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Posts from the ‘Textual Selfie’ Category

Italians are Not Like Us

I've been so horrifically bogged down that I'm now paralyzed and wordless. Well, almost. I did find the time to squeeze in some vaguely (and I do mean vaguely) food related blah blah on my blog (you know, I'm starting to get desensitized to that word and it really bothers me). Oh my goodness, I just intermittently watched the Olympic opening ceremonies. You don't need me to tell you how not American that spectacle is. Total over the top, Cirque du Soleil style bodysuit, face paint nuttiness, ending with a Ferrari screeching around on a stage doing cookies (the most American part of the whole thing) It kind of scared me a little. You only need look at mascots Neve and Gliz to delve deeper into peculiar foreign aesthetics. At least they're cuter than '04s Phevos and Athena.

Love Bites

Not that I personally buy into any edibles as aphrodisiac, but here’s my article "The Food of Love" (I don’t write the headlines, yet unfortunately I do write some pretty nice puns and alliterations) from yesterday’s New York Post.

Does it get any more exciting on a Thursday early evening? Apparently, it does–I'm just about to head over to the Outback Steakhouse across from my office. Foster’s and fried onions await me.

The ’70s are Alive in the E. 50s

Um, I'll admit to having second thoughts about my new job (and so what if a coworker reads this because that's a fair statement, no vitriol or hate or specifics, just that I'm not fully convinced of my decision yet) but what wasn't expected was an informal job offer from the NY Post. I am a shameless master of puns and alliteration. Be thankful that I generally spare you from my purple prose (I totally used the phrase "libidinous libation" in the piece I turned in today–no lie–and no regrets). I don't have a journalism background, there's that tricky detail about how I don't know Spanish or a thing about reggaeton (a.k.a. ass fucking music in my vernacular) which they love writing about and I'm pretty sure the pay would be less (I think with my new salary I might be lower middle class now, just like I was raised, can't go messing with nature), but in an abstract way I'm loving the whole notion because it's so bizarre. If I was younger and hadn't spent a fortune on graduate school I would probably consider this seriously. Would a suburban biracial writer feel strange about working at Essence? I don't know. I'm so not a textbook NYC Latina, I wouldn't feel right about it, but I never feel right about anything. It's just kind of sad about New York, that there's so much media here, but so many publications, high brow, popular, revered, trendy, whatever, are so closed off to "regular" (no, not saying minorities–it's not like I identify as one anyway) people, ambitious or not. Individuals who didn't go to prestigious schools, or follow the correct path or befriend the right people, i.e. 90% of this country. I guess those are the losers that blogs (I wonder when spell check will start recognizing blog as a legitimate word and stop red underlining it) were created for. Back to off-putting work neighborhood. I just don't get the upper east side (not sure if mid-50s are technically upper but it has that feeling) it makes me feel uneasy and sad inside like Victorian chimney sweeps, street urchins and anything Dickensian. Oliver! made me physically ill as a child (though Mark Lester is one hot child. Wow, what a sexy/dirty site fronting as a "Boy Choir & Soloist Directory") which was probably enhanced by the period piece within a period piece, 1968 meets 1838 in a collision of eerie style and film stock. The Upper East Side isn't quite like that, but reminds me of '70s sitcoms, where characters like Rhoda might live and The Jeffersons definitely did. Like ferns and chrome and revival of art deco fonts, doormen buildings with wall to wall carpet, Gloria Vanderbilt, pastrami on rye, Annie Hall-inspired vests and trousers, and restaurants with French maitre d's and dance floors (I've never seen such a thing in my life, but they're always used on tv to signify a fancy establishment. Even Roseanne and Dan went to one in Lanford–I saw that a couple months ago). It feels dusty and dated, I'd cry if I had to live here (isn't it the new hipster zone, though?). Case in point, there's a Wendy's two blocks from my office. I'm no fan of Wendy's, I go maybe once a week because they have a relatively cheap inoffensive salad, and it's always a madhouse. I used to complain about the Grand Central area, lots of tourists and slow walkers, but this is totally the opposite, mean, nasty residents and office workers. People actually play chicken with me on the sidewalk, make eye contact and then speed walk into my path like I'm going to move. I don't think so. The odds are that I'm heavier than the interloper and wearing flats so I have more stability. A smaller woman in heels will topple into a painful heap if they won't get out of my way, and I don't budge. So, I thought the old Wendy's near Grand Central was bad, but oh my god, they were so this millennium. They had three separate lines and a register before you got to the cash register where they'd take your order and if it went smoothly (which it rarely did) your food would be ready by the time you made it to the front of the line. This semi-upper east side Wendy's is totally analog. They have one enormous line and a girl (sometimes a guy) with a checklist pad who physically marks down your order and then rips off the piece of paper so you can hand it to the cashier after waiting in line some more, and then there's a wall of customers standing around the registers for their food to be made and the cashiers are constantly yelling "next" but no one knows where to go because there's no room to stand once you get out of line. My point is, how on earth does having a human write down your order so you can give it to another person, speed anything up? I do agree that the fewer words exchanged the better. Customer service people never understand my English because I don't have an accent. I'm serious. But if you speak really bossy and belligerently and mumble and say "gimme" or "let me get" instead of "may I please have," they totally respond. Even freaking Oliver Twist said please before asking for more.

TV Time

I'm afraid Jan. is finishing off with a whimper rather than a bang. I've been neglectful because I've been researching/writing a Valentine's article for the NY Post that I think is due today, but isn't quite done because whenever I get tiny bits of free time I squander it on things like watching 24, eating banh mi from the new kind of lame in the scheme of things, but good for what it is Vietnamese sandwich/bubble tea shop that just set up in Cobble Hill (but what would you expect of "ethnic" food in a area like this), accompanying James to the nether reaches of NJ, near Delaware and Pennsylvania to track down one of the only (relatively) nearby in-stock Panasonic TH-42PX50Us at a random Circuit City in Deptford, a weirdo town with lots of pickup trucks (you never see them in NYC), liquor stores, abandoned movie theaters and malls that still have '70s fonts like how the Gap logo used to be. I would be perfectly happy with my old 13" I had shipped from Portland over seven years ago and basic channels, but I don't mind reaping the benefits of another's giant plasma high definition television mania either. I'm thinking there will be an impromptu Super Bowl party this Sunday, not that I follow football, but TV needs to make itself useful. I hope to be a posting powerhouse in Feb. but until then, read about the horrible lunch scene in my new job neighborhood and an Indonesian restaurant in Elmhurst.

I Can Write

Urgh, I'm really hating my lack of goof off time. How am I supposed to watch Lost and write this here crap simultaneously? I'm no media multitasker. This is old news from last Wed. and I did mention it on my Goodies First deal (didn't say blog) but that's practically a separate entity (I realize it's weird, not to mention cumbersome, to put different subjects on totally different pages rather than just making a giant hodgepodge blog with categories, but that's just not going to happen because my brain doesn't work that way), so allow me to mention my NY Post article that was supposed to run like two months ago. The delay totally wasn't my fault and is only serving to force me to investigate new writing venues, which I have a hard time motivating myself to do. I'm not an idiot, I just don't have connections and am allergic to schmoozing and networking (in person and in cyberspace–I thought people were supposed to be bolder behind the relative anonymity of the web). I was going to write about my weekend adventure at the Short Hills Mall in New Jersey, and how I think something must be wrong with my hormones because in the past few days I've found myself attracted to absolutely random guys on the subway (yesterday I became fixated on this mediocre, shorter, younger version of Bradley Cooper from that not-very-funny Kitchen Confidential, and Alias, I guess, though I've never watched that show), but that will have to wait.

Buyer’s Remorse

Have I mentioned that I'm doing this no snacking, lower calorie, smaller portion thing and it's totally killing me. It's not like I'm starving myself, it's only common sense like don't eat fried greasy things, or eat between meals or have seconds. (Which reminds me, have you seen this shit? I thought the French women don't get fat mania was as lame as it got, but now Japanese women are not only thin, but immortal. I love all this secrets of my (grand)mother's kitchen crap. I'm totally going to pen a memoir that will enlighten the world via my upbringing and the women who imparted their culinary knowledge to me. I will cover the finer points of Pizza Hut, bargain bags of puffed wheat cereal, fried eggs and bacon for dinner [I swear I ate this weekly as a kid, though if my mom is reading this I'm sure she'd argue otherwise] and frozen vegetables. I'm waiting for the diet book about black and Hispanic women getting fat and dying prematurely, which is pretty much the theme of this week's uplifting New York Times series on diabetes.) But I can't stand it and I'm feeling overly emotional and both spacey and snippy. I haven't eaten any sweets or drank any alcohol either, and there's no way that's going to last, especially since I'm going to a party tonight and water is not an option. I'm not trying to detox, just not become cancerous and diabetic before I'm forty (after that, lord only knows). So far, this Friday the 13th has been downright dull, but there's still time for plenty of unpleasant surprises. I hate being cryptic, but I must be, and I'm afraid that I'm having a case of buyer's remorse in an aspect of my life. Normally, this would be a depressing situation, to be stuck with a possibly bad decision. But I'm not stuck, there's potentially another option on the near horizon and that's where the problem and stress lies. It would be like getting married and then running off with another guy in a month. But should you stay with something so-so to avoid incurring wrath (not to mention horrible karma) and eat the misery or be rash and selfish because after all, it is your life and I'm a big proponent of not doing things out of duty or obligation. Ok, here's something far less serious, but still problematic, that I can speak freely about: my greasy patch of hair. I don't know what the fuck happened, but something is severely wrong with my never-luxurious-in-the-first-place locks. There is this patch of hair on the right side of my head towards the back that for the past week or two has been perpetually wet and/or crispy looking like there's product in it. I wash my hair every night and I usually let it air dry and end up going to bed with damp hair, and thought this might be the problem. But it's not. I tried using a dandruff shampoo, thinking that it'd be harsher and get rid of weird build-up, I stopped using conditioner, thinking that maybe it wasn't rinsing out properly. It doesn't matter, I still have a wet-looking chunk. All I can attribute it to is that a few Sundays ago I colored my hair with semi-permanent, no ammonia dye (which is stupid because it doesn't do shit to my gray hairs except turn them golden-brown and makes it look like I have light brown roots and that my real, dark brown color is the fake hue) and instead of leaving it on for 20 minutes like recommended, I kept it on for almost an hour because I got caught up in an episode of Small Space, Big Style that had a segment (I made a mental note to catch this, but now it's been on like five times and I'm bored with it already, please get new episodes, HGTV) with the guy who runs Peek-A-Boo Records that I've had a blind crush on for no particular reason since I know next to nothing about him other than that he's been in a few bands that I like and isn't horrible looking. I thought he might be gay, but apparently has a wife that he lives with in a "small" 900 square-foot Austin condo. Oh my god, how do two people live in such tight quarters? (I know this is a national show, but come on. A 350 square-foot NYC apartment from the same episode is small, but most of these houses have kitchens that are triple mine, and are easily as large as many studios.) But in reality, I've never had any love for band guys and I was bothered that his wife said he never sets foot in the kitchen because I need a man who can cook. And more importantly, because of him my hair now has a permanently waxy texture which is becoming difficult to live with.

Strange Brew

I only hype myself up a couple times a year, if that, so allow me to mention my article about micheladas, spicy beer, in today's New York Post.

There's a new year's resolution–find more writing venues. 2006 is all about branching out. I know, it seems like a blogger is born every minute, so getting heard gets harder and harder. And I hate having to shout (though I love to ramble).

Farm is Stretching it a Bit

This 24-hour cornucopia of cheap produce can be out of the way, depending where you live. But it?s a million times better than any place else in the neighborhood (which isn't saying much considering Greenwood Heights/North Sunset Park/definitely not South Slope lacks proper amenities like real grocery stores [National Supermarket doesn't count] banks and pharmacies. They've got car washes, gas stations, fast food, open-on-Sunday liquor shops, porn palaces/peep shows and a federal prison in spades, however). So, I wouldn't call it a destination shop, but I used to live down the street, and even now it's less than ten minutes by car from Carroll Gardens.

The 25th Street block, between Third and Fourth avenues also has the distinction of nearly being the only scene of a crime I've experienced in my 7 years in NYC. Some kid tried mugging me in broad daylight underneath the BQE while trying to cross the street to Rossman Farms. He didn't get my grocery money despite making mean faces, demanding my wallet numerous times (I was like, "do you mean my wallet or my money?" And I wasn't being a smart ass, my heart was sinking thinking about having to replace my driver license, credit cards and the like just weeks before going on a big vacation I'd been planning for eons. If he just wanted the money, which he eventually agreed that he did, I'd give him the stupid $12 rather than get shot or stabbed) and acting like he had a weapon in his pocket. This was over two years ago and I'm still irritated by the inanity.

The sprawling corner store has recently gussied up with a new sign, covered entry (I'm not sure why it took them so long to decide to shield the outdoor perishables from the elements), electronic screen price displays for some vegetables, more herbs and a smaller yet tidier layout. However, I was stymied by their lack of scales. I guess weighing devices are a luxury. I needed 2 pounds of red peppers and had to go by feel. I was convinced I was well over my requirement but the total was only 1.81 pounds at the register. Now I'm about a pepper short for the muhammara I'm making as a party dip.

Rossman can be hit or miss and is frequently random. For instance, on my latest visit POM branded pomegranates near the front door were going for $3.99 each while further back in the store there were a pile of $1.49 specimens, a little withered but likely still edible. Different displays come with different price tags. I also picked up eight for $1 limes, ginger, mint, basil, a 69-cent bag of onions, and some beets, which I eventually decided against because they seemed goopy and wet. Quality can be an issue, but they still out perform the heinous Key Food closer to my apartment. They also have Israeli canned foods, Sabra products, corn tortillas (even blue ones), as well as staples like milk, juice and eggs.

Watch out, parking under the BQE. No, not for hooligans, used condoms or empty malt liquor bottles, but for dangerous cake remnants. I stepped out of my door, slipped on something viscous and almost fell on my head. Apparently, some freak(s) had eaten an entire cake and left behind the foil-topped, round cardboard base. It was still smeared with frosting and I skidded out on it like a banana peel. What the hell? I'm trying to imagine if a lone binger was scarffing down in her (you know it's not a his) car or if a group on foot had congregated under the shadowy roadway and communally dug in.

Rossman Farms * 770 Third Ave., Brooklyn, NY

Hot Pockets

No one likes a horn-tooter, but it's not like many folks follow the New York Post's food coverage, let alone their Tempo section. So, allow me to trumpet away. Here's my piece from today on crazy flavored empanadas.