Just A (Long) Thought

Here’s a thought: what is it with graffiti? I mean, it’s art, I get it, but seriously what’s in it for you? I mean, think about it. Who just wakes up in the morning and says “hm, I’m going to risk my life by climbing to the top of a suspension bridge so i can put my John Hancock on display for all of NYC to see!” well, i definitely don’t. Regardless of why people do it, I just want to know why they consider it worth the risk. It’s the whole drug thing, isn’t it? You know, the reason why underage kids drink alcohol and businessmen chase cocaine: the thrill of doing something illegal–it’s a risk. I mean, I like a good risk myself, but only if I know there’s a zero percent chance I could get arrested for it…or die. For example, I occasionally will make a right on red when no cars are coming and it says no right on red, but I will never carry a machete in my backpack to an airport. I will eat Pop Rocks and chase them down with cola, but I won’t take five pain killers and chase it with a glass of Ramona Pinot. So, back to my question, why do graffiti artists tag billboards, bridges and other sky-high structures? Especially when there’s a lot of money to be made in the customization of shirts, hats and boxer shorts with bright colors and fun designs at Bar Mitzvahs and sweet sixteens across the nation. I mean, isn’t that the logical choice? The only risk there is that you have to deal with snotty 12 year olds and the occasional drunk uncles, but hey, you’re guaranteed a paycheck. Oh, and there’s a significantly less chance that you’ll fall to your death…although some of these party halls do have high balconies. Just stay in the middle of the room.

I’ve Been Blogging So Much About My Grandma That I May Just Have To Change My Blog Title To “The Life of My Grandma”

I may or may not have consumed some of this cake before snapping a photo.

Last night I was at home with my mother. None of my friends were around, so naturally I spent a solid 15 minutes staring at my ceiling fan until I came up with an idea solid enough to entertain my undiagnosed A.D.D. Then, it hit me. Earlier that evening my mom had her boyfriend and his son over for a porterhouse BBQ extravaganza and whipped out the cookbook my grandma put together as a fundraiser for her temple back in the 1800s. That was a lie. It was sometime between 1970 and 1980. Or earlier. Okay I have no idea. Regardless, she took out the cook book to look up my late grandfather’s sangria recipe (see, I wasn’t lying about the wine obsession in my last post). She left the book out so in my boredom phase I naturally  started flipping through the pages. I made my way to the cakes section and found an interestingly titled recipe submitted by my grandmother. The name was “Dom Ecom Cake.” Yes. Dom Ecom. When all was said and done it’s a pretty simple chocolate cake, but because of the name I knew I HAD to bake it. So I ran out to the grocery store, at roughly 9:45PM, and bought all of the ingredients…along with Special K cereal because it was on sale.

I drove home and got to work. When I arrived home I was greeted by an army of toothpicks on the floor. As it turns out my mom decided to take some of the ingredients out of the cabinets for me and knocked over a box of toothpicks. She popped her hip out a few weeks ago so she “couldn’t bend down to pick them all up so [she] figured [I] would do it for her.” So I did. THEN I started baking.

Now, I have never baked ANYTHING from scratch on my own, or at my own will, or from start to finish without stopping midway and making my mom finish it up on her own while I went to watch some television or play Guitar Hero. So this was certainly a first for me. And while I had my mom standing by to supervise, and to answer all of my measurement questions (seriously, who knew there’s 16oz in a pound?) this was very much my own doing.

So I mixed all of the ingredients together and put the cake in the oven. 45 minutes later it came out and I watched it cool like a 13 year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

In the meantime I called my grandmother.

“Hi grandma. I was looking through “Beyond Tuna Fish” (yes, that’s the name of the charity cook book she put together) and I came across this Dom Ecom Cake and decided to make it.”

“Oh you did? (laughs)”

“Yes. I just took it out of the oven. It’s my first time making any of your recipes so I’m going to bring you a piece to try.”

“Only if it turns out good.”

Seriously? Not, good job! or, I can’t wait! Nope. Not even close.

“Well, I won’t know if it turns out good because I’ve never had it, so I’ll ask mom.”

“Okay.”

After the conversation I served a slice to my mom and she said it was “good.” This made me nervous because I WANTED MY GRANDMOTHER’S APPROVAL. So I tried a slice and it was more like damn good.

So today I brought the cake to my grandma’s apartment in the city. She had just eaten dinner so she was too full to try the cake just yet, so I sat in anticipation. Finally, my grandma came into the room while I was watching the Met game or The Glee Project or something like that and uttered the best words I could hope for, “the cake was perfect. That’s just how it should taste. Good job.”

I swung hoping for a single, but I wound up with a home run. (seeing as I just used  baseball reference I was probably watching the Met game)

So then I asked the question I had been dying to ask: what the hell is a Dom Ecom? The answer, “I don’t know it was my mother’s recipe.”

Finally, civillians can sleep soundly.

 

Some Grandmas Bake Cookies…

…my grandma drinks alcohol.

It was a night like any other. My grandma and I were relaxing while watching the Mets when she said

“if you hear a banging on the wall, please come into my room. I’m not feeling well tonight.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“My chest hurts…”

This worried me considering my grandmother has has bypass surgery in the past and our family has a history with bad heart health.

“…but I just think it’s indigestion.”

“Would it make you feel better if I slept in your room with you?”

Now, before you make fun, my grandmother has a ginormous king bed. Like, seriously. King Sleepy broke the mold when he made this puppy.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure.”

I proceeded into my room to grab my pillows and cell phone charger and got comfortable in my grandma’s room. About a half hour or so went by.

“So how are you feeling now?”

“Okay. Maybe I’ll feel better after a drink.”

One thing about my grandma is that she has at least one glass of red wine a day. If not two…or three. Often her one glass will be by her bedside as she goes to bed. Sometimes it will be at dinner, or while watching television. Regardless of where she sips it, it’s a daily tradition for her. My mom loves wine too. And so do her sisters. At any given time my mother has 20 bottles of wine on hand in our household. Mom, if you’re reading this, don’t text me and tell me I’m lying because I’ve counted.

Back to the story: I heard some putzing around in the kitchen so naturally I went to sneak a peak. The ice cream was out. And so was the liquor. I knew this could only mean one thing: chocolate martinis.

Mind you the time was now 12:30AM.

She scooped vanilla ice cream into a blender. Added portions of cream de cacao, Godiva chocolate liquor, vodka and ice. Blended that baby into oblivion and reached for the cabinet where she keeps her glasses. She pulled out a martini glass. Now, my grandma is a DRINKER, so she doesn’t have you typical restaurant sized martini glasses…she has double martini glasses. Meaning, you could take two, possibly 3, martinis you order in a restaurant and pour them into this sucker. It. Was. HUGE. Naturally, she filled it to the brim. She got back into bed and within 30 minutes it was gone.

“I’m feeling better now. You can sleep in your own room.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes…I think I’m going to become an alcoholic.”

And with that, I went to bed.

Personally when I make chocolate martinis I make them with vanilla vodka, but my grandma’s recipe is delicious. Just incase you’d like to serve up a summer treat, these martinis truly are sweet, tasty and refreshing:

Chocolate DitkTini:

Makes 2 (non-grandma sized) servings:

1oz Godiva Liquor

1oz Cream de cocoa

1oz Vanilla Vodka

1-2 scoops of chocolate or vanilla ice cream–your choice!

Pour the ingredients into a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake, strain and pour into two glasses.

To make the drink frothier and frozen: pour ingredients into a blender with ice, blend and pour straight, no strain.

Other Ditks

As you may have imagined by now, there are indeed other Ditks out there in the world. I’m not referring to those who flip you off on the streets, or even those you screw you out of a Xmas bonus every year. Rather, I am referring to my various family members…specifically on my father’s side. Each and every one of my aunts, uncles, cousins, relatives, pets, parents ( I technically have 3.5) are unique and outrageous in every way you can imagine, so it would be almost impossible to sit down and blog about each of them. Perhaps I could do a weekly feature but even then I’d be typing away down a path towards Carpal Tunnel. But considering how much I love to write and spread awareness as to the reason why I am so messed up in the head, I have decided to share something I learned this evening about one of my cousins.

One of my cousins, who shall remain nameless, is in her late teens. I was sitting with her this evening, talking to her mother (my aunt) and her older sister (my cousin) when all of a sudden she reached over and wiped something on my jeans. Without thinking I asked “did she just wipe a booger on me?” The older cousin replied “probably” and with that, something I said as a joke completely turned into reality. What did I do? How did I react? Well, living by the ancient, wise phrase, “monkey see, monkey do” I took a finger to my nose and took said finger to my cousin’s sweater.

I think she learned her lesson!

As for my other relatives, I am almost positive I will have more stories to share as our annual “late family Hanukkah party” is taking place on, you guessed it, Christmas morning. I will surely report back shortly after that event. So, Ditks, if you’re reading this make sure you bring your A-Game to the festival of (now distinguished) lights later this week. As always, I’ll be watching…and listening, even when you least expect it.

Rule #971

There are many unwritten rules in this world that we call home, but some of them I just never thought of. For instance, rule # 971: don’t leave your business card on the metro.

This evening I received a phone call from someone that sounded like a teenage wise-ass with a southern Virginia area code. He told me he found my business card on the metro. I honestly couldn’t even comprehend what was being said because I was so confused. The boy told me he found my business card so he thought he would call me…to tell me I left it there. He then went on to tell me that I shouldn’t leave my business card on the metro. Mind you, this was at about 11PM PT meaning it was 2AM ET. I also have only been on the DC Metro ONCE in my life, and that was in August. I still have no idea how my business card got there. Anyways, I told him he could throw it out and to have a good night and then I hung up.

 

He definitely wasn’t 100% lucid. I’d say only a good 58%…at most.

Subway Etiquette 101

If you aren’t grateful for this blog yet, you should be, because nearly everyday I head out into the battlefields of the earth, the scum of the city and a rat’s paradise with an all-you-can-eat buffet of scraps and used Metro cards. Yes, I am a daily Subway rider and I’ve got the sweat and water-stained shoes to show for it.

I also have pictures.

You see, I have decided that there is no better way to spice up my morning commute than to take some risky photographs of my fellow train-goers. Let’s just get one thing straight, when I say “risky” I don’t mean nude, I just mean the people I take photographs of, with my trusty Blackberry Bold 9700, don’t know I am taking photos of them. Therefore, if they realize just what I’m doing while I “search for service” beneath or above ground, I very well may get shot (with a gun, not camera) 0r beaten up considering many of the people I snap photos of appear to be the weapon-carrying type…or at least a pocket knife or two.

Every morning or evening that I hop on the Subway or rail road I keep my eyes peeled for the oddly dressed and possibly just opressed commuters who truly need a “What Not To Wear” intervention, or at least a shopping spree somewhere other than a 1920′s vortex they stumbled upon in a dream. Very often I don’t have to search to hard because there people seem to just find me. I guess it’s a gift, or perhaps a sign, that I should keep doing what I’m doing, and when the time to stop comes I will know it…or it’ll just hit me, like a ton of people hitting me.

I watch for all sorts of people: the lonely kind, sitting alone on the railroad downing their third mini bottle of wine from a four pack in under 30 minutes; or the homeless kind, making their way from car to car on the Subway claiming they’re a WWII veteran looking for some change or food…even though they don’t look at day over 35, and every kind in between.

So brace yourselves, AdDITKs, because you are about to embark on a journey so risky, so shameful and SO shocking that you very well may call your relative who is a big-time book publisher and tell them that A Ditk’s Subway Etiquette Series is the next great coffee table book.****

****Note: I encourage you to do just this. Movie producers are also acceptable.

So swipe your metro card and grip that metal hand rail tightly because my own little “Subway Series” starts…now.

 

This man did me the justice of giving me a preview before I even got onto the Subway this morning. As the train made it’s stop, I peered into the window right before my eyes and the last thing I EVER expected to see was a barely-there tank top and a set of nipple rings. I feel sorry for that girl directly in front of him with the stylish bun, ear buds and blue top. I’d hate to see what she’s seeing, oh but wait, let’s do it anyway:

There we go. Now that’s more like it. The man decided to give that poor girl a break and face me instead. Oh, happy day! I now had the pleasure of realizing that he had a scissor malfunction, or simply mowed over his shirt, leaving is t-shirt to rot in tank-top hell. Honestly, at this point why even put anything on? Just to say you’re wearing a shirt should you stop into a 711 and be questioned on their “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy? C’mon man, I know you’re at least wearing pants but those nipple rings violate state code in just about every state, and providence,  known to man…including Puerto Rico. Also, regarding the cross around your neck, I know I’m Jewish but even I can speak for the good man JC when I say he is DEFINITELY not happy about your choice of outfit this morning.

Here’s hoping we never cross paths again, barely-there-tank-top-man. Unless of course you’re wearing leather chaps or a fur vest, because that is something I can write A LOT of material on.

Next up, ELTON JOHN?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!!??!?!

No. Not even close. Though I think Elton does fancy that shape of sunglasses, just not the camo and plaid duo with the bucket hat to match. Honestly, I don’t know how I managed to capture such a picture-perfect photograph. Not only was this guy looking right at me, but he had absolutely no clue that I was taking his picture, and everyone knows that a clueless man = the perfect candidate for a creeper Subway photo.

That’s all for now, but TRUST me, as long as there are trains pulsing above and beneath this earth, there will be funky, poorly (or barely) dressed people gracing my presence to capture in timeless, priceless photographs.

Let’s just hope I’m still alive to post the next few photos I snap.

-A Ditk

Just Call Me Sugar

 

I suddenly realized last night that I have fallen out of touch with my blog, and therefore my people, if I even have any. Luckily, something happened last night that was not only blog worth, but just all around news worthy as well. It was an evening of epic proportions, kind of, and one hell of a story unfolded about a man named sugar and his lady friend, or daughter, or wife, or estranged lover.

It was a night like any other. My father, step mommy dearest and my friend all took a trip to Citi Field to watch the Mets take on the Reds. The game was intense, full of everything you could ever want in a baseball game–ejections, bad calls, fights, comebacks, home runs–but that wasn’t the most entertaining aspect of last night. You see, the four of us were sitting in the Sterling club having dinner on the outside patio when an interesting character showed up. A woman, who my father claims is 51 going on 30, appeared in a baby blue belly shirt that my friend claimed she had in 8th grade. This woman, who we’re going to call BABY just for the sake of this blog, was deemed absurd by me and everyone around her the instant she walked out onto that patio. First of all, she clearly didn’t grasp the concept of the club we were in. I guess she isn’t educated enough to understand that you have to sit down in a seat, and then it took her a while to understand that said seats are first come first serve. Once she was notified of this procedure via the waitress, she turned to the man she is with and notified him of the situation.

I say “the man” because this is where the dilemma sets in. She was with an older man, he had to be in his late 50s early 60s, who was balding and grey-haired. At first sight one would think they were just another odd couple–holding hands, getting cozy during the singing of the National Anthem, locking eyes in an endless gaze–but then one would hear her constantly calling him “daddy.” Now, I was with my father so once he returned to the table I explained the situation to him and he figured they were just a true daddy-daughter pair, but then I told him about the kanoodling and hand holding and he made a face of disgust and wonder. It was then that we all decided he was her sugar daddy, and from then on we referred to him as Sugar.

We watched the duo make a move from sitting in someone else’s seats, to standing, to finding other chairs to sit in, to trying to reserve a table for when they ordered food, which they did while standing up. At this point, Baby was walking around with a glass of wine. Finally the family that was sitting at one of the tables got up and a couple approached the table to sit at it, but not before Baby ran across the patio to let them know otherwise. She screamed at them from across the way and mad a scene for no reason. The couple then asks our favorite duo if they could share the table because there were 4 seats. Sugar said yes, but then Baby got in Sugar’s face and seemed disgusted with that idea, so the duo let the new couple have the table, apparently it wasn’t good enough for them anyway.

Baby then accumulated a glass of soda. For those of you keeping track, she was now double-fisting with one glass of wine and one cup of soda.

A few moments passed and another table opened up and Baby raced over to obtain it. She rested her 2 glasses on the table and watched the game. She then decided the view wasn’t substantial enough for her caliber of royalty, so she gave the table up to a polite couple, but only after hovering over said table for a good 15-20 minutes.

Baby was now walking around with a bottle of Grey Poupon. Her tally now stands at a glass of wine, a cup of soda and a glass bottle of Grey Poupon.

Finally, they found a table after turning down 2 of the 4 tables on the patio. Third time’s a charm, I suppose. The table had just cleared out to naturally there were plates and napkins and cups and utensils all over, but Sugar and Baby took a seat and wouldn’t shut up for 5 minutes about how dirty it was. Apparently they don’t understand the concept of there only being ONE server out there who had other people to accomodate, and not just her, the Queen of Sugar Island. The waitress came out and said their food would be right out, and Baby asked if they could clear the table. The waitress began to clean but could only hold so much, so she took what she could and went inside to dispose of it. A few moments later the bus boy came out to serve their food. He then made the biggest mistake of his life–he put a plate of food on their table. Baby instantly yelled at him for placing the food down without clearing the rest of the glasses and silverware. So before he placed down anymore food, he cleared what he could, only to be yelled at again. “This isn’t ours” she said about the mess ” what do you want me to do?” said the bus boy so Sugar spoke up for the first time all evening and said “clear the table”. As the poor bus boy went inside to dispose of the trash, Baby was touching all of the food on the tray and complaining about every last aspect–”these are ice cold…we didn’t order these, they’re fried!”

Lady, you DID order them and they WEREN’T Cold 10 minutes ago when they were brought out, but now they are because you couldn’t eat with a few dirty glasses on your table. And yeah you may have not known something was friend but that’s what READING is for. READ the menu. Karma is a bitch, just remember that.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the glasses were finally cleared and their wings were re-heated, and they seemed to be enjoying their meal without noticing the entire patio was making fun of them. Being the nosy person that I am, I had to further investigate the situation, and that’s when my friend noticed the ring on his finger. He was married. Now, we were anxiously trying to peer at Baby’s finger to find a ring, but no such luck–no ring on her finger! Could they truly be a daddy-daughter pair? Well, a very touchy-feely daddy daughter pair. We still weren’t sure of the situation, but we were sticking with the sugar daddy story because it was just more entertaining, don’t you agree?

It then came time for us to get up and go to our seats, leaving all of the entertainment behind. A little while later my father found out that Sugar and Baby were nasty and rude to their waitress, a friend of my father, and only gave her a $3 tip on a $75 tab. This was unacceptable. I guess they thought if they had to be rude to an extremely nice and polite waitress then she didn’t deserve a sufficient tip. Uh, that’s a little backwards, Baby, and I’m sure Sugar agrees.

My father alerted security of the situation but no one could find the now infamous duo, so my dad offered $5 to the first person who could spot them. I scanned our section for about 15 minutes and was slowly giving up hope, but then I saw them! I’d recognize that cheap looking, baby blue belly shirt anywhere! A few sections over, there they were! So my dad applauded my effort and went over to their section leaving my step-mother cursing under her breath and furious that I not only told my father where they were, but that he got up to say something to the duo. In the end, dad never got the chance to say anything to them, but he alerted security of their whereabouts, and I became $5 richer.

It was a good night.