Hurry Up 2009

I think it is safe to say that 2008 has been the worst year ever. I remember the summer of 2007 – fresh out of college, optimistic about my future career, about to embark on a European adventure with a friend, and an entire summer of doing nothing to look forward to. It was during this time that I started to hustle … oh yes, I was flat broke, but I figured that’s what you get for not working and jetting around Western Europe. It should have been a sign to everyone when I started a not so lucrative business convincing family friends that I was a carpenter. I answered the phone as the “Tool Belt Diva” and so began my first and only stint as a closet installer. I think the woman knew I had no idea what I was doing, took pity on me, and had me push the carriage around Lowes.

So 2008 was going to be my year and it started off well enough with a two week break in Aruba. We rang in the New Year in style and I came back refreshed and hopeful for the future. My first job was coming my way – I even had my first celebratory purchase picked out for when I was offered the job. Well this phantom job did not come! I was courted by a certain publishing company and then had that all too familiar feeling when he stopped calling and emails went unanswered. I had been down this road before and I knew what it meant … I had been dumped and I was devastated. No apology, no discussion, it was just over. Looking back on 2008, I realize that this was first in a long series of events that would add to 2008 being the worst year ever. Other events, in no particular order, are as follows:

First, my bestest friend/daytime drinking partner moved halfway around the world. Good for her, bad for me. Then there was an ill-fated attempt at becoming a chronic smoker which did not work out so well. I ended up burning my fingers and wasting a lot of money. My little puppy dog had a seizure and subsequent MRI and Spinal Tap to diagnose her illness. After 5 days of crying and preparing myself for the death of my furry friend due to Pug Dog Encephalitis, the doggie neurosurgeon told us she had epilepsy … wonderful.

And to end the year off right, I got a cavity. After nearly 2 decades of perfect oral hygiene, this was distressing news. I was hoping that they would prescribe Valium after getting said cavity filled … they didn’t.

I again will be jetting off to Aruba for the New Year. During this time I will relax on the beach, read all the books that I have been meaning to, and enjoy many a cocktail. I am going to start 2009 off right with a party dress, nice shoes, and champagne. So here is to 2009, may it be happier, healthier, and full of good girls who floss their teeth.

Sweet Surprise

This holiday season we have been receiving little care packages from our clients and friends. I was quite excited when a box of See's chocolates arrived. We have been picking at the treats for about a week and slowly but surely the contents are disappearing. There were 2 pieces of chocolate left and neither looked too appealing to me. One was a bit taller and obviously did not contain any nuts. I thought for sure it would have some dirty cherry with that disgusting goop (whoever decided to combine chocolate with fruit was obviously a real dumbo).

Being a wild woman of sorts, I decided to give this odd shaped candy a try. My taste buds were dazzled – there was not fruit in the middle, it was marshmallow and caramel. It was an enhanced version of a Mallomar. Needless to say, this has been the best day EVER and I have learned an important lesson … don’t judge a chocolate by it’s shape, you never know what’s inside.

Tarry Lodge – Port Chester, NY

I am part of a very prestigious club called the Big Eaters, or BEC for short. It is comprised of family and friends who enjoy fine dining. Every few months we go to a new restaurant and fill our tummies with food and drink. Last night we went to the Tarry Lodge, the newest baby of Joe Bastianich and Mario Batali. I was quite excited when these two gentlemen of Babbo fame opened up a place so close to me in CT. The BEC was very excited because this was also our holiday meeting which meant more shanigans than normal.

We had an 8pm reso, but one of our members, a gal who had to haul it from Norwalk, was, not surprisingly, late. Because of this our waiter did not take our order, but was able to answer questions that we had. I loved not being rushed and they really didn’t care that we sat for about 30 minutes looking over the menu and waiting for out last guest to arrive. The menu was quite comprehensive and the wine list looked wonderful. I opted for a classic dirty martini which was very good and then had a glass of red – Joe Bastianich’s very own vino. At the BEC there is a lot of sharing, so normally everyone gets something different and we sample, not share – which is a rule that I am quite fond of.

So appetizers are as follows: beets agrodolce which were marinated in a sweet and sour sauce, octopus with baby potatoes, spinach with gorgonzola salad, chopped salad, and rock shrimp. I ordered the octopus and I thought it was delicious. I also sampled the rock shrimp which was very tasty. It was literally a little bowl filled with shrimp, very satisfying. The apps were very indicative of how good our entrees were going to be.

We ordered black fettuccini with lobster (2 orders actually), orecchiette with sausage and rapini, short ribs, gnocci with braised oxtail, and fusilli alla Crazy Bastard which had sundried tomatoes, artichokes, and goat cheese. We also ordered rosemary potatoes, brussel sprouts with pancetta, and polenta with mascarpone for the table. I sampled everything and I cannot say how good everything was. The pasta was amazing and the short ribs were to die for. The good thing about the gnocci (which was what I ordered) was that they were quite light. It wasn’t that you ate two and felt full, but they were still really decadent. Also I had never had oxtail before, but it was DAR-IS-OUS. Also we decided, all being of Italian heritage, that broccoli rabe is great thing to sample when dining out. You have something to compare it to and this was banging. So so so good.

I felt that the sides should really get their own paragraph. I have recently started to think that think polenta might be one of my favorite foods and this did not disappoint. The brussel sprouts were nothing like the boiled mess that they used to serve at school. These were roasted with crispy pancetta. You have never seen gown women carrying on so much over a vegetable.

I would love to say that our meal ended there, but it didn’t as dessert is always ordered. This is the one course that I don’t mind sharing, mostly because at this point in the meal my pants were already unbuttoned. We had the ice cream sundae with sour cherries, the lemon cheesecake, and the chocolate cake with pistachio gelato. Again, everything was to die for.

It is always after dessert that I begin surveying the meal in my head and thinking how much did we spend and is this going to break the bank? I am happy to report that the price point was very reasonable at $64 dollars per person. Now that also includes cocktails for 6 – and half of us had two each.

The thing that I loved most about Tarry Lodge was not that it had these mastermind chefs and restaurateurs backing it - it was that it had some really extraordinary choices, but it was still reasonably priced. I hate going to a place and they try and serve you these really exotic things, but at such a high price. This was really great, rustic Italian dining. The portions were just right. We were there for a while and I never felt rushed, it didn’t feel pretentious, it was just a great dining experience.

So, all in all, on the button popping scale, I would definitely rank Tarry Lodge as 4 ½ button popper. The only reason it didn’t get the full 5 button popping rating was because we had to wait so long to get a reservation and the whole reservation process itself. It’s not really fair to take off for that, but it’s only because I can’t wait to go back.

Dysfunctional Family Christmas

I love Christmas. Not because of the gift giving and what it should represent. I don’t really even care about Christmas Day. There is no day that I love more than Christmas Eve. Oh it is a fine tradition in my family, because Christmas Eve is the night that quite the cast of characters (some of which I have ZERO blood relation to) show up in their white-trash glory.

We like to say that we put the “fun” in dysfunctional. There are drug addicts, alcoholics, devil children, music (sometimes holiday inspired, sometimes not), dancing (dirty and otherwise), LOTS of drinking, and most importantly, lots of sweating. We all congregate at my aunt’s house and the shit show commences. There is an abundance of food and great beverages. The good times happen at the kid’s table, to which I will happily be regulated to for the rest of my life. Some people have been known to leave their spouses at the grownup table for a spot at the kid’s table, because that is where the fun is. Nobody is safe because we hate on everyone.

The things that I have seen and heard on Christmas Eve are astounding. I believe one year a gentleman actually removed his toupee and placed it on the grownup table (yet another reason I don’t ever want to sit there). There have been stories of vomit, tears, and witchcraft. We sing, some of us are forced to dance, and some of us drink so much that we actually want to dance. I don’t know if every family has traditions like ours, but they should.

Metro North Woes

I have a bone to pick with a certain gentleman that takes the 7:49 train from Glenbrook to Grand Central. This man, who will now be referred to as Obnoxious Pusher, or OP for short, makes it a point to make my morning commute the most anxiety ridden 45 minutes of my day. I, being recently diagnosed as OCD by my dermatologist (that’s another blog entry) make it a point to leave my house every morning at precisely 7:30 even though it takes me no longer than 6 minutes to actually walk to the train. So there I am, patiently waiting at the train station, when each morning OP comes. He obviously doesn’t have the same penchant for punctuality that I do because he strolls up on that platform with just minutes to spare.

As crazy as I am about being early for the train, I am just as crazy about standing at the same place on the platform so that I always get in on the second car. Now OP also enjoys the second car and makes it a point to shove me each morning so that he can get a seat even though I have been there LONG before he has. And wouldn’t you know that OP finds a seat while I stand uncomfortably in the vestibule for 45 minutes. It’s a real mind boggler to me that a grown man will literally push people down to get a seat even though others clearly should have first dibs.

Just when I though this problem was regulated for the morning only, who was nipping at my heels as I quickly walked down Glenbrook Road to go home last Tuesday? None other than OP himself - and if I thought he was obnoxious in the morning, I underestimated his desire to get home in a jiffy after a long day in the office. His nighttime name is EOP (Extra Obnoxious Pusher). There he was again, running me right off the road as I carefully attempted to light the treacherous path by the light of my Ipod. So I say to you OP (should our exchanges ever be more than me giving you the maloik), "Were you raised by a pack of wolves? Have you no manners or sense? The biggest mistake you ever made was passing me on that walk home because I now know where you live and if your little condo gets egged, you’ll know it was me, punk."

Confessions of a True Shopaholic

My name is Nina and I am an addict. I honestly cannot help myself. I like to treat myself to pretty new things all the time and in the process I have made many friends. Like for instance the lady from the Neimans shoe department who calls me on a regular basis to tell me when they have a Manolo trunk sale or the gentleman at the eyeglass counter at Saks, who shares his love of slim cut Italian suits with me. These people love me and I feel that the universe has brought them into my life for a very specific reason. They are my enablers. I can tell you the moment I became an addict, and friends, it goes way back.

When I was just a girl in old East Haven,CT, there wasn’t much in the way of luxury goods. I believe I bought my stretch pants and acid washed jeans at TJ Maxx or a great little store, which I believe is now closed, called Cherry & Webb. However, in the height of New Kids on the Block mania, one store opened up that sold NKOTB memorabilia. My mom tells the story of my Nonnie taking me and my Donny loving sister (I was more of a Joey girl myself) to the store to buy us a little treat to whet our New Kids appetite. It should have been a sign to everyone involved that when my big sissy chose pencils, I chose a $45 dollar gold sequined hat that, lets be honest, only Joey McIntyre could pull off in his heyday. I will say that as I got older, I chose products more wisely. I almost always chose pieces, that in my mind, would stand the test of time. Although there was a good 4 or 5 years when I wore baggy jeans, a chain wallet, and cut off all my hair. I refer to this time as my dark period and will likely not revisit it in my own fashion history.

Cut to November 19, 2008 – another dark day in my life, when I logged on to Wachovia.com and noticed a breathtaking amount in my checking account. $6.22 - the number that I am now sure represents the day that I will die. How did I get to this place? Why do I convince myself that opening store charge cards is a good idea? And why do I, a 23 year old gal, who in all honesty is quite fiscally irresponsible, feel like I can’t leave the store unless I buy that last pair of Louboutins? Sometimes I feel like I am wasting people’s time if I don’t buy something. And so starts the trouble. I wish I was like a certain girl that I know that spends her pennies at the CVS buying lotions, body washes, and hair products. I, on the other hand, prefer the big ticket items and I have little, if any buyer’s remorse. That is until I see that online bill statement every month and have to stay in on a Friday night because I can’t afford a proper cocktail.

So what’s another year or five living at home with my mother and dog? What’s another 502 rides on the Metro North? (That’s right fools – I can do math. 365 days a year, minus 104 for weekends, and my pitiful 2 weeks vacation. That’s 251 bumpy round trips.) The thought of giving up my Saks card is the equivalent of asking Amy Winehouse to put down the crack pipe – it’s just far too much. So Amy, I just want to say, from one addict to the other, I feel your pain and I know what you are going through. It’s not easy sister, but there might be hope for gals like me and you. Although I have put in a bet that you won’t see 2009. So I take that whole part about there being hope for you, smoke it up girl, I think I see a new Gucci bag in my future.