Operation Nicorette Cut Back

372 days ago, I quit smoking.  I remember quite clearly all those 8928 hours ago, standing on the corner of 57th and 9th, wind whipping up in a mighty crosstown gust from the Hudson, as I attempted to hail a cab, talk on my cell, have a panic attack, and chew Nicorette simultaneously.

I remember how beyond badly I wanted to quit quitting cigarettes.  I remember being paralyzed on the corner, a frantic mass of multitasking, unable to decide whether to go home, to the Village(my spiritual home), or swan dive into the Hudson.  I was unable to decide anything.  Smoking allowed me the space to deliberate and without it, I was lost.

In my usual extreme and highly romantic way, I had decided I would only quit once.  I would be encouraged by a perfect record, by my toughness at going cold turkey, but mostly by the story I would tell later about how I succeeded.  I do this with a lot of things- I write the story first and then attempt to live it.  Sometimes it works.

I told myself that if I could keep a perfect record, I was allowed to chew as much Nicorette for as long as I wanted and up until I read a thing in the Times saying nicotine straight up was still bad for you, I thought I would just pull an Imus and chew myself into my twilight years.

But now, a year later having gained equally useless habits, it's time I say goodbye to the chew.  Wish me luck.

Chanukah smackdown

Perhaps in the truest spirit of Chanukah, a fellow Upper West Side Bloggette has called my partially Spartan Greek self (genetically residing in my eyebrows and temper mostly ) out.  

"Tastic", as she called up here in the Pussy Precinct (so named by neighborhood cops), is aside from being a writer and antagonizer of innocent semi-Hellenes, a b-girl, an ex-pat Orthodox woman of the Jewish persuasion, and occasionally a very nice person.  For the purposes of this post, I rename myself Feta and will strike a warlike Athena pose.

Let the smackdown commence.

Apparently, Tastic and friends were discussing over a lovely shabbat meal, the Jewish laws of Harchakot, which state a man must keep a healthy distance from a woman if she is bleeding.  Not exactly challah talk, but anyway.  Basically, and I'm still very much a student, this rule means no sex for once a month for 7 days or so.  However.  It also can mean for the wildly observant, the prevention of a husband/soon-to-be-dad to be in a delivery room of his wife/soon to-be-mother of his child. The question arose: if it's a no- sex rule, why in GdashD's name would a couple be screwing in the Delivery Room?  

Good question.  It was decided by the shabbatniks that, if that were to happen, it would be the ultimate Oedipal triangle.  Dad on Mom on Newborn.  Remember, I had no part in this discourse.

The challenge is this: To find something more Oedipal.   You're Greek, said she.

Here's the deal, I've racked my proudly depraved brain for all eight days of the festival of Light.  A holiday, which essentially celebrates the rededication of the Holy Temple, but not before kicking some serious Greek ass for making Jews get their Zeus on.  Enter irony stage right.

But while I'm getting historic about it, there was a time when ancient Jews and Greeks coexisted fairly sanely, before the crazy King Antiochus had to go and pull the idol worship stuff.  But I digress, hellenically.

In short, I cede to my Jewish counterpart, my little Miss Maccabee, on the last night of Chanukah, just as it was done some 2,ooo plus years ago or so.  You definitely have the sicker mind. My people never thought to make it a menage-a-trois.  We've progressed, I promise.

So to all of you, from Feta, a partial Spartan who has lit her very first menorah this year, Happy Chanukah, all 18 ways you spell it.  Exit irony stage left.

Code Tasti

We live in an age of alerts.  

There's the color coded terror kind.  There's the Amber Alert child abduction variety.  Then there's that weird, jarring, old school t.v. broadcasting alert which makes one wonder: What would/will happen if for once it said, "THIS IS NOT A TEST".  

In short, there aren't many warnings that do anything but inspire hording a water supply, grabbing a flashlight, and hiding the children.

But then came Tasti D-Lite.

Just when you thought frozen dessert couldn't get any easier, Tasti has announced Flavor Alerts.  Got a favorite flave- no problem- let them know and you'll be notified via text when it's featured.  Want to know what's on tap at your local frozen paradise?  Just check your email.

Forget that these alerts are like the crack dealer who knows where you live and buzzes you to see if you need more rock, I love it.  Tasti is my rock and I look forward to the text that reads:

CHOCOLATE NY CHEESECAKE & PEANUT BUTTER FUDGE. XO TDL

Malachy's Blues

I got an incredible case of the Malachy's Blues tonight.  

It was less of the classic mournful rainy day sing into your Guiness kind that the joint is famous for.  The place is a gem, albeit in need of a polish, and is one of the last great Irish with a capitol I, Erin Go Braugh, dives on the Upper West Side,  There's a bartender named Fenton with a bonafide brogue, if you know what I mean.

It's like Cheers only dirtier, and if Sam Malone was a mean, barking brogue speaker who teaches Catholic school during the day,  and I played both the parts of Carla and Diane.

Back to my blues, since this is my narcissistic blog.

I was pouring two  thick pints of Guiness somewhere around 8- an activity I generally find really Zen- and waves of something kept rising in me.  Nothing was wrong.  I felt okay, but the tears were beginning to brim.  So much so in fact, that I did that dumb thing you do when you're about to cry- open your eyes bigger and bigger with the hope that if the eye socket is big enough it will somehow stop the sob.

Maybe I'm becoming Irish.

I am prone to ethnic osmosis.  In the dark days of Williamsburg, I assumed a very cracked out Puerto Rican persona.  In the East Village I was especially bitchy in that Ukranian way.  And the Upper West Side, my current locale, has provided the neurotic/natural fit of the  Jewishish writer/actor, who scribbles notes about her misery in dark dank pubs called Malachy's.

Maybe it was the jukebox barrage of classic NYC suicide songs that had me down.  There's only so many times one can hear, "New York State of Mind."  Or perhaps it was the same old sweet, slightly pathetic crowd of career alcoholics that line the bar.  Everyone has their unofficial assigned seat and if someone is missing, it goes noticed,  This bar is their living room, life, and their family.  

But probably it was just the sometimes overwhelming feeling that life is relentless and I too am relentless and tired and I wish to never serve another pint of anything for the rest of my life.

  Then again, it could just be hormones.

Whate'er it be, I've got the Malachy's blues.  Oh yah.

An Example of Aggressive Merriment

To experience SGAD, please listen here:

08 Carol of the Bells.m4a

Seasonal Greetings Affective Disorder

Q: What is SGAD?

A: Seasonal Greetings Affective Disorder is a very real, often misdiagnosed psycho-seasonal condition, prompted by the consumer crazed red, green and sometimes blue nightmare known as the Holidays.    

Symptoms include manic merriment, Macy's induced rapid heart rate, cold sweats and dizziness in Banana Republic dressing rooms, and disassociation triggered by most commonly, any version of "Carol of the Bells".  The scent of evergreen, Yankee candles, and various other festive Christian potpourris are also common panic inducers.

No, SGAD is not actors union.

Q: Who gets SGAD?

A: Everyone.  Christians, Jews, Muslims, Atheists, Agnostics.   Even Wiccans.  Especially Wiccans.  Those living closest to departments stores or other consumer hubs with insidious holiday jingle soundtracks are most affected. 

Q: How is SGAD treated?

A: PleaseJudgme recommends picking the perfect Tonya Harding get up- from leg warmers to earmuffs to peppermint flavored lipgloss- and ice skating, followed by binge hot toddy drinking, and then a visit to the Bergdorfs window display after midnight.

SOMALI PIRATES ARE SO RETRO

A return to piracy- not the cyber type but the good old fashion high seas kind- is weirdly refreshing.  

We've become so 9/12 code orange about things on dry land, it's nice to remember that terror is waterproof.  I'm not condoning it, but I welcome the change of pace.

But since these days, barring Somali bandits, pirates are generally reserved for Halloween or hung from the perfectly chiseled cheekbones of Johnny Depp, what will the next acceptable symbol of terror to dress up as or make a kid's movie about?