Last week two friends managed to lure me out of my apartment and back into the city. The thought of stepping outside my door and hemorrhaging money was enough to make me want to burrow deeper into the sofa and continue my marathon viewing of The Wire on DVD. This is New York after all. She’ll charge you for the air you breathe. She’s that kind of petty bitch. (Besides, The Wire really is as good as everyone says.)

But there were good reasons to leave the house. People were sending me e-vites to “Friendraisers”—the kind of thing where folks don’t want your money—they just want to see you. Friends who could afford to be hung-over called and invited me to brunch. Friends who needed an “I hate New York” rehabilitation buddy were reaching out. She, in particular, was ready to make a break for Los Angeles. I couldn’t let that happen, that’s one less friend I’d have in a city already filled with grouchy trolls. Besides, I knew she couldn’t afford the plane ticket home. She’s stuck here. I’m stuck here. We’re all stuck here. So let’s make the best of it, I figured. Why not leave the house and socialize in a public setting?

And that’s just what I did. But not before eating at home first. Because this, people, is how you can meet up with friends somewhere cool, without feeling like you’re going to break the bank. That’s right, even when you’re off to a restaurant, eat at home first. I mean, it makes sense don’t it? You always take a few shots before you head to the bar nowadays, so why not apply the same logic elsewhere? If your friends can go out and eat, fine. But don’t let that stop you from going out and joining them. I’m constantly isolating myself because I don’t want to spend something I haven’t got. But I’m learning to be crafty. And this whole eating before you got out thing is working for me. It’s helping me be social and outgoing again. [Read more →]

The Japanese half of my background reined much of my upbringing—well, sort of, at least the culinary effects were strongly felt. My mother’s mother would drive her silver diesel Mercedes from the strawberry land of Oxnard, CA, and unload countless trays of food from her trunk: big pot of teriyaki short ribs, rolls of futomaki sushi, and bags of Japanese candy treats. She lived an hour away, however, so this was more of a once-a-month occurrence. On my Armenian side, my father’s mother, Lillian, lived less than a mile away. So we dined at her house often. Usually, on Thursdays, the entire family—aunties, uncles, and cousins—would trek to her house on Arbolada Drive for one of her sprawling dinners.

Lillian, or Lil, as she was known, was a classy lady. We never saw her undone—ever. She was always dressed up—silky blouse that tied at the neck, skirt that hit just below the knee, stockings, and a low heel. She went to the beauty shop every Saturday for her weekly hair (reddish brown) and nail (pink) upkeep. She drove a yellow Cadillac and liked to have lunch at hotel coffee shops.

Lil’s dinner menu usually consisted of the following: fresh vegetables to start; a pot of Gram’s soup, which I’ll elaborate on later; hamburger patties, barbecued chicken, grilled tomatoes and onions, and rice pilaf. It was immense, but then there were a lot of people to feed. In my family, gender roles were, and still are, very old-fashioned, very defined. Upon arriving at Lil’s house, the men would head to the family room to watch news or sports, the kids would play in the backyard, and the women would cook. [Read more →]

Photo courtesy of Ugo.com

“This is a robbery you mutherf*cker!”

That’s what popped into my head as I imagined my friends robbin’ and stealin’. I imagined Becky (names have been changed for this story) holding a gun to the bathroom attendant while Nancy (names have been changed for this story) rummaged through the bathroom looking for the loot, cursing up a storm. But that’s not how it happened. It was easier than that. It was easy and guiltless Becky and Nancy said. Things were tough, so why not take what they wanted they said.

Shit, I thought. I’ve got Bonnie and Clyde all up in my living room.

It was easiest to stake out a bar or restaurant, they said. Restaurants in particular had the best stuff. All they had to do was go into the bathroom, look around for a stack piled up against a wall or in a basket—usually they’d find it under the sink—and depending on the size of the purse one or the other happened to be hauling around, they’d grab the stuff and go.

“I mean really, look at this!” Becky said. She proudly pulled three rolls of toilet paper out of her handbag. “Usually I just take one or two, but this bag fit three!”

My friends had resorted to stealing. They’d just gotten back from brunch in our Park Slope neighborhood and were relaying to me the ingenious ways they were grifting the system. I couldn’t stop laughing. “You stole toilet paper?” The stuff was cheap to begin with. “A roll of Marcal never sets you back more than a dollar.” I said.  “Well that’s a dollar I can spend on something else, like a drink at the bar.” Becky said. “You know what else we did last night?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. This shit was funny, but it was also kind of sad. The last time I’d stolen anything, I was about 12. The Snickers bar I’d stuffed up into my training bra fell out of my shirt right as I was walking out of a mini-mart. The owner saw the Snickers hit the ground and he came running. I tried getting away on my old 10-speed, but he caught the back of my shirt, pulled me off the bike and screamed bloody murder. I cried like a baby. I was afraid and ashamed. I was a kid, I didn’t know any better he said, and then he let me go. I hadn’t stolen a thing since then (the author is lying—she stole highlighters from her old job, and she stole a ream of paper for her graduate school applications—okay and maybe sometimes she eats a few grapes when she’s shopping in the produce isle). I was disappointed in Becky and Nancy and I didn’t really know if I wanted to hear about the rest of their shenanigans (Another lie. She wholeheartedly encouraged them to spill it). [Read more →]

My god, I admit it—with shame—I was one of those idiots who stood outside the Marc Jacobs Stuff store. I’m not sure why I went. I was curious. I was in the neighborhood. I saw a friend on the street while on my way, but I didn’t call his name. If I did, I’d have to explain where I was going. When I arrived, the line didn’t seem horrendous, so I took my place and hung my head. I wished I had worn sunglasses. I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with the passersby who stood on the opposite corner to take pictures of this retail specter. I had read tales of the $5 goods and thought maybe there was some adorable something that I could take home as stocking stuffers.

In all, I waited about forty minutes. Upon entering, I—sort of—understand why Marc Jacobs initiates this doorman-line process. The shop is tiny, but it does ring ridiculous, just like the shenanigans outside of the Abercrombie & Fitch on Fifth Avenue. Really, is a store so worth it?

There were graphic tees. Eh. Plastic cocktail rings. No way. Wallets and billfolds, kind of nice, but no thanks. Key rings for five bucks. Don’t need ’em. The canvas bags in an assortment of tropical colors were cute but not needed. I didn’t like the MJ initials printed on the little lipstick cases and coin purses—too reminiscent of Michael. There was a nice black patent leather wallet wristelet, but I think I liked it more than my mom or sister would. So I left, empty-handed. As the bouncer opened the door, he gave me a little smirk of surprise, as if he couldn’t believe I didn’t buy anything.

Rather than settling for a traditional North Pole scene this year, Barneys NY dedicated their entire holiday window display to Saturday Night Live’s 35th Anniversary. While the move may seem semi-sacrilege, it seems to be luring in tons of holiday shoppers (the store was packed to the brim all weekend). If only Chris Farley was still around, we’d have a perfect Santa Claus…

A Medley of SNL characters, including Will Ferrell’s Janet Reno and Tracey Morgan’s Brian Fellows.

An homage to the Coneheads.

[Read more →]

Photo courtesy of www.zupas.com

I have to admit that I haven’t been cooking as much as I’d like these days.  I’ve been traveling and dealing with starting a new job part time.  My fiancée and I will be relocating to Portland, OR at the end of next month, where I’ll start full time with the Oregon Wine Board.

On one hand, I’m terribly excited, as I love Portland and this job is a dream one for me.  But, on the other, I’m terribly sad to leave.  I’ve lived here in New York City for the last 10 years.   Lately, I cannot walk down a city street without being jogged by a memory of a certain time and place.  It’s hard to leave a city that you love and one where you grew from a college graduate to a full-fledge adult with a soon to be husband, cat, dog and apartment that you have taken the time to put love, warmth and care into. [Read more →]

photo courtesy of allfavourites.com

You’d think that because I spend less and I eat less, that I’d have no choice but to weigh less. You’d think I’d be walking around (this isn’t going to be PC) like a barefoot and bloated third-world baby. Not so. Some of us it turns out are pre-disposed to slow metabolisms that require huge amounts of fuel in the fire to stay trim; when you can’t afford the fuel, the fire goes out, and when the cheapest kind of fuel is pasta and cereal, your body is going to change—and not for the better.

The first thing to expand when my budget shrank was my waist line. Everything just felt a little tighter—winter weight, I told myself—New Yorkers put on winter weight. Next it became hard to button my pants—bloating, I told myself—I must be retaining water, maybe special lady time is around the corner. When I did manage to button my pants, I looked like too much sausage in too little casing. We all gain a little weight now and again, but when faced with severe muffin top, lying to oneself is pointless; the truth is right there, hanging over your pants. [Read more →]