Archive for December, 2008

I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that if the evangelicals or the mormons have it right, I am, 100 % without a doubt, going to hell. There is no arguing around this. I’m guilty of most of the deadly sins, and I practice both gluttony and vanity on a daily basis.

As such, I’ve given a lot of thought to what hell is actually going to be like. Though I’d like to imagine myself spending eternity in some kind of cheesy party lair, preferably with a heart-shaped rotating bed, retractable disco ball, and Smokey Robinson emanating constantly from the cleverly concealed Bose sound system, further examination suggests that hell, though likely lacking in fire and brimstone, will probably be akin to one of the following scenarios:

1. Trying to catch the train to Newark airport from Penn station during the holidays: New Jersey transit has yet to bother themselves with things like “schedules” or “track assignments.” So when one is about to miss their plane home for the holiday season because they were too cheap to hire a car service, they are punished by being forced to stand in a dungeon-like hall with at least one million other people and wait for an announcer to tell them where to go to catch their train.

The announcer makes a sport of this, and waits until there are exactly 3 minutes and 13 seconds until the train is going to depart to tell the crowd that the only Newark-bound vehicle for the next 30 minutes is leaving from Track 10. To make it extra fun, he will probably announce, in the same breath, that the most popular commuter express train is departing from Track 9.

After this announcement, there is a frenzy: about 750,000 New Yorkers, at least 2/3 of whom are carrying bags large enough to whisk the entirety of their fashionable wardrobe off to glamorous locales like the Midwest and LA, push each other toward one tiny entrance to the waiting tracks. This unavoidably leads to baggage-related injuries including broken toes and decapitated appendages, fist fights, and a contagion of panic attacks slowly rippling through the crowd as the stragglers realize that not only are they going to miss this train and possibly their flight, but also they are going to be waiting in Penn Station for at least another half an hour.

The holidays add an extra element of fun. Not only is everyone in a particularly cheery mood what with having to go spend the week running the mall gauntlet in suburbia shopping for the cousins-in-law while enduring their mother-in-law’s cooking, but also because they likely had to haul their 60 pound bag through a sleet-storm and arrived at Penn Station with a dislocated shoulder and pneumonia.

In actual hell, the sinners will never be able to catch their elusive train, and they will be forced to drag all of their stuff back and forth between the east and west gate tracks while sustaining the burden of that terrible hopeful anxiety that comes with thinking that this time they just might make it.

2. Sitting forever in the middle seat of the last row of an oversold flight: Upon finding their seat assignment, the condemned will sprout lovely long legs that will be splayed uncomfortably and jammed up against the seat in front of them, which will undoubtedly recline right after take-off. Adding to the discomfort, both of the sinner’s seatmates will be incredibly obese, suffer rare skin-shedding conditions, smell strongly of Axe body spray, and insist on taking up both armrests.

Once the victim becomes reasonably adjusted to the situation, the plumbing will fail in the bathroom, as will the latch on the door, allowing the stench to mingle with the perfumes of bad coffee and air freshener. Flight attendants will still manage to occasionally bump the condemned’s elbows with the beverage cart, the aisle-seat passenger will fall asleep and prevent the momentary relief of stretching one’s legs, the window-seat passenger will be sick because of turbulence, and the last individual-sized portion of vodka will be given away 2 rows earlier so that the person will have to endure the entire affair without the help of the calming effects of the in-flight Bloody Mary.

3. An eternal first date with someone with whom you have absolutely nothing in common: This is the fate for those guilty of lust and gluttony. Someone who seems attractive in dim lighting and under the influence of alcohol will ask the new member of hell out on a date at the orientation happy hour. The condemned, thinking hell will be better with a romantic partner at their side, will accept and be whisked away to a replica of a suburban date food hell like the Olive Garden or PF Chang’s.

In the light, the date will be revealed to have 6 toes, hairy ears, a prominent and distracting mole in the middle of their face, and a habit of sweating a lot. They will also reveal themselves to have very limited, obscure, and boring interests, such as 16^th century Dutch and Flemish art or crazy stories about nights out in Las Vegas or the pet culture of Hollywood, and they will be unable to discuss any other topic. They will also be unable to say anything interesting on their expertise, as they will be an inherently uninteresting person, so the sinner will be required to lead the entire conversation, pretend they care about the topic at hand, laugh too hard occasionally, and smile the entire time.

If the condemned tries to say anything about their own interests, they will be forced to drink an entire bottle of white zinfandel and order the chicken Caesar salad over and over again.

4. Britney’s Spears’ confidant and publicist: Sinners condemned to this fate will be responsible for getting Britney’s career back on track, holding her hair during benders (assuming she hasn’t shaved her head during a meltdown), and figuring out how to craft costumes that hide the fact that she’s skipped quite a few personal training sessions but still has a taste for showing skin. As this scenario will lead to nervous breakdowns, constant nausea, and high-anxiety over the inability to complete an impossible task, it will be reserved only for the truly evil, like Adolf Hitler, Paris Hilton, and whoever Paris Hilton deems horrible enough to be her new BFF.

Today’s program is brought to you by my favorite letters: B, Y, O, and B! What does that spell, children? That’s right, cheap drunken dinner! Yay!

In a city where an arepa costs, like, 9 dollars and they sell my favorite cooking wine for $15 a glass, not many things bring me as much joy as BYOB. I treat those 4 letters reverently, and I choose my alcohol in such occasions carefully while offering a blessing to the New York official who thought that a lack of a liquor license was no reason to let patrons suffer.

Here are some good BYOB establishments:

Petit Crevette, Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. Sometimes all you want are mussels bathed in garlic and butter “broth,” washed down by white wine. You’ll feel like you’re eating in the weird cat lady’s woodshed with all the gardening tools serving as décor, but then suddenly you’re a bottle of sancerre deep, surrounded by endless loaves of bread, soaking up roux in your happy place while your date gets more and more attractive in the dim lighting. Follow it up with a whole fish or some cioppino and still come out ahead. The 30’s jazz and the cheap booze means you’re not even going to have to break the bank to get lucky.

Kuma Inn, LES. Philipino? Pan Asian? Tapas? Silly fusion. Asian small plates with your alcohol of choice is kind of like fancy bar peanuts: pick at 95 things with lots of fat and salt and suddenly you get thirstier and thirstier- perfect, since you get to drink 2 for the price of 1 from your own personal stash. Plus, all those 95 things will be glorious, because they have listed ingredients like “pork belly” and “dumplings” and “yellow fin tartar” and “grilled baby octopus” (all the flavor of the adult packed into the tiny body of the baby- this is why veal is so good). Way better than actual bar peanuts.

Ivo and Lulu, Soho. The only thing that adds even more magic to the letters “BYOB” is the phrase “no corkage.” Thanks, Ivo and Lulu, for your use of said phrase and, therefore, the insurance that I’m going to drink at least two bottles of wine in your establishment. Especially since you’ll open my bottle for me while I wait 10 years for a table in your tiny joint. Sure, I can’t eat the escargot there anymore because of an exorcist-like bout of post-snail food-poisoning, but the magical pairing of burgundy with Caribbean twists on French classics like pate and duck confit gives me plenty of safe options. And hello, why are you even still reading? No corkage.

Di Fara, Midwood, Brooklyn. Brown paper bag something nice (maybe PBR, since you are in Brooklyn) for this one. You might have a transcendental moment when you realize that despite the fact that you’ve burned the roof of your mouth off, you can’t put the slice (dripping in cheese, olive oil, and fresh basil) down and wait for it to cool. This is partially because of its taste and partially because you just starved yourself almost to death in the amount of time you had to wait for the only pizza-maker at arguably the best pizza place in New York to make your pie.

That concludes today’s program, kids- I’ll see you all tomorrow when due to what we learned about the letters B, Y, O, and B, we’ll be wearing extra large and extra special wine hats that give you a headache and make you lose your balance! But at least you won’t have to regret spending $200 on getting that hangover! We all win!

Maybe it’s the anticipation of my long holiday season break. Maybe it was the snow falling in Brooklyn last night, adding just a tiny bit of euphoric winter magic to my walk through Park Slope. Maybe it’s the fact that my birthday this year happens to coincide with my 5-month anniversary of my move to New York. Whatever the reason, today seems more momentous than usual, and I’m taking a break from my usual blog antics to do a little reflection. I know, I’m sorry. Indulge me. It’s my birthday today, and I feel like it’s obligatory.

For some reason, my birthdays are always eventful. Last year, I contracted a 12-hour stomach flu about 2 hours before dining at my favorite Denver restaurant with my parents. Not willing to let something like intestinal cramps get in the way of food and wine consumption, I played like a champion so the show could go on. Played like a champion, that is, until halfway through the pasta course when the room started fading around me and I began saying, over and over again, “I’m going to pass out.” My friends on staff acted quickly and brought me some wet towels, which revived me just enough to realize that I was going to either throw up or have a blow out at my table if I didn’t beeline it to the bathroom. Charming. Karmic retribution for all the jokes I’d made about such events. My dad ate through it (to be fair, I would have, too), my mom freaked out and offered to take me to the emergency room. Don’t worry. I made up for it two weeks later by returning and breaking 4 Riedel wine glasses at the New Year’s celebration.

On my 16^th birthday, I was at the peak of a raging case of mono. Always young for my grade, I’d anticipated the day when I’d finally get behind the wheel of my awesome ’92 Accord, thus alleviating my dependence on older friends, by making a paper chain 2 years earlier. There was no way I was missing my driver’s test just because I could barely walk up a flight of stairs. I passed, by the way, but couldn’t take my joyride- I slept in the car on the way home. 2 years later, I broke up with my boyfriend on my birthday (bummer, dude), and then my college friends surprised me with a party that ended with me comforting a friend who had dislocated his knee during typical over-the-top antics until the ambulance could come whisk him away. Last year’s birthday shit show caused a couple of friends to miss the 10K they were supposed to run the next day (hey, I’m an enabler, I admit it).

With such fateful events, it’s hard to ignore my birthday any year. But when it comes down to it, birthdays are sort of anti-climatic to me. I remember counting down until the minute of my birth (9:53 am, by the way, thanks, Mom) wondering how I’d feel when I passed it. I was always disappointed when nothing happened (I was expecting magic powers or transport to another dimension. Overactive imagination). But for the first time ever, this year feels different. I mean first off, I have no illness to speak of. I shouldn’t jinx it though; last year’s excitement didn’t set in until the afternoon. And obviously, this is the first birthday I’m celebrating in New York, a place in which I’ve finally hit my stride. I also have no plans tonight. I’m celebrating with friends on different nights, to be sure, but I’m taking a quiet night at home tonight. And it’s not that I feel older. Just wiser.

So in light of this, here’s my reflection: Putting down roots in Denver, LA, Buenos Aires, and New York in the past 4 years has been the catalyst for some incredible (and incredibly ridiculous) experiences, and it has put me in contact with amazing people (e.g. you). I feel truly lucky to have friends all over the country and all over the world. I’m going to keep this short and sweet (otherwise I may have to turn on the Jeff Buckley in honor of taking myself wayyyy too seriously), but on my birthday, what I really want to say is: THANK YOU. Thank you for making me laugh until my stomach hurts. Thanks for laughing at me when I’m taking myself too seriously, listening when I need to talk, and putting me in my place when I go too far. Thanks for drinking the wine straight out of the bottle, even if it really should have been poured in a glass. Thanks for gathering my stuff that I always leave behind on vacation and at parties, for dining with me and engaging my passionate rants on food, wine, and politics, and for moments on rooftops, believing in possibilities. Thanks for the phone calls, even when I don’t return them promptly (working on that, sorry). Thank you for challenging me emotionally, physically, and intellectually. Thanks for traipsing around the world and country with me. Thank you for forgiving me, for making a fool out of yourself with me, and for acknowledging my whims. And finally, thank you for the influence you’ve had in my life, thank you for the encouragement, and thank you for the memories. I’m starting 23 feeling incredibly grounded, incredibly motivated, and incredibly excited, and that’s completely, 100%, without a doubt, because of you.

That’s all for now. It’s going to be a big year.

I’ve figured out why my love life is so screwed up. Or actually, Zach did: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/edinburgh_and_east/7784366.stm

Finally, someone has provided me with statistical proof that says what I’ve known instinctively for years: watch your favorite romcom too many times and you’re doomed to a life of misery because of the ideals you’ve built up around relationships.

I’m not exactly a chick flick girl. I never even saw Sleepless in Seattle until last summer, and this, apparently, is a formative experience for teens with raging hormones. I prefer that hot scene in Top Gun any day to 2 hours of something like 27 Dresses. And while my friends are tearing up at The Notebook, it’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes. I have my weaknesses, though, and they are the trifecta of Love Actually, When Harry Met Sally, and a more underground (or maybe just worse) flick called Catch and Release (though admittedly, I may be more attached to the fact that it’s set in my beloved home state of Colorado than I am to the actual story). And through this trifecta, my love life is being ruined.

Here’s an example: One of my first months in New York, I was having a rough night. I decided to forgo the drunken bar scene in lieu of a solitary date in my apartment with two of my favorite (fat) men, Ben and Jerry. Love Actually was so good and self-indulgent the first time around, I decided to watch it again. Immediately. I didn’t even know I was lonely, but the second time through that scene where Laura Linney makes out with her smokin’ hot Brazilian crush, I found myself, warm and fuzzy, empty carton of oatmeal cookie ice cream in hand, perusing profiles on match.com (just looking!), and thinking of other places in the city to meet the Harry to my Sally. Awkward dates ensued, and I was forced to recommit myself wholeheartedly to singledom.

Logically, I understand what’s going on here. Writers and directors are showing us, as members of a culture that loves instant gratification, fireworks and fate leading to true love that lasts a lifetime, and they’re doing it to sell movies. I believe in capitalism, so more power to them. The problem is that we’re trying to recreate that outside of the silver screen.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m hard-pressed to think of a romantic comedy that doesn’t make me gag while imagining it playing out in my life. I mean if I want to love like Allie from The Notebook, I’m also going to need to be able to tolerate the cheesiest lines imaginable for 80 years. Can you imagine your boyfriend saying “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird” in public? I know what my reaction would be: If I really WERE a bird, I’d fly away. You’re suffocating me. And hello? He wrote her every day for a year? How do YOU spell restraining order? While we’re at it, do you really want to spend the rest of your life waiting for that damn dollar bill with his number on it like the lucky lady in Serendipity? You met in a coffee shop. Move on. And digging at one of my favorites, sure the Brazilian has a rockin’ bod, but Laura Linney never TALKS to him. What if he has a nervous tick or speech impediment? Sort of throws a wrench in my fantasies.

In protest, I’m writing my own chick flick about a couple that bickers into old age, bitches about each other to their respective groups of friends, plays the occasional prank on one another, and never expects the other one will shower them with rose petals and champagne. The soundtrack will nix Michael Bublé (yeah right, I’m your everything) in favor of Ingrid Michaelson (I’ll buy you Rogaine when you start losing all your hair). The touching scenes will include impassionate defense of the other (I guess the old girl’s all right) and small random acts of kindness with no occasion (Fine, I’ll get you some dessert since you broke your hip). The final scene will likely be a fight over who’s going to die first followed by a settling calm in which the couple turns to each other and says, “Well, we’ve had a good run. Lasted 50 years past the average length of marriage.” Quite frankly, while being more realistic, this also seems more romantic. Maybe because I can’t imagine going through life with someone who didn’t would smother me with affection when all I want to do is pick a fight.

I could go on forever here, but I don’t want to dive into a full-scale anthropological analysis of why we’re asking too much of relationships/marriage. If you’re interested, check this out: http://www.onpointradio.org/shows/2008/04/marriage-and-relationships/. It’s worth a listen, especially if you have nothing else to do.

And hey, who knows a director? I’m going pro. That way, next time I’m alone in my apartment with a pint of ice cream and a spoon, I’ll derive my lessons elsewhere and hopefully steer clear of seeking prince charming.

Commitment

Julia sent me a great op-ed today: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/13/opinion/13blow.html?_r=3&em. This dude (who’s last name, incidentally, is Blow) posits that dating’s dead, hooking up is the way of the present and future, guys these days are unable to man up and ask someone out, and girls these days put out in hopes of a relationship (and they’re eventually disappointed). “That’s sad,” he says.

Sad? Even suggesting that dating is dead is funny to me given that since graduating from college, I’ve found myself running a veritable dating marathon. I almost wish it would die. Clearly, dear sir, you haven’t been on my dates. Having to sit through a few choice 10 minute spans of my love life is probably enough to convince anyone that lovers should get to know each other under the influence of as much alcohol as possible in the privacy of their own bedrooms so at least they get the benefit of the physical BEFORE the awkward situation can take hold.

But just for fun, here’s a comparison of awkwardness, hook-up vs. dating situations:

Awkward: “Um, so, I guess I’ll call you sometime.”

More awkward: “So even though you told me not to call you for a couple of days, I thought I’d call you 12 hours later, you know, just to check and see if that rule applied to me.”

Awkward: Figuring out how to slip out the door without leaving a number.

More awkward: Figuring out how to slip out the door after sitting silently through an entire circus when it’s only 1 in the afternoon, the date has no natural end time, and no one is under the influence of alcohol.

Awkward: Having to have the “Let’s still just be friends” conversation after too much drinking leads to bad decisions

More awkward: Having to have the “Let’s just be friends” conversation after 5 dates when you definitely are never going to see the person again, and they were probably hoping to finally get lucky

Awkward: Falling drunkenly down the stairs on your way to a bedroom/private corner

More awkward: Falling off a cliff mid-date because you told a potential suitor you were in good enough shape to climb a mountain

Awkward: Having to ask, “So, what do you do again?” through your terrible hangover at a post-night out brunch

More awkward: Having to ask, unaided by alcohol, “So, do you have anything to talk about besides Dutch and Flemish art, or should we just get the check now?”

Awkward: The walk of shame

More awkward: The walk to your front door after slamming a cab door in someone’s face, yelling, “Don’t walk me to the door,” after building offensive comments finally break down your resolve not to lose your temper

Awkward: Being subjected to a hook-up buddy’s bad jokes/stand-up comedy routine/blog material in the privacy of their home when you’re drunk enough to think it actually is funny

More awkward: Being subjected to a date’s bad jokes/stand-up comedy routine/blog material via blackberry in a public place, being forced to laugh, and being forced to read aloud the parts that you’re pretending to laugh at

Maybe we SHOULD kill dating. If Mr. Blow is right, my generation seems to have it figured out- eliminate awkwardness by eliminating situations in which we have to interact politely with each other for the sake of getting down. It’s like evolution into a more intelligent species. This is cause for celebration.  Instead, let’s be equal opportunity and preserve the choice- the more intelligent will opt for hooking up (biologists would be proud), the romantics will go for dating. And so will the gluttons for punishment, who see the “More Awkward” category, think about how great the story is going to be, and choose it over and over again.

During the season of giving, I like to try to make up for selfish deeds and build karma through generosity. It’s kind of like a game. 10 karma points from giving $10 to the Breast Cancer Foundation may make up for that time I pushed the “close doors” button while a co-worker ran to catch the elevator. 50 karma points from donating a stocking full of toys to some poor kids lets me off the hook for at least some of the judgmental comments I make about passengers on my subway trains. And maybe if I get you the perfect gift, you’ll do something for me down the line, like buy me a shot of tequila or donate a kidney should mine fail. If that happens, I bet you’ll be thinking, man, I totally owe her this kidney because of that really thoughtful gift she got me in 2008.

Normally, this karmic game is easy. Toss a quarter in the Salvation Army bucket, buy some fair trade gifts, add hand-made flourishes to the things you told me you want, and bada bing, bada boom, I sail smugly through the holidays, self-righteously believing that I’m an angel of light. New York has hardened me, however, and instead of building karma, this year, I find I’m scrambling to break even. I blame this on panhandling. Public transportation is crawling with people asking for your money. After days and days of emptying my wallet due to my inability to say no, I found I’ve gradually but thankfully come to a place where I only give money to the needy who really deserve it, either because of extreme hardship or inordinate talent. You know, like the dude who has no arms and legs and is pulling himself along the train cars lying on a skateboard and using his teeth. Or like the 6-year-old singing a perfect rendition of a Beatles song. One syllable off-key? Sorry, kiddo, better luck next time.

Of course, this is really screwing with my normal ability to make up for my year of sin. I fail to notice the Salvation Army Santa because he’s not recreating Drumline on Subway trashcans. Fair trade gifts aren’t on my radar because the people selling them in Union Square have all their appendages. And with my work hours, I haven’t even had time to think about what I’m going to get you to begin with, let alone how I’m going to personalize it in a way that makes you feel particularly indebted to my kindness. I’ve grown so accustomed to the harassment that my hearing actually fails when someone just asks me for money without justification. It’s a scientific anomaly, I can’t explain it.

So perhaps it’s no surprise that the other day in the pharmacy, when the cashier asked me if I wanted to donate a dollar to a foundation for cancer/polio/lupus/whatever, I became deaf (I saw no evidence of physical duress or undiscovered talent) and stared at her placidly, hand extended for my change, without answering.

“ExCUSE me,” she said loudly, “I ASKED you if you would donate a DOLLAR to…” and then my hearing failed again.

Confused, I muttered, “Um, can I have my change?”

“Girl, why can’t you donate a dollar?” yelled the cashier, “You too GOOD for our cause?”

Finally, I realized what was happening, which occasionally happens if someone is persistent enough. Second line of New York defense? I racked my brain for an excuse. “I’m sorry, I give all my money to Goodwill.” That used to work with telemarketers requesting donations, maybe it would work with this woman, too.

“Goodwill? It’s a DOLLAR! Do you really need to report it on your TAX return?” The woman was still holding my change hostage. Several customers were looking on, and I imagined them shaking their internal heads. So selfish, that girl, they had to be thinking, can’t even donate a dollar so that rare blood disease man can have another Christmas with his family.

“Not today, thanks,” I said, trying to smile politely, because at this point, it wasn’t about the dollar. Had I realized what was happening in the beginning, I would have seized on the chance to donate, thus upping my score in the game, but stubbornness now dictated that I hold my ground.

“Well I hope you have a merry Christmas, all warm inside with your family. And I hope you think about the sick and the needy and the fact that it’s people like YOU who make sure they have nothing to eat except the dented cans of beans that fell on the ground in the back of the grocery store!” She tossed my change at me and I mustered the courage to turn and face the crowd, who were muttering to each other about the selfishness of New Yorkers during the holiday season.

For the rest of the day, I was racked with guilt. I knew she was right. On Christmas, I’d be sitting, belly full, slightly intoxicated, and my mind would turn to the little South Bronx child who’d been forgotten by Santa because his dad was gone and his mom was sick. And I’d feel that if only I’d given that dollar in the pharmacy, everything would have been okay. And then something really bad would probably happen due to my loss of karma, like the wine I’d been waiting to drink for 3 years would be corked, or I’d get food poisoning from foie gras and never be able to eat it again.

I think it was those last thoughts that got me. Later that day, some guy made his way up the subway car, yelling his sob story for all of us to hear. Normally, my physical condition would have kicked in and I would have ignored him, but today, I leapt up, eyes wild, and said, “Here! Here’s my change! Take it! Take it and have a nice Christmas! I hope you can cure your illness! And get AIDS medication! Or Lupus! Or whatever you have, I just hope it goes away! And that you feed your child! And get him what he wants!” And then I resumed my seat and tried to calculate whether I’d made up for the pharmacy folly while other passengers tried to calculate whether they should extend their generosity to the schizo on the Q train.

I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it in this environment with my normal karmic game. So this year, all I want for Christmas are some generic gifts (since that’s what I’ll be giving), a chance to postpone my karmic retribution until the new year, and a guiltless conscience as I enjoy my post-feast food coma.

I knew it was going to come to this. I knew my actions that night were going to cause me to have to sleep on my side like a pregnant woman, moaning in discomfort, and trying not to get crushed by my newly acquired mass. And even though I’d known, I’d entered the affair with unflappable enthusiasm, because as the kid who indulges in too much Halloween candy knows, sometimes it’s worth it.

3 hours earlier, I’d marched purposefully up a quiet street in Buenos Aires to a palace of kitsch and Italian food. Guido’s stands out against its marble-faced neighbors, but is easy to miss if you don’t venture off the main drags of the city. Once on the street, however, it’s easy. Just look for the place with wall-to-wall posters of the mafia culture of 1950’s U.S.A. and listen for a scratchy radio blaring an indecipherable mix of tango and old Italian hits. Once you enter, make sure you notice all the details. I recommend a game of I Spy to get you started, and don’t forget the bathroom art. There’s more here than the crazy old cat lady’s cluttered apartment, and you get to observe it without the weird smell.

What you’ll find in this admittedly abrasive aesthetic is organized chaos: no menu, exquisite Italian delicacies dropped at your table at your waiter’s dizzily-paced whim until you quit or throw up, and a bill based on your popularity among the wait staff. You have only three choices to make:

1. Red or white?

2. Meat course?

3. Dessert?

You want your popularity to surge? Go for broke- order everything. Then make enthusiastic conversation in broken Spanish or wild gestures about how amazing the food is. After course one, this probably won’t take acting. And after enough wine, you’ll be able to communicate your love with no problem, language barrier or no.

That night, I pulled open the doors and was surrounded by the cast of characters that had greeted me 3 years earlier: Carlos and his crew. Carlos is the man behind the magic. A large friendly Italian man and surrogate grandfather to all, he respects eaters, wine-drinkers, and patrons who like his soccer team. He is instantly your family member, encapsulating you in a hug, kissing you on the cheek, and preparing to feed you at his table. After Argentine kisses with everyone and finding my old picture above the bar (it was still hanging, 3 years later), I was shown to my table as if I were VIP, whether the crew actually remembered me or not. Once you’re part of the family, you’re always part of the family, and you’re always welcome at Carlos’s table.

And so it began. Question 1: red or white? There may be only a couple of bottles of wine available in the restaurant, but wine-lovers shouldn’t turn their nose up at the lack of a dictionary-sized list: Carlos’s son has won several national sommelier prizes. The man knows wine. He just likes to control what’s served with his food. As we were in Argentina, home of Malbec and always-improving Cabernets, we chose red, and were treated to a well-balanced Malbec, a perfect table wine for pairing with a variety of food.

The red wine was barely poured (no wine glasses, just old-fashioned glass cups) when eggplant lasagna, Italian meatballs, and focaccia drizzled in olive oil and sprinkled with sundried tomatoes and a touch of parmesan cheese came flying out of the tiny kitchen and onto our old wooden table. My party came prepared to eat, so these were inhaled instantly. The waiters were ready. We were still chewing when the next round of appetizers came, lemon-marinated zucchini, mozzarella and tomatoes, poached chicken in basil and citrus. And so on.

When the waiters were satisfied with the number of appetizers we’d consumed, they began bringing the pastas. Raviolis of different winter vegetables were stand outs, as were creative variations on spaghetti carbonara. And no Italian dinner in Argentina is complete without some form of gnocchi, done that night with a hint of tomato sauce.

The beauty of the food at Guido’s is that nothing is particularly complicated, each dish merely focuses on simple Italian flavors combined to induce maximum pleasure on the part of the eater. Everything is meant to be shared, and dishes are meant to be consumed in large volumes. In other words, come with friends and come hungry: this is a glutton’s marathon. If you’re not sick by the end of the pasta course, you aren’t doing it right. Eat through it. There’s more to come.

We were graciously granted a breather after pasta, perhaps because the wait staff was baffled at the amount of food we were able to consume and they were obliged to call in reinforcements. It was halftime, and along with loosening our belts, we were encouraged to engage with the eclectic crowd. This is, to some extent, an orchestrated event. As you inhale your first courses at Guido’s, the waiters continue to pour your wine. Once you take a 30 second break to let that catch up, your new confidence in your Spanish language abilities coupled with the proximity of the tables in the tiny space nearly guarantees you’re going to loudly compare experiences with parties around you. Guido’s is the kind of place where it’s not against the rules to yell or fall out of your chair, and nothing makes Carlos happier than seeing all of his friends talk to each other.

Carlos made his rounds, introducing regulars to new guests, and kissing our cheeks over and over, asking why I hadn’t been back in 3 years. Believe me, my friend, I’d love to live in your restaurant. Just carve me out a little hole in the back and I’ll spend my years here, scavenging scraps from the tables and entertaining the crowd. During this break in the action, we learned about Carlos’s soccer abilities from a couple of his club mates, toasted some very intoxicated Japanese tourists in a mix of Spanish and English, and promised at least a dozen people we’d meet them out at bars around the city. Everyone was hitting a euphoric high, and suddenly energy was on par with the environment and pace of the meal.

Just when the raucousness was reaching its height, the next course arrived to placate the crowd. Choice 2: Meat? The meat platter is the weak point in the line-up. In true Argentine tradition, this course consists of a platter of grilled steaks, sausages, and chicken. No sides, no marinades, just protein. This concept is amazing, but more enjoyable when you are not subjected to 50 different dishes beforehand. At that point, meat becomes a passage into a purple haze and a likely reason to skip dessert. And who wants to skip dessert?

We opted out of meat Or actually, we were cut off from this one. We’d asked for extra appetizers and pastas and the wait staff told us politely that we’d probably had enough. It was a good call. I was approaching the puke and rally point, and as one member of my party noted as we debated whether to indulge, “This is not healthy.”

Carlos nodded knowingly when we turned down choice 2 and moved us right into choice 3: dessert. He signaled to the kitchen and we were presented with 5 variations on vanilla. One member in our party was celebrating a birthday, and Carlos rose to the occasion by decorating the plate with candles and instigating a restaurant rendition of Happy Birthday. It was off-key, it was in at least 4 different languages, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. Riding the energy of the moment, we dove into the sweets as though equipped with 2^nd stomachs for dessert, and we licked the plate clean of panna cotta, flan, ice cream, and cakes.

Post-dessert, the crowd began to quiet down into the drowsiness that comes with digestion. Carlos was ready for it. Out came the espresso, after-dinner cookies, and obligatory limoncello. He toasted us all jovially, assuring us we’d always have a place at his restaurant and thanking us for being his friends. Finally slowing, our group began to experience that scene in Monty Python: “Just one more thin mint.” Someday, someone in that restaurant is actually going to explode.

2 ½ hours after it had begun, the end had come, along with the check: more food and wine than I’d ever consumed in my life for around $25. Distended bellies, purple teeth, and idiotic grins, we bid goodbye to our new friends, took more pictures with Carlos and his crew to add to his collection of friends above the bar, kissed and hugged our Guido’s family again and again, and then waddled back to our apartment. The inevitable pain began, and we assumed our positions on our sides, competing with each other for the loudest moans. It didn’t matter. As I said before, once you’re in the family, you’re there forever. And next time I’m in Buenos Aires, I know I’ll certainly make it a point to visit the relatives.

Never shying away from being the center of attention means occasionally going to extreme lengths to get noticed. That or my need to stand out as an individual in a sea of conformity is highly developed. Whatever the case, this manifests often in clothing choice. I’m not one of those people who needs to drape myself in gothic punk rock chains and boots and stomp around like I hate the world. Nor am I someone who finds it necessary to encapsulate my body in skin-tight low-cut spandex in hopes that your head will turn. I’m talking subtle differences.

For instance: annoyed with the perfectly coiffed tiny humans in Argentina who were obsessed with cramming themselves into the smallest possible pair of pants, I donned a puffy vest, sweats, and a ponytail for approximately 45 days straight. Sure, the comments I received for these actions were along the lines of “you are the largest woman I’ve ever seen,” but at least I stood out in the crowd.

Another time, I got irritated with a tall woman who told me she would never wear heels (likely expecting my sympathy), and I went out and purchased boots and pumps that gave me an additional 4 inches of height. I wore them proudly, too, until I overheard a child asking his mother if he could take a picture with the real live giant.

I always have to be slightly out of place in my resident cities, as well. In Denver, where business casual means unripped jeans, this meant dressing up. Out came the dresses, nice jewelry, even lipstick. I found myself discussing fashion and secretly judging people for their comfortable attire because, as Paris Hilton says, it takes just as much energy to put on a cute outfit as it does to put on a heinous one. Or something like that. So when I moved to New York, many expected me to dive even deeper into labels and take the dress-up to the next level. Not so. In my characteristic subtle push against the masses, I dug out my tee shirts and jeans and began to refuse to go out unless I could wear slippers or flip flops.

Recently, however, my need to be slightly out of place caused some extreme discomfort. In honor of my friend Rusty’s visit to the city, I had planned a night out to a restaurant I wanted desperately to try and decided it was an occasion to look hot. Hot to me means classy, red, and a tasteful amount of skin showing. A given, right? Not so in New York’s bitterly cold winter months. Classy and red you can get away with, but exposed skin when you’re traipsing around the city is a recipe for frostbite and hypothermia. I chose to ignore this, however, and figured I would just bundle up with a coat.

My outfit was my favorite red dress: low cut and bare legs. My outerwear included a coat with half-length sleeves (but it looks like an Audrey Hepburn coat!) and heels. No boots. No tights. No jacket to cover the lower part of my arms. So intelligent. I reasoned that it would be approximately a 3 block walk to the pre-dinner bar in Rockefeller Center and cabs were readily available to take Rusty and me to the restaurant. I can do anything for 3 blocks.

What I didn’t count on were the hordes of people who would gather to check out the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree (what? Tourists in New York in December? You must be kidding). After 5 minutes of standing in the crowd with the wind whipping my legs, I knew I was in trouble. And so did the 40,000 other people standing around staring at my legs like they were some kind of escaped zoo animal (come on, it’s not like they’re weirdly hairy or something… though that would certainly be warmer). When the line was too long at the Rainbow Room to warrant our patronage, I faced the fact that I would be walking around, bare-legged, in wind chill around 10 degrees.

To Rusty’s credit, he offered to hail a cab. But as I’m clearly a seasoned New Yorker, I refused to take a cab 2 blocks to the next bar (which turned out to be a bust) and then turned the cab down for the NEXT bar as well. Heels or no, I practically ran into the warmth at the Time Warner Center when we arrived. By this time, after about a mile in the December chill, my legs were red and raw, and thankfully so, because this visual condition was hiding the fact that they were also likely bleeding from exposure.

I figured I was in the clear as I slipped out of my coat and handed it to the hostess. Not so. Since sane people cover their skin in such weather with materials like “wool” and “down,” the heat in both the bar and the restaurant were turned way down so everyone would be comfortable. Everyone, that is, except the idiot in her sundress, who was chattering in the corner, downing wine as fast as she could in hopes that the alcohol blanket would allow her to survive the night. I think I covered pretty well. I managed to make conversation, despite my discomfort, and I even managed a few hair flips so those looking at me would take in the hotness (I was choosing to ignore the fact that they were probably ACTUALLY looking at me wondering what in the hell I was thinking).

After the cab back to Brooklyn, I ran inside and got in a hot shower, which merely exacerbated the stinging wounds that had developed as a result of the wind. A bottle of lotion later, I was beginning to feel like a normal human again, and I decided that maybe this time, I’d conform, but just a little. Next time, I’ll wear my running tights and/or long underwear. It’s a compromise: they certainly aren’t as fashionable as tights and boots, but at least I’ll be warm.

About a year ago, foodie friends David, Sara, and I came up with a list of deal breaker food statements when it came to potential mates. The list was fairly short, but included “I’ll have the chicken ceasar salad,” “Let’s go to Applebee’s,” and, probably most importantly, “I’m a vegetarian.” Perhaps this is why David wrote, after finding out that I was giving veganism a go, “I’m not even dignifying that with a response. I might even send you a cheese and cured meat basket this week just because I feel like it. Or maybe a terrine of foie from hudson valley.” Sara told me she would only come to my birthday party if it was an omnivore affair. Such supportive friends.

Why veganism? I clearly have no qualms about eating members of the animal kingdom. I’ve been known to participate in food challenges geared at using as many parts of the pig/duck/veal (that’s right, PETA, I eat baby animals) possible. I scoff at patrons in nice restaurants ordering vegetarian dishes. I once went to a sushi dinner with a chart showing the sustainability of fish species and made it a point to eat only fish that weren’t on the list, thus placing them in the category “you’re going to hell for even thinking about eating these species.” I even own a tee shirt that says “Stop Tofu Abuse, Eat Foie Gras.” Unfortunately, despite my undying love for meat, yoga and narcissism went to my head (yogis are skinny and they’re vegans), and when I picked up the book “Skinny Bitch” in the airport, I was defenseless and doomed to give the meatless diet a shot. Those skinny bitches (I know they were skinny from their picture) showed me the temptation of the selfish vegan diet- the one where you don’t eat meat and you get thin. And, sure, the book was loaded with bad information and hype from suspiciously biased sources, but I figured it was all part of the motivational tactic.

Unfortunately, my resolve to give veganism a shot came during Thanksgiving weekend. Such a dietary change during the holiday that revolves around feasting on dead bird would be hard for anyone, but I like to think it’s particularly challenging in my family. This is because they are from the Midwest. In the Midwest, there are two food groups: meat and potatoes (if you’re my family, you’ve added a third: wine). What this means is that even though the site of our Thanksgiving feast is always veg-friendly California, a declaration that you aren’t going to eat meat earns you unrelenting taunting and ridicule plus virtual starvation, as the rest of the family feasts upon delicious things like buffalo, pork loin, bacon, and pheasant (just shot in North Dakota!).

Still, armed with vanity and stubbornness (and believe me, you can’t overestimate the power of that combo), I began my regiment the Friday after our feast. From day 1, I faced adversity. “I hate people who bring their own food to parties,” said my grandpa as he eyed my veggie burger on its sad little plate next to the platter of succulent buffalo burgers. In my mind, I thought, “Me too, and frankly, I’d rather be eating the meat than the crushed up sunflower seed patty that’s supposed to be an acceptable substitute.” Outwardly, however, I managed a, “Does it really matter? We’re all throwing things on the grill.” I persevered, but it was tough.

To get through this, I was going to have to develop a high road approach. I decided to embody the vegan rhetoric I’d heard the hippies use in my discourses with them about food. This was challenging, as I normally argue passionately for the slaughter and consumption of animals (often to an extreme, suggesting we could save endangered species by raising them for food), but I was sure I’d had enough fights to repeat some of their points back. I had a chance to test it out on day 2, when my grandma and I got into a big discussion about food. I clearly couldn’t talk about how sad it was to eat furry creatures, no one would believe me. Instead, I decided to focus on the problems with the meat-producing industry. Still a stretch. I was making myself nauseous with self-important guilt. Maybe because I know that the commodity meat industry is dirty, but there are many meat producers out there that raise their animals sustainably. Arguing for veganism, however, meant I had to gloss over that. At the end of the discussion, my grandma, clearly frustrated, said, “I know what you’re going to do when you get to the airport tomorrow. You’re going to buy a big meatball sub when none of us are looking.” Good thing I hate fast food meatball subs. I didn’t have to lie when I turned my nose up at this statement.

On day 3, I was starting to go crazy. One more day with the family, I thought, then back to the yoga paradise of the New York where I can be with my fellow brothers of peace and vegetables and veganism will be 100 times easier. This was also the day when I started to realize the pitfalls of the vegan diet. Like besides the fact that the most wonderful food group of all was off-limits, you had to be incredibly annoying when ordering food in a restaurant. “Excuse me, are your black beans vegan? Not vegetarian, vegan. I don’t eat any animal products. Not even an ounce of dairy better be in that pot.” Also, I was starving. And when I get hungry, I get cranky. “Isn’t ANYONE around here hungry for LUNCH?” I found myself yelling. No, probably because it’s 10:30 in the morning, and everyone else is still satisfied from the eggs they ate an hour and a half ago. But, I sucked it up, ate a boring salad of black beans and watercress for lunch while my family dug into their burritos full of juicy chicken and cheese, and got on my plane to New York.

Joke was on me, however. Or sort of on me. A fortunate snowstorm and ensuing delays meant I had a 2 day layover in Denver. This was excellent for my mental health, terrible for the vegan diet. It’s not like I live in Boulder. My Denver crew (which includes aforementioned David and Sara, by the way) has a total of 0 vegetarians in it. And I like to freeload off my parents when I have the chance, something that’s much harder when I’m not eating meat (since that’s what they like). I marched on, however, and spent the next 2 days experimenting with making various beans and lentil dishes, all of which tasted about the same and mediocre at best. Maybe because things like pork belly and heavy cream, ingredients guaranteed to make something like beans taste amazing, are not allowed if you’re a vegan.

When I did finally get back to New York, I was a mess. I was ravenously hungry and feeding my lack of meat with my old mixed nut vice. This would be fine if we were talking about a handful of mixed nuts, but I’m talking, like, jars. I was also to the point that when I passed people eating street meat and vendor cart hot dogs, I wanted to push them down and take away their food, shove it in my mouth all at once, and run away, laughing maniacally.

Vanity continued to be my justification. It’s okay, I thought, I’m hungry, but I’m clearly losing weight. Right? Wrong. 6 days after starting this selfish vegan experiment, I stepped on the scale. And I’d gained two pounds. In all fairness, this could have been related to several factors (you know, like water intake), but it didn’t matter at that moment. I’d had it. You mean I’m starving myself, miserable, AND gaining weight? Oh hell no.

I leapt off the scale at the gym, tossed my bag over my shoulder, and marched down to the grocery store. It was time to break the fast. Crazy look in my eye, I asked the butcher for some ground beef. “How much?” he asked. “Huge,” was my response. And then I practically ran home, threw my stuff down, and cooked it immediately to bloody medium rare perfection. No condiments, no vegetable fluff, just pure, unadulterated, wonderful, American beef. And as I sunk my teeth into the dead animal carcass, I thought about foie gras, bacon, sweetbreads, and the fact that in 6 days of the skinny vegan bitchs’ diet, I’d certainly gotten the bitch part, what with the lack of caloric intake, but the whole “skinny” thing remained elusive.

In hindsight, it was doomed to fail. Veganism is a lifestyle change, and I clearly can’t live without pork or foie gras. I think my feelings are best summed up as David succinctly put it when I wrote him and Sara to tell them I’d quit: “yay for meat.”