Where's the Beef?

One thing that never fails to amuse me is watching people eat gross stuff. Growing up, on any given Sunday at the Peking Duck House, I could be counted on to mix up a vile concoction of lobster sauce, egg roll filling and Diet Coke and offer to pay a dollar to anyone at the table who would drink it.

These days, it doesn’t cost a thing for me to watch as my husband and brother-in-law are faced with food challenges at my parents’ dinner table.

While some father-in-laws evaluate their daughter’s spouses based on income, sports knowledge or how well they treat them, my dad has another method. He wants to know: Can you eat like a man?

For those of you raised in a vegetarian household I should explain that eating like a man means consuming meat – preferably beef – at a too-low-to-be-served-in-a-restaurant temperature. Vegetables are to be eschewed, although potatoes are acceptable (although always eaten after, never instead of, meat). The appropriate beverage to wash down this meal is beer. Not imported beer. Not some berry-flavored summer brew. Budweiser.

Both my sister’s and my husband are modern men. They workout, calculate calories, fat and fiber before putting something in their mouths and love nothing more than a night at the sushi bar. But in the interest of making a good impression, all of this was set aside at our first Fourth of July barbeque together.

I smiled to myself as my mother lobbed several 16-oz. steaks on the grill and served them up rare, as per my father’s instructions. With their chins dripping with enough blood to make us think that Jason from Friday the 13th had paid a visit to the house, we girls watched as they chewed the “yummy” meat as my father looked on approvingly.

A few nights later, my husband took himself out of the running for Most Manly Son-in-Law. We were at a local Italian restaurant for dinner when he made the fatal mistake of ordering a salad – as a meal. Before my hubby could request his dressing on the side, my father peered at him over his menu. “You’re going to eat a WHAT?” he questioned, giving him a look that I was sure meant he had branded him a homosexual. Or a rabbit. Or a homosexual rabbit.

At the next Fourth of July, my brother-in-law knew there were no missteps to be taken. He arrived at the house, ready to eat like a man. If needed, he would brand, slay and skewer a moo-cow. But then my dad threw a curveball. This year, we were having lobsters. He wanted to know: Who was in?

My husband bowed out and asked for a burger. But my BIL was up for the challenge. Little did he know that this was not going to be the buttered and garnished lobster tail he was used to eating in fancy restaurants. When it was time for dinner, my dad placed the giant crustacean in front of him and handed him a tool kit complete with a cracker, a bib, a mallet, a flash light and a Makita cordless power saw.

We watched in amusement as BIL tried cracking open the claws, teasing the meat from the legs while pushing aside the antennae. “C’mon, get the meat!” my dad encouraged. “Get all of it!”

But I had the last laugh when, out to dinner together, I passed Dad a bite of my sushi-grade ahi tuna. Putting it in his mouth, he chewed, made a face and swallowed. “I can’t believe you got me to eat that!” he said, thoroughly disgusted. He was eating like a chick, and I was loving it.

A little slice of heaven

Yesterday I wandered into heaven. No, it was not a spa or a museum or even a holy house of worship. This place is called Discounts and Deals and it is my new obsession.

Discounts and Deals (or D&D as I’ll affectionately refer to it) is not, I repeat, not a dollar store. This is a discount Mecca and there are bargains to be had. You can buy everything here, from house wares to clothing. I walked away with a super-cool tank top with blue and red piping ($1.99) a cotton summer nightgown ($2.99) and a pair of capri exercise pants ($2.99). But more interesting than the things you can buy that you actually want are the other things that you have to sort through to get to the good stuff. I have to wonder who looks at an extra-large, slightly irregular lavender t-shirt with a teddy bear bursting out of a rainbow and says “Yes! That’s for me!” And what about the entire bin of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup baseball caps? “Forget the Yanks, this year I’m rooting for junk food!” In a different store, I once actually saw a display of discounted condoms for sale. Now come on, I know the economy is bad, but ask yourself, is this the area I really want to skimp on?

I know that some people are above shopping at a store like D&D and that’s fine. You may think you’re all fancy with your tank top with only two armholes and your totally intact non-irregular condoms! But did you save money? No, you didn’t.

Deli dude looks like a lady

So how cool is this? Last week I went into my local Key Food to pick up a few things only to find that there is now a woman working behind the deli counter! She was a tomboy in her mid-twenties with long brown hair, wearing a white deli person coat. I felt the urge to shout “You go, sister!” as she sliced off a pound of Boar’s Head low-sodium turkey for me, but I didn’t want to scare her and make her cut herself.

There is just something so inspiring and refreshing about a woman in a “traditionally male” job. I’ll admit that I get a little feeling of glee when I open up the door of a taxi and see a badass grandma behind the wheel or when Jennifer Beals welds in Flashdance. (The one exception to this is the NYPD. Seriously, what is the deal with those 5’2” 220-pound lady cops I have seen around my neighborhood? I’m sorry, but if some serious shit is going down, I want Ponch coming to my rescue!)

On the flipside, there are some jobs that men just shouldn’t do. The first one that comes to mind is gynecologist. You know the old saying – a male gynecologist is like an auto mechanic who doesn’t own a car. And anyway, it’s creepy (yeah, I know, you are just so inspired by the mystery of childbirth!).

Far worse is something that I encountered last week when I decided to try the new nail salon that opened up in my neighborhood – a male manicurist! Now don’t get me wrong, the only person I let cut my hair is a man and the most talented makeup artist I know has the XY chromosome. But there was something so utterly strange about a dude holding my hand, massaging lotion into it and painting my fingernails. It was as if he was disrupting some deeply intimate, feminine ritual.

So listen, mister. Put down the speculum and the Essie “Flirty Fuchsia” and leave those things to us.

I’m not saying it’s fair, I’m just saying I don’t like it.

Top ten ways to make tax day more fun

10. Sit down with your 1040 instruction booklet and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Every time you see the words “capital gain distributions,” do a shot.

9. Show up at your local H&R Block and yell “Free pizza for everyone!”

8. Try to write off your online porn subscriptions as a business expense.

7. Attend a tax day protest with a sign that reads “Fund Doggy Day-Spa Treatments for Bo!”

6. Stand in line at the post office with the intention of viewing the PS I Love You stamp collection.

5. Tell your children to horde the “tax relief” bite-sized cinnamon rolls Cinnabon is giving away since this is what they will be eating for breakfast for the next month.

4. Take your role of “Head of Household” more seriously by wearing a crown and insisting that your family address you as “My Liege”.

3. Make a contribution to wildlife by papering your hamster cage with form IT-201.

2. Find someone who is blind and born before January 2, 1944 and help them check the boxes on line 39a.

1. Claim a child in Malawi as your dependant.

Want to look good? Wear a fanny pack

Spring is here and you know what that means! It’s time to clean out the closets, switch over your wardrobe and decide on your signature look for the season. So what is the one signature piece that will define your style for the next few months to come? Is it a head scarf or a colorful belt or an espadrille? No. It is something better. This season, those of us in the know will be rocking a fanny pack.

If you think a fanny pack is something that only uncool tourists wear, think again. A fanny pack is for anyone who has ever dreamt of taking photos or gesticulating wildly without a cumbersome bag swinging from their shoulder. Until you have felt the ease and simplicity that comes with reaching into a pouch on your stomach and pulling out a) a pocket pack of tissues b) your lipstick c) the other half of a breakfast burrito you wrapped up in a paper napkin to save for later because you knew you’d be hungry – you have not known the pleasures of a fanny pack.

I wear a fanny pack when I travel because it makes me feel like a crimefighter. How can someone snatch my purse when there is no purse to snatch? There is no better feeling than yelling “Psych!” to a potential thief on the monorail, knowing that my crisp, ten-dollar bill is safely hidden within the confines of my fanny pack.

You may have seen those fancy fanny packs made by Louis Vuitton. But it doesn’t have to cost a lot of money to look great wearing this season’s “it” bag. Take my fanny pack, for example, pictured above, which I received free from American Express. If you are not a super-important credit card customer like me, don’t despair. You can buy a fanny pack, like the one my mom is wearing in the photo, at fine stores everywhere.

Wearing a fanny pack is more than a fashion statement – it’s like being part of a cool club. Whenever I see a fellow fanny pack wearer I make sure to wave and smile. Kind of like the punch buggy thing, only better.

Polly want a medal or a monument?

From the Associated Press: In November, the cries of alarm from Willie, a Quaker parrot from Denver, Colo., alerted his owner, Megan Howard, that the toddler she was babysitting was choking. His yells of "Mama, baby" led Howard to perform the Heimlich maneuver and earned Willie the local Red Cross chapter's Animal Lifesaver Award on Friday.

I had to smile when I saw this story because when I was growing up, almost the exact same thing happened to me! Tweetie, our family parakeet (named by me when I was five!) was not really what you would call a friendly bird. He mostly preferred to hang out in his cage and once he even bit my poor grandma on the hand. I spent many hours trying to get our beloved family pet to say “hello” or “pretty bird!” to no avail.

Then one day I was eating my Froot Loops in the kitchen when my mother was distracted by an infomercial for Joan Rivers jewelry. A single, orange Froot Loop became lodged in my tiny, five year-old throat and I started to choke. That was when Tweetie altered my mother to my impending doom by uttering the only three words he ever said:
“Die, motherfucker, die!”

Hey! You! Get Into My Car.

When I was in high school, my parents gave me my first car – a 1981 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with blue velvet interior. When we pulled up to our house in Levittown and I saw the car parked there, I asked if someone was visiting. “It’s for you, kid,” said my dad (my dad talks like Humphrey Bogart in my imagination). In my 17 years on the planet, this was the best gift anyone had ever given me. I literally started screaming and dancing on the front lawn as if Ed McMahon had just presented me with an oversized check. To me, a car meant freedom. Freedom to visit my friends’ houses without asking mom for a ride. Freedom to put my collection of free stickers from local radio stations on an actual bumper. Freedom to fill my trunk with firewood in preparation for a much fantasized about but never realized bonfire at Jones Beach.

Now that I live in Brooklyn, there’s no reason for me to have a car. Everything I need is pretty much within walking distance and there’s a bus stop and a subway station within 100 yards of my front door. Still, a part of me longs to get behind the wheel. So when my dad recently offered me one of the family cars he was getting rid of, I got excited.

Sure, there are drawbacks to owning a car in the city. There’s the cost of insurance and gas, and the perennial problem of where to park it. When renting a car last summer for a week, I became aware of something called “alternate side of the street parking.” I quickly realized that this is a game of “Car Tetris” in which you attempt to fit your vehicle into a space big enough for a Vespa while trying to keep other cars from boxing you in. If you are lucky enough to find a “good” spot, you do not move your car. Ever. Again.

But then there are the reasons it would be awesome to have a car. If I had a car I could actually drive in the fast lane while listening to the Eagles’ “Life in the Fast Lane.”
I could make that “pull” signal to truck drivers, asking them to honk their horn. (I found out that when you do this outside a motor vehicle, they tend to think you are either crazy or offering them sexual favors). If I had my own car, I could just totally drive to Canada, like right now.

When I told my husband about the car offer, he said that it was impractical, another unnecessary expense. I pointed out that if we had a car we could do what most couples with cars do on the weekends – go to Costco. Immediately my husband began imagining his favorite groceries in comically big value sizes. I told him that there was plenty of room in the trunk for a vat of Skippy smooth peanut butter and a 12-pack of Cheerios. And who knows, there may even be a little room for some firewood back there, too.