks Facebook is misspelled. Facebook gains a lot of cool points with hipsters this way (one assumes Apple is hip to the Facebook craze). Here’s hoping some of the cool rubs off on me. If nothing else at least society has finally invented a technology that frees us all from the scourge of untalented 15 year olds with bad taste being allowed to design their own web page. Here's to a future with no falling glitter.

Mommy Blogging

When my friend Alia asked me to babysit her three year old son Sam I thought, “sweet I can finally cash in on the Mommy blogging.” I think everyone on the internet knows that the easiest job in town is writing about children for the owners and operators of other children. This parent blogging niche is the fastest path to blog stardom mostly because a lot of stay at home parents are so starved for adult interaction that they’ll willingly listen to other parents blather on endlessly about the size of little Timmy’s morning doodie. I have a job where I talk to other adults for hours everyday but I read mommy blogs anyway – sometimes you just can’t beat a good doodie story.

ANYWAY -- babysitting. As we all know children can teach us revealing life lessons so I came ready to learn. More importantly I came ready to blog. I figure I hang out for a few hours waiting for Sam to say something profound/hilarious so I can write it down verbatim and be done with the day’s blog post. Wham Bam Thank You Sam (wow, that last sentence might be wildly inappropriate).

The evening started with a debate over which activity would be more fun: dinner or watching some cartoons. I was a staunch advocate of the dinner route and since I was the only person in the house tall enough to reach the portable DVD player I won. So “we” cooked dinner. To be honest I did all of the work while Sam provided dinner entertainment in the form of 5-8000 renditions of “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” despite not hearing this song in at least 15 years I remembered all of the words – clearly my brain has made some interesting prioritization choices when it comes to memory usage.

While eating our macaroni and cheese Sam spontaneously asked me if he could “smell the sugar,” turns out even toddlers are partying harder than me. Ever the enabler I handed over the sugar bowl and he took a big whiff and then announced “it smells like sugar!” I think he was high. He returned to eating dinner without further comment until mid macing on a dish known as “the cheesiest” Sam requested a piece of cheese proving that he is a toddler of discerning culinary taste since everyone knows that dairy is the most delicious of the food groups. Either that or he had a bad case of the munchies. I followed his lead and punctuated my mouthfuls of cheese coated pasta with bites of Munster. I felt satisfied if a little phlegmy.

The rest of the evening was devoted to worshipping The Bear in The Big Blue House. The ritual bouncing on the couch and singing along with the theme song was punctuated only by the call of nature (the answering of which required the removal of ALL clothing) and one request that I literally KISS HIS FEET. Sam caged this request under the auspices of injury but I don’t think the symbolism was unintentional. As he toddled back to his cartoon evangelism there was the jaunt in his step usually only seen in the walks of cult leaders and dictators (Baby Doc?).

As expected this was the simplest blog post I’ve ever written. Children: The Easy Mac of the blogging world. Heat and serve baby.

Even Better than the Real Thing

In August a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) was carrying around an adorable LeSportsac bag with funky little Japanese cartoon characters on it. The bag was so cute that I found myself thinking “I should buy an adorable bag! I should splurge! I would totally be willing to pay as much as $50 for that cute nylon bag!” Obviously I am way out of the designer bag loop. In a rational world $50 would be an obscene amount of money for a nylon bag that likely costs under $3 to manufacture but in the weirdo parallel universe that most people like to call reality this bag costs upwards of $150. On sale. Obviously there was no way I was going off the rails on that crazy train. Not when I live within a 30min subway ride of Chinatown.

$10 suckers! (With a free mini purse! Officially priced at $15 but I’ve got mad negotiating skills)

I do not understand the desire for designer bags. Correction: I do not understand the desire for *real* designer bags. The way I see it everyone should be buying knock offs. Think about it – people of normal means (aka those of us making under 300K) shouldn’t be spending hundreds of dollars on a purse, not when there are video game consoles and $100 jeans to buy! And if you’re rich enough to afford a designer bag and you buy a knockoff everyone will just assume the bag is real so spending the extra dough for the authentic product is pointless.

I know what the crazy freaks over at Bag Bliss are going to say, “ummm the lining and like the zippers are WAY better on the real bags and you can totally tell that the knock offs are fake.” My god I HOPE people notice that I’m carrying a fake bag. I’d hate to for stranger to think I'm stupid enough to pay over $10 on 1 yard of nylon and a $.05 aluminum zipper.

Love is a Battlefield

Oh my god I suck at dating.

… Perhaps suck is not the best word to use in this context.

Oh my god I am very bad at dating.

Very bad as in my grandparents might think I'm a lesbian. Very bad as in there has been no noticeable improvement since sixth grade when boys routinely asked me out as a joke. Very bad as in I have repeatedly googled the phrase "human pheromone deficiency."

I would like to be able to write about my abysmal dating record with a certain amount of flair. I would like to trot out flippant comments about how fickle some boys are and how ridiculously stupid others seems to be and ultimately how my perpetual singleness is a sign of how incredibly awesome I am. I would like for this post to result in hoards of adoring attractive male fans competing to woo me (wish list here). I would like to draw some provocative conclusion preferably comparing my life to a popular 80s movie. I would like to seem cool and funny and not at ALL like I have EVER moped or lost sleep or cried like a big baby as a result of this record and certainly have not even thought of doing any of these in at least 10 years. I doubt I will accomplish these goals.

If I have a date it is safe to assume that I met the (alleged) gentleman online because I am completely incapable of meeting men in person. This is likely because I have very little patience for bars and I find dance clubs vile (have you been to one of these places? They put on loud music and expect you to move your body in rhythm; the whole concept seems rather far fetched.). I like doing stuff. I like joining clubs and attending classes. I like wandering and wining and dining. I like going to readings and concerts. It turns out that boys hate doing stuff. Don’t believe me? Well how do you feel about believing the New York Times? I’m not even going to get into how lame this makes men sound (cause seriously guys, LAME). For now let’s just say that I don’t meet guys on food tours of chinatown.

But thanks to the internet I go on a lot of dates -- mostly because I try very hard to go on a lot of dates. While the phrase "glutton for punishment" does come to mind about once ever 5 minutes my theory is that dating is like voting -- if you're not out there casting a ballot you don't get to complain when things turn out badly. I have earned the right to complain and I intend to exercise it here and now. So I should warn you that there may be some whining. And likely I will have to eat some ice cream. But as long as it doesn't end with me screaming "Why don't you like me?!?!?!" I plan on declaring success.

I suppose I need to address exactly what is happening on these dates -- this is the hard part of the post. I feel that to do this I'd have to have an inkling of exactly what is going wrong and I’m mostly at a loss. I admit that I am a huge geek and that I am making no effort at all to hide this fact while out on dates. I keep thinking that being a huge geek is a plus –it's 2007, the nerds have won, right? Personally I LOVE geeks so my general approach to dating has been, “I'M A HUGE GEEK, COME AND GET IT.” Perhaps this is part of the problem but I doubt it. I’m a great date. I’m witty and articulate and prompt. Most of the time I even pull off cute. Typically the date ends with me thinking, “Oh, this one is in the bag! I am an awesome dating machine!” And then I get bored with waiting for him to call. And then I call. And then he announces his general dissatisfaction with the idea of a second date. And then? The ice cream.

This current state of affairs is bullshit since I was all but promised that the little bug in my "make boys like me" plug-in was going to right itself in due time. Remember how I was going to be a heart breaker right after I got out of junior high and boys realized that girls weren't icky? Or right after high school when boys realized that smart girls are awesome? Or right after college when boys took off their beer goggles and noticed that funny girls are much cooler than pretty girls? I'm waiting....

My frustration is further complicated by the fact that girlfriend-wise I am a really good deal. I invest a decent chunk of money in my 401K. I buy cute underwear. My dentist has all but promised that I will not need dentures. And also I am crazy only in the really attractive good ways (obsessive about being on time, incapable of falling asleep without playing a rousing game of Scattergories in my head, etc) rather than the annoying bad ways that are most commonly seen on reality TV programs (tendency to scream at people, belief that men should always pay, inability to conceal naughty bits underneath clothing). And yet the girls on reality TV have men competing in ill conceived contests to win dates with them and I am babysitting a friend's 3 year old on Friday night (admittedly he's cuter than most TV bachelors).

I suspect that my melancholia over the dating experience as a whole stems from the fact that I am completely unable to view each experience in a vacuum choosing instead to believe that every boy who doesn't call is symptomatic of the one eternal truth -- not that you can't eat just one potato chip, or that naughty girls need love too, or that skinny jeans don't look good on anyone but that all boys hate Brianna. Or perhaps less dramatically: No boys click with Brianna

To be honest the problem is not always with the boys clicking with me. Occasionally, I don't click with the boys. Always these are nice boys who I seriously wish I could like but the issue is chemistry. It seems likely that this has been my problem all along. I don't understand chemistry at all and I'd like to just outright deny it's existence since trying to please powers that we don't understand inspires magical thinking. This path leads directly to disaster. Maybe if I click my heels three times the fickle god of chemistry will smile on this date. Maybe if I chop the leg off of this cute little bunny it will bring me luck. Maybe if I forget to wear a shirt he won't even notice the lack of chemistry!

Home Brew Part 2

Inspired by my foray into ginger ale brewing and this summer’s foraging in Central Park this past weekend I finally got around to making my own root beer. Something about making soda (or maraschino cherries) feels more like mad scientist work than cooking or baking and leaves me feeling like some sort of magical god of the kitchen so it should come as no surprise that brewing root beer required me to dive into the world of the occult. Most of the root beer recipes on the internet involve “root beer extract” but I felt this would be tantamount to cheating – I mean anyone can mix extract with sugar and water but I’m a mad scientist! In order to make root beer truly from scratch I had to find a source for licorice root, cherry bark and sarsaparilla root and after an unsuccessful hunt through the Chinatown herbalist shops I turned to my trusty friend the internet. I soon found out that majority of people shopping for such items have aspiration far beyond soda pop. The only websites carrying these ingredients were named things like AllHailSatan.com and Witches R Us and also sold spell books and velvet cloaks and please don’t beat me up talismans. Undeterred by the questionable mailing lists that I would end up on I placed an order with Archangel Artifacts (Watch while I gloss over the fact that my 13 year old self totally wished for access to a store that sold Don’t Beat Me Up Talismans and that even my current self would kill for a Love Me Now Spell).

I devoted many CPU cycles over at Google to trying to find a root beer recipe that I felt comfortable with but eventually ended up putting together a super Brianna only recipe that is the amalgamation of 2 or 3 less cool widely available internet recipes. The result was spicier than your standard issue A&W but probably not as good as any of the more premium options on the market.

Kick In The Ass Root Beer

1 oz sarsparilla root
1 4 inch long piece of sassafrass root pulled up from the bowls of Central Park
1 oz cherry bark
1/2 oz licorice root
1/2 tsp freshly ground nutmeg
1 cinnamon stick
2 to 4 oz raisins (you can add more if you like their flavor)
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup molasses
1 lb white sugar
1 lb brown sugar

Boil the above with 4 quarts of water for 1.5 hours (which should give your home a spicy fall like smell) then strain (I used a paper towel lined mesh strainer) and add

1 tbsp vanilla extract
1 tsp wintergreen extract

I know that wintergreen extract is hard to fine (though they sell it on Amazon) but do not be tempted to go without – the difference in flavor between the extract free syrup and the wintergreen-y post straining concentrate is monumental.

To turn this concoction into soda either mix with 3 parts carbonated water (if you’re not a mad scientist) or mix with 3 parts still water and half a tsp of yeast and leave in a warm place for 24 hours. I find that the yeast method gives frothier bubbles than the carbonated water method but I might be making that up. I'm also tempted to make some root beer popsicles since I have an Ikea popsicle mold taunting me from my tupperware cupboard and November is the perfect time for popsicles!

Last night I served the root beer straight up and in float form to my house guests while we bashed the latest round of wannabee models. The soda was well received but I probably over did it on the molasses.

Cherish: Like having homemade pie as opposed to Sara Lee frozen pie!

Amy: I liked it much better with ice cream (shocking!). Straight up it was too molasses-y but it totally smelled and tasted like root beer – Good job!

Amy and I made numerous attempts to photograph the root beer floats all to no avail so you’ll just have to trust me that they looked and tasted delicious.

Now Playing

How many posts does it take for Brianna to run out of blog ideas? 12. I downloaded some new ipod filler this weekend and writing about it is my only blog back up plan so in this post I’m am going to once again attempt to write about music – this should be amusing because despite being super passionate about music all of my attempts to write about it come out as “Isn’t this song pretty? Here, let me quote the lyrics for you…. Awesome, right?!?!”

This post should also serve as evidence that I am no longer cool (I refuse to admit that I was never cool) since all of the songs that I bookmarked in Pandora over the last month are either 35 years old or by artists that I discovered in college. Right now a couple of the hip young kids from work are reading this and losing all respect for me. Luckily this posting everyday thing will soon drive me to baking which should win back the love of all coworkers.

So on that note let’s review my current playlist.

Chips Ahoy – The Hold Steady

I’ve been stalking The Hold Steady since I found out they were playing a concert with The Old 97s and deemed them cool by association (If Rhett Miller bought a case of Diet Coke Plus I’d be drinking it all day too). I actually purchased the entire Hold Steady album, “Boys and Girls in America” which is superb as a whole but this is by far my favorite song. Listening to the Hold Steady reminds me a bit of listening to The Promise Ring’s Very Emergency or something by Cake. This song in particular is happy and bouncy and the perfect pace for my walk to work and on top of that the line, “How am I supposed to know that you’re high if you won’t let me touch you?” is super hot.

Happy Kid – Nada Surf

This song is only 4 years old so I feel pretty good about only discovering it now. 2003 was a good year – Britney has yet to completely ruin her life, we had hope of avoiding a second George W term, Christmas promised another installment of The Lord of the Rings instead of the end of Paul Giamatti ’s career. Who wouldn’t want to go back in time?

Afraid of Nineveh – Gosling

This song is my only hope for saving my cool since the album came out last year and I can’t even find the lyrics online – and we all know that unknown band = indie cred.

For an atheist I have quite a love for gospel music (ala Gillian Welch) and Bible based songs in general. This song is about Jonah and the whale which the band turns into a great allegory for growing up.

Truly Great Thing – Sebadoh

You remember Sebadoh -- they were popular in 1993? They got included in Mary Lou Lord’s His Indie World song? They are now super old and their fan base probably consists mostly of stay at home dads?

But this song is so pretty! And it’s about having a great love finally appear in your life after years of waiting! And it's pretty!

Falling Down Blue – Blue Rodeo

Blue Rodeo sounds very Lyle Lovett in this heartbreaking song about… heartbreak. The lead singer, Jim Cuddy has a gift for filling his voice with pain and it works so well with the subtle twang on this song. Pretty pretty pretty.

Steady as She Goes – The Raconteurs

Here’s another album that I should have bought years ago especially since it’s fronted by Jack White who I have been in love with for 6 years even though he has yet to graduate from his high school goth phase. the Ranconteurs have a more rock and roll sound that The White Stripes and while a part of me misses the simple pleasure of Meg's rhythmic drumming the full sound of this song certainly makes for a more satisfying shower serenade.

Sister Golden Hair – America

This song was last famous in 1975 so I’ve pretty much regressed to my mother’s young adulthood. I also recently thumbs-uped a Beatles song on Pandora (Paperback Writer), soon I may start smoking pot, wearing bell bottoms and reading Love Story. This song is also the 1975 version of “Yo babe, I love you but I can’t be tied down” what with the "I aint ready for the altar but I do agree there's times when a woman sure can be a friend of mine." but somehow they make it so sweet...

For a Song – Story Hill

This is the folk musician version of the “I Love the Rodeo More than You” country genre so obviously I loved it from first listen. Also I love everything that comes out of Chris and Johnny’s lips and if Jack White doesn’t want to leave his wife I would totally accept a marriage proposal from either of these guys.

Despite these recent downloads I am still in dire need of new music so if you happen to be the owner of a record review blog that you never write in anymore (Matt, this means you) perhaps you should send me some new music suggestions.

Peritonsillar abscesses Is Latin for "You're Screwed"

I have had the good fortune to be a relatively unblemished health record. With the exception of the occasional bout with the common cold, an annoying icky eye disease and the ongoing issue of being allergic to the world I’ve suffered very little at the hands of illness. I have never broken a bone, been bit by a dog, been stung by a bee or had any body parts removed. But there is one instance of horrible sickness in my past.

In 2002 kissing my new boyfriend (one of few not ever featured in the Winner’s Parade) resulted in the punishment of a standard issue sore throat. This was fine as it allowed the boyfriend and I to bond over my illness through me lying on his futon (which was located on the floor which was not really ok) and him feeding me raspberry sorbet (aka the only food that my throat was not currently revolting against). After a couple of days of nursing I mostly recovered and jaunted off to a weekend of early spring hiking with a girlfriend in Northern CA.

Then the cold came back. I figured my gallivanting with the boy toy and skinny dipping in a chilly river had deservedly resulted in a relapse. So I spent a couple of days in bed with hot tea and popsicles and hoped for the best. At the time I was working as a contract employee and thus did not have health insurance so rather than go to the doctor like a big girl I choose to call my nurse mother once every 3 hours to cry on the phone. Next time you have a cold do not look to an emergency room nurse for sympathy. Mom’s general reaction to each phone call was “oh, your throat hurts? Poor baby. Today at work someone DIED.” Eventually my throat hurt badly enough that the thought of a $300 doctor bill seemed worth it in return for some prescription meds so on the 6^th day of my illness I drove across town to the clinic to find out just what was wrong with me.

When you get any minor illness your body sends out the good bacteria to march in the war against the evil germs and usually these valiant warriors fight back the tide of illness so you can return to a life of tempting disease by drinking too much and only sleeping on weekends. But occasionally when the tide of war turns too sharply in favor of the invaders your own army turns against you. I know because this happened to me. Apparently one night half way into my standard issue cold my good bacteria were getting killed in droves and, war weary and saddened by the death of so many loved ones they decided “fuck this body, let’s join the other side!” The invaders were happy to have the size of their army increased and assigned my traitors to the task of building a huge bacteria fort on my tonsils. At the time of my visit to the doctor the fort was housing millions of troops and through numerous remodels and expansions had grown to almost fill my throat. A few more barracks and I would no longer be able to breathe. This accursed condition is called a Peritonsillar abscess – Let’s see what Wikipedia has to say about it.

Peritonsillar abscesses are widely considered one of the most painful complications, primarily the surgical draining of the abscess itself. The patient is operated on awake, surgically slicing open the tonsil and draining the abscess.

AWESOME!

The clinic doctor took one look at my throat and announced that I needed to take a trip to the Ear Nose and Throat specialist. My naïve request for directions so I could drive myself there was all but laughed at, “Silly girl, you can’t drive, you’re body is currently revolting against you, who’s to say that your foot won’t join the dark side and rocket your car through the front of the hospital?” And so after receiving a huge needle full of steroids in my ass (an effort to stave off the growth of the abscess until I could get to the hospital) I called my friend John and pleaded for a ride to the Stanford Hospital.

The ENT doc peered down my throat and then leveled with me about the extent of the damage. “Ok, so the first thing we’ll have to do is drain the abscess with a large needle. Unfortunately we can’t put you to sleep for this procedure because twilight sleep causes the throat to relax too much to get the needle to the abscess. I’m going to try to numb your tonsils but because the abscess is so large I don’t know if I’ll be able to get around it in order to use this other huge needle to give you the anesthetic.” Doctors are really super duper smart so I was unsurprised when this prediction turned true. The (in retrospect miniature) anesthetic needle poked around somewhere near my gag reflex but was incapable of delivering its sweet nectar. Next the doctor eased the HUGE drainage needle down my throat as the nurse who was letting me squeeze her hand into hamburger whispered, “I’m sorry honey, this is the worst thing we do here.” The doc was able to drain the abscess even though I passed out near the end and had to be revived with smelling salts (who knew they still used those?). As I came to the doctor assured me that she thought she was able to completely drain the abscess but that she was worried that if she didn’t lance it the abscess would fill back up. Do you know what lancing means? It means someone shoves a knife down your throat and hacks off bits of your body. Luckily the always supportive nurse assured mid slicing, “now you know you can get through child birth since this is much more painful!”

John drove me from the doctor directly to the pharmacy where they handed me a 1 quart bottle of liquid Vicodin which I chugged like Gatorade. Apparently the peritonsillar abscess healing process is supposed to be very quick so the next day the doctor called me at home to see how I was feeling. She was perturbed that my voice hadn’t returned and asked that I come back to the hospital in case she “didn’t get all of it and had to go in a second time.” I remember thinking “no thanks, I’ll just die. How painful can asphyxiation be really?” Luckily I was just a slow healer and was not forced to pull a second stint as knife swallower.

A hilarious aside to this story -- a couple of days after the hospital visit I realized that if I didn’t want the huge bill I ran up at the pharmacy to overdraw my bank account I needed to go into the office and get my paycheck. Despite my illness and my general hatred for talking to people in the service industry I decided to physically go into the bank in order to expedite the delivery of emergency funds to my account. When I reached the front of the line the teller started talking at me in that characteristic very loud and slow voice that people reserve for the mentally challenged. It took me a moment to figure out why I was being given the courtesy ‘tard treatment but then I thought about how my voice sounded and I sighed and angrily slurred at her, “I’m not deaf I’m SICK.”

Bring on the Crazy!

You know what I hate? Fruit cream filled chocolates hiding in a box that I thought was all caramels, shaving my knees and having to climb out my bedroom window and down the fire escape to take out the trash. But more than all of that I hate dating. I find the whole act painfully tiring ("oh you mean I have to be cute *again*?!?! Wasn't I cute just yesterday?") and trying to attract men and get them into a tizzy over buying me drinks seems like a poor investment of my time (especially in light of my track record). But this doesn't mean that I don't want to make googly eyes at a brooding stranger while drinking glass after glass of wine. I just don't want to put energy into getting to the boy and the bar and the glass.

On Thursday night I did the best thing ever. I went on a Crazy Blind Date. Every single person on in major urban areas should be doing this constantly. Especially if you are too lazy to bother with finding and scheduling your own dates.

Crazy Blind Date is an off shoot of the Okcupid online dating site and it is the best idea to hit the internet since Urban Fetch (RIP). The web site matches up singles and schedules blind mystery dates. I was super excited to receive the announcement about the launch not just because it seemed like someone was finally automating a severely broken system but because it felt like mid NaBloPoMo someone was handing me a blog post on a silver platter. A random date with a potentially crazy dude set up by a web site? How could this not be hilarious and/or tragic? Thank you God.

Like all examples of good design in 2007 the date started not with me having to interact with a human (that's so 1993) but with filling out a form online – I was a fan from the get go. I specified time and age range and choose not to specify a height requirement because I am not a crazy bitch. My god women are freaky about height! This is a “date” with a random guy that you do not know, you can’t possibly expect this to result in a crazy love match and you’re *still* concerned about inches (dirty.)? “Yo girl, I’m fine going out with some stupid potentially crazy stranger but he damn well better be tall!” I hate when my gender embarrasses me.

I was also asked the following questions

What is your ideal scenario for this date?

You’re funny. You’re cute. We suffer a minor tragedy and overcome it together thus providing the ideal story arc for the blog post that I’ll be writing about this date.

What do you look like?

I’m really cute. On the off chance that there is more than one cute girl at the bar I’ll be the blond carrying a laptop bag with a big red poppy on it.

What are you good at talking about?

video games, food, pop culture, indie pop bands

The web site also has a cool little widget that allows you to specify neighborhoods that you’re willing to go on dates in. Because I am incredibly lazy when it comes to dating, blogging AND walking I limited my selections to neighborhoods that I already had to pass through on my way home from work.

Oh and they let you choose a coffee date or a bar date. But would it really be a Crazy Blind Date without booze?

I have not been this excited about an event since the rodeo came to Madison Square Garden. I spent all of Wednesday and Thursday telling everyone I talked to about my crazy blind date plans. “Guys! I either go on a hilariously bad date OR I end up locked in some psychopath’s basement! Either way the blog is getting super famous!” By Thursday evening all of my friends and coworkers were wishing they were single and I had mapped out at least 3 new best case date scenarios

1. Guy is super into Dianetics. Tries to convert me to Scientology. Calls Tom Cruise who offers to set me up with any one of line up of gay Hollywood actors if I agree to having Xenu’s second baby. I duck into the bathroom to prep for my auditing and sneak out the window
2. Guy has uncontrollable fear of the color red, runs screaming from the room when I order a glass of pinot noir.
3. Guy brings his wife and girlfriend with him on date. We hit it off and spend the end of the date trying on matching dresses at Anthropologie.
   

This was going to be AWESOME.

The fun began Thursday morning when I received an email notification that the web site had found a match for my date! I logged on was able to review Dan’s profile and his heavily pixilated picture – I hardly bothered to review his basics before agreeing to an 8:30pm date at the west village's Bar 6. Thirty minutes before the date was set to begin I received a code to text message Dan – all text messages were forwarded through an intermediary to prevent me from stalking my date just in case I happen to be crazier than he bargained for.

What are the chances that the guy I get set up with is compos mentis? The only proof I need that God is fucking with me is that when I’m hoping for a tragic failing of the entire dating system I get handed a big scoop of normal. My date, Dan, was not crazy NOR blind! The dude was good enough, smart enough and probably liked by people all over the place. His only failing was that he totally cheated on the mystery date by reading half of my blog before our date started (Dan, if you're out there say hi in the comments!), the fact that he choose to show up anyway might actually be the one sign that he was in fact a little crazy. Thankfully he was at least as excited as myself about the ridiculous prospects that crazy blind dating seemed to promise and we had plenty to talk about (the shared joy of hippy parents, toy design, video games, the pleasures of being a huge nerd, exactly how awesome technology was). He didn't seem at all upset that our date was disappointingly sane which probably means that the loony member of the date was me…

Despite the normalcy of my date I highly recommend CrazyBlindDate.com. Next time (hopefully Wednesday) I’m shooting for a double date on the hopes that 3 strangers equals 3 times the crazy.

---

Third Party Resources

Going out on a blind date might not end up with an engagement ring, but it's worth a try. You'll never know if you'll be one day exchanging gold wedding bands with someone you took out on a blind date! If you hit it off, diamond rings may be in your future.

Unconventional Dieting Tips

1. Instead of food how about 4 vodka gimlets for dinner?
2. Become a wet nurse
3. Acquire quarterly stomach flu
4. Clip fingernails super short (ever little bit helps!)
   
5. Salmonella

Getting There

I love the subway. I love not having to think about driving or parking. I love being given a structured opportunity to catch up on podcasts and books and video games. I love the cast of New York characters that the subway parades in front of me everyday. I love not having thought about the concept of a designated driver in 3 years. I love the free morning papers. Like any good cynic I do a fair bit of cursing at slow trains and rude passengers but ultimately when I think about moving back to California the thought that pops into my head is, “But I have great friends here! And my job is good! And the subway is so awesome!” If I do move away some day I will likely spend the remainder of my days annoying my new neighbors with constant reminiscing about the NYC subway.

My morning commute starts at the last stop on the N/W line, living near the last stop is a mixed blessing – on the one hand there is usually a train sitting in the station with ample seating available but you pay for this luxury on the way home when the train often sits on the tracks between Astoria Blvd and Ditmars Blvd for 5-10mins while waiting for a free spot to open up at the end of the line.

This morning I was cursed with bad subway luck. Regardless of what you non-New Yorkers have heard the worst case scenario subway situation doesn’t involve robbery, murder or being accosted by some teenager selling candy for his “basketball fieldtrip.” No, despite the prevalence of mysterious dripping liquids, rats, and bottles full of urine the worst thing that can happen to you in the subway station is watching the back of your train pull out of the station just as you set your feet on the platform. I’m so focused on trying to avoid this dire situation that I often find myself walking to the subway thinking “what if the train is there now? Or now? OR NOW? – Must walk faster.” Obviously this is ridiculous – the lack of any set train schedule means that the odds of a train arriving NOW or 5mins from now are essentially equal, which means that half of the time my speed walking results in spending more time chilling at the subway station. This morning was one of the times when speed did not work in my favor -- instead of settling into my seat to start another morning of sucking at crosswords on my DS (Another D-? F-you New York Times.) I was forced to stand around in the cold staring longingly at the butt of the leaving N train.

When the next train arrived I was able to snag a seat on the bench next to a guy in a bright orange camo hunting cap and a very chic hipster girl in a pumpkin colored coat and green boots both of which I coveted. There are two kinds of seat on NYC subway trains, benches and buckets. The buckets are highly superior because they hold your ass in place; when on a bench seat you’re constantly slip sliding into your co-riders. I didn’t feel too bad about getting close to Miss Pumpkin (maybe some of her style would rub off on me…) but the unplanned cuddling with the urban hunter was less pleasant.

The N line runs above ground in Queens which I usually feel is a negative since the train is loud and ugly and waiting for it at the outside stations exposes one to the elements but it’s hard to be too down on the el when staring out the window as the morning breaks over the Triborough bridge. It’s one of those magnificent New York views that leaves me amazed that human’s can build cities.

At the Broadway stop a very hot boy boards the train and stands right above me (riding the subway quickly desensitizes one to the weirdness of having someone’s crotch positioned only 6 inches from your face, I am well prepared if life takes a turn for the worst and I have to make a go of it on the streets…). He has on some fancy jeans which I guarantee coast more than $200, this along with the eyes he’s making at his a less cute but equally well dressed male travel companion lead me to believe that he would not be interested in checking out my rack (pity, it looked nice today and all he’d have to do is glance downward). When I glance downward I notice that hot guy is wearing old school 70s style hiking boots (brown suede, red laces, forced onto my feet by my hippy parents for at least 10 years of my childhood, apparently known as “wafflestompers”) and now I have to wonder if someone is actively trying to make these into a trend – are ugly hiking boots the next trucker hats?

By the time we reach Queensborough Plaza the train is stuffed full of mothers, hipsters, working shlubs, butchers, bankers and candle stick makers. The subway is the great equalizer and often leaves me glowing a bit with a new love for humanity – if grocery stores bring out the bad in New Yorkers riding mass transit together makes us all a little more angelic. I witness more random acts of kindness on the subway than anywhere else. From giving directions to helping mother’s lug strollers up flights of stairs to handing out change to the homeless more often than not I come off of the subway loving my neighbors even if I am left with the imprint of someone’s ass on my shoulder after having said ass forcefully stamped into my flesh for 25 minutes.

Subway routes are very Manhattan centric which means that to get from Astoria to Dumbo I have to enter the island on the N train and traverse the tunnels beneath Herald Square in order to make my transfer to the Brooklyn bound F train. As you can see on the above map (made by my friend Giselle who is AWESOME), this switch is a less than direct route inside of a larger less than direct route. Traversing the 34^th street station requires a long hike reminiscent of climbing Everest, I have often has to leave gasping and wheezing companions for dead on the sides of the trail. I’ll always miss them but I have to get to work (little does the boss know how much I sacrifice for the biweekly paycheck).

I really hate switching trains and will often walk long distances pre-subway ride in an effort to avoid it (god bless hopstop and it’s “More street walking fewer transfers” setting). Sadly there is no way to avoid my daily transfers to and from work and so I have done the next best thing – memorized the optimal route from train 1 to train 2. This requires one to be on the exact right subway car on train 1 so that the doors open next to the stairs that lead up to the shortest possible path to the down stairway that will drop me off next to the car that will deliver me as close as possible to the door leading out of the subway station at my final destination. I am ridiculously proud of how much this system increases my subway transfer efficiency.

My subway enemies are the V, Q and R trains which run on the same tracks as the F and N lines and often trick me into thinking my train is coming when in fact one of these loser lines that won’t take me to work or home is showing up. Luckily this morning I made a smooth transition from N to F without any intervening V trains. I catch the F train towards Brooklyn on its way out of the city and board the last car so there are always ample seating options. This morning I made an effort to notice what was going on around me on the train (as opposed to most mornings when I focus very hard on getting lost in my own world). The Subway Emergency instructions posted in every car ask that in the case of fire, medical emergency or crime you refrain from pulling the emergency brake which makes me wonder what the emergency brake cord is for besides tempting hoodlums to annoying pranks.

The F train rockets me through lower Manhattan passing through my favorite subway station at Delancey. The MTA has commissioned artists to decorate each station with its own mosaic and Delancey is blessed with a huge iridescent rainbow trout which on top of just being pretty reminds me of my trout fishing filled childhood. After Delancy it’s only two stops to work and the end of another subway commute. The entire adventure takes 45 minutes to and hour which is about 20 minutes longer than I’d like (the ideal commute time being about 30mins which allows for ample reading time without feeling like I’m wasting hours of my life in transit). For unknown reasons doing the reverse every night on the way home is an hour at best but I’ll spare you the details.

Random Recommends 8

Ant Farm – Simon Rich

Sometimes I think my writing is funny but it turns out that everything I’ve ever written is crap. But everything this college kid writes? Comedy gold. You should be embarrassed for even looking at my blog when you could be reading his book. If you need me I’ll be over here questioning my self worth. (Please don't leave me...)

Peanut Butter Co. Smooth Operator

I went to the Peanut Butter and Co. restaurant a couple of months ago and happily binged on a PB, banana and honey sandwich followed by chocolate peanut butter malt followed by acquiring diabetes and cardiovascular disease. It was totally worth it.

Then, a couple of weeks ago while browsing in Whole Foods I picked up a jar of Smooth Operator. My god it’s good. I wouldn’t have thought you could have improved upon peanut butter (well unless you’re going to sell it with handfuls of chocolate chips pre-stirred in, I will totally have sex with the CEO of the first company to do this.) but Peanut Butter and Co. surpassed my already high expectations for peanut butter. You should eat some right now and then email me your theories about if peanut butter consumption can lead to orgasm.

Hint Water

Once upon a time the makers of vitamin water made something called “fruit water” which was calorie free lightly fruit flavored water and it was awesome – through what I assume is the addition of cancer causing chemicals they were able to turn regular H2O into a product that could trick my sugar starved dieting self into thinking I was drinking a beverage with calories. Sadly this product all but disappeared from bodega selves sometime in 2005. Enter Hint Water. Sure it costs over $2 a bottle. Sure it’s a rip off of an old product. But it’s yummy and it has no calories! And the bottle is really pretty!

Friday Night Lights

In high school I had a number of cheer leader friends who spent large numbers of Thursday nights writing ridiculous Bishop Union High School Bronco football inspired statements on huge sheets of butcher paper. Because a girl can only spend so much time lying on the floor of her bedroom listening to the Cranberries and asking God why he has cursed her with such a tortured existence I occasionally would help out with the pep rally prep. One of the most embarrassing butcher paper slogans was “Bronco Butts Drive Us Nuts!!!” At the time I didn’t really appreciate the power of a nice ass and greeted this statement with the same eye rolling reaction as PE requirements, every word my mom uttered during the years of 1992-1996 and life in general. I have recently discovered that the fault lay not in the statement but in the butts. The inadequacy of Bronco butts is readily apparent when viewed in comparison to Friday Night Lights Panther butts. Especially the butt of one Tim Riggins (aka Taylor Kitsch). Especially when viewed in connection to his 6 pack and pout-y grape stained lips. Especially when viewed in my fantasy world where he doesn’t have on any pants.

The show is also entertaining and well written. Whatever.

The Land that Lunch Forgot

Up until a year and a half ago my place of employment was located in the Flat Iron district of Manhattan where foraging for lunch offered practically the full pallet of world cuisine. There were rows of Indian places 3 blocks to the east, a good hole in the wall Mexican place 2 streets over, and gourmet deli’s as far as the eye could see. I was also able to pop out at lunch to mail a package or go to the bank and after work I had easy access to shopping, bars, and night life. And then we moved to Dumbo.

This is the part of the post where I bait the people over at the Dumbo NYC to call me out as a hater which will probably result in a rain of rotten organic free-range fruit, used cloth diapers and Puerto Rican nannies being chucked at me from the windows of posh high rises on my morning truck from the dingiest subway station in NYC to the relative shelter of my office. Luckily writing for Alpha Astoria has given me plenty of experience as the enemy of an entire neighborhood.

Dumbo kind of sucks.

Oh sure, they tell you it’s the new SoHo with the wall to wall artist studios and cobblestones but what they neglect to mention is that Dumbo has next to zero shopping (unless you make millions of dollars), no post office, the neighborhood just got a drug store this week and there are fewer lunch options than taxi’s (I hope you weren’t hungry or looking for a ride out of this wasteland).

Out of the twin necessities of saving money and calories I am mostly a bring my lunch kind of girl but every Friday I grant myself the indulgence of a leisurely sit down lunch. When working in Manhattan this weekly outing was a much anticipated ode to noshing but now, stuck in Dumbo, I and my coworkers are left with very few sit down options none of which are up to our snobby Manhattan honed standards.

The worst lunch offender is Bubby’s. At face value Bubby’s seems like a harmless diner but if you look closer you’ll see that it’s actually the source of all mid afternoon sadness. The Dumbo Bubby’s outpost (I know nothing of the Manhattan version) is housed in a huge space that could probably seat upwards of 100 people but I have never seen more than 15 patrons in attendance at one time. You’d think the low customer turn out would at least result in attentive wait staff and quick order turn around but for reasons that remain a mystery it is impossible to get out of lunch in less than 90 minutes. Bubby’s: Dumbo is obviously struggling to make a buck as evidenced by their frequently revamped (and reduced) menu and hours. Time was they offered breakfast all day and 15 different sandwiches – these days they’re pretty much down to burgers and grilled cheese. When we first moved to Dumbo I would swoon over the mini sides of baked mac and cheese but even this small comfort was stolen from me when about a year ago a coworker discovered a crunchy cockroach center baked into his portion.

The other two most obvious choices for sit down lunch are Superfine and Water Street both of which rival Bubby’s for the much coveted slowest distribution of edible products award. Other than the lack of speediness both institutions generally meet the demands of Friday lunch though neither has a particularly interesting menu and the fries at SuperFine are awful enough to result in a veto virtually every week. Which leaves us with Rice and Miso both of which (especially Miso) would be completely acceptable lunch options say once every month or two – but how many Fridays in a row can I choke down the same meal?

I imagine that my non NY readers are laughing at this post. After all, I’ve listed FIVE options (and haven’t even touched upon the take out only joints), in most places this would likely be considered an adequate variety. BUT THIS IS NEW YORK! Where is my source for Thai or Mexican or Indian? Why doesn’t any place in the neighborhood sell magazines (or vodka, or candles)?!?

Go ahead, get with the bashing me in the comments – here’s to hoping I make to work safely tomorrow morning.

Shot at Love Makes Local Girl Want to Shoot Herself

The most ominous request for blog fodder resulting from my plea for reader suggestions was the recommendation that I give everyone an update on the latest low brow MTV offering, “A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.” For those of you still pretending that you’re too highfalutin to even know what I’m talking about Shot’O’Love is a reality TV program where Tila Tequila, aka the girl with the most friends on MySpace (I am not kidding), announces that she’s a bisexual and makes lesbians and straight men compete for her, “love.”

Ok, I admit that I was already tivoing this program before my friend Eileen requested that I write about it. I managed to watch episode one even though Tila’s “sexy” voice is disturbingly baby like and her clothing choices so questionable as to require me to repeatedly pause and review in slow-mo. When episode two showed up on my Now Playing list I buckled in for some bisexual loving but after 5 minutes I wasn’t able to continue. I hit the stop button and deleted the episode. Keep in mind that I regularly watch I Love New York 2, Beauty and the Geek and Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders: Making the Squad. I thought I had no standards but it turns out my limit is somewhere right above a fame whore slut pretending she’s into chicks for the sake of a TV show. I deleted the next episode after only 5 minutes of viewing (and likely began watching something of much higher quality, probably an episode of the Real World: Sydney). But because I love Eileen and because I am already in dire need of new writing ideas after only 5 days of Nablopomo I recorded episode 3 and now present the high and low lights for your amusement.

Nine Reasons Why Everyone at MTV Should be Charged with Ruining Society

1. As the episode opens Tila is wearing what appears to be a sweatshirt with long bell sleeves that has been chopped off just below her boobs and one of the guys is wearing a shirt that says “Vagatarian”. Classy.
2. One of the guys on the show will not shut up about how he normally sleeps on a couch at his mom’s house so being on a reality TV show is totally a step up. When asked how he likes his new bedroom (including one huge bed that is to be shared with all other contestants) Mama’s Boy replies, “I love it, I haven’t been in a bedroom in a while.” After kissing Tila for the first time he yells, “I live with my mom, and I sleep on her couch and I ride a bicycle to work!” I fear this is a foreshadowing of reality TV to come – give it 3 more months and all of the actor wannabes in Hollywood will have had their 15 minutes and MTV will be down to homeless guys. (“Welcome to this week’s episode of Bum Lovin’ with Crazy Dave!”).
3. Since this show is set in some sort of super sluty junior high they play a game of truth or dare.
1. Dare #1: some guy has to deep throat a bottle. MTV apparently decided that this hot bottle action was too much for the viewing public so they don’t actually show it on camera but everyone acts super impressed.
2. Dare #2: Vagatarian is challenged to turn one of the girls on – he chooses to rub his balls on her face cause girls (especially lesbians) love that.
4. For some reason this show is all about the straight guys proving how not gay they are. Being on a show with lesbians seems to have them convinced that their sexuality is being called into question. As part of a dare Mama’s Boy has to try on some chick’s lingerie – some other guy claims that he is SO STRAIGHT that just seeing a guy in lingerie made him throw up a little bit in his mouth. Personally I don’t have time to get around to questioning their sexuality as I am too busy questioning their sanity.
5. Apparently the “right reason” to be here is “Tila.” I would have gone with “dodging the draft” or “serving an unconventional sentence for gay bashing” or “got lost on the way to a drug treatment center”
6. Appalachian Mountain Man on his excitement over the “country fair” that the show had set up in their backyard “When I was like 3 I used to spray the poop off the elephants, the carney’s would get me to do it so [the fair] brought back some good childhood memories.” (Note: the “country fair” seriously sucked and did not appear to include elephants, or ponies, or rides of any kind – but the one way that it totally out did your standard fair was the distinct lack of poop. Small favors.).
7. Vagatarian tattles on the lesbian/straight guy fooling around that happened in the massive shared bed while everyone else was sleeping and Tila makes him show what he saw on a giant stuffed bear. The whole thing is very, “show me where the bad man touched you”
8. As part of the “country fair” facade they make all of the contestants participate in a pie eating contest – this is obviously a set up for cunnilingus jokes so here they are:
1. Tila announces the contest and yells, “lick that shit”
2. Tila spends the entire contest walking back and forth yelling, “Lick my pie!” over and over again.
3. This is not cunnilingus related but bares quoting, “I was literally eating pie and throwing it up and eating it and throwing it up and eating it and throwing it up…” – random lesbian
4. The single butch lesbian on the show wins – this is unsurprising since I am convinced that she is the only person on the show who has ever used her tongue for anything other than saying stupid shit. Sadly no one pointed out that losing this contest seriously calls into question Italian guy's "Vagatarian" claims.
   
5. At the end of the contest one of the guys says, “The girls did better at the pie eating because they’re all about licking and sucking and I’m not about that at all.”
6. MTV has no issue with showing girls eating pie on TV even though they wouldn't let us see a guy deep throating a bottle -- I can't decide if this is a double standard.
   
9. The Vagatarian dude is this retarded Italian guy – here are some of the awesome things he said over the hour long (!! WTF? Seriously -- AN HOUR?!?!) program:
1. After getting a massive wedgie from one of the lezzies, “She pulled my underwear into my ass and I couldn’t feel my ass anymore because it was too much.”
2. On why he sometimes sleeps in underwear to, “contain his trouser snake:” “it gets too long and I have to keep it in a cage.”
3. On his inability to hit the bell on the strong man game at the “fair”, ““I couldn’t ring the bell, I don’t know what’s wrong with my arms – besides I don’t care about my arms, I care just about my under muscle there ”

There you have it – the best of MTV prime time. Eileen, I hope you're happy. Just writing this has me contemplating joining Focus on the Family based on my assumption that they are working very very hard to keep this crap off of my TV set.

Now Accepting Applications for the Position of Wife

Being single is a pain in the ass. I suspect that other people have not noticed this mostly because they are too busy beating their spouses. Now sure, I’d like to fall in love, find my soul mate, feel my heart jump out of my chest and runaway with his heart so that both of us are left as empty heartless shells who must cling to one another for body heat for all eternity. But mostly I need help with the house work.

You couples probably don’t know how much of a chore being single is, let me paint the picture for you. Picture it – you pull a late night at the office, you’re trudging home at 9:30pm thinking about the laundry you were going to do, the gourmet meal you were going to cook for dinner, the online shopping for your mother’s birthday that you won’t be getting to. If you are half of a couple you can probably entertain the thought that *maybe* one or more of these chores was done in your absence, maybe you’ll come home to a cleaned shower and a pot of bubbling beef stew – it totally could happen! Now sure, we both know that your significant other is a lazy good for nothing who spent the evening lounging on the couch watching “What not to Wear” and starting yet another craft project that she will never finish. (Hi Joe!) But this could be your night! Maybe the Tivo broke down!

But for us singletons the dream was dead at the get go. The cleaning, the cooking, the hooking up of electrical equitment, the killing of bugs, the decorating, the social planning, the wearing of the pants (and the lying on the couch with my hand down them), the bringing home of the bacon? ALL ME. (except when my mom visits). When I get home at 9:30 I’m lucky to get through one chore before I want to curl up with a pint of premium ice cream. Of course, as a single girl I also can’t buy ice cream. If I had a live in boyfriend I could pretend that he was going to eat most of the ice cream and thus justify purchasing it in large quantities because he has a really big appetite. This same logic would also allow me to buy bratwurst and bourbon by the case. If Hagen-daz and Maker’s Mark go out of business this year you can blame my dry spell (and my amazing self control).

Next time you look at your significant other and say, “It’s your turn to clean the refrigerator and tweeze my eyebrows!” try to remember that I am having that conversation with a chinchilla and his reply is always the same, “Shut up and get me another banana chip you tired old maid.”

A PSA for My Adult Readers

First I’d like to say, Congragulations on making it to adulthood! As you’ve probably already noticed it’s pretty sweet here, we get to stay out past our bedtime and drink booze and it has been at least 6 months since someone called me a doodyhead. But like all of our freedoms this paradise ain’t free (you don’t get your habeus corpus without a little waterboarding).

The following rules are not suggestions or nice to haves – the’re actually requirements for being the kind of person who isn’t classified as a huge douche, so pay attention.

1. Adults return people’s phone calls and emails
2. Adults say “Thanks you” when they receive a gift (preferably in writing)
3. Adults arrive on time for appointments regardless of how casual the commitment
4. Adults remember and acknowledge the birthdays of family and close friends

If you’re “bad at” some of the things on this list that’s ok – everyone has challenges in life but, as I said, these are not optional skills, this is your job. When you’re bad at your job you either get better or get fired. So you need to be working on getting it together and in the mean time you need to be apologizing profusely when you fail at any of these.

Tomorrow we’ll return to your regularly scheduled mildly humorous blog posting.

In Search of a $200 Piece of Ass

This Sunday I engaged in that most New York of hobbies – shopping. I was in dire need of new jeans (my favorite pair having finally succumbed to the weight of carrying my ass around at least twice a week for 2+ years) and had decided to allow my usually frugal self to splurge on a pair priced at over $40. I don't normally even allow myself to try on expensive jeans on the off chance that my ass would look so hot that I would no longer be able to live within the confines of The Gap and all hope I had of saving my money to one day purchase a home would be lost. But on Sunday I was brave and decided that a true New Yorker should at least know what a $150 pair of jeans look like so after a stop at Lucky Jeans (where I had the sales clerk hold a pair of fairly hot $110 pants for me) I sauntered over to Bloomingdales and quickly gathered all of their denim offerings in a 3x3 dressing room.

There are a lot of ugly expensive jeans out there. In an effort to make my fitting room task more manageable I decided to cap my jean cost at $200 and so did not try on any of the pairs that cost more than an ipod but my general feeling about the $100 and above realm is that women are suckers. 7 for all Mankind, Joe's Jeans, AG jeans – all of them let me down. I was fairly impressed with the offerings of Chip and Pepper and True Religion but no where near $196 worth of impressed. The main issue with all of these jeans was my ass crack. While makers of jeans for commoners have finally dialed their rise setting from the Patriot Bill sponsored, "I Got a Crack Just Like the Liberty Bell" ultra low to a more modest "Mmmm hipbones" the seamstresses at the posh sweatshops haven't gotten the memo ("The Homeland Security Terror Alert level has been lowered from Yellow to Orange, Ladies: PUT IT AWAY"). So most of my time in the Bloomie's dressing room was spent using all of my upper body strength to yank each pair of jeans into waist territory – most of the time with no success. Considering the recent spat of celebrity underwear raids I would advise all jean companies to offer their clientele back up exposure protection in the form of jeans that actually cover the wearer's ass.

Besides the discovery that designer jeans are not offering enough coverage to be worth the cost I also made one less happy find. It turns out that I don't really have an ass. I'm not sure how I got to be 29 without noticing this but my first instinct it to play the denial card. I am not one of those apple shaped girls whose skinny legs lead up to a flat behind hidden under a few rolls of jelly. I am decidedly pear shaped and you would think such a designation would grant its owner a nice plump tookus free of charge. No such luck. Regardless of my weight my lower body is pretty much all thigh. And so while I have ample flesh to squeeze into the behinds of expensive denim none of it forms into the kind of mounds that Sir Mix-a-Lot would croon over. From the floor up Im's pretty much little foot, calf, knee, thigh, more thigh, dark meat as far as the eye can see, GOD DAMN GIRL, relatively tiny waist -- this combo does not drop dead jeans make.

I did eventually buy that first pair of jeans from Lucky (Classic Rider fit) and I feel good in them. The jeans themselves are likely not worthy of their $110 price tag but after 3 hours in dressing rooms I was willing to pay that price just to get a subway ticket home.

Mo' Mo Mo' Problems

I know everyone was hoping that I'd be bringing you a hairy November and I'm sorry to disappoint but I will not be participating in Movember. It's not that I don't love the prostate, or even that I'm a little jealous of not having a prostate of my very own (I hear they're lovely). It's just that I know exactly how it would go if I were to grow a moustache…

Day 1

Time Spent drawing stubble on upper lip with eyeliner pencil: 30 seconds

Was stalked all day by quizzical looks and raised eyebrows, it's like the world has never seen a girl taking her au natural upper lip out for a walk before. Am saddened at the sexism in our society. Spent evening drowning my sorrows in Keystone and Nascar (suddenly finding both as underrated as the magnum).

Day 5

Time spent penciling in the peach fuzz: 2 minutes

I am happy to report that the mo is coming is great. It's just a wee mo right now but I see the potential for a cozy lipwarmer in a few days time, and with the weather we've been having I know I picked the right month to grow a protective layer. I don't want to seem too cocky but I've also been noticing a few heads turn my way when I'm out and about – you know what they say, the lads just can't say no to a tash.

Day 8

Time spent penciling peach fuzz for the 5^th day in a row: 10mins

Time spent agonizing over slow moustache growth and just how badly this reflects on my femininity: half an hour

Genetics is a cruel science. No matter how many times I try to draw on the full bushy moustache that would make my daddy (a mo man himself) proud I always come out of the bathroom looking like a high school freshman with overly defined pecs. I curse my sparsely haired German roots.

Day 13

Time spent fluffing the sea of fur that seems to have sprouted overnight: 5 minutes

Time spent glued to the mirror in awe: 2 hours

My prayers have finally been answered and all I can say is Halle-freaking-lujah this morning as I put pencil to skin I found the luscious strands easily pulled from the point, it's like my lips walked right out of an Herbal Essences commercial.

Day 15

Time spent contemplating a new do: 45mins

Now that facial hair is coming in broad strokes I'm starting wonder about style – one can only get away with the feral mo for as long as the shock of the new look lasts, after that people begin to expect a little panache. I'm thinking it's time someone brought back The Belvedere.

Day 17

Time spent lovingly combing my mane of lip hair: 30mins

This morning on the subway two men sat down on either side of me, one was tall and lanky with a sexy mess of bed head and the other had a sprinkling of freckles and a boyish grin that melted my underwear clean off. Both of them could not get enough of the 'stache. They spent the entire commute petting it and cooing my name. I don't want to get my hopes up but it looks like the mo could be the love catalyst I've been looking for!

Day 20

Time spent trying to resist picking up the washcloth and freeing myself of this hypnotic nose skirt: 53.4mins

I don't know what to do. All around me I see men walking away from families, jobs and really deserving sports teams to devote their lives to me and my mo. Of course I'm flattered but between my nightly talk show and the calendar shoot I just don't have time to give all of my followers the hours with me that they crave. I'm so disheartened by the challenges of leading a cult that I wonder if it can really be worth it….

Day 24

Time spent wringing tears from my sodden 'stache: 33mins

I'm sure by now you've all read about the stock market crash. I just want to say that when this month started I obviously underestimate the combined power of my god given charisma when gilded by a crumb catcher. I only wanted to make the world a safer place for prostates; I had no idea how dangerous this road would be.

Day 30, 11:30pm

Time spent scrubbing eyeliner off of my upper lip: 10mins

Well it's over. I've washed my face raw but black eyeliner will always live as a stain on my soul. I'm sorry for the disaster that I have wrought. I'm sorry for the marriages that will never recover, the crops left to rot in the fields and, of course, for the re-breakup of the Backstreet Boys (Private to Nick and AJ in LA: bros before hos with mos). I have thrown out my eyeliner pencil and will be a liquid liner only girl for here on out – I think it's clear that I can't be trusted with anything else. Men, please go back to your wives, your jobs, your bands -- the heaven you thought you'd find in the warm hug of my mo is not a reality. Girls, please heed my warning: There are good reasons for the taboo against female facial hair, wax it, nair it, shave it, do whatever you have to do – and stay away from the pencil.

I love the prostate but I can't risk the downfall of life as we know it -- please funnel your generous donations in the directions of my mo-brother Mike (donate here).