I'm Entitled to Be Neurotic

I've been feeling a change recently. It's a deeply rooted feeling, something I haven't been able to pinpoint. Something that's unsettled me and has had me guessing what the issue really is.

I've finally figured it out. New York has turned me into Woody Allen.

I think it's New York's prerequisite. They should make you check a box when they run a credit check for an apartment.
"Are you willing to invent health symptoms?" Check.
"Are you capable of feeling uncomfortable in large groups and feel an overwhelming sense of being strangled?" Check.
"Do you mistrust your tap water and do become easily convinced it's causing shortness of breath?" Check.
"Do you have misgivings about your mailman's intentions?" Check.
"Have you abandoned eye contact with strangers completely?" Check.

I've come to realize that New York has a way of toughening you up beyond any vision of authority you could have ever imagined yourself in. At the same time, the city also gives you this false sense of entitlement that I imagine only lucky millionaires feel. If something doesn't go your way, you stamp your foot and it will. If someone isn't treating you how you want to be treated, well, just be really disappointed in them until they do. This is New York, damnit! This is where things happen!

This sense of entitlement is the excuse I give the thousands of people I have to endure on any commute. This is the reason people will elbow you for a seat on the train, the reason people do not hold a door open for you. This is the reason why they'll skip you in line and not think twice about it, why a receptionist has no qualms about snapping at you over the phone while setting up an appointment. Why teenagers suck their teeth at you when you exit the elevator in front of them.

Most people walk around this town with a sense that they were meant to have this. That it doesn't matter if you don't have it now, you will. And in the mean time, you can just be really angry you don't have it. I think this kind of mentality is what has kept this town going, otherwise who in their right mind would move here? There has to be an edge of neuroticism and arrogance to move here. If not, New York will whittle you down into a tiny sharp object that would leave you running for the door.

This is what I think we all need to tell ourselves to survive here, or really anywhere. We're entitled to this. This piece of pie right here? Mine. You can have some too, but this piece, this piece I really want and I'll arm wrestle you for it.

Don't misunderstand. This is the best place to be. This is the kind of challenge I've wanted and this kind of "Anything Can Happen" mentality exists here. This town is exactly what I had pictured it would be. An island of dreams. A shimmering sphere of hope for all. A wonderland. A bubble that once you step inside, you ask yourself, "What the hell is that smell?"

Fancy a Death Bar?

I've found it. A dessert to die for.

Or by.

Once you try these, you will see why the name has changed from "Peanut Butter Candy Bar Brownies" to "The Worst Decision You've Ever Made in Your Life." Or the shortened name, "Death Bars."

While mixing this destructive and delicious concoction together, I found myself laughing at the sheer hilarity of it all. With each layer of death involved, it began to seem more and more absurd that someone thought of this. Better yet that someone made it. Worse still, that I made it and have eighteen bars still sitting in my fridge staring at me.

As Greg put it best, "I've never felt more guilty about anything."

Try a Death Bar.

-1 (16oz) package Nutter Butters, crushed

-1/2 cups butter, melted

-1 (14oz) can sweetened condensed milk

-1/2 cups creamy peanut butter

-1 tablespoon vanilla extract

-1 bag of Reese's miniature peanut butter cups, coarsely chopped

-2 Butterfinger candy bars, coarsely chopped

-1 cups semisweet chocolate morsels

-1/2 cup honey-roasted peanuts

-1/2 cup sweetened flaked coconut

Combine crushed cookies and butter in a medium bowl. Press mixture into bottom of a greased aluminum foil-lined 13x19'' pan, allowing foil to extend over ends of pan. Bake at 350 for 6-8 minutes.

Combine chopped candy bars, chocolate morsels, peanuts, and coconut of crust.

Drizzle condensed milk mixture over coconut and candy bar layer.

Bake at 350 for 27 minutes or until lightly browned. Remove to a wire rack and let cool in pan. Use foil to lift uncut Death Bars out of pan. Peel foil away from sides of uncut Death bars, and cut into Death.

Sweet Death. This is what it tastes like. Enjoy!

*With the latest Peanut Butter recall that's sweeping the nation, let's celebrate Death the way it was meant to be celebrated. By ingesting as much of it as we possibly can.

Gotta Take It Easy With All That Bangin'

As unhappily stated in an earlier post, my office is shared with several other businesses who are all anxious to have a work space near Grand Central. While there are many benefits to not working directly with these people, (like not having to speak to your kitchen mate awaiting the use of the microwave) I admit I have some issues with these strangers who sit next to me.

The Trader, as I've learned, is not a Trader. He's a Financial Advisor. But I'm still going to call him the Trader.

The Trader is terrible. Like, the worst person ever. Thanks to his loud talking and his need to share the intimate details of his life with whomever decides to call him, I know everything about his miserable little life.

He broke it off with his live-in girlfriend this Fall. He had a mourning period during which his mother called a lot. But soon, his boys were calling him and the Trader was back to cursing his ex-lovers name. He started dating another woman whom he took to Florida over the holidays. He got a great deal on the hotel on the main strip. They drank a lot, stayed in the hotel a lot (hu-hu) and hung out on the beach. Although I didn't see the pictures, I heard descriptions of each photo as he was describing them to people on the phone. But this relationship was soon brought to an end when she wanted to change her status of Facebook to 'In a Relationship.' He went back to drinking a lot, apparently in S&M Clubs. Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to discuss my latest romp through S&M Clubs until Happy Hour.

A friend of his called yesterday with news of a mutual friend who has Pancreatic Cancer. The Trader replied with, "Oh man...just like what's the fuck's his face. Patrick Swayze? Aw, bummer, man." Yes. Truly a bummer.

Another friend called relaying the pain he felt in his knee, to which the Trader replied, "You hurt your knee? You gotta take it easy with all that bangin'. No doubt. No doubt."

Upon finding out his old college friend had gotten married, the Trader quickly stepped in with reasons why he should get a divorce and and urged him to join in his self destructive drinking and banging cruise ship around Manhattan.

I've learned a lot of privacy in this office and this is one of the many reasons why I never take personal calls here. If I were any sort of math or finance genius, I would start listening to the actual business tips being passed around. But no...It's just eloquently drawing a clear picture of the kind of human I don't want to be. Let's all take a financial tip from the Trader and learn to put our money in bonds, cash out when the market drops and to shut the hell up.

Plus he eats with his mouth open. He's just not a nice person.

Amen. Amen. Amen!

I got nothing done this morning except decide that I'm going to adopt Joseph Lowery to be my kindly old uncle.



I'm a proud American today. High five, America.

Old Man Coat

I often wondered if fur coats were still being worn. Now I know they are...by this old guy.

I spotted him in the lobby of my office. He was wearing a full length fur coat that almost touched the floor. I was in the presence of a King and didn't even know.

I know fur coats get a bad rap and I happen to agree that they shouldn't be worn. But you have to admit, this guy has a weathered, "I just crawled out of the magical wardrobe where I battled a talking Lion" kind of look.

I'm Not Eating That, Sicko!

Am I the only one that thinks advertising for food is disgusting? I mean, it's truly disgusting.

When they pull apart the halves of a sandwich so you can watch the cheese oozing down the sides in slow motion, I really have to ask myself what the purpose behind this is. The only reaction I have, starts with 'V' and ends with an 'M.' Vom.

Vom. Vom. Vom.

I know a few people who have worked on the sets of these food commercials. It takes hours of getting the look just right. The preparation of these dishes is not made for taste, it's made for looks. So it's a whole table of uncooked Chicken Parm Sandwiches or trays and trays of delectable Lobster and steaming butter sauce with shrimp. They continue to drop meatballs into pots so the sauce scatters just so, while the crew hurries to wash all the plates so they can continue shooting.

And I continue to ask, "This is supposed to make me want to eat this?" Vom. In fact the only food commercial I can get behind are the adds for Sonic. They rarely show the food except when it comes time to show you their delicious assortments of Fruit Slushies. Why do I live in a metropolitan city that does not include drive-thru's? It's the only reason to own a car. Comedy sure tromps a steaming pile of gloopy cheese.

My reaction to you, Food Industry: You are positively vomititious.

The Clark Kent Phenomenon

I've never quite understood the confusion that people have with Superman and Clark Kent. He doesn't morph into a different person when he resumes his role as Superman. He merely takes his glasses off and his hair becomes slightly more buoyant. That's it. That's the only difference between Superman and Clark Kent.

However, recently I've discovered that people don't readily recognize me when I'm wearing my glasses. I'm perplexed. My clothes aren't different. My hair is usually the same, give or take a bobby pin or pony tail. That's it. Glasses on. Glasses off. All of a sudden, I'm a nerdier version of my former fabulous self.

Do my glasses warrant me the ability to shape shift? Have my molecules combined to form this different variety of human? Am I the star of an 80's Cinderella film? By day, a nerdy assistant combs the streets of New York, her talents unnoticed, her glasses...fogged. By night with glasses discarded, she's quickly discovered as the underground writer for the hit series, Jem: The Comeback.

Perhaps not readily recognizing someone is merely something to say. Something to cover up the fact that you can't remember someone's name. Maybe you've only met them once and you know you're supposed to recognize them, but can't. This morning I greeted a client I should have immediately recognized in the lobby with, "Oh, Nick...I didn't recognize you with that...scarf."

Though I'm not quite sure the same thing can be said for Clark Kent and Superman. I'm just going to go ahead and assume that anyone who thinks my glasses stand in the way clearly hasn't heard my new hit song, "I Can't See Without My Glasses."

White Winter Hymnal

This video for Fleet Foxes' "White Winter Hymnal" either makes me want to learn claymation or sit under crocheted blankets.


White Winter Hymnal from Grandchildren on Vimeo.

The Goat Master

A recent discovery that has left me in tears each and every time I view it.

No Eye Contact

This story is a classic one, both old and familiar. It involves a new girl in the office, in search of new friends and the curiosity that would drive her to seek companionship in an area not uncommon. The women's bathroom.

It happens in any office. You get on the same pee schedule with someone else and it becomes this awkward but ongoing hilarious joke. Every time you go into the bathroom, they're there. Each of you does the, "We meet again!" look or say something like, "Stop following me!"

This has been happening to me at work with another girl my age. If I go to the bathroom six times a day, I will see her six times a day. If I'm leaving the bathroom, she's coming out. If she's leaving a stall, I'm walking past to go to the next one. If she's washing her hands, she'll look over and I'm washing my hands. I'd see her in the hallway later and we'd say, "I'll see you in there, alright?" It got to a ridiculous point where we ran out of jokes to describe how funny it was. Because at that point, it just wasn't funny anymore, it was creepy.

The demise of our bathroom relationship happened gradually. One night I was leaving the building and passed her by while she whispered something to another girl. That girl then looked at me with that, "Oh...her" look. I feel like the odd girl out on the playground where there's a new invention of some unforeseen reason to stop including you. I started thinking that maybe I was unintentionally making myself pee when she peed. That maybe I really was stalking her. One minute we were high fiving each other at the sink. The next, I'm acting like we're bathroom strangers. It just got weird.

The women's bathroom has always remained a mysterious room. One with hidden secrets, forbidden looks and lines you just don't cross. I will miss my bathroom friend and from now on I will keep my feelings heavily guarded. Just like my broken bathroom heart.

Shut Your Face

This is what happens to me when I watch people eating.

Only you continue to talk to me.
With your mouth open.



Enjoy this hilarious commercial.

Sexual Office Stretching: Uncalled For

After my long stint of no-blogging over the holidays, I return with half my energy today and report to you, simply this....

Office stretching. You have to do it. I understand this... A person of my meager physique who's rear end gets tired after two hours in the same sitting position, you just have to get up and take a lap. Touch your toes, crack your back, jog in place. All of these things are completely acceptable.

What's not acceptable to me, is sexual stretching. You know the kind I speak of. The kind where you lean back in your chair as far as possible, arms over your head and you let out an animal-like short grunt as you let your hands down. This happens more often than it should. It's completely unnecessary. In fact, the only time I would imagine this stretch is acceptable would probably be before the act of sex. Stretch it out. Get into it.

But office stretching, however...It's just not classy and makes me very uncomfortable. So if you could please pass this along to any other sexual stretchers you may know, you might save some embarrassment. In my face.