MY UN-INSPIRATIONAL MESSAGES FOR 2014

The New Year is just an hour away. Like many of you, I feel a sense of renewal and optimism. I’m like a racehorse at the gate, waiting for the starting gun to go off. I feel I’m ready for all the opportunities a fresh year brings. And along with it comes a surge of inspirational messages to get me started. What better time to consider your intentions and focus on your hopes and goals?

Forget the past. Just jump. Fight for what you want. Have no regrets. Take risks.

Don’t they make you ready to start the New Year? Sure they do, but by definition, inspiration is merely a starting point. Its job is to stimulate you; to stir something within you. Hence, the resolution is made…and then within weeks, dropped.

I would like to offer up something new. Granted, my approach is not as sexy as the usual motivational quotes. They probably don’t sound as fun or cool, and in the short term, they’re most likely not. But motivation only takes you so far, and then what are you left with to guide you the rest of the way? So with that in mind, here are my un-inspirational messages:

Don’t forget the past. You don’t need to live in it, but you do need to learn from it.

Have regrets. If you’ve hurt someone, you ought to regret it. It doesn’t mean you can’t forgive yourself, but without regrets, you lose your moral compass.

Don’t take risks. I believe in taking calculated risks, otherwise you’re just satiating your need to be self-indulgent, and probably not taking into consideration the people you care about. It’s more likely your risk will pay off if it’s a calculated, planned one (if that’s not too much of an oxymoron).

Don’t just jump in. If you do, you’re closing your eyes to all the signs around you that are helping to lead your way and turning your back on the decisions and people who brought you to where you are. Jumping in sounds better than running away, but it’s often the same thing.

Don’t fight for what you want. If you look at life as a fight, it’s going to feel like one. You’re only in competition with yourself to be better and do better when you know better. Be gentle with yourself and others and go for what you want in the spirit of love and connection. You’ll be amazed at the people willing to help you along the way.

Stay in your comfort zone. Or more accurately, broaden your comfort zone. Yes, try things that give you butterflies. Stretch yourself. Find your passion and focus on it. But if you’re happy in your comfort zone, you shouldn’t be made to feel bad about it. I’m not sure why our comfort zones have gotten such a bad wrap. We should not be made to feel like we’re settling because we’re at a place where we feel comfortable with ourselves. Isn’t that where everyone else is striving to be? I feel bad for those who feel such a constant unease with their lives that they have to always leave it to chase a new high. Everyone should be able to settle into his or her own comfort zone and thoroughly enjoy it.

There isn’t a rockin’ quote for making the tough choices, for sometimes making sacrifices for others, and for taking full responsibility for your life. Avoid hedonism isn’t as enticing as Go for It. But in the long run, honestly working your way towards personal fulfillment and lasting love is where the real joy lies.

Happiness is complicated. Challenges will feel daunting. Mistakes will be made. Expectations won’t be met. The unexpected happens. And that’s when I get uninspired. I remember the past and my regrets. I appreciate where I am. Then, with a solid plan and my eyes wide open, I step forward with care. My enthusiasm is no less than if I jumped, but I'm more prepared for the commitment my goals will require. I’m in it for the long haul, for 2014 and beyond. Inspiration is a good starting point, but determination and discipline will be my guides.

MANY THINGS YOU NOW KNOW ABOUT ME

     There’s this thing going around Facebook where someone gives you a number and then you list things people may not know about you. I got the number seven and without too much thought, here are the seven things I wrote:

1. I am deaf in my left ear and have tinnitus in both. So if I ignore you, I might not have heard you...or I might be ignoring you.

2. I wrote a ballet that was performed at the Bushnell Theater in Hartford, CT. I knew nothing about ballet, but what the heck.

3. I paid my own way through college.

4. I chose to go to graduate school at the University of New Hampshire solely because it was about as far away from Texas as I could get. No wonder grad school didn't work out so well.

5. When I was a young girl, I dreamed of someday using my life's savings to go to Rome to see the Coliseum. Little did I know I would end up traveling to Europe many times, and when I went to Rome and saw the Coliseum I almost cried (or I might have actually cried).

6. I've been inside the Kremlin.

7. At one time, I suffered from severe vertigo for 18 months straight and could barely leave the house. Dr. Steven Rauch saved my life.

Top of Form

     Do any of you who know me really think I could stop at seven? Call it being loquacious. Call it being self-indulgent. Call it what you want, but it got me to thinking about all the indiscriminate things in my life that contribute to who I am. Not the big stuff that we often re-visit, but the inconsequential entities. I enjoyed going over in my mind all these random things about myself. If you are reading this and don’t know me at all, I would be curious to hear what kind of composite you come up with based on this arbitrary list. So here we go: Things you may not know about me:

I grew up with a St. Bernard named Bruno. When he got old, I believed my mother when she said he went away to live on a big farm.

While strolling down a sidewalk on Martha’s Vineyard, Brooke Shields walked up next to me and I instantaneously looked like a troll.

I always choose Raisinets for the Drive-in movies, even though it’s not my favorite candy.

I wrote one of the stories in the book Chicken Soup for the Kids’ Soul. The book is one of my son’s favorites.

I met Tomie dePaola at an authors’ dinner once and he was kind of a dick. My son never liked his books.

Jaws is my favorite movie of all time. It was released on my 9th birthday.

One of my top three favorite concerts was Willie Nelson, even though I’ve never cared for his music.

I rushed the stage during the encore of a James Taylor concert and he touched my hand and now we’re likethis. (Ok, the last part of that isn't true.)

I had to give up alcohol and caffeine. I miss caffeine more.

I never wear lipstick.

I am only two degrees of separation from Oprah. So close and yet so far.

In high school I weighed 109 pounds. And I thought I was fat.

First impressions go a long way with me. If I don’t like you after the first time we meet, it takes me a long time to change my mind.

I agreed to go surfing with a guy just to impress him. I’ve never surfed since. I didn’t have to, because I impressed him... and married him.

An MRI showed that I have a significant section of frontal lobe missing from my brain. Doctors can’t explain it, but my husband says it explains a lot!

People may already know that I brag about my husband and son on a regular basis. What they may not know is it’s because I think everyone should have someone who is sincerely their biggest fan.

I do my best writing late at night but mom duty rarely allows me to stay up to take advantage of it.

I’d much rather go shopping for kitchen things to cook with than for clothes to wear, even though I don’t like to cook.

I probably say a variation of the word Fuck at least once a day.

Only my husband knows my greatest fear. 

And since I love to travel, here is my “Most” list of some of the places I’ve visited:

Most beautiful architecture: Paris, France  

Most fascinating: Moscow, Russia

Most fun: London, England

Most delicious: Florence, Italy

Most like paradise: Maui, Hawaii

Most relaxing: Nantucket, MA

Most perfect sunsets: Long Beach Island, NJ

Most festive at Christmas: New York City, NY

Most gorgeous vistas: Hailey, Idaho

Most jubilant: Disney World, FL

Most want to visit next: Greece 

 
So now do you think you know me?

Even Scrooge and The Grinch Stopped Complaining

            Ah, it’s November and you know what that means! The complaints are already beginning to trickle in. Everyone seems to love the holidays but hate everything about them. They hate the shopping, the Christmas tunes while shopping, the traveling, the decorating, feeling forced to say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”… The list is as long as Santa’s. ‘Tis the season for cheer and goodwill…but only from a distance, please.

            There are some years when the Christmas spirit hits me right between the eyes. I spend weekends baking batches of homemade fudge for the neighbors, I ransack Michael’s for new decorations, and I happily volunteer at my son’s school holiday events. Other years the Christmas spirit knocks me upside the head. Those years I daydream of using my Christmas ribbon to strangle the ultra-organized PTA members who scheduled those extra school events. Instead, I volunteer less, buy a Costco bag of chocolates for my neighbors, and only bring up one container of decorations from the basement. So sometimes people get my Suzie Homemaker Christmas and sometimes they get my half-assed version. But at least that half is happy and not too stressed to appreciate the holidays. And I’m not complaining.

            The reason I can exempt myself from the list of holiday haters is because I finally let go of everyone’s expectations for the perfect holiday, most importantly my own. Through trial and error and some self-reflection (and possibly old age), I’ve learned a couple of things.    

            One, traditions can be stifling. I used to be overly concerned about developing traditions for my family until I realized the only tradition I was keeping was the one of putting too much pressure on myself. I was trying to create Norman Rockwell experiences instead of figuring out what we really enjoyed doing and what we really didn't. Traditions are more meaningful when they happen naturally over time, not when you feel obligated to do exactly what your parents did or what your family expects of you or even what you’ve done the year before. Life is fluid, so why shouldn’t holidays be?

            Do what you feel like doing this year and scrap the other stuff. I think I speak for everybody when I say I don’t want a gift from you if it drains you to buy it - financially, physically, or emotionally. If we care enough about each other to want to exchange gifts then we should care enough to want each other to be happy and unburdened, especially around the holidays. Do something fun together instead. Take each other out for a decadent dessert or go ice-skating or sledding. Pack all your nieces and nephews in the car after dark and find one of those giant light displays to drive through. Forget the extensive gift list and spend your weekends doing festive activities instead of trudging through crowded malls. (Unless, like me, you love the malls at Christmas time, then shop ‘till you drop!) If you enjoy baking, take the extra time to do it. If you find it a hassle, go to a bakery or candy shop and buy some goodies. I’d rather fall short at being the Queen of Christmas than subject others to Ms. Crabby Christmas.

            Maybe it’s easier for me because I don’t have the guilt or martyr complex that some other people may suffer from. So making those kinds of compromises has been easier to reconcile than another realization I finally came to. I think everyone can agree, holidays are supposed to be about family. Lots of family. In all the Christmas movies, in all the Thanksgiving snapshots, even in my own childhood memories, there was lots of family. So even after I grew up and left our nuclear family of eight, plus a host of local cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents, I couldn’t help but feel my new family of three wouldn’t cut it for the holidays. How can it really feel like Thanksgiving or Christmas with just the three of us?

            I came to the slow realization that as a carefree child, I adored that happy chaos. As an adult, I really like the simplicity and tranquility that my cozy little family offers. When we finally ventured to have a Thanksgiving and Christmas by ourselves, we found that the holiday was just as special with just the three of us as it was with a multitude of beloved family members.

            So now our only holiday tradition is the one where we allow ourselves to do whatever we want each year. Taking stock of our present mood and circumstances is our gift to each other and to ourselves. In past years, we’ve traveled to spend wonderful Thanksgivings at my in-laws and my cousin’s homes, as well as hosting friends in our own home. There were other times when we’ve preferred a more subdued, easy peasy Thanksgiving at our favorite restaurant. Last year we spent a terrifically boisterous Thanksgiving in Florida with my husband’s family. This year, we feel like nesting at home and getting to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade all the way to the end. We do miss whichever family members we’re not with, but it's also fun to spend part of the day reminiscing about past feasts.

            Christmas, on the other hand, has become our treasured alone time. The only expectation is that Santa will arrive at midnight. With all the hubbub leading up to it, we prefer to safeguard a leisurely Christmas day. One where my son can stay in his pajamas all day and play with his newly unwrapped toys; where my husband can eat as much crumb cake as he likes because Christmas dinner is whatever time we want it to be; where we can play in the snow if there is any, then lounge by the fire the rest of the day and watch a marathon of Christmas movies. Our lazy Christmas has evolved naturally to become tradition. Who knew?

            I’m not saying the way we spend our holidays is the way everyone should do it. In fact, I’m saying just the opposite. Celebrate the season in the way that will make YOU happy. Discover what you really enjoy about this time of year and spend the most time doing that. Treat yourself to at least one really fun outing in December to infuse some Christmas spirit. And if you find yourself complaining, try skipping whatever it is you’re complaining about. Just this year, just to see if the world ends if you don’t make four pies from scratch or mail 75 Christmas cards or show up at your Aunt Ida’s. I bet my neighbors don’t even remember what I gave them for the holidays last year, but I remember, because I enjoyed making all their treats. That enjoyment - or conversely annoyance had that been the case - is a part of my holiday memories, not theirs. This Thanksgiving and Christmas, let’s give ourselves a holiday from our own Quixotic expectations and learn to really appreciate what the season offers. Radiating joy in the season meant for it is the best gift we can give each other.

Bacon Wrapped Twinkies: The Rebellion Against Nutrition Snobs

            Sometimes I feel like grocery shopping carts ought to be solid black boxes with lids so shopping can be a judgment free zone. My Cheetos can rest beside my can of Manwich without fear of reproving looks. Like from that woman in yoga pants who raises her eyebrow as I start unloading my cart, putting my 5-pack of Kraft macaroni and cheese behind her 6-pack of Vitamin Water. I reach for my produce – yes, I buy produce, too! – but she trumps me again. Her package of fresh raspberries is organic. When I did the math, it came out to be about 87 cents per berry, so I bought apples. I start rooting around in my cart for the “good” foods that I bought. Look, I got the Skippy Natural peanut butter with no hydrogenated oils. I got the block of cheddar, not the Velveeta. I got the local Farmer’s Cow eggs. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t hide the big guns left in my cart: two bottles of Cherry Coke Zero. I put the first one on the conveyor belt, where its 2 liters of caramel colored liquid aspartame tower over her faux vitamin packed beverages. As the cashier begins to ring up her purchase, the bottle falls over onto her side of the plastic divider. We both grab for it at the same time, but as we put it back on my side, I see a wistful look that I didn’t see the first time. I almost feel sorry for the deprived yoga lady. Should I throw my Cheetos in her cart as a parting benefaction? Nah, the self-tanned, teeth whitened, nail polished, Botox injected, hair highlighted woman would never do something as unhealthy as eat some Cheetos.

            Perhaps this is why Peapod, the food delivery service, stays in business. With one click of a computer mouse you’re able to get two weeks’ worth of pudding cups anonymously. Head down and hoodie up, you hand over your cash to the driver, grab the plain paper bags, and hustle into your house. Because eating normal foods nowadays feels almost criminal, doesn’t it? You have to prove its nutritional value or eliminate it from your life.

            Eat nothing white. Eat nothing from any breathing source. Eat nothing that begins with the letter P. Eat nothing that might taste remotely like you’d want to eat it. If people have to forego certain foods for medical reasons (like gluten), you shouldn’t eat that food either. These are the rules to maintain your nutritional hubris.

            If you’re craving sugar, firstly, do not admit it. Just be sure to go to a cool café and pay an inordinate amount for a cold beverage with a healthy name and something “green” in it. It doesn’t lessen the 21 grams of sugar it has, but by God at least you’re not eating a cookie!

            If you get a coffee drink, by all means, do not have it with cow’s milk. Anything but cow’s milk. Don’t you remember that cow milk plague that wiped out thousands of people in the early 19^th century? No? Me, neither. Some of the same people who refuse to vaccinate their children against (real) deadly diseases like the mumps and whooping cough want to tell us how bad cow’s milk is for us. La la la la. (That’s me with my fingers in my ears not listening.)

           It’s not so much a matter of health as it is dietary superiority. Don’t be fooled into thinking you’re doing fine by eating your vegetables. You should be drinking them. If you’re not juicing, you might as well be eating ice cream three times a day. (Hey, there’s a thought!) Vegetarians touted their diets as better, but when everyone started doing it, they had to up the ante. I see your meatless meals and I raise you sans animal byproducts. Thus, vegans were created. Their way of eating is compassionate, whereas ours is SAD (Standard American Diet). They won’t even eat honey because bees make it. Those poor bees! If only they had unionized and weren’t forced to produce honey for us greedy honey eaters they could go on to be bees that…um, what would they be doing? Oh, yeah, making honey.       

            I think the push to eliminate “bad” foods is just turning grown people into teenagers and making them rebellious. They’re flocking to the likes of The Heart Attack Grill in Las Vegas to order stuff like the Double Bypass burger. Burger King is offering burgers with French fries in them, just to be sure you’re getting something fried. If people are constantly told what they can’t eat, they’re going to show you what they can.

            Take Thanksgiving for instance. The week before the holiday, we’re inundated with how not to eat what you want to eat on the one day you should be allowed to eat it. People used to be happy with their roasted turkeys, but the more they tell people to eat celery sticks before sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, the more people go out and buy deep fat fryers for their turkey.

            The one place that food elimination snobs haven’t touched is the fair. It’s one of the last places people can eat freely without someone telling you what you ought to be eating instead. (Unless it’s, “You ought to be eating that cheesesteak gyro turkey leg kebab.”) Knock wood, I have yet to see a bad Today Show segment on how to eat healthy at the fair. Even the media still seems to revel in fair foods. Where else can you get bacon-wrapped butter stuck in a Twinkie deep-fried covered in chocolate and sprinkled with powdered sugar? More importantly, where else can you eat one in plain sight?

            I’d love for the vegans and the fast foodies to meet in the middle: Balanced eating, no guilt, an occasional indulgence. And no judgment. We should do like my mother always said as the six of us squabbling kids sat down to the dinner table. Just shut up and eat.

Powerball Jackpot: I Totally Deserve To Win

            I checked our Powerball ticket Thursday morning to find out if our lives had changed overnight. Nope, not one iota. We didn’t get a single number matched, which is probably a good thing because almost winning $448 million is even worse than not coming close to winning $448 million. They can keep their hundred bucks; knowing I had four numbers right would kill me.

            They say the statistics of winning are astronomical, that you’ve got a better chance of being struck by lightening. Let me just say that I don’t play golf and I’m not in a boy scout troop, so I think they’re wrong on my lightening chances. Besides, the proof is in the pudding: somebody wins and it might as well be me.

            I liked one of the guys who won this latest one. He quit his job immediately and announced he didn’t want to work for the rest of his life. Now this is a deserving lottery winner. Not like the ones you hear about from places like North Dakota who say they’re real happy at their factory job and still plan to keep on working. “I’ll probably just buy a new pick-up truck,” they say. They should invent a special lottery for these kinds of people. Perhaps a Schlitz Scratch-off. They could win a six-pack a week for life. They’d be good to go.

            Deserving winners quit their jobs and overhaul their lives. They take that giant check and sail around the world. They don’t add on a new deck to their raised ranch house. They walk away from their home and pick out a mansion…which they’ve driven to in their new Bugatti…just before getting on a private jet to a Caribbean island and deciding which oceanfront property to buy there.

            Of course, I feel my husband and I would be the best lottery winners. We only play the really big jackpots so that we won’t need to hire lawyers and estate planners and figure out the smartest thing to do with the money. Who wants to bother being smart? We’d be rich for heaven’s sake! In fact, when my husband heard there were three winners who had to split the jackpot, he stated, “That would suck.” That’s the kind of dedicated money spenders we would be. Sure, the $58 million each of them will get after taxes would be plenty, but we had already devoted the previous evening to how we were going to spend the full $175 million. We had planned to be the ultimate Reaganomics couple and allow our good fortune and hefty spending habits to trickle down.

            But, alas, we didn’t win. Everything that’s good and right with our lives won’t get chucked aside by the promise of what lots of cash can give us. We won’t get the chance to suddenly come across a ton of new friends and long-lost relatives. We won’t even get the opportunity to get seasick sailing around the world. (Did I ever tell you about that whale watching trip? Blech!)

            The thing is, even if we were to have an almost unlimited supply of cash, we'd still be us. A private jet won’t stop my palms from sweating every time I fly. Living in Paris won’t make us suddenly like staying out past midnight any more than fancy restaurants would change my aversion to wearing high heels. A tropical beach won’t make my husband like the sand any more than he does now and affording a trip to Aspen won’t make me hate the cold any less.

            Now that I think of it, I’m pretty happy not overhauling our lives. I mean, how pathetic would it be searching for a TV in Bali so I don’t miss the final episodes of Big Brother? Maybe we're not the most deserving lottery winners after all. Maybe we're the New England version of that guy from North Dakota. Invent a Ben & Jerry’s Scratch-Off ticket and we're good to go.

Only in New York

             My family and I try to get to New York City every few months to enjoy the changes with each season. We hadn't been there since the spring, so last weekend we made another trek. The one thing that doesn't change? The food, and my love/hate relationship with it. I love it when I’m there and I hate it when I leave.

             I’m not even talking about the plethora of chi chi restaurants owned by TV chefs. I’m talking about the every day food, real food that you can only get in New York. Although this delectable food does eke into bordering Connecticut, I live in the northeastern section, which in this case might as well be Ohio. I know Mayor Bloomberg was trying to pass a law against selling giant sodas, but is there another law I haven’t heard about? The one that says only New Yorkers are allowed to enjoy authentic food while the rest of us are stuck with the generic kind?

            On this trip, we stop for a bite to eat about a half hour outside of the city in Greenwich, CT. We choose Corbo’s, a deli my husband frequents when he consults down there. My husband is originally from Long Island so he knows from delis. The minute he orders, the university professor who’s been living in New England for over 20 years disappears and his Long Island accent and mannerisms emerge. He immediately bonds with the New Yorkers behind the counter.

            We get our sandwiches even before we’re done paying, because that's how these guys roll. Not like Panera, where you might wait ten minutes just for them to throw some lettuce and dressing in a bowl. They don’t take numbers or names. They just point at you and toss you your foil-covered sandwich.

            My husband wasn’t sure I’d want to go there. “The place has no atmosphere,” he said. No atmosphere? It’s got New York deli atmosphere! (Does he forget that I’m a New Yorker, too?) There are a few tables in the front. There’s a rack of potato chips: plain, salt and vinegar, or sour cream and chives. There’s a refrigeration unit that sells bottles of Cokes and Dr. Peppers and cream soda. I neglected to check, but I’d bet they even sell Yoo Hoo.  

            We open the foil to reveal our sandwiches. And this is the thing: They’re on hard rolls. These are rolls that you can only get in New York. They’re the type of rolls I used to put slabs of butter on in my youth and eat for breakfast in my high school cafeteria. Yes, my school cafeteria. You didn’t have to go anyplace fancy to get the best hard rolls on the planet. You could stop at the local mini mart and pick one up buttered or with an egg and cheese in it. But it didn’t matter what was in it or on it, it was all about the roll. Eating that deli sandwich was the ultimate sense memory from my youth.

            It was the most satisfying lunch I’ve had since…well, since the last time we went to New York. I felt I could be fine the rest of the day on simply the memory of it, but then we make our way into the city, park the car, and step out onto the sidewalk. The aromas wafting from the food carts assault us. Intellectually, I know it’s not the cleanest place to get your food from. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking the rats probably exit them every morning before their owners fire them up for another day’s business. Still, it’s difficult to walk past one of those stainless steal carts with the yellow Sabrett’s umbrella and not salivate at the thought of a dirty water dog.

            My son has his eye on a hot pretzel. It would be his first and I debate about not buying it for him, only because it will ruin him from ever being able to eat one elsewhere. No one else can apparently make a proper hot pretzel, not at the mall or at the movies. Yes, they all sit there the same way under the warm lights, presumably hours old. But somehow, the ones in the city aren’t hard and flavorless like all the others. These are soft and chewy and salty, and with a thick line of yellow mustard, they are worth every cockroach-infested nightmare you might have.

            Ditto with the hot nuts. Hungry or not, every visit I find myself in zombie mode heading to a Nuts 4 Nuts cart and taking out a few singles for a waxed bag of warm, sugar-coated peanuts. What other food makes you crunch and hum at the same time as you’re walking down the street?

            It’s all the walking; that’s why we keep eating (or so I tell myself). For blocks and blocks we walk and take in all the sights and sounds that only New York City can provide: the vivid lights of Times Square, the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the crowds in Rockefeller Plaza. The eclectic vibe continues into Central Park and we eventually make our way to the neighborhoods of Greenwich Village.

            Although you can get real New York pizza many places in the city (even a quick slice at Penn Station doesn’t disappoint), we like John’s of Bleeker Street. It’s small with wooden booths etched with years of diners’ graffiti. Like Corbo’s, the talented Italian guys who run it are no nonsense. No reservations, no credit cards, no slices. Order a pie and a pitcher of soda and you’re good. And really, what else do you need? What you get is a foldable, mouthwatering pizza. In my book, if you can’t fold a slice, it’s not real pizza. Don’t give me those blackened brick-oven pizzas. Don’t sell me on stuffed crust or pan pizza. You fold it in half, let some of the oil drip off the end, and then take that first mouthwatering bite that always burns the roof of your mouth because you just can’t wait. That’s pizza that for some reason you can only get in New York.

            True story: My nine-year-old son never liked pizza. He rarely ate it. A few years ago we took him to John’s for the first time. “This doesn’t taste like pizza,” he proclaimed, gobbling it up. Our poor little suburban boy who had only known the likes of Papa Gino’s and birthday party pizzas had gotten a taste of his first real pie. It was a bittersweet day for our family. 
            After stuffing ourselves at the pizzeria, what’s left to do but get a Junior’s cheesecake? I can never quite remember the flavor, because there’s nothing else like it. That first heavenly forkful reminds me of its light yet deep texture, delicate yet robust flavor, and the perfect balance of sweetness and tartness. It’s the epitome of New York cheesecake. In fact, it makes me want to picket The Cheesecake Factory and tell all their customers that what they’re selling might seem good, but it’s not cheesecake. It’s not even in the cheesecake family. It’s some globby composite of sweet upon sweet, which can be interchanged with chocolate or peanut butter or Oreos. That’s not cheesecake. Real cheesecake can stand alone, exposed, without any bells or whistles or even cherries.

            At the end of the day, we make our way to the parking garage, feet sore, bellies stuffed, palates humming with satisfaction. Oh yes, it’s all happiness as the flavors play over again in my mind on the ride home. I go to bed exhausted but fulfilled. But what do I wake up to? The knowledge that we have to drive three hours to get food that tastes like something.

            Like lemmings, we all go to our chain restaurants and fast food joints, thinking we are enjoying these foods because it’s what we’ve become accustomed to. But I know better and believe me, it would be better not to know. I almost wish the toll on the Tappan Zee Bridge was a mind eraser. You pay your $5 and you get your memory erased of all those rich flavors that are still lingering on your taste buds. Then you could happily go back to your white bread life without knowing any better. I could go back to being a Stepford eater.

            “Yes, I’ll have the white chocolate caramel macadamia nut cheesecake, please. It’s delicious.”

Why The Bachelor Is Such A Thorn In My Side

            Oh, Good God. Another season of The Bachelor is here. This time it’s The Bachelorette’s turn. Hurrah, equal opportunity abasement.

            I’ll admit, I used to watch the show. I even bought into the “true love” aspect of it for the first, oh, three times. Then I stuck with it another season or two just for the recreation of watching all those drunken, sobbing, catty oh-no-she-didn’t moments. But after a while, the entertainment value of watching younger, prettier women degrade themselves and each other even lost its appeal. Or maybe I started watching The Real Housewives franchise, which adequately fed my desire to feel superior to thin blondes. Either way, I stopped watching, certain that if a reality junkie like me was tired of it, everyone else would soon be, too. Even if viewers weren’t turning away, surely they would run out of women willing to subject themselves to the humiliations of the show.

            Alas, I was wrong. There seems to be no end to the number of desperate 23-year-olds certain that Mr. Right is just a limo ride and eight or nine glasses of champagne away. I think in seventeen seasons of the show, only one woman has ever bowed out before the rose ceremony because she actually stopped to consider whether she liked him. Those are incredible odds that out of 25 women, every one of them falls for whichever guy the show happens to serve up. Are women really that acquiescent these days or are they all drinking some kind of Mormon Kool Aid in the back of that limo? What I’d like to see, frankly, is a Bachelor who purposely acts like an asshole during the show, and let’s see how many of the women stick around. I’m betting most of them, sadly. The Rose Ceremony is The Bachelor version of Sally Field’s acceptance speech: “He likes me. He really likes me.” Cringe.

            I like to think The Bachelor women are in on it and just want to win, whether they’re taking home a fiancé or a booby prize. They’ll get their fifteen minutes of fame, and if they’re really lucky, a contestant spot on Dancing with the Stars. Yes, that’s today’s version of a television star  -- people who get engaged two days after one of them just slept with the lucky runner-up.

            It makes me yearn for bygone reality shows like Battle of the Network Stars. Those were the days when TV knew the definition of a star. They wouldn’t let just anybody don knee socks and matching headbands to compete in that obstacle course. No, you had to be a real star like Kristy McNichol, Parker Stevenson, or Adrienne Barbeau. You had to earn your star status with a hokey television show or at least a few After School Specials. Teen Beat pin-ups like Leif Garrett, Scott Baio, and Willie Aames earned their celebrity status. They might’ve kissed as many girls in one week as the Bachelor, but they did it on their own time. If people like Farrah Fawcett, Suzanne Somers, and Lynda Carter were going to show off their breasts, they were going to do it for the sake of art, not in hopes of a rose. (What? Are you saying Charlie’s Angels wasn’t art?) They had television standards back then. Stars would only get in hot tubs and suck face on television if it were scripted.

            Ah, so maybe we haven’t fallen so far after all. Today’s version of scripted TV is a little more opaque than the laugh track days. A former Bachelor, Brad Womack, got lambasted by viewers for having the nerve not to fall in love within the allotted eight weeks of the program. How dare he not follow the script! Here the viewers are, totally invested in whether DeAnna or Jenni gets the final rose. They blog about it, they Facebook about it, they chat about it. Only, the viewers are more invested than either of the women. DeAnna and Jenni are probably just psyched to get to go to Tahiti or Belize or whatever paradise ABC sends the final "ladies". More important than going home with Brad or Sean or Travis is going home with two and a half carats of Neil Lane.

            I’ll concede it’s possible they may have real feelings for the guy. I mean, who wouldn’t after being wooed on fantasy-like dates in magical locales. It’s not hard to impress a date when someone else makes the plans and foots the bill. But what's a date with him like when a major television network's not involved? I'm betting popcorn and a movie is more likely than lobster and a yacht. Will he spring for a large with extra butter? That could make or break a relationship. Instead of taking a trip to New Zealand, they ought to be taking a trip to Costco. How much beef jerky does the man eat on a regular basis? That’s going to decide whether you make it for the long haul.

            Then again, maybe I’m old fashioned. The long haul for a Bachelor couple might be making it through a Vodka launch party in Vegas. Since they date and get engaged within two months, maybe everything’s in fast forward. If Bachelor couples count their time together in dog years, they’re all a success. If not, well, there’s always next season. Oy.