Rocking the Suburbs

Long ago in a lifetime far far away I owned a car. It was a cute used 97 black Jetta that I did not name because I am not the car naming type. I did, however, place a small sticker on the rear window proclaiming, “I am a fucking genius” because I am the arrogant geek type; also the tempting fate type who worried from time to time about the irony of someone spotting that sticker among the mangled wreckage of my cute car and (slightly less cute) blood soaked body. Luckily, I avoided that chagrined fate, but just barely. As everyone knows, cars are killing machines. But when you’re living in the Silicon Valley they are a necessary evil without which one could not attend concerts with the cool kids in San Francisco or, you know, get to work. All the same I mostly hated my car.

The worst part about owning a car is the constant fear that it will break down and cost at least $700 to fix (at the time $700 was basically all of the money I could muster if I sold my computer equipment and every single pair of shoes in my closet). The Jetta was theoretically reliable and really didn’t break down hardly at all but you wouldn’t know that from the status of the check engine light. That little bitch was blaring orange and angry for at least 50% of the time that I owned the car. It would snap on at the first sign of reduced tire pressure, the second you were due for an oil change or any time the car got a little chilly. It goes without saying (though I didn’t realize this until months after purchasing the vehicle) that the Jetta is a product made exclusively for bitchy high maintenance sorority girls and it seems the car itself was programmed to adopt the personality of its target customer. I think once or twice the check engine light came on specifically to request that I pour a little Smirnoff Ice on the engine block.

(A brief aside. Expert advice from my genius mechanic brother whose phone would ring every time I saw a flicker of orange on my dash: “For year and years people went without a check engine light and everything was mostly fine. If you don’t hear a noise or have problems driving stop calling me. Its fine.”)

The second worst thing about owning a car is having to park the beast. I suppose this is mostly a non-issue in the country and suburbs but in the San Francisco Bay Area it is a nightmare. You drive around and around the same blocks only to eventually find a spot and then spend 30-40 minutes cursing yourself for proving the “women can’t parallel park” theory thus personally setting back feminism about 75 years. Then, you get out of the car and walk up and down the street 4 times reading every little bit of signage looking for any indication that this is actually a legal spot which is near impossible to believe because certainly if it were legal someone would have parked here already. The rest of the evening is divided equally between the following thoughts, “Gee I wonder if my car has been towed yet,” and “Golly, I imagine my stereo has certainly been stolen by now.”

When I decided to move to New York City I shed a tear as I waved goodbye to uncrowded beaches and fresh produce in February and friends and family but was practically gleeful as I bid bon voyage to the world of cars. I greeted the subway with a grin and have been happily riding all over creation for a mere $2.25 ever since. People in NY complain endlessly about the subway (“not enough trains at 2am.” “crazy expectation that I ride a shuttle bus instead of a train.” “$2.25! That’s insane! I could buy half a bagel for that!” ) but this is mostly because complaining is fun and because, frankly, New Yorkers have no idea how good they have it. I would consider the subway a crazy gift from god even at $5 a ride (but don’t tell that to the MTA).

My one fear about going carless was lost car trip opportunities but I figured that with the amount of money I’d save by not paying for a car or insurance or repairs or parking tickets I could certainly afford to rent a car to drive out of the city from time to time but obviously this rarely ever actually happens. I’m just too cheap. Could I afford the occasional weekend car rental? Sure. But do I really need to spend that money? Couldn’t I just have Fresh Direct deliver my case of $7 wine and vat of nonfat greek yogurt and spend the weekend making Pinot Noir smoothies instead of breathing in the great outdoors? After all, that plan is cheaper AND I don’t have to worry about convincing my boyfriend, Geoff, to be my designated driver. So I mostly stay carless but on the happy occasion when a Chevy Aveo or some other subpar approximation of an automobile should happen upon my curb it is blissful in ways that non New Yorkers should rightfully giggle over.

Just a few weeks ago Geoff was suddenly in possession of a company car for 12 whole hours. He immediately contacted me with the happy news that we could go to Target (!!) or Ikea (!!!) or EVEN a real fucking grocery store (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). Glee. Visions of 5 foot wide aisles and bins full to the brim with bulk oatmeal danced in my head. We hightailed it to Fairway which is about 2 miles from our house but somehow also about 8000 miles from a subway station. We bought lots of heavy things that we possibly did not need because we had A CAR, so why not?

Even here in Gotham a car is freedom. You can go anywhere, carry anything. At the jangle of keys my mind reels with the possibility of adventure; and yet the only adventure I come up with is a trip to Target. This is obviously a sort of sad commentary on my own imagination. I blame a childhood of unfulfilled dreams of hanging out at the mall just like every other kid in America.

I grew up in one of the smallest places one can live and moved to the largest and somehow the one place where Bishop California and New York City intersect is in the lack of access to big box stores. As a guilty liberal I of course enjoy snobbishly sauntering down Park Slope’s 5th Avenue (dodging baby carriages all the way) to do my shopping in a myriad of tiny independently owned stores but there is still some magic to the idea of buying milk and goulashes and potting soil all under one roof. The bounty of it all is undeniably appealing even if it’s carbon footprint and forced march towards homogeny should make me turn up my nose. (That last sentence is the pinnacle of hoity-toity blogging, I should quit right now either in embarrassment or because I will never be able to top this moment.).

The suburbs have been maligned to a point where by now we all know that we’re supposed to hate them. And I do! Mostly! I hate getting stuck on the median of some crappy frontage road somewhere between the Hampton Inn that my company stuck me at and the shopping center where my only access to dinner lives simply because suburban road planners never seem to considered the possibility that I would want to walk between two establishments located within 500 feet of one another. I hate that my eventual dinner will certainly be smothered in cheese-food and available unchanged from Mobile Alabama to Enfield Connecticut to Farmers Branch Texas. I hate the repetitive “Home Depot, Walmart, Panera Bread, Best Buy, Home Depot, Walmart....” pattern of the freeway off ramps from town to town to town. But oh, secretly, I love the excess. What can I say? Deep down beyond the part of me that’s a small town daughter of hippies and way past the part that’s a New Yorker, down there, I am still an American. Bring on the super sized vat of butter substitute.

Strangely enough for all my excitement over pushing a gigantic cart through a gigantic store full of so much stuff I often come out almost empty handed. I am forever standing outside of Costco with only three items (toilet paper, black beans and dry pasta) in my rented trunk because really, how could I ever eat my way through a dozen boxes of Mac and Cheese? And in the mean time where would I store them? And even standing in front of a shelf full of low prices I’m still often too cheap to make many purchases, it’s like I stand there thinking, “Oh sure, $5 is probably a good deal for a headband with a huge silk flower glued to it but think how great it would be if headbands were FREE!” And then I go home.

The big box stores, for all of their excess, never seem to stock what I’m looking for. And so at the end of every visit there is a panic moment when I wonder if there is something I missed, something I need, because who knows when I’ll have a car again. So I muse about if I need towels, after all, they’re a fabulous deal, and towels don’t go bad, perhaps I should have a few in reserve? Not to get too melancholy here but one has to wonder what exactly I’m shopping for. If not headbands or towels or Mac and Cheese then must I assume that I’m living the big American cliche -- forever looking to fill a hole unfillable by wheels of cheese or 12 packs of socks?

The truth about the subway is that it goes almost everywhere. Almost. And almost is really everywhere you need to go. It goes to all of the cool concert venues and to offices and playgrounds and beaches and farmers markets and to my house. But every time I reach the end of the line and stare off into the distance or sneak a look at Google Maps and realize just how small my little New York City world is the American in me, car hater or not, yearns for the open road. The truth about the open road, these days at least, is that it mostly goes to places you don’t need at all.

Cinderella Goes to Vietnam

Like all women, I sort of believe that if I could just find the right dress the boy would fall in love with me, I'd be crowned queen, and everyone I went to junior high with would be forced to sign an affidavit affirming that, despite what they may have said in 1991, I am actually very very cute. So when I found out that in Vietnam custom tailored clothing was as pleantiful as noodles in my soup, as four year old girls selling ugly soviener fans, as plastic bags floating like sad jellyfish in the Mekong River, I was thrilled for 30 seconds before I became terrified. What no one ever tells Cinderella is that no amount of tulle will make her thighs smaller. And Cindy is never expected to design her own dress -- the birds do all of the hard work!

Of course, I arrived in Hoi An with a plan. While I'd googled my netbook to death looking for advice on tailors and fantasized for weeks about the outfits I'd create what I actually really needed was a new suit. I figured the most practical thing to do was to have something made at a couple of different tailors and pick the one I liked best to help me suit up. Hoi An has (for once I am not exagerating) over 200 tailor shops and they mostly seem like duplicates of each other with the same double breasted jackets, flowy sundresses and business trousers hanging in the entry way. There are a couple of higher end places that are working harder than most to cater to Western tastes with uniformed staff and free bottles of water. This forced me to struggle over the battle of best price vs. possibly better quality. The fancy pants store was charging $45 for a pair of fancy pants and $15-$50 for a dress shirt -- basically JCrew sale prices. The smaller shop with just the owner hanging around in jeans to serve you charged $25 for trousers and $10 for shirts -- not quite yard sale cheap but a reasonable improvement. Ordering pants and shirts was fairly simple -- I started with what they had hanging in the windows and modified to match the vision of the Bannana Republic Martin Fit pants that make my thighs seem less thunderous than usual. Happily, save the very cute custom tag and buttons, the cheapie prototype pants are just as good as the fancies and I place my order for pinstripes at $75 cheaper than expected.

It's after the practical shopping is done that things fall apart. This shopping is fun and I love clothing; so why not get some dresses? Some shirts? Some casual tops? Do I need a sequined formal gown with a mile long train? Cause they have those! ROYAL BALL HERE I COME! I suppose I didn't really need anything other than a suit, but the thing is -- I have not been shopping in over 2 months. This is probably the longest I've gone without a new shirt since high school when the mall was a 4 hour drive. Add to this the fact that I have worn the same shoes everyday since February 8th. Add to that the fact that in Vietnam I am a millionaire and you have the recipe for my new wardrobe.

If only I had even a smidge of Project Runway in my DNA (or magical little birdies in my hotel room) things might have been easier. But instead I stand in front of bolts of beautiful fabric completely perplexed. How can I look at 65 pages of dreams and dollars and diagrams and see a technological wonder but be unable to translate yards of silk into anything more complicated than a table cloth?

Fashion is too much like dancing. One minute you're smiling at the mirror or in the arms of the prince shaking whatever you've decided might be your groove thing; the next you're wondering -- Why are my hands in the air? Why does this neckline have five layers of ruffles? Why has my foot been taken over by epyleptic seizers? Why does this dress have a huge bow over my butt? When you think things through you start to worry that you look ridiculous. And you DO! We all look ridiculous constantly -- the only reasonable outfit is brown sweats and a baggy tshirt but nobody (save the occasional C# programmer) would ever actually wear such a thing.

As I try to design casual seperates the thoughts that fly through my head are suddenly imbicile -- "I LIKE DRESSES!" "RED IS A NICE COLOR!" There are a lot of red dresses in the world and the tailor wants more from me than "can you make me look pretty?" What I would have given for one of the hundreds of JCrew catalouges that are right now overflowing the basket where my neighbor is trying desperately to stuff all of my mail. As I try to mentally construct a dress that is pretty but interesting, unique but likely to look good on my bottom heavy hourglass the tailor hovers over me. "They are very nice here," she says, holding a tape measure around my boobs. She is the third Hoi An tailor to comment on my very western breasts which almost makes up for the free flowing comments about how enormous my thighs. With all the pressure to make myself into Cinderella and no Fairy Godmother in sight I'll take whatever compliments I can get.

Despite the trepidation over fashion design I still get completely out of control.

For roughly $325 I bought:

• 2 pairs of dress pants
• 1 3 piece suit
• 3 button down shirts
• 4 dresses
• 2 pairs of shoes

The speed that the tailors in this town work is a project management dream. An order for a suit placed at 7pm results in a fitting at 3pm the next day. I'm starting to doubt The Mythical Man Month -- if you need a baby in 4 weeks you should at least look into getting 9 Vietnamease tailors to attempt to put one together (but beware, rush order will incure additional fees and at the last minute they may have to substitute a polyester blend for actual fingernails).

The tailors custom fit each piece of clothing at least twice which is great except that they want you to have an educated opinion on things like fit and cut and how to fix them. This is hard for someone whose fashion vocabulary is as limited as my own. The moment of terror arrived when I'm standing in front of a mirror thinking "RED ALERT! The prince will never ask me to dance in this!" but have no ability to explain the problem. The tailor made exactly what was designed by Klemm Concepts, a sort of awkward shirt that despite its bright yellow polkadots manages to scream 54 year old woman who became a grandma much too early in life. How to translate such a problem into something a seamstress can act on seems impossible so I'm left hoping someone at the factory has a wand and a spare can of Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo.

The second dress I pick up is a jersey number that I figure will make a good beach cover up for our last couple of weeks in Thailand and a decent brunch outfit for summer 2010 once we return to mimosas in Park Slope. After two fittings I take it home only to find that when I shake and shimmy my ample bosoms my bra peeks out the top. Geoff thinks this is no problem but you can't go by him -- he's constantly trying to convience me that a bra alone is evening wear and if you'd like a sweeping view of Crackville you can stop by his ass anytime. But the lesson learned is that I need to figure out what I want and how to vocalize it before I take anything else out of the shop. So, despite fears that the tailor will hate me and that I don't actually know what I'm talking about anyway I muster up the courage to have sleeves redone, waistlines moved and jackets lined in electric blue.

And I look good! I can't promise that I'll be queen by July (the clothing has been shipped by sea and will not ride the tide into Brooklyn until sometime in June) but I'm at least hoping to retain the prince that I've got (who had some new shorts designed and for now is crackville free) and return to the real world looking like the prettiest thing in the boardroom and if anyone from Home Street Middle School wants to eat some crow, please, drop me and email. Cinderella never had to design her own ball gowns or find her own glass slipper, or figure out why the website has been down since 3am. Cinderella never wore pinstripes. Maybe I could teach her a thing or two.

Cambodia: If You Don't Buy From Me, I Cry

I love kids. I love them so much that if you're under 10 years old and I meet you on the subway in NYC or waiting for the bus in Bangkok I will smile and make funny faces and wave and blow kisses. So kids, if you're wondering who that crazy lady was -- it was me.

I am also not above buying your love. This is why I do not even consider visiting my niece and nephew without presents in hands. I find that children under the age of 5 are very easily bought off so for the price of a latte I can purchase at least 3 kisses and an I love you. Deal. Similarly, I have a long standing rule that I'm buying whatever the kids are selling -- from lemonade to Girl Scout cookies to raffles tickets for a cord of wood -- here's my dollar. In fact, in the case of Girl Scout cookies, here's my wallet.

Cambodia has shot my approach to children straight to hell. The kids are everywhere, waving back at me, saying crazy precocious things in better English than I speak, selling me postcards. And there's the rub. A girl can only buy so many postcards before her $70/day budget is completely blown.

I make the perfect target but despite my nature I've been breaking little hearts all over the country. In Phnom Phen the kids are all selling books. Copies of The Killing Fields pour from laundry baskets carried by 8 year olds at the Khmer restaurants and outside of the national palace and I was personally offered every single copy. Ultimately though, Geoff was the real target. Sitting at dinner on our last night in Phenon Phen he was hit up first by a 14 year old Obama fan (how awesome is it to be proud of our president while abroad? SUPER awesome) who he managed to fend off. Then came an 8 year old dressed in a smart button down shirt, red jams and a pair of pink crocs. He had all of the tactics down. "You, buy a book." "Buy this book, everyone loves it." "I have not read it but all of the tourists think it is great." "Why not? You don't like to read?" "Ok, you eating dinner, I let you eat and then I come back." And to me, "If he does not buy a book you buy a book." Impressive move sir.

And as soon as the last of our Angkor beer, amok and loc lac was deposited in our tummies he was back. "Hello, ok, you done. You buy book now." This finally devolved into a Rock, Paper, Scissors challenge and Geoff cannot resist any opportunity to gamble. So we now own a copy of The Killing Fields ($6) with a very nice cover and inside pages that appear to be photocopied on a machine from 1988. I also bought a set of 12 postcards for $2 because I am a sucker and also because one has a picture of kids and a buffalo and the back says "Children with Buffles" -- No one can resist Buffles, not even a cold hearted snake like myself.

The kid salesman mob at the front of the Angkor Wat temples means business. They swarm you as soon as you exit your tuktuk with cries of "Laaaaadeeeee! You want cold drink?" "You want bracelet?" "Five for 1 dollar!!" The first English phrase learned by all Cambodia children is "No, Thank You." The salesmanship is also bordering on stalking. "I remember you, you come back you buy from me." "You come back you want cold drink, you only buy from me, or else." "You not buy from me I cry." No pressure. Thankfully, these are all idle threats, but as soon as some kid comes through with the tears I will probably lose my resolve, give her all of my money, and catch the next flight back to the job that pays for my food/ragamuffin support fund.

Billy Mays is alive and well in the hearts of Cambodia. "You want wooden flute?" "It has carving!" "But wait there's more! Carving of bird!" "And an all bamboo woven case!" "BUT WAIT!" "All this for ONLY $1!!!!" "You buy flute now!"

Sadly (or for my budget, luckily) the children selling things outside of the temples here have failed miserably in understanding the needs of their customers.

Things Being Sold By Children Outside of Angkor Wat

• A million "silk" scarfs
• Gold painted Buddha figurines
• Pieces of bamboo folded into the shape of a grasshopper
• Photocopies of the Lonely Planet
• Water

Things I Wanted to Buy Outside of Angkor Wat

• A shower
• A battery powered fan
• A huge chunk of ice
• Gatoraid
• A parasol
• Moister wicking underwear
• Water

Those water salesman made a killing.

If I weren't committed to 2 more months of carrying all of my belongs on my back this would be a shoppers paradise. Tshirts for $5, scarves for $1, piles of silk pillow cases for $2. (Aside: Thailand is just as good and in our last few days there in May the spending spree is ON. Place your orders for knock off Calvin Klein panties and generic Viagra ($9/15 pills!!!)). Besides the pack of postcards and a tuktuk full of bottled water I'm purchase free. Good for the budget, but obviously I'll be back in Brooklyn come June lying in Prospect park wishing some toddler would waddle by with bottles of water and a $5 t-shirt covered in engrish.

This Was Supposed to Be a Home Depot Rant But I Mostly Just Ramble

When folks contemplate life in the big city they think of vaguely offensive art instillations and great Ethiopian food and bars that stay open all night. They do not think about the day when an itchy green thumb will leave them with a burning desire to go to Home Depot. Despite the general lack of space for big box stores there are actually multiple Home Depots in the greater New York City area including one on 23rd St in Manhattan where the door men wear company themed three piece suits complete with a bright orange stripe down the side of each pant leg -- this was my father's favorite thing about New York during his one, and likely only, visit. My trip, however, was to the Home Depot on Northern Blvd in Queens where the large parking lot and numerous car dealerships within spitting distance could lead one to mistake the city for the suburbs. But make no mistake, this incarnation of the big orange building supply store is nothing if not New York City gruff. I walked to the Home Depot which took about 30 minutes and is certainly something that I would not have done if I resided in the suburbs since the roadways would be sidewalkless. Score one for urban living.

When I arrived at Home Depot there were no carts in sight. I hiked around the parking lot, peaked behind the decking display and walked through the front doors trying to look all "hey, I need a cart, someone point me to the cart section." all in vain and eventually was reduced to talking to a Home Depot employee. She directed me back out to the parking lot where I was forced to stalk customers coming out of the exit doors. I rejected the first abandoned cart because it had no back and I could not picture myself successfully pushing this peninsula of a vehicle down the store aisles without ending up buried under a tumbling pile of plants, fertilizer and terracotta at my first hard stop. I spied a cart without any obvious bodily harm in a distant corner of the lot and managed to seize it before another desperate shopper pounced. It turned out this cart was also broken -- Home Depot clearly does not value its Queen's customer base-- but only in the child seat section and even if I had brought a toddler with me I'd have surly traded it for a cart by now anyway. I entered the store.

After stocking up on red yellow and orange dahlias, daisies and ranunculuses(who loves a theme? I do! I do!) I headed indoors for the more practical needs -- pots and soil. The far wall of the Garden Center that clearly once had potting soil stacked up to the ceiling was completely empty, apparently the whole of New York City is gaga for gardening -- either that or someone had a lot of bodies to bury. Since I'm currently reading In Defense of Food and have learned that modern produce has fewer nutrients than produce from my mother's childhood (Seriously? Fuck you, apples.) likely at least partially due to the chemicals in modern fertilizers so I was totally prepared to spend vast quantities of money on organic soil but staring at the empty wall and contemplating a midweek return to the hell of Home Depot I would have gladly compromised on straight nitrogen and horse poop -- alas, no luck. You're likely thinking that surely some other, less evil, closer to home, retail business must be willing to sell me vast quantities of potting soil but you would be very very wrong. My best back up for Home Depot is buying my soil in 2lb quantities from the florist near home at a cost of 8 billion dollars. Home Depot was also out of window boxes, small plastic planters and drainage dishes. Awesome.

When I arrived at the register the jade plant that I had hoped to brighten up my living room with was pricetagless. Rather then burden herself with a price check the salesgirl told me to go back to the plant section on the other side of the store and find a plant with a label. I love a scavenger hunt, really, but I usually prefer that winning be rewarded with a better prize than "the opportunity to give a huge corporation $3 for a tiny plant." I located the jade plants and, behaving as is I were on The Amazing Race shoved aside other shoppers and dug through the display rejecting all of the 5 unmarked plants, I may have also whispered "train? choochoo? andale!" under my breath, it's all a little fuzzy now. Anyway I finally found a plant that was ready to buy and sprinted up to the checkout again pushing past other shoppers giving me the stink eye for cutting in line. $129 later I was exiting the store to throngs of shoppers looking to lay hands on my cart. Circle of Life, bitches.

Armed with way more flowers than one could carry I needed a ride home and since my one friend with a car was busy I was going to have to get this ride home from a complete stranger. I'll pause here for a moment while my country kin take a time out to wonder if I have any good stuff that they could lay claim to after my death. This being New York City I figured, correctly, that just outside of the exit (beyond the cart hungry hordes) would be 3 or 4 guys standing around asking people if they needed a ride home. My driver today was a large Hispanic man who could definitely kill me with his bare hands if he wanted to but I wasn't concerned until we got his car -- a White Ford Windstar minivan with a "Te Amo Jesus" license plate frame. Legit car services do not drive anything other than black town cars with ripped interior upholstery and 3x4 inch flags from African countries hanging from the rear view mirror. So even though my driver seemed like a nice enough guy (despite repeatedly calling me "baby") I sketched out a brief contingency plan involving a tumble out the side door to the relative safety of the asphalt should things take a turn for the worst. Luckily it never came to that, I arrived home both alive and without any road burns.

And now? My flowers and seeds and herbs are stuffed into their containers and we'd all be ready for spring if it weren't for the dreary weather that has, of course, taken over the city. At least I have an excuse to tromp around in my cute rain boots.

Random Recommends 10

Sharon's Chocolate Sorbet

Usually when i think about sorbet (more often then you might think, certainly more often than is considered normal) I think icy which isn't always a bad thing -- icy limes or pineapples are a fine treat on a hot day (or on a cold day spent in my apartment where the temperature is always set at "2pm on a sunny day in August") but icy doesn't work for every flavor. In particular I usually can't get my tongue wrapped around the concept of icy chocolate but my recent desire to lose 3lbs (yes, I'm a little insane) combined with my constant desire to eat chocolate ice cream lead me to Sharon. This sorbet is almost everything one could hope for in a frozen chocolate snack. It's sweet and earth and smooth and even.. creamy! I attribute this on the inclusion of coconut milk in the ingredients list which also brings a little fat to the table -- but even with this allowance a half cup serving is still only 100 calories of OCD dieting goodness.

Jason Anderson

This guy/band/guy with a band opened for Tilly and the Wall at the Knitting Factory on the 21st. Or, the be more accurate, they/he opened for the opening band for Tilly and the Wall. One of my biggest pet peeves about the indie music scene (after the pretension and the lack of concerts with seating) is the tendency for everyone to get a little overzealous about supporting new bands which forces me to spend upwards of 2 hours standing around impatiently listening to whining/screaming that is not the whining/screaming that I paid $15+ to be listening to and often results in a 8pm concert not letting out until well after midnight which is apparently not supposed to bother me because if I was truly a cool indie music listener I either wouldn't need sleep at all or would not have a job where the man makes me get up before 11am. But back to Jason. I made every effort to be super late for the Tilly and the Wall show so that I would not have to endure 2 openers but in my world "really late" actually means "almost an hour after the doors opened!" and since in the world of rock and roll "on time" means "at least 30 minutes after the posted start time" the first opener was only on their second song when I walked into the venue trying (likely in vain) not to look like the oldest person in the room. Thank God for my crazy obsession with promptness! Jason and the band were adorable. I know that as very serious rock and rollers "adorable" is probably not their goal but there is no other word. Their music is fun and happy and demands a lot of audience participation (I have never "lalala-ed" or "oh yeahed" as much as I did that night) and they have the most excited and cuddly kid playing tenor sax. Writing this I'm now wondering if i should be concerned about my desire to mother the entire band rather than jump their bones. Jason Anderson may be the harbinger of my old age. I still recommend getting down to his songs -- even if you have to do so from the rocking chair.

Hunter Wellingtons

A couple of months ago I noticed a troubling tear in the plastic coating of my Target rainboots. No longer water proof and ready for puddle jumping they had to be replaced. I was half tempted to order a new pair of novelty boots from Target since for $20 one can afford to go through a pair per year without much cause for complaint but then I remembered the stylish, knee high boots that an old coworker once wore on rainy spring days and my quest for a better boot began. I soon found out that I would have to really embrace my new Richie status if I was going to keep my feet dry in a pair of Hunters as the boots cost $98. Thus ensued a personal struggle of Hamlet-esque proportions. Was I really willing to spend ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS on rain boots? When I didn't yet own a house? When the media won't shut up about how bad the economy sucks and just how soon I'm likely to get laid off? Yes. I can happily report that the Richies have dryer, svelter, more content feet and calves. The rubber boots are so much sturdier than the plastic predecessors and the extra height somehow seems slimming and more mature. The fit on my foot is also much tighter than the Target alternative which makes the boots more practical for the amount of walking done in the typical NYC day (even if it's pouring rain). My only complaint about the wellingtons is that every time I pull them on I have to wonder why my lower legs are hugged so snuggly when the calves of other girls seem to be swimming in their boots. Do I have the largest calves in the world? Should Guinness be notified? Do you think I could make enough money off of this deformity and my upcoming TLC special to justify a second pair of Hunters in Navy?

Red Mango Yogurt topped with Pomegranate Seeds

Two low fat frozen desserts in the same post? Be not shocked -- my life is really just one never ending quest for an acceptable low calorie ice cream substitute periodically interrupted by the distractions of building software and gawking at really trashy television programs. Red Mango is one of the dozen or so Korean frozen yogurt chains that has cropped up after the Pinkberry craze took hold a year ago. I have eaten and enjoyed Pinkberry once in the past but do not know it well enough to declare Red Mango a taste improvement but I do know that a small Red Mango is ~$3 which seems crazy cheap to me whereas I remember being slightly outraged at the cost of a small Pinkberry (but this was a year before I spent $100 on rain boots so it's possible that my idea of "crazy expensive" has evolved). The yogurt is creamy and a little sour and the pomegranate seeds burst and crunch satisfyingly and the whole concoction was dinner on Thursday for only 90 calories. I am considering a blanket replacement of all dinner with Red Mango until I'm rid of that blasted 3lbs, I may even go for 5.

Why I Do Not (Yet) Own a Bike Even Though Everyone In NYC Is Legally Required To Purchase One

I have wanted to buy a bike for almost a year now. One of my main reasons for wanting a bike is that I own a pair of kelly green bike shorts that make my ass look amazing and I currently have no way to justify wearing these outside of the house. Tiny tight shorts worn to the grocery store say, "look at this ass, I am slutty and desperate for attention!" but worn while biking the message is "I need short shorts because I am a cyclist, I did not even notice how hot my ass looked but now that you mention it I am pretty smoking. Jealous?" I also like to picture myself riding over to Amy's to eat Columbian chicken and watch Project Runway followed by a huge bowl of ice cream which I totally earned because of the one million or so calories that I will have most certainly burned off in the 2 mile bike ride or maybe even biking to the stores of kindly old local merchants to purchase sundries for my evening meal. I do not like to picture myself sweating in the 1000 degree heat of New York City in July or lugging a bike up and down subway stairs or getting hit by a car so I have suppressed all of these images and will likely continue to do so up until 2 days after I bring the bike home.

Sadly there is no bike fairy willing to trade a bicycle for a manila envelope full of cash under the cover of darkness while I sleep. Instead I am forced to confront the daunting task of shopping for a bike. You'd think I'd love this part even more then filling a basket with flowers and a baguette and ringing my little tinkly bell at the bouncing happy children who veer ever so slightly onto the path of destruction by stepping off the sidewalk and into the bike lane. I do love shopping. If you ever need a partner for scouring the internet in search of a leather handbag to offset the awful violet bridesmaid dress that your cousin in forcing you into so that you can send the message to all wedding attendees that big butt bow or not you have style and flair that cannot be contained I'm your girl. If you want to obsessively search the sales rack of every Anthropologie in the city for the 75% off dress of your dreams I'll be there ready to serve a piping hot knuckle sandwich to any biddy who dares get in your way. But bike shopping? This is not about opinion, this is about facts, this is about the best bike, this about hydrolics and shocks and not ending up dead or scammed. This is not fun times.

My current bike shopping method of choice is to go on craiglist and randomly look at bikes for sale in New York City and then become completely overwhelmed by all of the high tech biking terms like "hybrid" and "bottom bracket" and "pedals" and then decide that I am too uninformed to buy a bike and then wonder if feeling stupid justifies eating some ice cream.

I have not actually looked at any bikes in person because that would require talking to bike people and the biggest problem with purchasing a bike is trying to envision having a conversation about the bike with someone who knows a lot about bikes. Every version of this vignette ends with me paying too much for a crappy bike and hanging my head in shame as I exit the store to a deafening peal of laughter from the sales staff who will probably follow me out on their bikes, circling around me and squirting packages of that awful looking athlete gu crap at me (aside: this is the most convincing evidence that athletic types should not be trusted, all those free calories that could be consumed in any delicious way -- chocolate cake, french fries, duck confit, etc and they choose this? concerning.).

Sales Clerk:Hi girl who looks completely lost in here, let me show you a super expensive bike!
Brianna: ok... umm I don't know anything about bikes.
SC: Perfect! I have just the thing! Novice cyclists are legally only allowed to ride this one bike. it costs $3500.
B: Seems kind of pricey, especially since a subway pass is only two bucks...
SC: All bikes cost that much except the ones that suck and will get you hit by a car, but hey, it's your cranium, maybe you can get by on a nice ass in a pair of bike shorts alone but I wouldn't bet on it.
B: oh.
SC: I'm actually a little concerned about you buying a bike, are you aware that uncool people like you aren't really supposed to own bikes? I could lose my license just for talking to you.

Let's be realistic about the future of this bike. I'm not planning on entering bike races or attending elaborate protests against cars, even though I know that these are the two most common uses for bikes. I plan on doing a lot of staring at the bike in agony thinking about how bad I look riding it and trying to gauge exactly how much people laugh at me (a lot? only almost a lot? have any people suffocated due to being unable to stop laughing at me?) and one of its main functions will be cluttering my entryway and perhaps starting up a romance with my neighbor's bike. They will likely have a lot in common as neither gets out very often, they can talk about just how lazy and inept their owners are. So really how hard can filling this open bike position be? Must I really have conversation? Or research? Or pay crazy sums of money? Won't almost any old bike do?

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Third Party Resources

It's rare to find a New Yorker without some kind of biking equipment, if it's only the biker shorts! Exercising equipment that doubles as a means of travel are extremely popular in cities. Why waste time with a home gym set when you could just ride your bike to work?

Finally, An Update on My Bras

You may have noticed that over the past 9 months I've become quite the Richie. I've spent over $100 on one pair of jeans and recently purchased boots for $175! I am even considering replacing my now ripped $20 Target rain boots with a $100 pair of Hunters. In the past I have often refused to purchase a full priced item on principle alone mostly because I get more satisfaction from the feeling of getting a good deal than the feeling of having purchased something I really love. And while I still religiously stalk the JCrew online sale (where someone needs to mark down the cashmere henleys below $100) I also have cautiously begun trying on clothing that isn't even on the sale rack and I have to admit that sometimes pricier goods really are nicer. As I have commented in the past the most troubling and unrewarding world of shopping is that of bras. There is no other places where sizes vary so drastically, where pretty almost always equals nonfunctional, where nothing ever seems to go on sale. And of course there is no more well scrutinized female body part then the breast. And thus is created a horribly unsatisfying shopping experience. Last week, partially inspired by new willingness to spend real money on items of clothing, I decided to finally give the expensive bras a chance to wow me so on Friday I tentatively jumped on Oprah's Good Ship Pricey Bra by taking a trip the the Upper West Side's famous brassier-ery, The Town Shop.

After rushing out of work at 5:15 due to the shop's ridiculously early closing time I walked into the store and pretty much announced to the entire staff that I hated all of my bras which, I assume, is exactly what they want to hear -- I figured why not play into the myth and get the full experience? A young latina sales girl had me in a dressing room and naked from the waist up within five minutes of entering the shop which is about the time I realized that all of my rushing had overpowered my 10 hours old deodorant. I assume that sales ladies at a lingerie shop see a lot of breasts and are therefore unimpressed with the idiosyncrasies of my own boobs (which are completely normal. Seriously! Don't look at me like that!) but is it safe to also assume that they are A-OK with an end of day musk? Let's just hope there's not some secret bra fitter blog out there with a Friday entry about a particularly aromatic customer. Anyway -- they do a lot of staring at your boobs in the Town Shop. If you're the kind of girl who can't get comfortable in the large open dressing room in Filene's Basement or who shies away from the mirror when getting out of the shower you might want to ingest a few shots of liquid courage or possibly a couple of Valium before taking off on your own bra shopping sojourn. La Chica de Bras now knows my breasts much more intimately than any of the boys who have been lucky enough to see them in the past few years and possible better than my OBGYN, my favorite bikini top and my future offspring put together.

They don't do any measuring at the Town Shop which I assume is supposed to make me feel more confident because these women are just so adept at fitting boobies into brassieres that measuring tapes are almost archaic but I would have felt more comfortable if the official assessment of my gifts were a bit more quantifiable. I was last measured at Bloomingdales in December of 05 where they downgraded my new post weightloss breasts from 34Ds to 32Cs which seemed about right to me. But over the last couple of years I've noticed a disturbing mass boob exodus from the confines of the 32C bras. In the morning everything will be fine, the bra comfortable, the sweater puppies contained, etc. And then, around noon, I'd glance downward and notice that a jail break was in progress. Somehow I'd have half a boob in and half out thus creating the illusion of 3 or 4 boobs where once there were 2 (And sadly more boobs is somehow not better than fewer). So clearly there was a problem and despite ample evidence to the contrary it seemed unlikely that my boobs were inflating as the day progressed.

I cannot deny that even without the reassuring comfort of numbers the bras that Lil' Miss Titsling brought back to my dressing room fit pretty well. For reasons that I am completely incapable of deducing she insisted on putting each bra on for me and behaved as if we were squeezing my barrel-like chest into a corset -- I believe at one point she had her foot up on a chair for leverage as she pulled the band around to the final hook. This show was wholly unnecessary as I was capable of easily hooking each bra without so much as a grunt. Perhaps other women feel better about getting all spend-y on bras if it seems that the store staff is seriously exerting themselves. The most concerning event was when the sales lady referred to my right breast as my "titty" which I'm trying to convince myself is a technical term.

At the end of the day I went in for the bra equivalent of buying every album ever released by a new favorite artist and purchased THREE (only vaguely grandma inspired) bras for a shocking $196. So the obvious question is do these new riggings increase my boobage stock by $200? Hard to say. I asked a coworker to check out my rack (it's a casual work environment.) and while she agreed that "they look good!" she claims to not have been regularly checking them out in the past and so could not offer a comparison. Clearly this girl is a huge liar. I can tell you one thing for certain -- there ain't no rocking on this ship. The girls are strapped in and immobile. I think this is generally a good thing.

In Case You're Wondering I Still Don't Own a Wii

Dear Nintendo,

Hi, How’s it going? I’m taking time to write to you today because I am a huge fan of your work, especially the work that involves a certain impish little plumber and also pretty much everything else. I have plenty of time to devote to writing this little piece of fandom because it’s not like I have any video games to play at home since apparently you have to be some sort of Svengali to acquire your latest technology despite the fact that “latest” in this context means “released over a year ago.” I realize that you may have initially chosen to under-manufacture your product in an effort to drive up demand and I respect your attempts to fiddle with the cogs of capitalism in this way but I am now wondering if the “increased demand leads to increased supply” principal has made if over the Pacific to Japan. It is time to solve this problem because seriously every time I so much as start talking about it with someone I get so angry that I consider punching things and normally when I need to do some punching I turn to video games but obviously that is not an option.

When the main routes to obtaining your product involve a sleeping bag and intimate contact between NYC sidewalks and my head or winning some sort of ill conceived radio contest which may or may not result in the death of most of your customer base I think it is clear that you have a project management problem. Luckily, I can help. You see I am naturally suited to organizing things and nagging people and, in emergency situations, bribery. Below I’ve detailed how things would go if you hired me to manage manufacturing and distribution of the Wii. You’ll notice that this plan ends with you making money which, I am assuming is a goal for your company. You may not be aware of this but typically you make more money if you sell your product to people as opposed to your current system which seems to consist of me waving money in your direction and you turning your nose up like you smelled a particularly bad fart.

1. You give me a Wii and set of all available games, controllers and do-dads so that I can be properly informed about the product that I now manage. I will probably need roughly a month of uninterrupted product research to complete this initial stage in my master plan.
2. You start making more Wiis. Way more then the estimated 13 daily that you now produce apparently by a team of highly trained snow leopards who build them by hand (paw?). Choosing an endangered species to construct your console, while certainly an innovative way too maintain product secrets, was probably your biggest business blunder. I would institute an assembly line based factory where humans operate huge machines capable of producing at least 300 units a day (probably more).
3. You ship the Wiis to stores. Specifically stores that intend to sell the product to consumers. I would recommend stores that sell other electronics and gaming products. Stocking Wiis at funeral parlors and grocery stores would be a lower priority but ultimately a long term goal.
4. Build pool, fill with gold coins, get naked, go swimming.

I hate to toot my own horn but I have to say that this is a rather brilliant plan and that my services are an awesome deal since I will consider being paid in games and sushi (both of which I’m pretty sure you already have lying around but if, by chance, there is some sort of games and/or sushi availability problem I think I’m up to the task of solving that one for you as well). Anyway, let me know soon if you’re interested or if you’d rather just continue disappointing fans until everyone ditches you for Playstation even though their product is both more expensive and more sucky.

Brianna

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.

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.

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 It'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.

Wii-diculous

As a good little Nintendo fangirl I’ve wanted a Wii for almost a year now but I’ve been self-righteously refusing to camp out on street corners, scour the black market or break into the houses of people willing to do such things and so have remained wii-less. While laziness played a part in my resistance I was also denying myself access to sweet Nintendo action as protest of the ridiculously bad system currently in place for procuring the white box of awesomeness. I’m going to assume that most of my readers are not on the cutting edge of video game platform procurement so let me catch you up on the “getting a Wii” process.

1. Think to yourself “Self, Super Mario Galaxy comes out in a month and you love Mario so much that you sometimes get a little giddy when your sink clogs. You should order a Wii, surely those silly shortages have been solved by now, after all, the product has been out for a year!”
2. Visit all online retailers only to be greeting with a myriad of creatively designed “sold out” images (empty wooden pallet, empty box, cruel mocking sad face, etc).
3. Curse your stupidity for listening to that stupid “self” person, she is never right!
4. Subscribe to multiple Wii search tools all of which kindly inform you on a regular basis that you are SOL.
   
5. Consider getting up extra early on Wednesday to visit the Nintendo World store on the rumor that they receive new stock first thing Wednesday mornings.
6. Whine on your blog

One of the charming quirks that I’ve developed through working in software for 7.5 years is the tendency to constantly note the poor UI design of life. For those of you who have thought “hmmm the designer of this life? AWESOMELY INTELLIGENT.” I present the following list of life features that have some serious bugs.

1. Babies
2. Traffic
3. My hair
4. Dating
5. Shopping for a Wii

Thankfully some of these glitches can be fixed without the help of a higher power and I encourage the rest of you to get on that shit – I don’t have to act because I am super busy fixing all of your damn software (and I offer one big special in advance thank you bug fix to whoever fixes dating cause that system is CRAP). Thank me in the comments.

But back to Nintendo. In 2007 people should not have to hunt down products a year after they’re released. It is Nintendo’s job to provide me with an easy way to buy their products. It is my job to give them money. (see: capitalism). I believe they also have this crazy system in Japan so the distribution department over at Nintendo has no excuse for sitting around eating fish flavored ice cream and reading disturbing comic books involving panty-less preteens and giant sea creatures while store shelves idle on empty. Of course there is one other possible group of people to stereotypically assign blame to. I’m sure that by now (after reading “Wii” a dozen time) you’ve noticed that “Wii” is the same thing as “WII” which stands for World War Two which caused a lot of shortages which lead to rationing of goods. And now I can’t get a Wii. Coincidence? Impossible. I think we may be able to officially blame the Nazi’s for this bullshit.

On the Inadequacy of New York City Grocery Stores*

More often than I care to admit I find myself missing California. Most of the time I remind myself about how much I love the subway and the snow and the silly entertainment offerings that New York City provides and I buck up a bit and decide to tough it out in the big apple for a bit longer. This new optimism lasts until the moment I set foot in a NYC grocery store. Entering a grocery store in NYC is like foraging for grubs in winter in pre-civilization Russia. If you’ve ever thought New Yorkers a bit gruff you need only visit one our local grocery stores to find out why.

In other places in the United States supermarkets are a sign of American capitalist dominance. I once had a visitor from Japan who took at least 2 rolls of film in a California grocery store because everything was so impressively bountiful. Apples staked over your head? Aisle one. 3lbs box of Lucky Charms? Those are on special in the front of the store. 75 varieties of dried prunes? Right this way mama. While such opulence occasionally left me a bit embarrassed at our country’s consumerism I mostly loved supermarkets. I loved the huge aisles fit for monstrous carts. I loved the oak barrels filled with bulk dry goods. I loved the beautiful organization of row upon row of abundance. I often found myself browsing in my local Safeway, amused for hours at their offerings. In California grocery stores not only sell everything from lychees to truffle oil they also usually have an in house Starbucks, pharmacy and bank. The grocery store trauma I suffered upon moving to the big apple almost killed me.

Here in the NYC procuring food is challenging. I’m sure much of this has to do with the general lack of space for grocery stores in NYC (though Whole Foods seems to have very little trouble finding big buildings to sell their wares in, in neighborhoods much fancier than my own (albeit at much inflated prices)). In most cases New York’s cramped quarters seems to lead to ingenious efforts to efficiently utilize space. Not so at Key Food where in addition to cramped aisles they also lack organization or any attempt at smart stocking. Space seems wasted due to pathetic shelving techniques and a general lack of product knowledge (why would you keep yeast in the refrigerator section? Why would you stock organic cereals both in the organic section and the regular section? Why would you keep organic milk in a separate section than regular milk (and why does nonorganic Greek yogurt live in the same section but regular old Dannon is in another refrigerator all together?) Why are tortillas kept in the dairy section?).

I also can’t get enough of the general dinginess that seems to plague grocery stores in these parts. If there is one establishment that NEEDS to scream “I was just taking a bath in a vat of bleach and I’m so clean that my butt cheeks squeak when I walk.” It’s the grocery store (You know, assume grocery stores could talk and walk and had butts… actually I’m pretty sure Key Food has a butt, that’s where they keep the soda.).

Stocking of goods seems rather haphazard at my local Key Food (and lest you think these problems are Key Food specific I assure you that things seem no better at the Trade Fair down the road nor at the C Town that I used to frequent in Park Slope). Certain basic items can usually be counted on – they seem able to keep on top of ordering bread and eggs and milk – but if you’re looking for anything even a bit out of the ordinary good luck. Additionally, grocery stores in New York do not reliably stock toiletries or many cleaning products so if you need a new toothbrush or a bar of soap or some Windex you’re probably stopping at the drug store on the way home (while carrying 50 lbs of groceries).

Things I have (at least on occasion) been unable to find at the grocery store:

1. Rapid rise yeast
2. Arborio Rice
3. Leeks
4. Toothpaste
5. Laundry detergent
6. Hormone free (not organic) milk (aka hormone free milk that costs less than $4.50/half gallon)
7. Booze

Let’s talk a bit about #7. This is not an occasional problem, it's the law -- grocery stores in New York state are not allowed to sell liquor. Someone please explain how making me go next door to purchase vodka is advancing God’s mission or keeping America safe or doing anything other than annoying me. If anywhere should provide easy access to alcohol it’s NYC – hardly anyone drives, we should install whiskey fountains on the street corners. I can buy beer at the grocery store so it’s not like New York state law is really protecting me from the devil juice. Furthermore what drunk is too lazy to go to another store? Inconvenience can’t keep people away from booze. Addicts will drink bottles of cough syrup if they have to; an extra stop just pisses people off and provides an easy go to target for late night mischief. Oh and don’t forget to buy your mixers at the grocery store – they apparently can’t sell them over at the liquor store. I like to think myself fairly restrained when it comes to alcohol consumption but my heart swoons every time I return to the booze aisle of a California grocery store.

To further inconvenience shoppers grocery stores (AND liquor stores!) in NYC close! You can ride public transportation from midnight until the sun shines but good luck buying peanut butter after 11:00pm. Not since living in Perth Australia (where grocery stores were closed from Friday at 5:00pm until MONDAY MORNING) have I been unable to purchase food at all hours. How is it possible that in the Mule Capitol of the World Safeway stays open 24 hours a day for all of my shopping needs but in America’s biggest city I can’t buy cake mix at 2am? (Yes, this is an actual need. Who doesn’t want cupcakes after a night of drinking?).

I know what you’re all thinking. “Brianna, just use Fresh Direct and shut up already.” There are a few problems with this plan:

• I will never be organized enough to remember everything I need when creating a Fresh Direct order

• I live alone; I rarely need enough groceries to justify Fresh Direct

• Fresh Direct does not allow me to decide willy nilly on a Sunday afternoon that I want to make bread from scratch (or that I want some damn cupcakes at 2am).

• Fresh Direct also does not sell rapid rise yeast.

• I like complaining

* This post was originally titled “On the Inadequacy of New York City Supermarkets” because Supermarket is my go to word for grocery store but I have decided that I cannot in good faith continue to refer to the dingy crowded unreliable markets in this city with any term containing the word super.

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Third Party Resources

Finding food in New York is harder than it seems, so if you know a starving New Yorker, why not send over breakfast gift baskets? You can get a gift basket filled with very non-New York treats, like California wine gift baskets or some much-coveted cake batter.

Good Morning! Cute Shoes!

7:00am: alarm goes off, “Bush sucks. Iraq is falling apart. Don’t you love this silly indie band? isn’t this worth $120.00/year? SEND US SOME MONEY BITCHES! You’re listening to WNYC.” Good morning to you too, NPR.

7:08: Obsessively check email (you never know when you’ll have blog comments roll in overnight)

7:10: www.jcrew.com click on “sale”

Yes this is every morning. They seriously change the sale every damn night. I am obsessed with the J Crew online sale. So much so that this conversation once took place in a J Crew store:

Random girl: (holding skirt and walking up to salesgirl): How much is this? It was on the sale table but it doesn’t have a tag.

Brianna: (to Geoff): It’s $39.99 it’s been on sale for months, why don’t they just drop it to $20 so I can buy it?

Salesgirl: $39.99

Geoff: that was scary.

Brianna: yeah, well…

J Crew seems to have some serious issues understanding how sales are supposed to work. If an item did not sell at your ridiculously high full price (seriously a cotton skirt for $80? Someone has a bit of an inflated ego about the worth of their products) and has lingered at around at 20% off for months it’s time to slash the price and get rid of your overstock. As far as I’m concerned it’s not a sale until it’s at least 50% off.

The J Crew sale web site is woefully crappy. The “back” functionality doesn’t work in Firefox (“gee, thanks for taking me back to the top of the page, let me scroll for 15 minutes to get back to where I was”) – I realize that most J Crew shoppers are probably using IE but I can only assume they are losing TONS of geek dollars due to this bug. This, however, is not the most annoying thing about the site. On the wonderful mornings when I wake up to find that J Crew has chosen to mark t-shirts down to $5 and their favorite fit chinos to $19.99 I get all excited and start adding to my shopping bag. Unfortunately, there is about a 50% chance that these items will be in my shopping bag when I’m ready to hand over my credit card. This is because J Crew lets anyone add an item to their shopping bag and only removes the item from stock once it’s purchased so you have to shop as quickly as possible least someone steal that cute $25 skirt from you. Perhaps they are trying to realistically recreate the fighting over items that occurs in store sales (because that’s what we all love most about shopping). Don’t worry too much though, the skirt that is suddenly sold out today will probably show up again tomorrow. Clearly their stock database works super well.

I like to think that I am not as preppy as this post is making me sound. (I am fully willing to admit that I’m as OCD as this post makes me sound, I own that personality flaw). I also like to think that I am not so boring that by day three of this challenge I’m already subjecting you to boring musings on an online sale. Reality is a bitch.

I Broke Victoria's Secret

Yesterday I made a visit to the bra super store on a desperate mission for a tshirt bra. I did all the annoying difficult things:

1. Accepted that I would probably be paying full price
2. Talked to sales people
3. Allowed sales people to measure me
4. Walked around for strangers in only my bra.

No matter what size or style I tried on the middle band stretched in midair between my breasts instead of resting on the valley floor. Eventually the sales lady admitted that Victoria's Secret would not be able to provide me with a bra that fits. Apparently I am a huge freak.

So lesson of the day: Being a girl sucks. Boys never have to go to multiple store trying on pair after pair of underwear only to find NONE that fit correctly. This is why they have tons of extra time to take over the governments of the world. Boys suck.

So now I may have to do the most annoyed and difficult thing of all: Go to a fancy pants bra store. This will surly result in G thinking that he was right even though obviously it is impossible for him to be right because the law of the universe dictate that you can have a penis OR you can have an opinion about where people should buy bras, you cannot have both.