Murray Hell

WARNING: If you live in that area of New York City cleverly named Murray Hill, think twice about reading this post.

And let me just apologize to my few friends who inhabit the precinct: I’m truly sorry you live there if I offend you with the following rant.

That being said, I think Murray Hill (which shall henceforth be referred to as Murray Hell) is the.worst.hood in ‘hattan.

My first up-close n’ personal encounter with this Midtown Eastish locale was in the summer of 2004. My friend Jackie (unlucky lass) was assigned to those NYU dorms.

I hadn’t been formally introduced to the West Village yet so my love affair/obsession was nonexistent. Midtown and Murray Hell were the only areas I had some familiarity with. I thought that ugly high rises, filthy litter, ceaseless construction, countless bodegas, disgusting restaurants, and douchebag bars were de rigueur in Manhattan. I thought Manhattan was just plain gross.

My next visit to Murray Hell was a year-and-a-half later when I (unfortunately) stayed at a hotel right in the heart of the hood. Vomitus. I was dragged to packed bars full of underage kids, too-loud music, and too-expensive Bud Lights. I was submitted to “healthy” falafel chains instead of standalone pizza joints. Blasphemy! Insanity!

That second stay sealed the No Dankes! deal. I was in hate with Murray Hell. Never did I ever want to return to that most loathsome location. And I’ve done a pretty stand-up job of avoiding it the past 3.5 years.

Alas, it was my most unlucky lot in life to waste the past two Saturdays in - can you guess? - Murray Hell. Sob sob.

As I mentioned a few entries ago, I participated in the AMC Best Picture Showcase extravaganza with my friends Melissa and Meg. It was fine inside the theater, I guessss. But walking to and from the train, taking breaks outside, trying to find something for dinner - well, it was sheer misery.

I wonder if Murray Hell has a higher suicide rate than any other neighborhood in NYC. Probably. Hmm...definitely.

It’s so inaccessible. Even subways hate it round there! There’s nary a train - well there’s the 6, but that’s way over on Park. There’s still Lex, 3rd, 2nd, and 1st to go. And honestly, I don’t blame the trains for not wanting to plummet deeper into the depths of Hell. In fact, I give them two very big thumbs up.

The Buildings. Methinks people realized just how awful Murray Hell was way back in the day - that’s why there’s no cute, charming apartamentos with character. It was (and still is) a hood of denizens by denizens for denizens: tasteless, classless peeps who wouldn’t know a brownstone if it smothered them à la Wicked Witch of the East.

There’s nothing but apartment building after apartment building. All of them heinous with horrifically horrible names. Names! Do they think they’re plantations or something? Wtf.

Some of my favorite least favorites: The Leonard, The Sycamore (so original), The Wilshire (really? is this Beverly Hills?), Chesapeake House, Manhattan Promenade. Ick! Each block is worse than the last.

The “restaurants”? Revolting! Who wants to chow down at Lyric Diner or Mike Due Pizza. Mike Due Pizza?? That doesn’t even make sense. People who live and work in Murray Hill apparently didn’t pass grammar school English.

Nope, there’s not a single place worth eating at. OK, maybe one - Penelope where my darling friends Ri and Will work. But because it’s the only decent joint, the wait (for people not in with the staff) is always ridiculous. And that pretty much cancels out any goodness.

The bars? Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize a magical time machine had beamed me back to the Maingate in Allentown, PA circa 2002. And dem der memories ain’t pretty, believe you me. Joshua Tree? Atrocious. Galway Hooker? Hella no. Tonic East and Hook & Ladder and Red Sky and PS 450 - no no no no NO.

The street litter is more vile. The construction workers more miserable. Shit yo, even the SNOW is dirtier and uglier than our Greenwich Village snow!

What sane person with any iota of an IQ would want to live in a hood chock full of cookie-cutter high rises and shitty restaurants? Where bars are called The Hairy Monk? Where you can’t step foot outside without crashing into armies of JAPs donning Tory Burch combat flats and cradling Louis Vuitton rucksacks?

This video sums up all that is my own personal version of Hell:

O to the m to the f to the g NO DANKES!

The Bachelor.

I remember the first time I ever watched The Bachelor. I was a junior in college - yes that pic is old! - and my friend Sarah (who suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Reality Show Disorder - remember Paradise Island - she loved even that), got me watching it. Along with American Idol which, thankfully, I have not seen since.

Nevertheless, I’ve been watching da Bach for 7 years now and can say without a doubt - this was the worst season I have ever seen.

Why oh why does this show have to be such a train wreck in so many ways!

And yet...I can’t not watch it. No matter how badly I wish to avert my eyes, no matter how much physical and emotional pain I inflict on myself when viewing, or how traumatizing the characters (yes, characters) are, I just can’t look away. I can’t stop recording it. I can’t go to bed without knowing who da Bach gives the final rose to that night.

I’ve had a love/hate relationship all along. But Jake’s season - and I say this with 100% conviction - I loathed.

First of all, why have you stretched this show out for two hours, ABC? It’s interminable. Quit previewing what’s COMING UP LATER...I don’t need to know what’s going to happen later on because I’M GOING TO SEE IT LATER ON. Morons.

It’s sometimes unfortunate that I’m such a loyal lassie. For instance, I’ve used the same shaving gel since high school. And so, as with my Gillette, so too with my Gossip Girl. I just don’t stop watching shows. Even Nip/Tuck! And we all know how ridiculous that got towards the end. Yizzikes.

(Well fine, I did break up with Heroes - but really, who didn’t?)

The thing I’m most embarrassed about is the fact that I liked Jake at first. I thought him and Jill made a cute couple.

Then he became a psychotic, weepy nut job stalker. Oh but lo and behold, America loved him (blonde? blue-eyed? pilot? YES!)

So I was already nervous for the season to begin. Jake just ain’t funny or charming or witty or clever - or tall. His twang made me flinch. Then they went and played On the Wings of Love. And I threw up a little lot in my mouth.

The girls, the girls! I guess all the smart, normal ones know better by now (my co’s want me to go on the next season...HA). But could they be any more trashy? Deeeesgusting. So fake, so YOUNG. Omfg.

But this isn’t about the bachelorettes, it’s about The Bachelor.

Jake was the most awkward, inarticulate, boring, nerdy wannabe ever to grace the reality show small screen.

Actually no, I take that back. There was nothing graceful about him. He didn’t grace shit. It was painful to watch him. When he cried - gross!! (Not that I don’t appreciate a man in touch with his feelings. But come onnnnnn.)

I do not understand why anyone liked him. He is a tool - and not even a cool tool. He ain’t no power screwdriver. He is a level. Yes, a level. And far too level-headed and unfun to fill the shoes left for him by gems like Andrew Firestone. (Actually, he wouldn’t fill them regardless. He probably wears a size 8...8.5 max.)

Vienna. He picked Vienna. Of the 25 broads, he picked the broadiest, bawdiest, fakest of them all. Goldilocks? More like Doggielocks.

She is so repulsive. I was ill watching that last episode. Her tacky Rave clothes, her omnipresent George Washington hair. Her dumb acrylic nails and huge silicone implants. Her stupid dolphin tattoo and lazy-crossed-bug eyes. Ew ew ewwwww.

Now I ask all of you the same question I’ve been asking myself: What’s the draw? I could not believe the outburst of Facebook updates happening in real time as Jake was dumping Tenley (you are totes better off, girlfriend!) and proposing to Vienna. Really Jake? REALLY?

And yet - we watched.

Why are we all addicted to this awful, awful show? Are you guys going to watch Ali on The Bachelorette? I am traumatized after this season but who knows. It’s a train wreck, I tell you. And yet...I...can’t...escape...it.

When is this nonsensical hot mess of a show gonna release us from its super fabricated, super stupid vise-like grip? And now Jake the Loser (who apparently cannot dress himself without his TV show stylists, thanks Jeffery!) is going to be on Dancing with the Stars.

Stop ruining my life, Jake.

Gotta go...it’s Gossip Girl time.

Sober in a Sea of Drunk

Last weekend saw me perfectly sober both Friday and Saturday – a feat which has not transpired…well…since I don’t know when. Thumbs up! Who knows if it’ll happen again anytime soon.

I must say, though, it was quite lovely.

I barely remembered what it was like to wake up before noon on the weekends, or have a non-shattered brain, or to not hang my head over the toi toi.

Thank you, thank you AMC Movie Theaters.

It all began a few months ago when my friend Melissa mentioned their Best Picture Showcase. 13 hours of sitting in a movie theater + 5 movies = a big enough excuse to forego the sauce Friday night and a perfectly excusable reason to fall fast asleep asap that night.

While I still ate my calories instead of drinking them (Twizzlers, Mini-Eggs, Peanut Butter M&Ms, Raisinets, Junior Mints, and unlimited popcorn), I’d take a full-of-junkfood-belly over a full-of-beer sick tum any day of the week.

By the time the last film ended it was almost midnight. (Any ideas or inclinations I had of going out had been squashed by the third movie.) I was tired. I was irritable. I’d eaten too much popcorn. I just wanted to go to sleep.

Have I ever mentioned the fact that I lovelovelove living in the Village? Of course I have. I’d sing its praises from the top of the Empire State Building if given the opportunity.

What I sometimes forget, though, is that other people love the Village too. That it’s a destination for tourists and music lovers and NYU kiddies alike. And that said inebriated Bleecker Street-goers are obnoxious, ignorant, annoying and awfully belligerent.

All these shenanigans can be pretty goddamn annoying when you’re stone-sober, donning bright yellow wellies, barely able to keep your movie-screen-fried eyes open.

As if the wasted dude who couldn’t keep upright on the train wasn’t bad enough (he crashed into me), no. No. Then I had to wade though a sea of drunks on Bleecker (good thing I had my rain boots on).

The shouting, the screaming, the incessant slurring. The asking for directions, the shouting in your face as you pass by. The pushing and shoving and smashing and toe smooshing. The mega-macho-man showdowns and the kitty-biddy-cat fights.

There is nothing more irritating than being in the vicinity of a drunkards when you’re sober.

They bear down on you, break you into little bitty balls of frustration and anxiety.

Their shrill voices envelope and suffocate your rapidly fraying nerves.

Their stupid swaying aggravates and frustrates.

They don’t MOVE out of the way. They’re big, oafy cows. Apparently alcohol desensitizes brains (among other things).

I just hope that, when next I am intoxicated, I have the wherewithal not to be that girl.

Sample Rack Ruckus

This little gem of a topic can swing both ways – NO and DO. But because I have already exhausted my weekly optimism allotment, the door has swung into NO territory.

After all, I cannot allow too much sunshine and ponies and rainbows and funfetti into one week. Need to keep my negative energy levels up! Boy is it exhausting.

Northwestern Connecticut is a considerably large bubble. Or maybe my high school years simply missed the big fashionista boom up there. Regardless, I didn’t even know what 7 For All Mankind jeans were until I pledged a sorority my sophomore year in college.

Me and my pledge sistas were sneaking drinks before a Closed (party with a frat) and one girl was saying how her favorite jeans were Sevens – to which silly blonde little me replied, “You’re A SIZE SEVEN??” (She was super skinny). Everyone laughed.

Yikes did I feel dumb!

Alas, as I’ve aged in years, so too has the breadth of my fashion knowledge. It’s become a fine kinda wine. (Working at Bloomingdale’s had a huge hand in brand recognition and favoritism for suuure. It’s been tough to go back to H&M and Forever 26 after discounted Vince and DVF and Rock & Republic – but somehow, I’ve managed.)

A big part of my survival in fashion-obsessed New York City is thanks to sample sales.

After Bloom’s, I worked at a young men’s clothing company. Our designers would send color swatches, specs, pattern designs – the whole kit and caboodle – over to India. Then wham bam thank you ma’am, our Indian factories would send back shirts. Magic! Said shirts were called “samples” and the salespeople used them to sell to stores (say that five times fast).

Bigger, better companies than my previous employer (which shall remain unnamed) have so so so many samples that they sell them at a completely more reasonable price. And I buy them.


Enter: Clothing Line. This gem of a warehouse in the madness that is Midtown has some of the best sample sales I’ve ever been to. Theory, J. Crew, Tori Burch, Kooba, Theory, Milly, Alice + Olivia, Theory, Theory, Theory!

How I wish my wardrobe consisted entirely of Theory. Their designs just fit me so well. So flattering. So classic. Love, love, love.

But this is a no dankes and so I shall no dankes.

Sample sales can be pretty gruesome. And pretty goddamn overwhelming.

There’s the line around the block – undoubtedly full of bitchy people bitching about bitches cutting them. Bitch slaps all around.
There’s the messy, disheveled racks. No organization what-so-ever. Not by size, or color, or sample vs. damage, or shirt vs. sweater vs. dress. (Well that last one is a slight exaggeration – some racks had but a few dresses mixed in with the tops and slacks.)

Your arm goes dead with the weight of 25 items (dresses in my case) as you feverishly flip through hanger after hanger, rack after rack, hurriedly browsing through the madness, hoping something will catch your eye.

Oh but then a big burly man walks by shouting “10 ITEM LIMIT, TENNNN ITEMS!!” No.no.no, say it ain’t so!!! I always ignore him.

Finally, when your arms can no longer bear their colorful, deadweight burden, you head to the “fitting room”. There you encounter yet another line. GAH, your arms are going to FALL OFF. But shit you have more than TEN ITEMS. But I DON’T WANT TO PUT THEM BACK!!!!!!!! But you must.

Sometimes you can get away with armfuls if it’s not super busy. More often than not, though, the fitting room man cracks his superpower whip. Ever so reluctantly, you pick through each piece, deeming whether or not it’s worthy of a try-on. Believe me, it’s rough.

You grudgingly place more than half your booty on the put-back rack, hoping and wishing and praying it will be there when you’re done with the chosen group. And then, oh yeah, you wait in line. And you wait. And you wait.

I think I had several heart attacks the first time I visited a sample sale’s fitting room. It’s like my encounters with a naked gym-goer nightmare x 5,000. Row after row of naked ladies stripping and standing and strutting around in front of flimsy mirrors (above is a super classy photo I found...I didn’t want to subject you readers to the real madness).

My modest mouse self needed a few sample sale trips under my belt before I could feel comfortable. And now I’m addicted.

Lines and crowds and messy racks and naked ladies aside, sample sales are definitely well worth it. Especially the Theory ones.

Do Dankes: To the Beach House

There is no where in the world I would rather not be than in New York City on a snowy, rainy, windy, freezing cold day. 


Much like today. Oh, and yesterday. Annnd the day before that.

What was Punxsutawney Phil’s prognosis, anyway? I have a mind to go down to Pennsylvania and drag him out of his cozy little hole in the dark so he doesn’t see his shadow. I want winter to be O-V-E-R. Yes – yes those are capital letters.

I am ready for sunshine and sand (and, fine, SPF) and popsicles and pools and piñas and ice cold brewskies and burgers and bathing suits – eh, OK maybe not that last one (I have a few more months to get ready, right? RIGHT?)...nevertheless, you get the point.

Helloooooo spring fever.

So I thought, what better way to spend a disgustingly soaking wet day than daydreaming about the beach? Boy oh boy do I love the beach. It is without a doubt my most favorite place to be.

I know I talked smack about sand last summer – and I do stand by that. Super fine sand is super sticky, hence super annoying. But truthfully I don’t think anywhere, anyplace, or anything in the world beats the beach.

At the risk of sounding mega-cheesy, I think the ocean is truly magical.

True, the big blue sea does kinda scare the shit out of me. Seaweed and sharks and skeletons and murkiness and monsters.

But when there’s a shore involved, the ocean becomes more controlled, more reasonable (well, kind of...if you can’t swim you’re screwed).

Waves lapping and crashing and roaring and foaming; cooling your sun-soaked body off in the surf; squishing the slurpy, racing sand beneath your toes; catching glimpses of myriad white shells and quietly vibrant sea glass. That incomparable feeling of being on the edge, on the precipice, overlooking something so incomprehensibly vast and mysterious.

The beach is simply sensational. (Michelle agrees – she was so tickled at Nauset, in fact, that she broke into cartwheels!)

I understand that, like everything, the beach is not without its drawbacks – few as they may be. Screaming, crying, shrieking children can grate on the ole nerves. Combat gulls swooping in for the turkey-sandwich-kill, flying away with your lunch in their talons. And of course the seemingly harmless snooze that results in a wicked, streaky sunburn.

And, well, that’s about it. Oh how I love, love, LOVE the beach.

Yet another thing I adore is how, like thumbprints, no two beaches are the same. Fine sand, coarse sand, black sand, rocks instead of sand. It truly is quite amazing.

Here are my five most favorite beaches – all vastly different, but all beloved:

5. South Beach, FL: Only one visit and this beauty made it into my top five! Fake boobs and far too much PDA aside (there was pretty much everything but the deed happening right before my prudish, averted eyes), this truly was a sight to see. I didn’t think it was possible for Florida to have such tealy blue water. Gorg!

4. Horseshoe Bay, Bermuda: While I didn’t find the pink sand quiiite pink enough, I very much enjoyed the warm, seaweed-free, unbelievably clear water. The Treasure Island cove-like landscape added to my delight.

3. Capri, Italy: This small island (pictured) off the coast of Italy is simply breathtaking. I found it hard to believe that such a place exists in this world. And though the “beach” is sans sand and riddled with rocks (I do not tell a lie, it was impossible to get comfortable), the turquoise water was mesmerizing. So mesmerizing, in fact, that while I was floating on my back, enjoying the super salty sea, I didn’t even notice that my top had gone askew. Yep, I flashed friends and strangers alike.

2. Nice, France: Ahhhh, the French Riviera. Such a glamorous scene. What I wouldn’t give to have lived there in the 50s, be wooed by Cary Grant, and don boatloads of diamonds! I visited long after To Catch a Thief hit theaters, but the scene was just as spectacular. The sand, the ocean, the architecture – it’s another package deal.

1. Cape Cod, MA: I debated where to put this on my list. After all, the water isn’t as clear at Bermuda, nor as stunning as Capri, or as warm as Nice. No, no. There are kids and killer gulls. The ocean is ice cold; freezing, actually, even on the warmest of days. And my most abhorred, most feared enemy of the watery world is usually omnipresent: Seaweed. But Cape Cod has held a special place in my heart since I was a kid and I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon.

There’s something so endearing about preppy boat shoes and Vineyard Vines. Drinking beers in line at our favorite byob restaurant, Moby Dick’s. The Three Sisters Lighthouses at Nauset. The peerless New England-esque history and charm that cannot be duplicated anywhere else: Old drive-in movie theaters and candlestick bowling alleys and flea markets.

Coast Guard and Craigville and Sandy Neck and Nauset Light. Four Seas Ice Cream and Cape Cod chips and sour cream donuts from the Hole-in-One Donut Shop.

I suppose it’s memories that make a beach so special, not all the glitz and glamor. I just hope that one day I own a Cape house of my own.

Until then, I am most grateful to the Schopp family, the Whieldon family, and the Chandler family for letting me stay at theirs...sandy feet and all.

Meditations in an Eye-mergency

A disclaimer: I contemplated deleting this post when I read it with un-blurry eyes this morning. It’s pretty ridiculous. But as you’ll soon discover, I was not (in fact) drunk or high or drugged. My eyes were dilated and I couldn’t see a thing. I thought it would be a funny experiment to blog and here is the so-so result. Grammar Police: Do Not Enter – or at least leave your badges at the door. It’s rough.

I have been slacking with my Do Dankes. Today was supposed to be a Do Dankes day.

Alas, it is not. I You see, yesterday I had an eye exam. Time to get new glasses for me. The old astigmatism has gotten worse. I told the nice doctor that I was on my lunch break so i didn’t have too much time an sshe said I had to come back after work to do the dilation cause I'd be blurry.

(How awful does thata sound, by the way - dilation? I’m sorry, am I about to give birth? Ick!)

So I went back last night to have my pupilss dilated And on my walk home I realized what a ginormous no dankormous bTHAT was! (The initial drops stinging the shiiiiiiit out of my sockets aside!)

ITo put it in Alanis’s words, I feel drunk but I’m sober. And boy do I feel D-RUNK. Like I just had about 32 beers. And 14 glasses of champagne. And 8 shots of tequila.

So in a deviattion from my much too normal norm, I thought it would be funny for the control freak to lose control. For my inner anti-spellcheck rebel to let her freak flag fly. And here is the result: a masssively mistake and grammatical error-ridden masterpice.

I'm Writing a blog blin d and not going back to correct ANYTHING> cause it’s funnier that way, right? right? AND - hold the phone - there shan’t be any italics. And barely any perfectly placed pictures.

I am verrry luckly Mrs. McCleod taught me how to type so well -and while I don’tt really give myself much credit for many of my shining, shimmering qualities (taco eating, blog writing), I will say that I am an excellent tyist. Typer? Typist. I woulda made Joanie girl proud! (For those of youwho don’t watch Mad Men, get WITH THE PROGRAM, would you?? that means i have twice hoodwinked you - the title of this entry AND theJoan reference. don’t yo feel left out??)

Good lord doI feel sleepy. I look like a drug addict. I am dizzy and narcileptic and trying to make dinner while my head lols backward against my couch and my fingers zoom across the keys writing gibberish. Nonsense. Sorry! Is this what it’s like to do shrooms? That’s the only drug i can think of that affects your vision.

I wasn’t hungry before the appointment but now my tum is a rumbling. I think my beer goggled vision has tricked the ole estomago into belieeving it was gonna enjoy some drunk food . Boy is it in for a huge upset when it gets fed broccoli and cicken and undoubtedly either over cooked or undercooked couscous (cause i cannNOOOT read the directions!!)


I mean no but seriously. The screen is a massive blur of black and grey - it doesn’t even look black. I can’t read my emails!I can’t see my texts! I can’t check my FACEBOOK PAGE! It’s the end of the world.

Do dilation drops have drugs in them? I think imma go pass out now. Please oh please let my vision be back before figure hating - I mean skating - comes on!! Hmm perhaps I should give myself a manicure...now that might be funny. This entry, unfortunately - not so much. Sowweeeee. I can’t help it, i’m dilated!

Figure Hating

Does anyone else feel unprepared for the Olympics this year? Like they came out of nowhere?

I don’t know why but I’m really just not that into them. And the winter ones are my fave!

Nevertheless, I have managed squeeze in my main squeeze – figure skating! I’ve watched both pairs programs (Shen and Zhao are so goddamn cute, SO happy for them!), and the men’s short program (free skate is tonight).

Flying through the air and falling on your ass aside, there is one aspect of figure skating that I deem positively terrifying. One quintessential characteristic that always makes my skin crawl with disdain.

What, you may ask, is that flamboyant little facet?

Why, can’t you guess?

The costumes. Good LORD, the costumes! I thought the 80s were over. Through. Finished. Finito. But much to my chagrin and sheer horror, that dreadful decade is destined to live forever on ice. The 80s have immortalized classless, tacky, bedazzled outfits.

The vicious, vision-violating monstrosities that men and women – especially the men, what is WITH all the GLOVES?? MJ tributes all around? – don are downright blasphemous.

Dear, sweet boys: This isn’t the Ice Capades. It’s the Olympics. Could you try a decent costume on for good measure? Could you live your life to a 21st century tune?

I did love Brian Boitano (well to be fair, I think my mom loved him enough for both of us...I must have watched the program that went with that outfit a million times); I liked Elvis Stojko; Brian Orser was OK. But they were no dashing divos. The skaters of this century should take a design hint from the debonair Douglas Dorsey in The Cutting Edge.

Oh how I LOVE the scene where he and Kate are getting fitted in those outrageously contemptible costumes. The seamstress contemplates where to place a piece of flair and our main man Doug says something like, “I know…how about here,” and rips the god awful costume apart. Go Doug! Boy after my own heart.

So you missed Tuesday’s short program performances? No worries. Here are my Kings of Costume No-No-No’s straight from the Vancouver dragway:

Johnny Weir(d)

Evgeni-lociraptor Plushenko

Artem-the-Riveter Borodulin

Kevin van der Halloween (?)

I get it. I understand the need to be over-the-top. To exaggerate the “look”. To stand out.

But really. Seriously buddies. I do not tell a lie: To the viewers and fans, you end up a big, fat farce. And that’s the ugly truth.

Grocery Shopping Showdown

I know, you hear me? I know. I know that living in New York City, that being one tiny ant in this overflowing hellish hill has its downs along with its ups.

But one of those downs is, unfortunately, a cruel and unusual punishment necessity: Grocery shopping.

It’s one of the most cringe-inducing activities we Manhattanites must endure. (Yes I’ve tried Fresh Direct but I prefer seeing expiration dates and picking out my own produce, thank you very much.)

Now I don’t mean cringe in a holy SHIT, that’s expensive! kind of way - although believe you me, paying double for the same product as our suburban counterparts do can be grating. Especially when we’re strong-armed into paying such exorbitant amounts (I have learned that, unfortunately, one cannot subsist on Oodles of Noodles alone…no matter how we may wish it were so).

Utterly shell-shocking costs aside, there’s another aspect to food shopping that makes me dread Sunday afternoons.

The crowds.

People have no r-e-s-p-e-c-t. LISTEN to Aretha, yo!

They claw their way in front of you, smashing into your heels with their stupid little shopping suitcase - and they don’t apologize. They reach for that last pint of tomatoes, that single Stonyfield Farms blueberry yogurt, practically snatching if from your bewildered hands.

Oh, and if you’re in their way, they scream at you. Unfortunately I’m always oblivious and usually listening to tunes - therefore I often get the ole tap-tap-tap/push-push-push in addition to the ole shriek.

You can’t peruse NYC grocery aisles in a leisurely manner. In fact, I don’t think our sad excuses for stores even deserve the term “aisle”. Aisle implies walkway - not catwalk.

Gristedes and D’Agostino’s, Gourmet Garage and Morton Williams - even CVS and Duane Reade are all sans aisles. In their place are single cart lanes. Alleys. Dingy floors whose square footage can barely accommodate two parallel people let alone outrageously rude shoppers bedecked with produce and pasta, milk and meats, cookies and candies and cakes!

Alas, the torment does not end there. After fighting the masses, after lugging around a basket that makes your arm ache with its heaviness, after maneuvering your way through the maze and back again (and again because, at least in my case, I always forget something) - then it’s time to face the lines.

Omfg the lines.

There’s nothing, and I mean nothing like the Union Square Whole Foods on a Sunday afternoon. The serpentine procession of peeps weaving in and out of the bread and dessert section, the cold food bar, the prepared dinner station.

And there’s always 30+ registers open!

It’s madness I tell you, complete and utter madness. You’re corralled like cattle into 5, 6, 7 different queues while a brightly lit television screen calls out your line number - in a slightly British accent, of course. They take their civilized, humanizing little nuances where they can get them.

And don’t you dare steal someone’s register by accident. This happens often - not always on purpose - and can be quite amusing. But as someone with experience on both ends - the stealing and the stolen - pay attention to that television screen. Otherwise you’ll find yourself being whacked on the head like you just cut the old lady in the deli line - 50 pound purses are not pretty.

As if this last legal form of human torture, this sadistic food shopping routine isn’t bad enough - oh no. Then you have to carry your groceries home.

People who complain about bringing their purchased perishables in from the car - to you I say: Shut the hell up. Try lugging those reusable bags on your shoulders (I byob) for a mile, up and up, flight after flight, to your 4th floor apartment.

Heavy as can be bags with taut straps dig into your shoulders, cutting off your circulation. You arms up and die in a hellish fit of pins and needles. Your feet drag with the excess poundage. Your knees hurt from climbing all those satanic stairs. ‘Tisn’t fun.

The crowds, the expense, the teeny tiny aisles and filthy floors, the lugging! - all these trials and tribulations are enough to make me contemplate anorexia. Well, at least until Sunday afternoon rolls around and my bare cabinets and empty tum beg to be fed.

How I miss the days of grocery shopping in the real world. Of strolling through the aesthetically pleasing promenades (aka aisles), gleaming under shiny fluorescent lights. How I long for the comfort of my old Volvo and a Super Stop and Shop. How I yearn to leisurely meander, to get lost in the dozens of aisles. Sigh.

I think it’s pretty ridiculous that I look forward to food shopping when I’m in Connecticut. But, hey. ‘Tis the little things in life.