Food is killing me softly

Over the past few months there have been a million food recalls. Late in the summer, Cadbury recalled all of their chocolate candy bars (much to my chagrin) because they were somehow contaminated with salmonella. And let’s not forget Bird Flu—that horrible disease that caused millions of innocent birds to be killed and absolutely no one wanted to eat chicken. Even black people wouldn’t eat the stuff! And when black people won’t eat chicken, you know there’s a problem. But I digress…

In the past few weeks alone, there have been major recalls on everything from spinach, beef and even carrot juice because of everything from Ecoli to Botulism. Food recalls always make me nervous because I always think I’m going to end up being the sad girl profiled on 20/20; the one that can no longer blink her eyes because she ate a fistful of grapes that were contaminated by some rare virus that doesn’t even have a name yet. Just like Lou Gehrig, the disease would be named after me because I was the first person to bring it to the public’s eye.

Cocoflusia [koh-koh-floo-zhuh]: noun. A rare strain of influenza found in fruits and vegetables that have a purple hue; characterized by fever, coughing, depression and paralysis of the eyelids. Mainly found in Poland, Romania, Slovakia and Brooklyn. Not always fatal, but will certainly f*ck up your life.

So of course when the recalls started I switched to a different brand of chocolate, eased up on my chicken consumption, just said no to spinach and stayed away from juice entirely (unless it was Kool-aid. God I love Kool-aid!)

The Bird Flu scare is long gone, but now there are all sorts of recalls on beef. To make it even worse, I saw an old episode of Oprah last week and she said that while it only takes up to 12 hours for most fruits and vegetables to digest and leave your system, it takes steak up to 48 hours. During those 48 hours, the meat is rotting away in your system until you finally make your way to the pot. How gross is that! I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m scared to death. If I make one false move I could end up like the poor Canadians who were just trying to get their daily dose of vitamins! In the words of my old microbiology professor Dr. Bhattachargee, “the next time you order your eggs sunny-side up, just order your eggs with a side of salmonella!!!! (smack the table for emphasis).” Well said Dr. B, well said!

I now overcook my food until there is no trace of bacteria, color, taste or even recognizability. I steer clear of any food that has been grown in the ground. I won’t eat any food that used to live and breath. I’m even tempted to put a few drops of Purell in my morning coffee just to be on the safe side. So basically, I’m anorexic. Anything that I eat has the potential to kill me so now I’m forced to drink bottled water and overdose on vitamins until I end up looking the like the white daughter of a black man. On second thought, pass me a burger and a family size bag of Teddy Grahams!

Case of the Mondays

I hate Mondays. And it is my belief that the vast majority of the world hates Mondays too, yet everyone is so faux chipper and happy on Mondays. Have you ever noticed that within 10 minutes of arriving at work at least 3 people will have said, “Hi (insert your name)! How was your weekend?” Why is it that people ALWAYS want to know about your weekend, but no one asks about Wednesday? When you come into work on Thursday no one ever says “Hi! How was your Wednesday?” Yet everyone is sooooo interested in your weekend. And when they ask this age old, cliché, slightly rhetorical question, we usually respond with the same old, cliché, slightly rehearsed answers.

“Good!”

“Oh you know, just kinda took it easy.”

“It was great! The weather was byooteeful!”

Personally, I’m tired of people at work asking about my weekend. It’s not because I’m an anti-social or mean person, it’s because I don’t feel it’s genuine. And if it’s not genuine, then why do it? You know deep down that they could really care less about how you spend your free time, but they are programmed to ask and like little robots we are programmed to answer. This got me to thinking; maybe I should conduct an experiment. Let us all pretend we are Debbie Downer’s, Negative Nancy’s and Bitch-ass Bettina’s…the next time someone asks “How was your weekend?” tell them how it really was!

John from accounting: Hi Debbie! How was your weekend?
Debbie Downer: It sucked. I ate spinach and apparently all the spinach in all the world is contaminated. It gave me the runs all weekend and by Sunday I had cotton mouth. How was yours?

Dante, the guy in the cube next to you: Hi Nancy. How was your weekend?
Negative Nancy: Not too good. My cable got cut off because this job doesn’t pay enough money to make ends meet. I didn’t have money to go out either so I just sat on the couch eating Ramen until I got sleepy. What did you do?

Mike from across the hall: Hey B! How was your weekend?
Bitch-ass Bettina: Muthaf*cka please! You know you don’t give a damn about how my weekend was! I don’t have time for this. I got kids to feed.

I’ve been at my job for exactly 1 month today so it’s way too soon for me to conduct this experiment myself, but if you have the balls to tell your boss you didn’t leave the house all weekend because your girlfriend whooped your ass, go ahead and do it! Start a new trend. Be somebody!!

I’m rockin’ stilettos hoe!

Youtube is a beautiful thing. It gives me the opportunity to watch funny things I would ordinarily overlook, or catch up on music videos that I somehow missed the first time around or are too bootleg to be shown on any bonafide channel. Case in point…the very catchy song “Stilettos” by Crime Boss.



Anyone who knows me can verify that I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with shoes. And anyone that sings the praises of these little lovelies is someone I would tip my hat to. But you have got to be f*cking kidding me with this song! I’ve never doubted the existence of hoodrats in this world, I’ve actually befriended a couple of them a time or two. But seriously, what kind of chick makes a song like this!? I’m willing to bet that this song will become an underground hit solely because of its ridiculousness, sort of like “Whistle While You Twerk” or “White Tee”. There is enough bad music in the world so it’s a shame that Crime Boss is adding to it, but if I ever hear this song in the club, please believe that I will be rockin’ stilettos hoe! Rockin’ stilettos hoe!”

Strange men on street corners

I’ve come to realize that over the next few months the majority of my blog entries will probably be about the wacky people I come across in NYC. After my encounter with the strange man on the train, I didn’t think anything could top that. But then I met Cameron.

Last night while on my way home from the Barnes & Noble at Lincoln Center (the most fantastic bookstore this side of the Atlantic—nothing can top Waterstone’s in Picadilly Circus), I had an incredible craving for a cheeseburger from McDonald’s. There’s usually a McDonald’s on every other street corner, but for some particular reason I didn’t see any around so I headed down Broadway on a desperate mission to find one. Just as I was about to cross the street, two men walked past men and one of them stopped in his tracks and made a beeline straight for me.

“Excuse me miss, excuse me miss, can I talk to you for a second?”

Normally when these things happen, I kindly ignore and keep it moving, but this one was particularly persistent. He followed behind me and kept asking me to stop, slow down for a second.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you but when I saw you I thought you were so beautiful and I just had to tell you. You have beautiful skin. What kind of soap do you use? Personally, I like Dove. Ivory and Zest are too harsh on my skin. What’s your name?”

Initially I was flattered. Some random guy stops me on the street to tell me I’m beautiful and that I have nice skin. But before I could even say thanks or smile from ear to ear, he starts talking about how certain soaps irritate his skin and how his diabetes makes it hard for him to use just any old soap.

“Uh, thanks. Thank you very much. My name is Coco,” I finally said after his monologue about the greatness of Dove soap.

“Coco? That’s a funny name. Is that Egyptian? I have ancestors from Egypt, that’s why I can’t use Zest or Ivory. Our skin is deprived of moisture. See, white people can use any soap they want, but if I use it, I’ll get ashy and my skin peels. So Coco, huh? My name is Cameron. Just like the rapper, but he spells his name C A M R O N. I spell mine C A M E R O N. See, I have an E in my name, he doesn’t!!”

This man was beyond weird, but I wasn’t creeped out by him like I was with the guy on the train. Cameron with an E was thoroughly amusing. I almost forgot about my mission to get a burger!

“Oooh, interesting. I bet Cam’ron doesn’t use Zest or Ivory either!” He obviously didn’t realize that I was being completely sarcastic because once again he started on his soap monologue.

“You know what the best thing is? Mixing cocoa butter with your lotion. I think it’s fate that we met! I use cocoa butter everyday and then I meet a beautiful girl named Coco. I really think it’s fate! A lot of women use Oil of Olay, but Dove has more moisturizer than that,” he said.

“Oh my god! I use Oil of Olay! I looooove the one with Shea Butter. It smells so good!”

I’m sad to admit it, but at that point I was no longer being sarcastic and actually being serious. I love the Shea Butter Oil of Olay soap:-) As soon as he said it, it triggered some sort of girlie reaction inside of me, similar to when you find out that you and someone else you know love the same perfume or shade of lipstick. I could have stood there all night talking about soap, moisturizers and eventually Grey’s Anatomy, but then he asked for my phone number and I realized that I was stopped on a street corner by a perfect stranger that wanted to talk to me about soap. I would not be giving this man my phone number.

“Well Coco, can I have your phone number?”
“Actually, I really need to get to McDonald’s and I’m seeing someone right now. I’m sorry!” I said.

I hated to let the poor guy down like that, but I believe he was crazy. As much as I’d like to believe that I’m gorgeous enough to stop men in their tracks, I don’t really think that’s the case. New York is just full of really weird, slightly schizophrenic people that have no problem having absolutely random and pointless conversations with you. It’s perfectly “normal” to them. So until I get to the point where encounters with these crazies are as normal to me as smelling piss in a train station, I’ll continue to be Judgey McJudgerson tell you all about it!

Come on girl, don't you wanna wash my clothes?

Last night I called an old friend of mine just as he was picking up his laundry. I teased him and called him a lazy bastard because certain things like doing your laundry, you really should be doing yourself. I thought he dropped them off at a laundromat and left them in the hands of a professional, but that wasn’t the case. He actually has his laundry done by “some girl.” Now when I say “some girl”, I’m not referring to his wife, his girlfriend, his mom, or any other woman that plays a significant role in his life. The woman I’m referring to really is just “some girl.” He said he used to “mess with her” back in the day (i.e. they slept together on occasion but things didn’t work out) and now she just does his laundry.

According to him, one day he playfully made a joke and said “hey, you should do my laundry!” but it was really meant in the spirit of good ol' wholesome fun; because when you think of good ol' wholesome fun, you think about asking people to do your laundry. The next day he came home from work and found that all his dirty clothes were gone, with a note on his hamper saying that she took his clothes to wash them. Fast forward two years later and this chick is still doing his laundry.

Now after hearing this story, I initially wanted to call this girl a dumb bitch and berate her in every way that I could think of, but I’m not going to do that. I actually want to befriend this girl because I like living in beautiful surroundings. When I move into my apartment, I’m going to need my floors refinished, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, a couple of chandeliers hung, shelving assembled, and someone to rub my tummy at night and encourage me to make this world a better place. Who better to do all these things but “some girl”?

My friend raised a very interesting point; you would be surprised at what people will actually do if you just ask them. It’s easy to say he’s lazy or a chauvinist, but maybe he’s just a smart guy that knows how to get what he wants without forcing anyone to do anything. But then again, pimps say the exact same thing and the last thing this world needs is more pimps or people with a pimp’s mentality. So wash your own damn clothes!

Strange men on trains

After leaving London, I really had no time to blog. I was going back and forth between Ohio and New York, trying to find a place to live, getting acclimated to my new job, etc., I was absolutely exhausted! Between apartment viewings and eating cheese doodles on the go, blogging was at the very bottom of my to-do list. But thanks to a middle aged man by the name of Keith, Ms. Stasia is back!

Yesterday I was at Penn Station heading home from work. I was only 10 hours into my new lifestyle change (a.k.a. The South Beach Diet) but I had a rough day so I decided to visit old faithful for a little pick me up. Just as the train was approaching, a very handsome man stood next to me and said “absolutely gorgeous!” As we both stepped onto the train I asked him, “are you referring to me, or the donut?” I’m a little leery about talking to strangers, because I’ve found that the majority of people are either weird or unappealing, but he looked normal so I decided to give him a chance and engage in conversation.

“I was referring to you,” he said. He sat next to me and we proceeded with the usual ‘get to know ya’ chat; what’s your name, what do you do, do you live in the city, yada, yada, yada. He asked for my number and it’s usually my policy to take numbers, not give numbers, but he seemed normal and I’m all about making new friends since I’m in a new city so I agreed. He talked about possibly getting together over the weekend and he asked what type of things I like to do. He said he was pretty much open to anything, except going to the movies. He went on a rant about how movies are horrible these days and the last really good movie he saw was A Few Good Men.

“A Few Good Men? I said. “That movie is over 10 years old. How old are you?”

“I’m a business man. I’m good at what I do, but I’m socially inept.” he said.

“Um, what?” I was thoroughly confused. What exactly did that have to with what we were talking about?

“Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinburg? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago, and you curse the marines…’ he continued. And continued.

Yes, he continued for 5 minutes, or exactly 3 stops on the A train. Keith recited the entire court room scene from A Few Good Men. And not just Jack Nicholson’s character, but Tom Cruise too and whoever the guy was that played the judge. This man was obviously abnormal.

“Hmmm,” I said. “Exactly how many times have you seen that movie?”

“Only three. But I have a strong propensity to memorize long passages and recite them verbatim,” he said. “You know what else I like? Pens. I love pens!”

He proceeded to pull four pens out of his jacket pocket and a Target bag full of new packs of pens from his briefcase. He held a pen dangerously close to my face and said, “I looked everywhere for this pen. My friend had one so I had to get one. This is a high quality, exclusive pen,” he said.

Now if it were a Montblanc or Caran d’Ache pen, I could possibly understand his excitement; those are really nice pens after all. But this dude was holding up a Bic. A bic! I think I got my first bic when I my third grade teacher allowed us to complete our assignments in pen instead of pencil. Hardly exclusive, or of the highest quality for that matter.

“You see this pen here? It has a 1.2 millimeter ball, which means it has a broad stroke,” he said.

At this point, I was speechless. I was just giving him the crazy look and hoping that he would stop talking. Or at least get off at the very next stop.

“You probably wish you didn’t give me your number, don’t you?” he said. “I told you, I’m a really good guy, but I’m a little socially inept. I think it stems from me not having friends as a child. My parents took me to a child psychologist to see what was wrong with me. I sit outside coffee shops alone sometimes and…”

“Um, excuse me” I interrupted. “Do you always tell perfect strangers stuff like this? Actually, don’t even answer that. Just don’t talk. I’m not much of a talker,” I said.

“Really?” he said. “Do you like coffee? There is nothing in this world that I love more than coffee! Did you know that the world’s entire economic system was built on the coffee trade? Do you want me to tell you about it?”

It was then that I realized that this man wasn’t having a conversation with me, he was actually having a perfectly good conversation with himself. I was merely a decoy so that the other people on the train didn’t think he was crazy as hell. How else can you explain it? He was jumping from subject to subject like some ADHDish 10 year-old, reciting paragraph after paragraph from an old ass movie, and having his own show and tell with his “exclusive” $4 pack of pens, and during all of this nonsense I probably spoke once or twice. I’ve condensed this story heavily because I was on the train with this whack job for a good 27 minutes before I got off at some random stop just to get away from him. And through it all, I never said much of anything. With one exception: before I got off the train, I asked if I could have my number back. I didn’t feel too bad about it because as his ridiculous monologue went on and on, he asked me a number of times if I wanted my number back and if I regretted talking to him in the first place. So I wasn’t being a total bitch, I was just taking him up on his offer! But considering he has the “propensity to memorize long passages and site them verbatim,” he probably has my number memorized and will call me anyway. Something tells me that I haven’t heard the last of Keith…