Weekend Update

I am a huge fan of Saturday Night Live.  I haven't always been, in fact I didn't even watch it during the famous years of Will Farrell and Jimmy Falon.  Perhaps because it was that during those years I actually went out of my house on Saturday nights.

I didn't even watch it when Tina Fey did Weekend Update and that makes me sad.

I don't know how I got  into the show.  The Engineer made me, I think. The fact that we are over the blissful honeymoon stage of dating and much prefer greasy chinese and staying in Saturday night to actually going out.  Needless to say, I am now an avid viewer.  It helps that I tuned in to watch the best of female comedians at work - Kristen Wiig, Amy Poeler and Tina Fey. These ladies are goddesses in my eyes.  I worship them and want to work with them.  Unfortunately I am not funny.

This is not the point of this entry.  The point of this entry is to tell you the story of how I met Seth Meyers.  If you do not know who he is, you will not care about the day I met him.  But you should because he is very funny and very cute.  Seth is currently the man of the famous Weekend Update and the one man, besides the Engineer, who really gets my motor running.

Last Halloween, as the Engineer and I were heading home after a long night out, I got on the F Train and who was sitting across from me?  Seth Meyers.  I saw him first and became mute.  Except for when I said to the Engineer, "is that Seth Meyers?".  I was faced with a few dilemas.  One:  Was it rude to approach him and say hello? Two:  I was dressed as a devil.

No one wants to meet their celeb crush wearing a red dress and carrying a pitch fork.  Also, the Engineer told me that it was rude to talk to him.  And yet the Engineer suggested I take a picture.  Ummm?  Hello?  How is it not rude to take an unauthorized photo of someone on the subway?  Hello!  He can see me!  And yet it is  rude to talk to him?

We were approaching the 4th Ave stop, and Seth stood up to get off.  I couldn't let this opportunity pass.  I promptly took off my jacket, pushed up my boobs, and removed my devil mask.  Feeling like a complete idiot, I stepped across the aisle wherein Seth saw me and removed his earphones (that was nice), and I said, "I am so sorry to do this, but are you . . . ?" to which he smiled and said 'yes'.  And I told him, "You make my every Saturday night" which in turn made him smile a huge grin, say 'thank you' and bid me a happy halloween.  

I am the first to admit that I am a complete idiot when talking to people when I am excited - but I am fairly certain that what I said to Seth was super classy and nice.  Albeit on the F train.  The thing about celebs in NYC, is that they just are there.  They like it here because they don't get swarmed.  So as much as I revealed my touristy, small-town self, I think I did pretty good.  

Then I remembered I had a tail.  Super.

Since then I have seen many a SNL star, including Kristen Wiig.  I have no idea what to say to her.  I basically stood their like a slack-jawed idoit watching her and Wil Forte walk past me.  A huge part of me wanted to shout out:  Oh my god, Oh my god (like her Susan character) but held it in.  I suspect she would hate that.  I have seen her a few times, so one of these days, I will figure out something just as classy.  

I suspect if I saw Tina Fey I might poop my pants.  And then ask her to be my best friend.

I now feel a close connection to the show and Weekend Update, as if that little moment was a tiny bond between Seth and myself.  That we are all destined to meet again.  And then this makes me realize perhaps I am one of those crazy people who would, in fact, take a picture of someone sitting on a subway and then worship it.

Tudor Obsessed

If you know me, you know that I have the attention span of a gnat and move quickly from subject to subject. There are only three things that keep my attention longer than a bag full of peanut M&M's (in my house that is not long).  The fact that I keep talking about them longer than my usual three minutes have greatly surprised the Engineer, my mother, and my friend little K (not to be confused with Little Kim, whom I do not know).

These three things are:

1.  Sandwiches (I once spent one night telling the Engineer about each sort of sandwich I love.  I would bring the subject up after hours of silence, to the point that he said, "Are you STILL talking about sandwiches?" and put a pillow over his head.  I think I was on heavy medication that night due to a flu because I also told him the pillow over his head was the 'pillow of truth' and proceeded to talk about my love of peanut butter and honey on a folded over piece of wonder bread - and how the best bite is where the rounded bit and the flat bit meet.)

2.  Walt Disney World.  I freaking love that place.  I have been going since I was 9 and I never tire about talking about it, hearing about it, or looking at pictures of it.  When walking along the seawall the other day, I spent well over an hour telling little K just how much I love the place and all the fun things we can do there.  We intend to spend my 30th birthday in mouseland, and although my birthday is still 8 months away, I feel that we can start preparing for the fun now by having me explain every single ride, restaurant and fun thing to do.  I don't understand why Little K walked faster than me.

3.  The Tudors.  This is my new obsession and sadly, Little K has to hear about this one too.  I sound like the girl from American Pie:  And then, one time, on The Tudors.  I am obsessed with the show, the story, the history. Not only have I read every single historical fiction novel out there that has anything to do with the Tudors (ie.  Anne Boleyn or Elizabeth I), but I have read all the history books (well, all the Wikipedia articles anyways), seen all the documentaries, and even walked the Anne Boleyn walk at the Tower of London three times.  

I am clearly obsessed.  

My obsession has been renewed by the fact Season 2 of the AMAZING show is now on DVD and I have just watched it three times in a row. 

 If you haven't watched this show, go out right NOW and rent the first season.  Not only is the acting phenomenal and the writing outstanding, but it is the HOTTEST show on television to date.  Next to Rome anyways.  The first season is dramatic, full of passion and romance, and you feel bad for Catherine of Aragon for ten minutes (the actress is Irish by the way, so her Spanish accent is amazing).  The final scene of the final episode is pretty wild, involving Henry and Anne in the woods, it is very intense.  You think their passion will never die - how did he chop off her head?  Well, that comes in Season Two.

Oh god, Season Two.  It's no secret what happens to all the characters we love, or love to hate, from The Tudors because it's written in history.  They all lose their heads.  But I think the reason I am so obsessed with Season Two and feel the need to talk about it every chance I get, is because of the feeling it left with me. 

Firstly, Henry and Anne's relationship.  Most of us have all been in a relationship that starts out full of passion and love, but slowly, one of you falls out of that and the other is left wondering what happened.  Somehow, in the amazing acting of this show, that feeling you have in real life is the same feeling you get through watching Henry lose interest in Anne.  You can't help but feel horrible for her, because you know you have dated a man just like Henry (well, hopefully not just like him.  Otherwise none of us would have heads).  

Secondly, all the darn beheading.  It's horrible, just horrible.  I felt as if my friends were being killed.  First More, then George, and then finally, Anne.  I must give a hands down bow to Natalie Dormer for her incredible, wonderful, lovely portrayal of Anne Boleyn.  Her last scene is what has made me obsessed and what has peppered my seawall conversations of late.  It just haunts you.  I want to be an actress in a show that haunts its viewers.  That makes people think about it days later.  How incredible is that?

I fear for Season Three, not only has Henry killed all the interesting characters but I feel like stabbing Jane Seymour in the eye.  She is so boring.  Anne may have done some crazy things, but who do we remember best in history right?

Okay, so that is my obsession vented on my blog.  If you read my blog, I urge you to run to Blockbuster and rent the season!  Or, wait until CBC puts it back on the air.  Nah, screw CBC, go rent the DVD's!!!!   Also, if you are in London you must go to the Tower and get the audio tour - you can actually stand in the room Anne waited in and walk the walk to the block while hearing the drum beat in your ear.  Spooky.

My perfect day?  Eating a ham and cheese sandwich, wearing a Tudorian dress and walking through Epcot Centre.

Brooklyn Baby

I can't talk about Mr. Mop and not tell you about his little brother, Brooklyn.

Brooklyn is a ten-month old Bichon/Yorkie cross.  He is very cute.  He is not nearly as clever as Mop, but what he lacks in brain he makes up for in complete sweetness.  Since I brought him home, Brooklyn has been the most chill, easy going puppy.  He gets hyper for approximately three minutes and then is pooped out.  He loves pigeons.  He is afraid of nearly everything (except pigeons), which includes children.  This fear is derived from the weekend my three-year-old niece stayed with me.  She insisted on carrying Brooklyn everywhere he went.  He now hates little people.

Brooklyn gets picked on a lot by Mop, mostly because Mop is jealous.  But when I try to cuddle Mop the same way I cuddle Brooklyn, he growls.  It's a case of "I don't want you cuddling anybody".  Brooklyn often has his head eaten or his back jumped on but has recently been getting his own in the form of biting Mop's tail and dragging him around.  Being only eight pounds he doesn't get far.  

Brooklyn and Mop fight like human brothers but they love like gay lovers.  I often find Brooklyn on his back with his eyes closed as Mop goes to town 'grooming' his face and belly.  As soon as I walk into the room they break apart like naughty teenagers.  At the dog park, Mop chases other dogs and Brooklyn tries to keep up.  When he can't, Mop lets him hold onto his tail.  It's very cute.  And if a dog picks on Brooklyn, Mop beats him up - well, beats him up dog style so basically growls.

Brooklyn does not provide as many funny stories as his brother, but that's okay.  He is my gentle sweetie pie who I can take anywhere because he is just so lovable and sweet.  Except for his annoying game of 'let's run away and bark when the leash comes out' or 'it's fun to wake mum up at six in the morning by sitting on her head'.

He has a breath problem.  For some reason, food gets really stuck in his teeth causing him to smell like an outhouse.  At first, I did not know what the problem was so changed his diet and got him breath biscuits.  Then I opened his mouth and was blown away (literally) by the reek.  He had crap stuck in all of his teeth.  It took me, the Engineer, and my friend K (she just took photos so didn't really help) holding him down and scrubbing his teeth with a facecloth.  The toothbrush just did not work.  You would think brushing the teeth of an eight-pound dog would be easy, but no, it isn't.  They are squiggly little monsters who can move their heads around in exorcist-like contortions.  It took about twenty minutes, a blanket to wrap him in and the Engineer using a pillow to force his head to stay still to get the offending odors out.  

How does the Engineer act with my dogs?  He's coming around.  Slowly but surely.  They aren't allowed in the bed when we are together.  But I do sneak Brooklyn in around 3 when he asks to come in (he sleeps at my tummy like a hot water bottle).  Apparently it's not a secret, the Engineer knows.  Also, when I go out and leave the boys at home with him, he ties Mop to the bed so that he doesn't jump and slam himself into the door.  The Engineers' other pet peeve is me referring to myself in third person as 'mummy'.  He really hates that (He also hates it when new dads send emails out that say 'mum and baby are healthy').  He feels strongly one should refer to themselves in first person and others should refer to them by name.  I have caught him talking about the dogs as 'ours' a couple of times, I take it as a sign that he loves them.  

Just not as much as me.

The Dog Days of Brooklyn

I thought I would share with you all one day in the delightful life of having dogs in Brooklyn, NY.  The following are the events of one and a half days:

1. Mop eats a roach trap (we all have them in NY apartments)

2. I discover a 'bed bug' in my bed after putting together all my Ikea furniture and making my house nice

3.  Freak out
4. Strip all sheets, blankets and pillows and take to laundry people.
5. Jody and I sleep badly on our couch
6. Wake up to Brooklyn peeing on the new carpet 
7. As I am getting ready to take the dogs out after pee incident, Mop oddly pees on the carpet as well. When I pick him up he sprays pee everywhere and continues to pee on hardwood floor.
8. Brooklyn thinks it is funny to run around, hide and bark before we go on walk

9.  Mop eats a chicken bone on sidewalk.  Brooklyn finds a used condom which I must pry out of his mouth
10. Come home, take shower, leave couch bed pulled out with last sheet in house still on it
11. I get out of shower to find Mop on pullout bed, eating the barf that he barfed on the BED and the only sheet we have (suspect roach trap combined with chicken bone is culprit)
12. Barf is also on floor
13. Spend an hour scrubbing carpet and couch - then use a hair dryer to dry it. Couch still has odd stain.
14. Take dogs out again and discover Kerri Russell is my neighbor
15. Go out
16. Come home to pee on the floor again and two piles of barf
17. Take dogs out, Mop squats to poop and out comes a strange, bubble explosion of fart/liquid poo. He jumps in the air to inspect his butt. I jump because I thought it was some stray sick cat or bullfrog making the offending noise.
18. Mop liquid poops himself around the neighborhood. Poor boy
19. Landlord says we do not have bed bugs and refuses to get exterminator.

20.  Turns out he is right, what I found was just a regular old bug.  Did not get bitten for rest of stay in New York.

Lesson?  Do not let dogs eat roach traps or chicken bones.

Mr. Mop & Me

       

 

I find it odd that I rarely talk about my dogs in this blog.  I have two:  Mr. Mop and Brooklyn.  Let's introduce you to Mr. Mop.

I just saw that movie 'Marley & Me' which is based on the book about the world's worst dog.  Mr. Mop may not be Marley but he definitely is not far off.

I adopted Mr. Mop from a dog shelter up in Fort Smith, North West Territories.  I was shocked to discover that such a sweet looking, little white dog with one cocked ear could survive such a harsh winter (he lived outside) and not get eaten by a polar bear.

Then I met him.

It took a while for his true nature to show itself, and when it did I realized Mop had probably given those polar bears a run for their money (or seals. whatever).  

He is very sweet and loving.  Very cute and cuddly.  Very bad.  He is part Bichon, part asshole (aka Jack Russell Terrier).  He is incredibly clever, incredibly determined, and incredibly ALPHA ALPHA ALPHA.  So we have enrolled in obedience school (six months after getting him home but better late than never right?)

On our first night,  Mr. Mop cowered at my feet in the unfamiliar and smelly surroundings as the other MUCH BIGGER dogs barked and cried.  I thought that perhaps the environment alone would tame him.  I thought wrong.  The trainer used him on her first example to which he cried, lay on his back (feeble trick) and finally bit his leash and jumped at her face.  Crap.

Needless to say we got extra homework.  I mean for crying out loud, this class has two German Shepards, a crazy Bull Mastiff, two Labs and a Rhodesian what-have-you, but which dog is the asshole?  The 14-pound Mopster.   All the other dogs got to go home and get treats but Mop and I had a lesson in the corner on manners.

We (and I use that term loosely) have to:  not be on the furniture, not sleep in my bed, eat after I have eaten, go through the door last,  and basically change every single habit he has been allowed to form.  Ugh.

Here's the thing:  what's the point of a dog if you aren't going to cuddle with them?  That's my philosophy anyways.  So in the middle of the night, when I miss the presence of puppy breath on my cheek, I possibly wake up, tip toe to the living room and pick Mr Mop off his bed in front of the fire (I think he actually prefers not being in the same room as me when sleeping) and put him under the covers next to me.  So wrong.

Other than that little slip-up, I think we are progressing famously.  My little guy is very clever, and figured out the 'stay' after the second try.  So in class tonight, when we had to show off our maneuvers, Mr. Mop was the only dog who could do the heel, automatic sit, AND stay.  Take that, suckas.

I have soon realized that dog obedience school must be what preschool, or any level of school, is to for people with human babies.  All the owners stare on at the other dogs, smile and pretend we think they are as cute as our own dogs.  We secretly revel in how smart our own dog is over the idiot mastiff who still can't sit properly.  

Tonight, that same said mastiff was the dog who misbehaved and entered Mr. Mop's personal bubble when he was heeling which in turn made Mop growl (I would too if a big lady ten times the size of me got in my face out of no where) which in turn made the big dog jump and attack.  And yet the parent's of stupid dog gave me dirty looks?  I felt like what the parent of the smart geek must feel like when the bullys' parents blame her child for their own childs' stupidity.

I tell you, the power of love is strong and even though Mop has a bit of a personality, I will take on anyone, or any dog, who is mean to him.  Or any owner.

Mr. Mop has his kinks but I love him for all his faults and will work until everyone can see his good side.

Lessons in Flirting

The producer of our would-be travel show told me that I need to flirt more with the camera, and with the person I am interacting with, male or female.  Fine, I can do that.  I used to be an expert flirt.  I was known far and wide as the best flirt in town. Okay, maybe not far and wide but definitely at the Roxy.  And perhaps at the local coffee shop.

In grade three, a friend (and fellow bridesmaid in wedding #8) instructed me on the art of flirting while sitting on my front stairs eating Dickey-D ice cream.  She wisely told me that in order to get boys to like me I must laugh at all their jokes.  Done.  Not that I utilized this information for another 8 years or so (late bloomer and proud of it) at which point I brought out her expertise from the recesses of my brain and went to town.

Obviously it was a skill that needed some honing. I mean, you can't just simply laugh at things boys say.  It's in your body language, your witty repartee, the way you flash your smile and touch their arms.  Needless to say, it took me quite a while to get it just right.  But by the time I perfected the art I was in a relationship with the Engineer.

I wouldn't call flirting cheating, not at all. But for some reason, when I started dating the Engineer I lost all my flirting ambition.  I am very very loyal that way.  I don't think I even flirt with him.

When I told him what the producer had said, he was very supportive.  He even told me that I was a really good flirter back in the day when he would hold my lip gloss and camera at the bar while I cruised the room for my next victim.  Once when we first got together and found ourselves on a booze cruise without any money, I used my flirting skills to get us free drinks all night. In fact, I believe that was the last time I ever flirted.  Wow, that was a really long time ago.

Once again, I must go into the far reaches of my mind and retrain my brain to flirt flirt flirt.

So far, not so good.  I had to go into the editing suite for our trailer and work with two guys.  What better place to start than with them right?  Wrong.  You know how when you laugh at a two-year old they do the same thing over and over again hoping to make you laugh but it only annoys you?  Well that is what I was like.

One of the guys had a black eye from a altercation on the weekend.  By the end of the session, I had teased him so much about it that I could see in his eyes it was time for me to stop.  But I just couldn't!  I kept going!  I left the session by wagging my fingers at him and telling him to stay out of trouble.  YIKES.  Amateur for sure.  

Then I tried flirting with the guy making my non-fat half-sweet tea latte at the coffee shop.  What ended up happening was me tripping over my words so that it sounded like I was the tragic victim of a stroke/lobotomy.  Terrible.  I think he felt pity towards me.  PITY!!!

GAH!  What to do?  I have a show and need to be charming and a flirting fiend.  So far I am a flirting fraud.

All is not lost, I did talk and smile myself out of a speeding ticket the other day.  So I must have the good stuff somewhere right?  I don't know.  I feel that I have reverted to that awkward 16 year old with the bad haircut, trying to flirt with Paul Marion in the library but ending up blushing horribly and putting my jacket on upside down.  Yes.  That actually happened.  I put my jacket on upside down.  He didn't even help me, he just stared at me with a look of bemusement and shock at my lack of 'cuteness'.  Or maybe it was cute?  No.  It was just embarrassing.  

Flirting is hard work and takes lots of energy. It's way easier and less thinking to be in a relationship.

The Twelve Days of a New York Christmas

On the first day of a New York Christmas, I took a ride on a glimmering carousel next to a skating rink full of people watching a Quebec fir become a dazzling sight in white fairy lights.

On the second day of a New York Christmas, I shivered on a cold winter's with the Engineer, as we  sipped on hot apple cider at the Columbus Circle Christmas market

On the third day of a New York Christmas, I walked past the window's at Macy's.  Full of colour and imagination, for a moment I felt like the child I used to be, staring in wonderment at all the toys in the Eaton's window on a snowy Winnipeg street.

On the fourth day of a New York Christmas, I waited in line with the Engineer to get some ice time.  Skating below the famous glittering Rockefeller tree on a mild evening  and having a 'once in a lifetime experience' was worth the $56 admission price.  Thanks Engineer.

On the fifth day of a New York Christmas, I walked the dogs on a busy Brooklyn street.  Passing under the white lights of a tree stand, smelling of fir and pine; of Christmas.  It felt like an escape into a teeny tiny forest in the middle of a city.

On the sixth day of a New York Christmas, I watched the snowflakes on Saks dance and sing 'The Carol of the Bells'.

On the seventh day of a New York Christmas, I dragged the Engineer to Central Park for a Victorian Candlelight Christmas at Belvedere Castle.  It may have been a bit silly, but worth watching the orange full moon rise over the Upper East Side from the top turret - finding some peace in a overly busy city.

On the eighth day of a New York Christmas, we walked through the Brownstones in Brooklyn to take in all the lights, glitter and kitschy (or tacky) nativity scenes that light up the neighborhood.

On the ninth day of a New York Christmas, we fought the bustling crowds at Macy's in search of a silk scarf for the Engineer's mom.  Even though I may have had a stress-related asthma attack, I still delighted in the wooden escalator.

On the tenth day of a New York Christmas, I meet an old friend at Bryant Park for a hot chocolate with homemade vanilla marshmallows and look up to see the Empire State Building lit up in red and green.

On the eleventh day of a New York Christmas, I take myself to Rolf's for a hot mulled wine amongst the glittering lights of a thousand Christmas decorations.

On the twelfth day of a New York Christmas, I get on a plane to go home to my family.  

Leaving behind the busy, bustling, sometimes (most of the time) smelly but more often enchanting, city sidewalks to the quiet of the Canadian prairie.  This apple has definitely taken a bite out of me (in a good way). 

Let's Move In!

The Engineer and I never formally decided to move in together.  There was never the 'let's take our relationship to the next step' conversation.  In fact, I believe we never discussed it at all nor consider ourselves living together.  Even though for the past two months, that is exactly what we have been doing.

Obviously it is a living situation out of convenience rather than choice.  It's not like I can get an apartment for myself in New York and it would not really make sense.  I am just visiting therefore we are not living together.  We are both oddly traditional actually.  We want to wait until we are married before we live together.  That and we both own our rainy city homes, and both are very picky livers.  Okay, that might just be me.  I really really really like things my way.  And I really really really like living by myself.  I already know that someday we need to get a home big enough for me to have my own room.

That being said, the Engineer chose a place that is fairly big when he could have gotten a studio and I have purchased furniture that is decidedly mine (ie. pretty), so we are sort of living together.

They say that when a couple moves in together they learn so much about the other person.  I personally believe that I have learned more about myself.  Thanks to things the Engineer points out.  For example, I drink lots of milk.  I never really noticed before how much I go through.  It's a lot.  I may be 29, but I still love a big glass of milk and I drink copious amounts of tea.  I also have discovered that I go through lots of garbage in the kitchen.  I don't really like to fold my clothes right away but get mad when there is clutter on the bedroom dresser.  I have learned that only I can make a mess when I have cleaned the house.  That I do laundry more often than the usual person, that I hate doing dishes, and that I really like to do a whole bunch of nothing in the mornings.

I have also learned that I like having someone to say good morning to who is not my dog.  And that it's fun to work next to the Engineer.  And that he likes to do a whole bunch of nothing in the morning too, when he can.

I am glad to know that it won't be too bad when we are married.  I like this whole compromise thing.  As long as we choose my style of furniture and decor.  And that I have my own room.  And that the Engineer has his whole room where he can put paper wherever he would like to.  Why?  WHY does he hate the idea of file folders so much?  How could it possibly be better to lay paper down on every available surface?  Okay, calm Sarah, don't get excited.  Compromise. COMPROMISE.  Stupid word

Reasons to miss my car

Did you know that the subway is a public place?

This is a fact that some people in NYC need to be reminded of.  

Here is why:

1.  The other day when K and I were coming home from our fake bag excursion, we were on a packed F train headed for Brooklyn.  Luckily we got seats, she sat next to a chubby sleeping woman and I sat next to a little Japanese lady, who was next to two Italian grandmas.  Standing around us were many other women, it was as if it were a female-only car.  At my eye line was a big bum so I had to keep my gaze elsewhere.  Unfortunately my eyes are not far from my nose.

Reminiscing over our day's affairs, K's eyes suddenly grew wide and she grabbed her nose.  I took a breath in and quickly realized the problem.  Someone, very near, had let one go.  And it was STINKY.  K asked if it was me.  I would admit to passing wind but this was definitely not my doing.  K agreed that it did not smell like me (a sign that we are too close?).  Both of us sat there with our noses in our scarves. To be polite, this was the extent of our acknowledgment of the offence.

Then the Japanese lady next to me started to make quite the scene.  In Japan it is considered polite to make much noise when in conversation.  To prove you are listening you must 'ooo', 'ahhh', and say 'honto', therefore Japanese conversations always sound much more exciting than they actually are.  This makes the Japanese person very adept at making much noise to express themselves.  The little lady next to me started with some 'mmmphs' and then moved on to 'whews' while she fanned the air in front of her.  

This made me laugh.  Which made me look like the guilty party.

I glanced down further to the two grandma's - they were also snickering and covering their noses.  The women at the further pole from me were shaking their heads in disgust.  

I began to laugh even more.  G-U-I-L-T-Y

K whispered that they thought it was me.  (She also whispered that we were breathing in some strangers feces.  Would it be better to breath in the fecal matter of a friend?)

I shook my head at them all and told them it wasn't me and pointed to the sleeping lady next to K (who we think really did let the stink bombs fly) or the big bum at my nose.  This made them all laugh with me.

If this many people react to something on the subway you just know it is bad.

2.  While riding on the train home one day, I was enjoying the freedom of a nearly empty car.  Reading my book with my groceries sitting on the seat next to me, I delighted in the lack of farts in the air.  The car was practically empty.  So WHY did the girl who got on at the Carroll Street station sit right next to me?  There were dozens of empty seats!  But she looked normal, as if she could be my friend, so I felt that it was okay.  Until my reading of chapter four in Twilight was interrupted by a 'thh thh thh' noise.  I looked over at the space invasion gal who was checking out her teeth in her compact.  The 'thhh thhh' noise was her sucking food out of her teeth.  Honestly, couldn't she do that in a bathroom?  

3.  On the A train heading to Central Park one day I found myself squished against a very large Chinese guy, about my age, who had the audacity to pick his zits and flick the heads onto the floor.  Not before inspecting them for size and colour.  I almost barfed.

4.  One evening a man thought it was perfectly acceptable to cough, snort and spit his mucus into a cup (okay, this actually happened in a cab, but still a public place!)

5.  The stench of humans in a tube underground should remind everyone and anyone to SHOWER and use a fantastic device called deodorant.  And while you are at it:  a toothbrush never hurt anyone!

It may be fast and cheap, but the subway is the pits.  I miss my VW.

Not so Serendipitous

I have been wanting to visit Serendipity in New York since I (a) saw the movie and (b) learned that the specialty was frozen hot chocolate.  Frozen hot chocolate?  Such wonderment!  Such mystery!  Such crazy wait times!

I attempted a snack on my first visit to NYC on a cold rainy/slushy December afternoon and discovered the three hour wait time.  I kid you not.  Clearly every other tourist has also seen the movie.  My apologies if you have not seen the John Cusack loveliness that was nearly ruined by the always bland Kate Beckinsale (but thank goodness for Molly Shannon and John Corbett) which was named for this restaurant (even though I can't actually remember the restaurant in it).

Anyhoo, Serendipity 3 attracts tourists from around the globe, toting bags from Bloomie's and demanding the famous frozen hot chocolate along with other edible goods.  I thought it was only desserts here, but no, they serve everything to a point where they probably shouldn't.  More on that later.

Needless to say, I have always been curious and now that K was in town I had the perfect excuse to go.  After trying to see the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller (along with 3 million other people), discovering the magic palace on Madison that felt like a secret, and checking out the retro windows at Bloomingdale's, we wandered over a few blocks and entered the pastel spectacle.

Surprisingly there was a very short wait!  I should hope so as it was nearly midnight and tourists are usually in bed by this time so they can get up and wait in the TKTS line.  We were led behind two other girls who were about to be seated at the crappiest table ever.  But they spotted the table meant for us:  by the window and under the Christmas ice cream cone.  They were led instead to that one leaving us with the crap table.  Bitches.

The crap table was crap for a few reasons:  

#1  It was not next to the window under the pink ice cream cone

#2 It was right next to the busing station and therefore loud

#3 It smelled like ketchup and garbage

Due to the fact it was late and the restaurant was clearing out, I asked our waiter (politely I must inform you) if we could switch seats to the other empty table by the other window with the magic ice cream cone.  He looked and it and said "It's meant for six to eight people".  I replied "are there six to eight people waiting for it?".  He huffed and told me we would have to talk to the host.  Seeing as the host who had led us to the crap table apologizing for its crapness was nice, I knew we would be by the cone in no time.

But the host that came was not our host.  He was asshole host.  He rudely, and I mean rudely told us that we could sit downstairs at the very front.  He repeated very front twice which told me that was the naughty table where people sat waiting for good tables (it was right by the front door and line-up that was non-existent at this time).  He really was quite the a-hole about it.  Aren't customers supposed to be right?  Aren't we supposed to get golden treatment?  

Two girls across from us were SLOWLY paying their tab.  It wasn't all their fault they were slow.  Although they couldn't do math or figure out how to use credit cards, it was also the fact that the slow, surly waiter didn't take their bill back right away because he felt more inclined to play 'tic tac toe' with the other waiter.  At this point, I was just trying to look forward to my frozen hot chocolate.  But nothing irks me more than bad service, especially in a place called Serendipity.    The fact that I could smell garbage and banging was going on behind my head didn't help.

The nice host came back upstairs and I nabbed him.  Another table had vacated while the two girls figured out they could each pay $10 using cash, quite the concept, and we asked if we could move over there.  Immediately and without question, he took us over.  Well, almost right away, our surly waiter had to slam ten dirty dishes in the tray behind my ear causing me to flinch and shoot him a dirty look before we got out of our chairs.

Seated in a much nicer area, albeit not under the pink Christmas cone, K and I proceeded to order our frozen hot chocolate and teas.  I peered around me and realized that we were definitely in tourist town.  Or in the case of our friends to the right, fat American town. Okay okay, I know that sounds horrible and bitchy.  It totally is.  But honestly, the two girls next to us were sort of popping out of their clothes as they stuffed a FC each (K and I shared one) down their throats and added the empty dishes to the pile of 10 dishes already on their table.  I kid you not.  

They also were the type to lick their fingers after eating and requested to see the menu to take stuff home for breakfast. Under my breath, I may have said 'more like for the subway ride home'.  I also couldn't help but notice the stench of the table next to us. Maybe it hadn't been the busing station after all.  Maybe the whole restaurant stank.  K agreed that although the dessert is divine, it is always mixed with the scent of bad chicken terriyaki or old burgers.  Yum.

I must say that the frozen hot chocolate was super yummy.  In fact I would love to have it again.  But if that means going back to Serendipity where the staff clearly should be working at a state penitentiary with those attitudes and the usual wait times run over an hour, I guess I will just have to look at the pictures. . . . 

The Fake Bag Brigade

My friend K is currently visiting me in the Big Apple, and our plans of museums and shows were quickly thrown out in favor of shopping.

K is pretty much a shopping professional and digger, whereas I tend to wander around aimlessly hoping something will jump out at me.  Knowing that I had K by my side I decided it was a good time to walk Canal Street in search of the perfect fake bag.

In the past, and really every other moment besides shopping, I am the boss.  When traveling with K, I am the one who tells her where we are going and what we are doing.  She happily follows along with no complaints and I think actually enjoys my stern leadership.

How the tables have turned.

I do not like (a) crowds (b) people who yell and (c) bartering therefore Canal Street is like my version of hell.  I was surprised to find that there are actual store fronts housing the fake goods, I sort of expected the bags to be on tables in the middle of the street.  I was also not prepared for the people who walk by me and whisper 'Chanel Gucci Prada' as if I was some sort of designer drug addict.  So because of all this overkill on my senses K had to lay down some ground rules.

#1 Separate your cash and only have small bills.  

#2 Don't actually show interest in anything

#3 Pick an amount you would pay for an item and do not pay a cent more than that.  If they won't do it, just walk away.

Got it.

Oh, and she said we needed a code word to tell each other we liked something.  I suggested the phrase 'I want steamed buns' because we were in Chinatown and I did, in fact, want a steamed bun.

I suggested we should also have a code word for 'let's leave' so that we knew when one of us wanted to leave.  She told me to say 'let's leave'.  Right.  Got it.  Sometimes I over-think things.

I was terrible.  Really terrible.  Firstly, when I saw something cute I exclaimed with a little scream.  The price went up $10.  So K made me leave that stall and reinforced our code word and the rules. 

Again, when I saw something cute I would yell out 'I want a steamed bun!' which made the store people look at me like I had turrets.  When K looked at me holding a bag with the woman right next to her and said 'how much do you like this bag' (once again, the less excited the less you pay), I smiled, nodded, and said very loudly:  STEAM BUNS.  The woman caught on.

K also has no problem leaving when the price she wants is not given to her.  I kept apologizing and explained that I would get in trouble.  Plus they yell at you.  I kept saying 'sorry' and K kept telling me to shut up.  As we left one store, the woman screamed at us for wasting her time and that we were ungrateful for her deals.

I have never seen K take such a leadership role.  She calmed me down when I would hyperventilate at the crowds or at the enormous selection (I also don't like too much choice).  She cooed to me to go slowly, just take it all in, then focus on the colours I like and next the shapes.  

But after an hour of this, it was time to leave.  I felt relieved not only in that I would be able to breath again, but that I would once again be the boss in the relationship.

Would You Like Fries with That? Or Grape Jelly?

I am the first to admit that I am not the best orderer at restaurants.  Not that I am like Meg Ryan's character in When Harry Met Sally but I can be a bit indecisive.

The problem comes from loving food so much, I just can't make up my mind.  I like to know what all my friends or family is ordering before I decide.  I also like to mix and match items on the menu.  For example:  that wild mushroom found in the risotto?  Could I have it on my veal?

But there comes a line to the mix and match.

I felt it was finally time to enjoy a New York classic:  the bagel.  This city is full of deli's and street carts offering up said dish and I have never ever eaten one.  So today was the day.

Firstly, I couldn't decide exactly which bagel to eat.  I felt I should be on the healthy side and at least have multi-grain, but then traditional is really the way to go when eating a traditional food.  Then again, the onion one also looked good.  I chose sesame.

Did I want it toasted?  Ummm, I think so.  Well, then again I like the chewy goodness of an untoasted bagel, but what the heck, it's 10am - toast it!  And I would like plain cream cheese please.

With strawberry jam.

They only have grape jelly.  Ugh.  Grape jelly?  It comes out of a squeeze container.  But I really like the mixing of the cream cheese with the sweetness of the jam so sure, why not, grape jelly me up.

As I stood there waiting I realized that the traditional New York bagel should really be served my favorite way:  with smoked salmon.  I absolutely love love love lox on a bagel with capers and onions.  So of course I decide that this is what I now want.

I interrupt the deli man in the midst of cutting my bagel and switch my order.  He smiles and tells me this is no problem.  He passes the foil wrapped traditional lox bagel across the deli counter to me, and I take it, smiling at the fact it is toasty warm in my hand and that I really love bagels.  What a New York moment.  I take a second to savour it before stepping outside on busy Broadway on my way up to Macy's at 34th (miracles happen there I hear).

Gently I unwrap the foil and take a bite as if it were a sandwich and quickly recoil in horror.  I look down and realize my first New York traditional bagel has gone terribly terribly wrong.  This will teach me to switch orders halfway through the guy making it.

Why?

Because he had made me a lox, cream cheese and grape jelly bagel, that's why.

This mix and match was a mix and hurl.  

The secret?  I ate it anyways . . . .