Bad Advice

Slurpy and Slimey

In a valiant effort to extend our vacation state-of-mind, the BF and I ate oysters twice this weekend. First off was Friday, when we met blogger Red Sauce and her delightful lady friend at Fish. As the L train was shut down for the second time that day (motherfucker!!!!!!), I was late and so wasn't really sure what the three of them had ordered, I just knew that I needed to catch up. I quickly slurped down two, ordered a delish glass of Reisling (not neccessarily in that order) and only then said my hellos.

After downing a few more, I ordered a lobster roll (almost as good as P-Town and sans the pesky lettuce), while the big guy took his chances on a lobster shepard's pie. That's some good eats.

Saturday afternoon found me and he wandering around Williamsburg in the drizzle. We ducked into the normally packed-to-the-gills Marlow & Sons and found it almost completely deserted. Not only that, but between two and six on weekend afternoons, they have oyster happy hour! Score! So we had a dozen Wellfleet and a dozen from somewhere offa New York. Never one to leave well enough alone, BF also ordered a selection of cheese and meats, which he topped off with a truly repulsive looking scoop of chicken liver pate (gag).

On a somewhat related note; doesn't the face on that oyster look familiar? It's Christ, don't you know! A Swiss bartender found the saintly shell and is set to sell it on ebay. Hell, for all I know, he already has. I'm sad to report that though our oysters tasted like briny little bits of heaven, as far as I know, all remained sadly secular in shape. You can bet that from now on I'll be checking.

Red, red wine. . .

A friend of mine came over for dinner last night and we had some wine with our pasta. Granny's drinking skills are a little out of practice, so it hit me really hard this morning. All I can think about is cheeseburgers and diet coke. Mmmmmm.

I love what Nick Cave answered when an interviewer from Tokion asked him about his first job: "I worked in a jeans shop in Melbourne. Working there cemented my loathing for denim."

Sigh. That man should so be my husband.

In other news, if I cheated on my wife with a teenager and wanted to win her back, Cindy Adams is about the last person I'd ask to relay my plans.

Thumbing back further into the Post, I came across this sensitive little piece on rent regulation. Don't miss the author's take on the "dysfunctional underclass." Nice.

In case you forgot, Spyro, Janice Erlbaum and I are doing a reading tonite. I've lost about twelve pounds since the last reading, which is pretty alright. How that will affect my ability to read is unclear at this point.

Oh, No, Mario!

Mario Batali has joined me on the plan. Poor guy. He started the Watchers of Weight and is obviously doing it all wrong already as he mistakenly thinks a tablespoon of oil equals one point. Sadly (and unfairly, if you ask me) a tablespoon of fragrant, delicious olive oil is actually 3.5 points. Mario enjoys a plan-busting six tablespoons with his spaghetti, making his one dish (21 for oil, plus 4 for one cup of pasta—and I'm guessing Mario doesn't stop at a cup) more than I'm allowed to eat in a whole day. I know that as Mario is a bigger guy, he gets more points, but he's going to have to do some adjusting. My wish is that Mario gets fully into the plan and writes a low-fat cookbook, because the recipes I get off the WW website suck! Who considers an egg-white omelette a viable meal? Why not just fry up a cup of fried snot?!? Yuck. I doubt there's anyway you can spin his famed lardo into something that won't put fat on yer ass, but I'm sure he can come up with something better than a bunch of greens dressed with lemon juice. And if he needs any help writing the thing, I'm here to help.

Wholly Unsatisfying

In a lame attempt to be healthy, I decided to give whole wheat pasta a try. I like whole wheat bread, so I figured this might be similarly inoffensive.

Wrong.

While it didn't make me gag, the texture is all wrong. Completely unappetizing and it has a nutty, way-too-healthy scent. So in order to make it a little more palatable, I doused it in cheese and topped it off with a big glass of pinot grigio. Thus, with two quick shakes and a gulp, I turned my healthy meal turned into the pasta equivalent of a 40 and a bag of chips.

Burp.

Let the Bitching Begin!

I've held out for five days (that's how long I've been dieting) and now it's time to get a few things off my chest. Ladies and gentlemen, I am about to expose several big fat lies perpetrated by the diet industry:

• Water does not "fill you up." Yes, it makes you pee more often and probably helps get rid of any toxins that might be residing in your urinary tract, but fill me up, it doesn't. Not even close. And I'm drinking so much my eyes are floating.
• Fruit is no substitute for chocolate. There is fruit and then there are delicious red velvet cupcakes from Sugar Sweet Sunshine. Blindfold me and put a banana and a cupcake in front of me and I assure you, I'll know the difference just by smell. And taste. And touch. 
• Lean Cuisines suck ass. No shit they're low-cal. They should come with a clothespin to snap on your nose so you won't have to taste them going down. But then you'd still gag on the questionable gristly bits that seem to pepper each entree.
• Nothing tastes as good as a Fanelli's cheeseburger. Absolutely nothing. At least at this moment in time, when all I've eaten is a crappy little granola bar, nine hair-thin pretzels, a paltry serving of vegetarian sushi and a couple grapes. This should do me 'til dinner. Fat chance.

The Plan

After events of last week conspired to give me a well-needed kick in the ass, I bit the bullet and re-joined the Watchers of Weight. I'd lost close to 30 pounds the last time I joined the WW, but then got lazy and gained it all back and then some. Oops.

So this time I'm doing it differently. For one thing, no more meetings, I joined online. I've never been one for group activities and so the meeting always bugged me. From the rah-rah cheerleading aspect to the angsty confessions from women who regularly woke up in the middle of the night to consume a half-gallon of pistachio ice cream, I could not relate.

The Problem with Eating Out

I refuse to wait more than ten minutes to get seated. If there's a line, I'll just leave. Not in a fit of anger or anything, I just don't like waiting around. So I was slightly cheered to read about a new restaurant opening up in my neighborhood. It's owned by Colin Devlin who owns Dumont. I like Dumont, but for a long time I avoided going there because it was always too crowded. If you're not at a booth, you're screwed. (They also have that supremely irritating policy of not seating you until everyone in your party is there.)

But then last summer or so they expanded their garden and made it possible to eat there without sitting on top of the people at the next table. So during Spring and Summer, it's one of my preferred destinations. Now they're opening a new place on the southside, which will hopefully be equally spacious. (Though the food at his other joint, Dumont Burger, is fine, sitting on those tiny hard barstools, while squished up against strangers at either the—yuck!—group table or—possibly worse!—bar pushes it permanently off my list.)

I used to like Diner, but quit going there altogether a couple years back, because it's always too packed with jackasses. But this weekend, the Large Greek and I were in the mood for steak and it was still kind of early (sevenish). So we cabbed over and were shocked to actually be seated right away! The food was good, the waitress stabbed my boyfriend, but he didn't bleed too much, so we were happy. As we waddled outside afterwards, I saw a giant line of scrawny model types waiting to get in. Ha! Sometimes it pays to be painfully uncool.

Here are a few things guaranteed to turn any dining experience to shit:

• Family-style seating. I don't like to sit and eat with my own family. Why would I want to sit with yours?
• Bratty children and their idiot parents. Bad kids aren't born (except for my cousin Frankie), they just have horrible parents who make them that way. If your kid is a screamer, kicker, or biter, eat at home or get a babysitter.
• Television. A certain person I dine with will stare at any TV if it's there. Even if it's tuned to stock tips or the make-you-own-breadsticks channel.
• An overly formal or overly friendly waitstaff. I don't want to feel like white trash, nor do I want to know your life story. There is a happy medium. Find it.
• Over-reliance on one ingredient. One place I know puts dill in everything. Another uses so much vinegar that every meal ends in a complete pucker. Moderation, people. Mix it up.

A Bitter Pill

Is this the coolest thing ever, or what?!?! Say you have trouble swallowing pills—problem solved! Just fill your glass with a delicious beverage, put your meds on the little pill shelf, and gulp! I love this! If they'd had this when I was a kid, it would've saved my mom hours of yelling.

Of course, at this late date I've gobbled so many drugs in my life that I can down ten horsie-sized vitamins without even a sip of water. But it's good to know that this invention exists. And it's only $3.98!

I found it on Apartment Therapy, who located it on Gizmodo.

That Evil Bean

I've never been a member of the Coffee Generation. Not out of any misplaced yen for healthy living, I just never liked the taste. It's way too bitter for me. Then there's the fact that I almost always burn my mouth when I drink anything hot. But the payoff is that lovely caffeine jolt. Up until recently I'd been getting it from Diet Coke.

As that option is no more, I decided to go buy myself a latte at Starbucks this afternoon. (I know, I know, Starbucks is the devil, but as I hate the taste of coffee, I need to get the really obnoxious gussied up beverages that they do so well.) And today, just like the other three times I attempted to enjoy this popular drink, it turned on me. I don't get how people can drink something that immediately makes you poop. Is it just me? How can you possibly "meet someone for coffee," knowing you're going to have to make a break for the can halfway through? I just don't get it.

Cold Turkey

Yesterday I returned to NYU Dental School to get x-rayed and begin a regimen of treatment on my wretched, rapidly decaying teeth. The children who x-rayed me were cute in an incomptent way, but if they'd been handling drills, I would've had words with someone. I got x-rayed and their supervisor/professor came in to discuss.

"Are you a heavy smoker," she asked? Uh, no. She looked at me and told me I had VERY SERIOUS ISSUES for a woman my age. Basically I have the teeth of an elderly chainsmoker. She then asked again if I smoked, I guess thinking I might be lying.

I really don't! I asked her if she thought Diet Coke could've caused the damage. Her eyes got wide and she said "Of course!" a little too enthusiastically for my taste. She then went on to tell me all the horrible things my favorite beverage does to teeth. The gist of which is, I have to quit. Immediately.

So more Nectar of the Goddesses for me. It won't be easy. I don't drink Diet Coke because it has no calories. I drink it because it's a delicious carbonated beverage. Nothing goes better with a cheeseburger or helps cure a hangover quicker. But if I want to keep my teeth, I have to say no. So from now on, I'm strictly a water and wine gal. Sigh.