Walmart-ing

Walmart is a wonderful mecca of deals, steals (sometimes literally) and wonder, but also a hellhole. Going there on a Sunday afternoon is probably the worst decision you could ever make, because come 12pm, it turns into the official local church after-party no matter where you live. Seriously, sometimes I think that if a Walmart threw an I-Hop inside of one of its locations instead of a Subway sandwich franchise, there would literally never need to be anything else open on a Sunday–Joel Osteen would probably invest. Better yet, a church should probably just open a Walmart in the back, because move over, Taco Bell/Pizza Hut/KFC combo, a new mega trio is coming your way and it’s called The Walmart I-Hop Mega Church Center.

Anyway, Walmart. Yes, Walmart–the place once infamously confused as a store that sells walls by Paris Hilton, doesn’t actually sell walls, but they do sell legitimately everything else. This is why when it came time for me to re-organize my sneaker closet, the Walmart website was my first stop because let’s be honest–the safest way to shop at Walmart is by not physically being at Walmart. So how did I end up at Walmart then? Good question. I wanted to save the $7 shipping cost on the shoe cubby I ordered, so I opted for the in-store pickup option. A week later, I strolled through the doors of my local Walmart and wandered through aisles of camouflage hats, camouflage televisions and camouflage children until I finally found the online order center nested neatly by the Subway sandwich franchise. I worked my way around the line at the registers that seemed like it was Black Friday in the middle of September and wondered if I was missing out on something, but instead I just got in line behind several people in the online order area.

The area was small, and for some reason had its own Sunny Delight display tower, just in case you felt the need to hydrate with some sugar-water while waiting to pick up your microwave. There were 4 registers and about 10 employees, but only 2 registers were actually open. After waiting for 5 minutes and realizing the line hadn’t moved at all, I asked a sales associate if people were also in this line for general purchases, not just order pickups–“no, it’s also layaway.” Ah–layaway. Alright, no big deal. I stood there, waiting, eavesdropping on conversations about pregnancies and refrigerators, wondering if I would ever get to pick up my shoe cubby. I took a moment to take in my surroundings–there were still several associates standing behind the counter, but still only 2 stations were open. There were two Walmart employees sitting on a bench in the area, one of them was eating chicken–I am hoping she was on her break. It didn’t smell like chicken at first, but then it did…and as my hunger grew in correlation with my impatience, the smell was more apparent to me and I just wanted to know where I could get that chicken but I couldn’t get out of the line because then the vicious cycle would begin once more and I HAD SOMEWHERE TO BE, DAMMIT. And that place was a diner, because I was hungry.

FINALLY, after several texts from my mother and what seemed like the longest 20 minutes of my life, it was my turn. Once I got up to the register, it was quick and painless, but of course the box for my product was bent and damaged. I just wanted to get out of there, though, before the spell of chicken came over me and forced me to wait in yet another line. Also, I had seen a camouflage Mets hat that was quietly calling my name, so I legit had to bounce before I dropped anymore money there that day.

When I got home, after the diner, I assembled my shoe cubby, noticed one of the metal poles was damaged, took a moment to think of what a hassle it would be to try and return or exchange the item, and decided to just take the chance of it collapsing because somehow that would be more convenient to me than having to go to Walmart again.

Poetic Fist Fight

A few friends and I often partake in bar trivia at an establishment in Manhattan on Tuesday nights. Trivia begins at 8:30, so we usually try and arrive around 8pm to make sure we get ample seating/table space for our writing materials, beers and sometimes food. On this particular night I arrived at 7:30 because I grossly overestimated how long it would take me to get to the bar from my new office. When I arrived, there was another event going on. I walked in and saw a middle-aged woman standing up at a microphone reading some ridiculous poetry with zero passion in her voice. As a matter of fact, she sounded like a teacher reading a story about ponies to her first graders just before nap time, except her poem was about the birth of her son…it was interesting, but you can only make a cesarian section sound so poetic before it sounds like a scene straight out of a Wes Craven film.

It was clear that I had stumbled into some kind of older, open mic poetry night. Dammit. So, to kill time, I went to 7-11 for a hot chocolate. They didn’t have those mini marshmallows, though, so I left less than satisfied with a still-tasty hot chocolate in hand. I drank that in record time on my way back to the bar. During this time, I had only managed to kill 15 minutes, but that meant 15 minutes less of that poetry I’d have to hear. Well, to everyone’s dismay, including the employees at the bar and the trivia master, the poetry night ran over by 15 minutes to allow for the “Godfather” to say a few words and recite a story and poem and then sing a song…a man next to me mouthed the words along with the “Godfather” and clapped and whistled upon completion. He was super into it, I was super annoyed.

When poetry night was finally over, most of the older folks started to clear out for the turnover to trivia night which consists predominately of guys and gals ages 21-35 from what I can tell. I, along with a friend, waited for tables to clear that fit four people as we were expecting two more in our party. I scouted a table where the women who previously occupied it were preparing to leave. My friend and I hovered, patiently, as other tables opened up and were immediately occupied by trivia-goers. After about 10 minutes of continuous hovering, I decided to place my belongings down on one of the benches at a table where cesarian section woman was sitting. Her and a colleague were chatting but sitting far enough from each other that they managed to take up three tables in the process. I waited patiently, again. Finally, after the woman was now there by herself, nursing a 96% empty glass of water, she put her feet up essentially on my belongings, so I just went and took a seat next to her feet. Then, the dialogue began:

Woman: So are you taking over my table?
Me: Yeah, our trivia is about to begin and you appeared to be leaving.
Woman: Well, I wasn’t.
Me: I’m sorry, I really thought you were leaving. Your friends all got up so I thought you were too.
Woman: I wasn’t leaving. (At this point she FINALLY takes her feet off of the bench she had them resting upon) You could have asked.
Me: As I said, I am sorry, it looked like you were leaving. I can move…
Woman: You could have asked.
Me: I said I’m sorry. There’s no reason to have an attitude…
Woman: It’s not an attitude, I’m just saying you could have asked. Get some manners.
Me: (Appalled at this point) I said I am sorry and I will move.
Woman: Get some manners. (Storms off)

It was too bad she stormed off like that, I didn’t have enough time to tell her how much I resonated with her poem being a cesarian child myself. Darn. So much for that missed opportunity. Never fear, though, because I made sure multiple employees heard about it afterwards. They found it wildly entertaining…I have a feeling they’re not the biggest fans of that poetry night either.

Moral of the story? Just because you wear a purple sweater and read three sub-par poems at a monthly open mic night for middle-aged folk does not entitle you to put your feet up at a bar once your event has gone over and thus prohibited a WEEKLY event from starting on time. Talk about manners.

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.